Settle For A Draw | Red Hood and Batman
Jason was atop a skyscraper in midtown, eyes set over the city. Patrol duty. Dick was at home, probably keeping himself entertained. He was good at that. The incessant rain was pounding down on the indifferent man, and he made no attempt to avoid it. A police broadcast played in his cowl. [Code 211S, silent alarm triggered at Gotham Museum of History. Officers unable to respond. Activating the Bat-signal.] Jason smirked. With a flying leap, he was off the rooftop, grapple gun in full form. Man, I really need a glider. Traveling above ground is getting old.
He arrived at the museum within five minutes, landing softly on the roof. He could see flashlights inside, a lot of them. Fifteen? Jesus, thatâs ballsy. Still, better get going before Bruce shows up. Opening up a hatch, he slipped inside, noiselessly hitting the top floor. Creeping to the balcony, he began to assess the situation, judging the angles, the trajectory needed to begin his attack. He pulled a smoke pellet out of his belt, hefting it in his hand before tossing it to the ground level. He followed it down, landing invisibly. His infrared lenses activated, and he began his attack.
With a small grunt, the first man was out, his head bouncing off a marble pillar. Number two went down the same way, a silent takedown. No need to use a gun here. Drawing several shuriken, Jason hurled them at a cluster of the men, using the distraction to leap into the middle of them. A kick, a right hook, and an elbow handled them. He thought he heard a nose break. Spinning around, he found himself face to face with none other than the Batman, two unconscious men at his feet. "Nice of you to visit, Batman. Mind giving me a hand?â
As if on cue, the cargo door opened, and thirty more armed men swarmed the lobby. "No time to argue-go!â Jason was already rushing the group, determined not to use his pistols tonight. After all, he had to prove that he could beat Bats at his own game, right?
Since his return to the public eye only a short time ago, Bruce had seen a lot of action. Minor things - raiding drug dens and breaking up gang meetings - but enough to get him back in shape after his extended absence, and after Joker stuck him in the side with his knife. Again. He was in top form, now. Or at least very nearly. More importantly, however, his confidence had returned. Attitude was everything in a battle that was really based more on scaring the enemy than on overwhelming them.
He arrived at the museum perhaps seven minutes after the signal lit up Gothamâs cloudy sky, to find that the fight had already begun. All at once, Bruce was surprised and not surprised. He was getting the idea that people had emerged to take his place, in his absence. He couldnât help being glad of that - Bruce wouldnât always be young and strong.
It took nothing to slip silently into the depths of the museum. The enemy was distracted by whoever was fighting within the cloud of smoke that had expanded to fill the hall. Bruceâs infrared vision made short work of the cloud and it wasnât long before he had floored several opponents.
It wasnât long before he found himself face to face with another masked vigilante. If things hadnât happened in such a rush, Bruce might have taken time to put this man together with the man who had challenged him at the cafe, but Bruceâs mind was in the game and the only identity that mattered just then was the red hood that covered the other manâs face. He didnât have time to think about the meaning behind that snide remark.
Always the type to stalk from the shadows, Bruce left charging head-on into the crowd to the other man. He raised his grapple gun and hoisted himself off the floor, soaring nearly twenty feet over the heads of the mob of thieves. At the last minute, he loosed the tension on the line and plummeted down. It was a move he had practiced dozens of times. Against people like this, it was highly effective. As he reached their level, Bruce snagged his hands in the collars of two of his opponents and then grappled upwards again. The men screamed as they were hoisted off of their feet and brought helplessly into midair.
The screams and gurgling noise coming from the Batmanâs wake of destruction only spurred Jason on.
Jason knew he was a better fighter than Bruce, he knew it. He had been raised as a warrior since childhood, he had been trained in every martial art known to man (and several that were curated from long dead civilizations, thanks to Raâs and the League). He was 16 years younger than Bruce Wayne. He had to show that he could hang with the Batman.
And so, Jason tore his own swath of destruction thorough the mob, bones breaking and flesh giving way to fists, when he saw it-what the men were after. âThe diamond. Bats, the diamond!â Without another word, Jason was airborne, grappler taking him to the mezzanine, pointed straight at massive red diamond that was surrounded by the thugs.
He landed silently, close enough to the men to touch. Reaching out, he disarmed the first, then knocking him out with a swift rabbit punch. Thug number two aimed his shotgun at Jason. A swift kick sent it careening to the ground level. Jason grabbed him by the collar, tossing him into the last man. They collapsed into a pile. Spinning around to check on Batman, Jason let his guard down, just for a split second.
