Danny Fenton has always been odd. Always at the bottom of the picking order in his local schools, his neighborhood, and even his own family. It wasn't that he didn't fit in, for he found camaraderie among a few of the kids, specifically Sam and Tucker, but a few of the fellow nerds enjoyed his company; it was just something about him that made people pause.
It started when he was about three years old. Danny had been taken to the park by his mother- he used to be attached to her around the clock, she didn't know how to get him to interact with others until she joined a mother and toddler group. The first outing was at the park- and while he had braved the sandbox with the other toddlers, something in him had shifted.
One second, the four toddlers were grabbing tiny fistfuls of sand, flinging it around or filling their little buckets. The next three of them froze, staring at Danny, who seemed unaware as he dug in a small hole with his yellow toy shovel. The kids didn't have a reason for freezing; Danny had done nothing or said anything to cause it, yet there they sat staring wide-eyed and sort of mesmerized at the toddler. Their parents noticed the silence and snapped into action, believing somehow they had all eaten something.
When they entered the sandbox, they froze and locked gazes on Danny, as if hypnotized. Maddie had been worried about grabbing her son and leaving the group, believing the other parents were too odd.
A few weeks went by, and the incident was forgotten when Maddie found another group to join. Execpt it happened again. And again, and again, and again, and again, until Danny grew into a young teenager, where he believed it was normal behavior.
People sometimes just paused around him. There were a few seconds a week when all the noise in the area would vanish, and all eyes would swing towards him in a trance-like state. No one ever remembered it happened, no one ever spoke about it, so he thought it was normal. He got so used to it, even from his own family.
That's why, when it happened outside of Gotham, Danny didn't even blink an eye about it. He hadn't realized that someone was scanning the security cameras at that moment, and they were far away to not be affected by his oddness.
Nor was he aware that the person was making a report, fingers flying over the keys of their keyboard as fast as lightning. What Danny knew was that three days later, while everyone in the cafe froze and turned to him, he had enough time to drop a five-dollar bill in the tip jar before someone smashed the front window.
Panicking, he dropped his coffee to bring his hands up over his head, and was just considering going ghost when a glowing rope was lassoed around him. The rope tightened, pinning his arms to his body by bringing his elbows together and dragging Danny up. His feet leave the ground as the rope goes taut, yanking him through the air and out the broken front window until he falls over a muscled shoulder.
It happened in seconds.
"Hear me, magic user, you shall leave these people be!" A woman declares. It's then that he realizes he's on the shoulder of said woman. Before he can ask why he was literally dragged out of the cafe like a messed-up pig in a rodeo, Danny finds himself airborne once more.
She had thrown him into the back of a prisoner transfer van, completing the action by using his moment of hesitation due to his confusion, to take the glowing rope and tie his ankles together. The audacity.
"Release them!" She yells in his face. Wow, there are wackos everywhere.
"Okay, lady, two things. One, invest in some breath mints!" Danny counters, scouting back from her, blowing his bangs out of his face, and then frowning, "And two, I can't realize anyone because I have no one in captivity."
"Undo your sorcery!"
"I don't know what that word means!"
At that, the woman pauses, then her head twists around. The cafe and people have come to, voices rising in alarm at the smashed window. The people walking on the street who were close enough to stare at Danny are moving again. Some are pointing, others are whispering, and a few brave souls are getting closer for a better look.
But none are harmed.
She leveled a hard stare at Danny. "What were you planning on doing?"
"Have a latte," Danny replies with enough sass in his words that the truth feels insulting. It was then that he realized he had lied.
The woman looks confused. "Were you not forcing those people to bow to your power?"
"Ugh, are you talking about the staring thing? Nah, they do that on their own. Have since I was a kid. Never figured out why."
"You are unable to control it." The woman muses wisely. But Danny would take that with a grain of salt. She's in her underwear in public. Or a very patriotic swimsuit? Either way, he knows she's a fruitloop.
The woman nods, placing a fist over her chest and beaming, "I shall train you, Son of Hades."
".....My parents' names are Jack and Maddie. Who is Hades?" But she doesn't answer because she slams the metal doors closed, and he is left with only the glowing rope as company. A few seconds later, he feels the van start to move, and he realizes one fundamental truth.
"I just got kidnapped in broad daylight, and no one did anything. No wonder the crime in this city has skyrocketed."
me holding a gun to a mushroom: tell me the name of god you fungal piece of shit
mushroom: can you feel your heart burning? can you feel the struggle within? the fear within me is beyond anything your soul can make. you cannot kill me in a way that matters
me cocking the gun, tears streaming down my face: I’M NOT FUCKING SCARED OF YOU
DCXDP One-shot The enemy of my enemy is my friend.
To achieve peace, two kings decide to overthrow a hero.
Warning: Lots of angst, characters presumed dead, Jason has suicidal and homicidal tendencies but makes a friend, Danny is tired but makes a friend. Death/suicide of unnamed background characters. Jason doesn't have a criminal organization, he has an Battalion! The villain Jason Todd. I wrote this on a bad day, so it's more sentimental and a bit off-topic, the dysfunctional Bat-family going crazy in the background, the Justice League missed a lot, John Constantine commits many crimes to maintain the planet he lives on. It's me and the English translator against the world, and canon is a joke. It's a very long one-shot
_________________
The Gotham City is worse than he imagined, the ecto ambiental is horrendous, now he understands why the place is so cursed, he wants to leave but he has something to do first.
Jazz says he's being petty, though she herself seems to be trying to let it go, but she can't. The situation in Amity Park finally collapsed. It's incredible how the Justice League ignored everything, as if it were so difficult to notice Vortex in Venice, not to mention everything else.
The one who appeared was John Constantine, just as demented because no one had noticed him.
The thing is simple, really: John Constantine is a cunning bastard who will do whatever it takes to save himself, keep his head above water, and prevent someone from taking his soul. He'll do anything.
When he learned that someone had awakened Pariah, that someone had defeated him and was the new king, he had to investigate whether he should abandon the dimension or find a way to survive. So when he arrived in Amity Park, he saw him and said he'd help if he kept him safe, and Danny was tired, okay?
Tired of the men in white, tired of Vlad, tired of his parents, tired of the ghosts that kept attacking, tired of sorting things out.
I have several rights to your soul; I'll give them back to you as long as you fix this shit.
Some demons thought it would be fun to get rid of their rights to Constantine's soul, and he could actually go after the others.
Sam had negotiated more on his behalf, but that made things easier.
Vlad was more trouble, but John was motivated. Vlad thought he knew everything, that he was so clever, but John didn't fool Lucifer by being stupid. He didn't even want the details. The blond guy just showed him a red lava lamp where Vlad was trapped like a genie in a bottle. He was going to be in a safe place where they would never see his face again.
Amity Park was history now. Everyone had been relocated once they learned how John had done it. They erased the town; Sam's residual powers helped conceal what remained with vegetation.
Aunt Alicia didn't ask why her sister seemed so disconnected from reality, as if she'd forgotten who she'd really been. She just looked at Jazz and him. Maddy, who believed had an accident, that the doctor had said life in the country would be best. Maddy, who believed she'd divorced her husband because she'd gone through a midlife crisis and left them behind years ago. Maddie, who was happy to be Alicia's sister again, didn't ask any questions about Jack.
Jack had been dumped with a distant cousin, who turned out to be a good cook. Jack, who believed Maddie had left him to run off with Vlad (that hologram of Maddie Vlad had kept was actually quite useful), remembered nothing about ghosts. They said it was the trauma, and the cousin was more than happy not to mention ghosts, Maddie, or the "breakdown."
Perhaps the worst part was realizing that without their obsession with ghosts, they were the version of their parents they used to love, but neither of them could forget, nor did they want to. This was the greatest mercy they could offer their parents, even if they didn't deserve it.
Tucker committed tax fraud using Vlad's company, as well as money laundering to use crown funds, which served to pay for everything they needed.
Mr. Lancer was retired and sent to a nice, quiet place where he could spend his days without financial worries.
They did the same for Valerie's father, and she went to live with him in another country.
Grandma Ida was the other adult who knew everything. She actually commented on whether they could make her daughter less…stuck-up, but she managed to find her a hobby.
The Foleys went to Canada, their lives settled, understanding everything they had been through, and they were given time.
Jazz decided she wanted to go to Cambridge, not to be a psychiatrist, not anymore. She actually wanted to be a lawyer now.
That left Sam, Tucker, and Danny back where they started. Constantine asked them what they wanted to do now. There was no more portal, no more agents, no more Vlad, no more ghosts, and no more Fentons.