The next thing he noticed was the hard steel of a gun barrel pressed against his back.
Bruce did not make a practice of being where people expected him to be. He heard Red Hoodâs warning well enough, but he trusted the younger man to deal with a small cluster of thugs on his own. Red Hood had already held his own with the others, after all.
Instead of following Red Hood immediately, Bruce took the time to down every last one of the thugs in the back of the room before they could following the younger vigilante to the diamond. It wasnât a difficult job, even if he was just a little bit rusty. He smashed a couple of heads together, twisted a few arms the wrong way and slammed a man or two to the ground.
Still, by the time he had knocked the feet out from under the last man, he wasnât surprised by silence from the direction of the diamondâs case. Looking up, he saw exactly what he expected - Red Hood standing among a series of fallen enemies. For a heartbeat it seemed that they had finished, but Bruce should have known that nothing was ever really that simple.
A movement in the shadows distracted Bruce, and he looked off into the corner. A man with a gun crept closer to Red Hood, who was working on the very last of the thieves and was apparently unaware.
Firing his grapple into the ceiling, Bruce was lifted into the air. He sailed across the room to the platform where the display case had been set up. Just as the man put his gun into Red Hoodâs back, Bruceâs feet collided with his ribs. The impact carried both Bruce and the shooter over to collide with the diamond case, and the sound of gunfire echoed all around them. Landing, Bruce rolled to his feet and smacked his gauntlet into the side of the criminalâs head. He crumpled, senseless.
Only then did Bruce look up to see if the shot had hit or missed its target.
The bullet had missed Jason by inches. Mentally cursing himself for the slip, he began to fight back with a vengeance, no longer caring how injured the men he faced ended up. Several shoulders were rent beyond repair. Another man was elbowed in the nose so hard Jason thought he might have killed him. He didnât allow himself time to consider checking for vitals. This was war, and Jason and the man who had killed his father were on the same side, against all odds.
Jason fell in seamlessly with Batman, each using the other man as both backup and cover, appearing to all the men as if they had been fighting side by side for years.
For the first time in Jasonâs life, he felt drawn to Bruce. Jason cast a stark sense of fear into the men he faced, but the Batman was more than that-he was fear. Every inch of him, from his boots to the ears, exuded dread. Jason was a bit awestruck. Still, he fought on, not stopping until Bruce did. He would fight to the death, if just to prove he was better than Batman was.
Was there no end to these thugs? They crawled into the museum like grimy cockroaches, charging in without thought to their wellbeing. It made Bruce think that this was more than just a diamond heist. Something else was here, something he was missing. Unfortunately, he didnât get the chance to dwell on that thought for much longer. The ten or so that were left in sight had frazzled nerves and wide, frightened eyes, bodies running on heightened adrenaline as they rushed forward to meet the two vigilantes.
Working with Red Hood was almost ideal. The other man held his own while still looking out for Batmanâs back, and he was a near-flawless fighter. He was brutal and perhaps a tad excessively violent, but he knew what he was doing. His movements spoke of extensive training beyond what Bruce knew, but his actions were slowed by his anger. He lost his vision, saw red, as it were.
With precision, he disabled half the men and rendered them unconscious just as Red Hood was finishing up as well. Having recently returned to the vigilante scene, Batman was slightly out of breath, though heâd be hard-pressed to admit that. Still, the diamond and whatever else they were after was safe, they had come out of the fight relatively unharmed, and as always, heâd spoken too soon.
The shot went off before he was really able to process it.
The man was mere feet away from Batman, brandishing a 12 gauge Mossberg shotgun. Without a second thought, Jason dove off the balcony, tumbling after he hit the floor.
There was no time to warn him. Jason would took the shot, directly to the ribcage. His armor would absorb most of the blast, but it would probably break several ribs, if not more.
The gun fired, and the Red Hood crumpled. He felt his spleen rupture before the pain made him black out. His last conscious thought was âIf anyone is going to kill Batman, itâs gonna be me...â
Red Hood had taken a near-fatal hit for him, pieces of his armor caved in where the shot had struck. Within seconds, the situation had been analyzed, processed, and the thug with the shotgun was down on the floor with a snapped arm and shattered knee, the firearm thrown yards away. No one was left standing but Bruce.