Sam wanted to know why the Justice League ignored them. What made them go unnoticed?
That took John longer, but he had some ideas about why they had gone unnoticed. A combination of incidents, the Flash family's stubborn refusal to believe in the supernatural, some Green Lanterns not believing their words, the Watchtower system blocking all their calls after numerous attempts, the discovery that Captain Marvel had actually been a child all along, thus limiting his ability to act, and Batman's disdain for the Fentons and Vlad stemming from an incident many years prior when the Fentons sought funding.
Danny searched for the clock to find out what had happened there. He discovered that Batman was Bruce Wayne, that many years ago Jack and Maddie had sought funding, and that Bruce, disgusted by his parents' way of thinking, rejected them, confiscating some of their plans just in case. Ultimately, he sent them away, and Batman destroyed all the other documents. This was before Jazz was born.
Apparently, Batman was involved in the Fentons' eventual exodus to Amity, unaware that it was Batman's doing.
John didn't help with Batman.
That guy never knows when to stop. If he finds you, he'll take everything. His paranoia won't stop. He'll search for every blood flower, every amulet, everything to fight the ghosts. He'll find a way to eliminate you. And he has too many equally intense children.
Danny was already terrified of Batman. Knowing that he was somehow involved with his parents and that they lived in Amity didn't help either. Sam had been more vocal about hating the guy.
Clockwork also gave him a warning about Bruce Wayne. He could be an ally or an obstacle. The Bats possessed a curiosity, paranoia, and a need to know everything. Like opening Pandora's box, they wouldn't rest until they found out—a curse.
Not everyone was like that; some might understand that they shouldn't keep digging, but if Batman found out the wrong way, it would be the end of the peace they had achieved.
Danny was tired of being good, tired, so tired of fighting, and asked his mentor, "What do you suggest?" Clockwork showed him Red Hood.
"Do you want to distract him? He's the key. You can help him or not, but whatever you do will push Batman away from you."
The ghosts in Gotham were gossipy; they wanted to cozy up to the Ghost King, even Lady Gotham, to whom he hadn't said why he was there—he was just wandering, thinking.
The truth was, he needed some blood from the entire "Batfamily" for a spell Constantine was casting, to keep them away. Eventually, Lady Gotham would realize he wanted something from them, but he would simply either hit her or put her in the thermos. If Vortex, Undergrowth, and Nocturne could all fit in the thermos, Lady Gotham could too.
The ghosts whispered about Red Hood; he had been Robin, the Joker had killed Robin, and Batman chose the clown.
Another reason to distrust him!
What I noticed was that Red Hood was sick. Clockwork said he could help him or not.
___________________
He sensed something, not evil, but something.
The boy appeared before him without fear, seemingly weary of the world, with a look that suggested he'd seen terrible things and knew he wasn't from Gotham.
"What do you want?" he asked cautiously.
"They told me to come see you," the boy said, no older than Tim.
"Who?"
"The ghosts. There's a girl near you, Gloria." His words made him even more alert.
"She says 'thank you and I'm sorry.' Thank you because you really wanted to kill her abuser. Garzonas? And she's sorry that caused all this, but she still seems worried about you, like everyone else."
"The dead talk to you, kid?" he questioned, still suspicious.
“They’re gossips, but nobody listens to them, so when someone does, they say a lot. They’re worried about you, Mr. Todd.”
“I guess the dead don’t respect secret identities” he complained. “So you came because they asked you to?”
“I’m hungry” he blurted out. “Shall we get hamburgers?”
“So you’re just going to eat hamburgers with a crime lord? Do you even have a survival instinct?”
“I’m already dead, Mr. Todd. Your guns aren’t going to kill me any more than I already am” he said calmly, walking toward him at a leisurely pace.
“You look very much alive, and you want food.”
“I like to eat, even if technically I don’t need it anymore, like breathing. You look very much alive too, Mr. Todd, but you’re dead.”
“Don’t call me Mr. Todd,” he complained. “Call me Red Hood or whatever.” The boy radiated cold even though he was only a meter away. Up close, he looked paler, as if he’d been through hell. “I can still kill you.”
“Your swords aren’t going to do anything to me. It’ll burn a little, which will be very annoying because I prefer the cold, but you’ll feel worse” he warned. “You must know some good burger places.”
“And your name?”
“Danny”
I took the kid to a Batburger that was still open just outside Crime Alley. The kid seemed hungry, but I noticed his chest wasn't moving, his blinking was more sporadic, and he was so pale. The dark circles under his eyes made him look even more gaunt and tired.
His clothes were simple too: a worn purple hoodie, old jeans, a NASA logo t-shirt, and sneakers that had seen better days. To top it all off, his messy black hair, which fell slightly over his face, and his blue eyes made him look like a Wayne adoption bait, even though the blue of his eyes was so light.
“What’s your plan?”
“Have you heard the saying, ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend’?” he blurted out, taking a sip of his soda.
“We have the same enemy?” he asked, incredulous.
“Do you want the full context or the short version?”
"The whole story is fine, but don't push yourself, kid" he sighed.
"Here" he handed him his phone, an old thing but with a pre-made interface, while stealing his fries.
How bad can it be?
It turns out it's really bad, truly horrible. The strange thing is, he didn't feel the slightest pull from the pit; in fact, he hadn't felt it since Danny showed up.
The ectoplasm looked very similar to the Lazarus Pit.
The kid needs help; he can do that.
"You need help with this? Is that why you came to Gotham?"
“No, we already sorted all that out, but I’m tired, Hood. I want to disappear and exist in peace.”
“What are you looking for here? Peace is the last thing you’ll find here.”
“I was warned about Batman. I don’t want him near me, don’t want him to find out. There are things the living don’t need to know. They won’t stop. If I make my move first, he won’t find me.”
“Are you telling me that, kid?”
“I have good things to offer.”
“I’m listening.” He smiled, crossing his arms.
“The contaminated green substance that’s causing you problems, I can remove it. I’ll get it out for you.”
“The Lazarus Pit has no cure, Danny.”
“You haven’t felt it since we met, have you?” He smiled, so the boy knew. “I can give you the Joker, and Batman won't be able to stop you. You'll get justice for everyone else and for yourself. Say what you want, and I'll give it to you.”
“In exchange for what? Preventing Batman and his gang from ever finding out about you? Covering your tracks?”
“I need his blood to cast this spell.” He pulled a book from somewhere, a grimoire, and opened it to the marked page. “To keep them away from me, you can be there when we do it. I want peace and quiet.”
He read the spell. The boy was serious; he didn't want the Bats on his tail, not even by accident.
The idea of no longer having to suffer in the pit was so tempting. Eliminating the Joker without anyone stopping him was too, but he was risking too much. If Bruce didn't realize what was happening, Alfred, Barbara, Cass, and Tim would.
“Anything?” he asked carefully.
“Anything” he assured me. “I can even change the past, though only a little. My dad is helping too.”
______________
Things were moving at a slow pace, even for Gotham. No one wanted to think about whether the patrol could keep up that slow pace.
Then an explosion shook everything, thousands of colorful fireworks lighting up the night sky.
“It’s Fun Village, the Joker!” Barbara warned. “He’s… he’s not in Arkham!”
“Where’s Red Hood?” Bruce asked anxiously.
“Holy shit, he’s here!” Steph exclaimed. “What the hell, Hood?!” Soon the line was cut short by the sound of gunfire.
“I think something’s controlling Hood,” Barbara said as half of them searched for the Joker and the other half for Jason.
“What makes you think that?” Dick questioned
“The parts of his arms that I can see and how he moves. The veins in his arms look black, he moves as if his body is rigid, his helmet is broken, he just knocked Spoiler unconscious, he's taken out Black Mask from what I could see, Black Mask did something to him, be careful, he's not holding back.”
“Just Black Mask?” Tim asked
“And his men, all of them, I don't know where he's going but he just stole a car.”
“Hood said Black Mask was working on a new drug, he must have drugged him and it backfired” Tim commented, away from Jason.
Red Hood's next stop seemed to be the Penguin's club. He drove straight in and then plowed into everyone inside, starting a fire.
He moved fast, his body more fluid.
Dick was the first to arrive, grimacing at the mess. His brother seemed to be looking for another car to escape in. He was no longer wearing his helmet; Dick could see the black veins of his exposed skin from afar, along with the blood.
“Hood!” He yelled to get their attention.
When Hood turned to look at him, he had blood on his face, a huge grin on his face, and the dominoes couldn't hide the green glow in his eyes.