As he let his cape fall over his shoulders, Batman looked down at Red Hood, a pest and a very dangerous adversary, as he started to bleed out onto the floor. He could leave him there and it would be one less problem to worry about later on. The situation was reminiscent of Raâs al Ghulâs final moments, something Batman regretted later on in only the smallest of ways. The strange kid whoâd approached him in that cafe months ago and threatened him because heâd killedânot saved, not saved, not savedâhis father came to his mind. Heâd ruined people by letting Raâs die, but heâd saved many others by not letting him live. Heâd played God. It was wrong.
It begged the question then, or maybe it didnât. Was it enough that this man was dear to other people that Batman would allow him to live? Did that matter? The streets heâd claimed as his own were lost alreadyâothers had risen to fill the gap heâd left behind, Hood being one of them. The red of the fake Bat on his chest then stood out more than the small pool of blood forming around him. If Batman was going to save him, he was going to have to trust himâand soon. He could hear the police sirens outside finally.
With a quick call to Alfred demanding both the Batmobile be sent to his location and the med bay be prepped, Batman squatted down beside the outlaw and quickly checked his vitals. âThis will hurt,â he said under his breath, though he was sure Hood could not hear him. He looked thoroughly unconscious. Bruce was no medic, but he knew Red Hood had a very high pain tolerance and he should not be unconscious by a gun wound. He had internal bleeding, most likely, which raised the stakes considerably higher. As gently as he possibly could manage, Batman lifted Hood into his arms and fled the scene.
When they had arrived at the secondary cave under the Wayne Foundations Building, Blake had been there, a surprise in itself, and had asked questions. Bruce hadnât cared to answer at the time, too focused on his task to spare much attention to his protege. As it turned out, Red Hoodâs spleen had ruptured and several of his ribs were cracked, a few broken entirely. He spent an hour in private emergency surgery with Leslie Thompkins, Alfred having refused the daunting task. As per request, Leslie had left Hoodâs helmet on to conserve his identity. The rest of his gear had been shed, however, and was currently sitting atop a lab table being holographically scanned by the Batcomputer for immediate analysis. Â
Bruce had taken to staring at it as Leslie finished up, having taken a bit of offense at the poor structural integrity of the armor. No wonder it had caved; it was considerably worn, outdated even. To keep his hands and mind busy, Bruce made several corrections and modifications to the chest guard while he waited. He hadnât touched much besides a small receiver of some sort that kept beeping, a small red light flashing near the top of the device. For some reason, he kept it on hand when he went to talk to Red Hood minutes after Alfred informed him of the outlawâs regained consciousness.
The younger man looked positively livid to have been forced to rely on his enemy for anything at all and was already trying to leave, despite Leslieâs constant insistence to stay put. âDo as she says and stay there,â he said once he walked in the med bay. The two stared at each other for some moments before Red Hood relented and sat back, still looking ready to jump up and dash away. His injuries must have had taken a lot out of him, for him to concede so quickly. Bruce hadnât taken him to be the obedient type. The IV stand wobbled before settling still.
âYour armor is insufficient, yet you deliberately put yourself in harmâs way for me.â He didnât ask why, though the question remained in the air. He remained silent for awhile, assessing. A muffled, urgent beeping could be heard, though it was very faint. It seemed to pique the Hoodâs interest more-so than his current physical status. âThis keeps going off.â Bruce dropped the receiver into Hoodâs lap, expecting him to turn it off.
Instead, the IV stand crashed to the floor.
So this is what the Bat HQ looks like. Funny. I expected more doom and gloom. Shit, that hurts.
Jason realized he was still alive, and in a great deal less pain. Didnât mean it felt good, though. Forcing his way through the fog and haze, he located the center of the pain-his side-and focused on minimizing it, bringing the pain down to a manageable level.
Finally able to respond to Batman, he spoke.
âMy armor isnât Wayne technology, sorry to disappoint. Some of us work on our own gear. Can I have it back?â Bruce didnât respond, though, as Jason saw for the first time just how damaged it was. His heart sank, just a bit. That had been his oldest suit, his original prototype. Heâd not planned on any actual firefights tonight, and had let sentiment get him nearly killed.
He turned his attention back to Bruce. âWhy did you save me? You could have easily let me die there. What stopped you?â Before he could get a response, Batman tossed a beeping receiver into his lap. Jason blanched, jumping up faster than his broken body could allow.
With a practiced movement, he reached over his armor, drawing his .357 revolver, loaded with Kevlar coated, armor piercing rounds. Itâd shred most bulletproof vests, and certainly put the hurt on the Batman. Pointing it at him, he gestured to the device.
âI need to find the source of that locator. Now. My gear is ruined, so Iâll need a batsuit. And transport."
Batman didnât move. Jason was beginning to lose his temper.
"Thereâs a boy who I care deeply about at the other end, and heâs in trouble. That beacon is for emergencies only, heâd never activate it unless he was in grave danger. I need to find him.â
Bruce wasnât reacting fast enough. Jason sucked in his breath before pulling a dangerous trump card.
âBruce. Itâs Dick Grayson weâre talking about.â
Even with a firearm pointed at him, Bruceâs only reaction was to tighten his fists. He knew Dick Grayson, alright. (How was Hood related? There were puzzle pieces he needed to put together, but he didnât have the time right now.) The child was rambunctious, overly-talkative, and disturbingly lighthearted and cheerful 24/7. It was no wonder heâd managed to find himself in trouble. Bruce had had the joy of meeting the kid precisely three timesâtwice when the child had been residing in the manor as an orphan and once not too long ago, when heâd finagled his way into lunch with the billionaire while trying to hide in one of his cars.
Still, a (wounded) criminal was asking him to give him a suit and a means to get where a frightened (possibly wounded) child was. Already, heâd extended his hand in mercy; there was no reason for him to comply with Hoodâs wishes other than the fact that someone so mind-numbingly innocent was in need of help. Already, he knew he couldnât deny a manâs request to help a loved one, even if it meant giving up equipment that would further exacerbate Batmanâs struggle in taking Red Hood down. The Batman fought for the safety of the innocent. He could, however, drug Hood and go himself. Before that thought could go any further, he swiftly turned on his heel and walked over to the western wall of the cave where the batsuits were kept.
âYou can take an older model of one of my own suits.â The man placed his hand on the biometric recognition security panel burrowed into the wall and tried not to think about the fact that he was handing over more Wayne Technology to someone he didnât trust. He was greatly regretting his decision to preserve Hoodâs identity. âSecurity override,â he said into the system, âMaster access authorization code TDK02.â
The wall opened up and Bruce stepped aside so Hood could put on the armor, busying himself with remotely starting up the newly re-made Batwing and opening up the outside access tunnels. Planning on going along, Bruce locked his cowl back into place just as Red Hood vaulted himself into the Batwing and took off.
He holstered the weapon after Bruce turned his back, not stupid enough to believe that he had intimidated him in the slightest. He spent the next few minutes removing the belt, holsters, sword and sheath, and several other tools that he could salvage off of the old suit, not wanting to waste any undue time. Satisfied, he swiveled around to see Bruce opening up the vault.
A set of eyes peering at him from a dark corner caught his attention, and Jason swiveled to meet them. They blinked at him, then met his gaze without fear. Curious, he knelt down, bringing his eyes to the height of the shadowed ones. Bruce muttered something about the suitâs security code. Jason looked back at him, and then again to the corner. The shadowy figure was gone.
Donning the suit that Bruce handed him, Jason quickly fit his gear over it, grinning as he felt the superior build quality. âThanks, Bruce. I could get used to this.â Leaving the cape on the floor, he darted past Bruce and slid into the Batwing. The canopy closed, and Jason mock saluted before  flying off. He gunned the machine towards the old circus grounds, following the steady beeping on the locator. He tried not to think about what had cause Dick to activate it.
He soon reached the source, landing (and locking) the Batwing on the dusty ground. He slung his sword over his back, making sure his gun was loaded. He heard a simpering voice, then a cry of pain. Sprinting as fast as his injured side allowed, he tore through a tent, finding it empty. He searched three more before coming out on the other side of the grounds, finding the Joker standing over Dick Grayson, who was bloodied and holding his stomach in pain.
With a roar of anger, Jason cleared the distance between them, his gloved fist striking the Joker in the mouth. A bloody molar spun through the air as the man stumbled, caught off guard. The pain that shot through Jasonâs side sent him to his knees, clouding his vision red. He forced himself to his feet, drawing his sword and holding it at the clownâs neck.
âYouâll die for hurting him, you sadistic fuck."
continued in Better Men