"Big Bird."
Dick wasn't reassured by his nickname, but the next second he started shooting. "Whatever Masc hit him with reacted to the pit; his eyes are glowing too brightly," he warned.
_____________
He watched from a distance, taking advantage of Hood beating his 'family.' There were many things there he didn't want to touch, but this was apparently serving as a great release for the crime lord.
Hood had already given him the blood of Red Robin and Black Bat. Oracle would be much more difficult, so he would have to stop time for a few seconds to get her blood. Hood also wanted a similar spell, something to keep people away from his territory. Among them were several dangerous individuals and a strange fellow who bathed in corrupted ecto, but it was something easy to do.
John agreed to perform the spell for a large sum of money, which Hood himself readily paid. Gotham's magic would be twisted in such a way that no one would be able to discover that it was John who did it.
It helped that purifying Hood awakened his powers; he had understood this quickly, actually. But the crime lord wanted something physical to blame to conceal his own abilities, so that when the time was right, Hood would use the virus that Tucker and Tecnus had created to destroy any possibility that Oracle or any bat could find information.
Red Hood turned out to be quite capable of cooking very well. They were staying in one of his safe houses, so they could enjoy good food while things unfolded.
Danny finds it very curious that Red Hood is okay with the idea of hitting Nightwing, Spoiler, Black Bat, Batman, and Robin, but had no intention of going after Red Robin, and that what he actually wanted erased was having hurt Red Robin when he was Robin.
Although he was much gentler with Spoiler and had no plans to hit Signal either.
He had already dealt with Lady Gotham. In the end, it turned out that even if he tried not to hit her so hard, she still died. She was already very fragile due to the state Gotham was in, so the vigilantes lost that touch of theirs. This was noticeable in the way the shadows no longer sheltered them, except for Hood, who had his own.
______________
The tranquilizers didn't work on Red Hood, who was being ruthless, unrestrained, barely recognizing them. Nightwing had fallen; his leg was badly fractured, and the concussion was going to be severe.
He had already fled in another car. It took Barbara about 10 minutes to realize, through a security camera, that Jason had a phone and then threw it out the car window.
Reports of other incidents were coming in. The other mafia families had problems, and now they had another problem: Jason still had people under his command.
Barbara knew that there were people truly loyal to Jason, faithful enough to follow specific orders. She had discovered this long ago in a series of diaries that Cass managed to photograph because, for plans like this, Jason wouldn't put them in something she could trace; he would have put them on easily burnable paper.
Jason had a nuclear plan: an order to certain people, and he would initiate a massacre. All the rogues, mafia families, anyone Jason had ever wanted dead had to die. Once the targets were dead, most of the enforcers would commit suicide. A few others would remain hidden to ensure the final part: Jason also had to die. If Bruce, along with all of them, captured Jason, the few remaining enforcers had different ways to achieve the objective of freeing or killing Jason and then themselves.
She didn't know how, but Jason assured her that he could get his people to steal his body for cremation. He had no plans to return under any circumstances.
She never told anyone about the plan; telling Bruce wasn't an option. She knew the man would only make things worse.
Bruce underestimates how loyal people can be to their children. The true extent of that loyalty and faith, the different faith people feel for Jason compared to the faith they have for Dick.
Years ago, he had said that Jason would never be like Dick. That was true, it still was. Dick wouldn't exploit the faith people had in him; he didn't want to touch that influence. But Jason was aware of how his people were; he was like them, he had always been a part of them.
Jason was implementing this plan for some reason, as if he had lost his will to live. They had to stop him by any means necessary.
"Things are going to get worse," she said, checking every person he could think of that Jason might want dead, which, frankly, was a lot of people.
Then, as he expected, she started losing cameras everywhere, especially in Arkham.
"What's going on?" Cass asked,
“I think Hood is suicidal right now.” Admitting it out loud was awful. There were small sounds of surprise over the communications. “He’s going to kill everyone and then himself.”
______________
Fighting Cass is much harder, but he has dealt with two faces sides at least. The only good thing about facing Cass is that he can bring out all his feelings, every pain, every sadness and frustration, every "save me" that no one heard. Sometimes he intentionally falters, although he has help there, he holds his head at opportune moments, tries to stop a movement, and cries.
Then he manages to land a good blow on Cass that sends her flying, and hopes that it will at least knock her unconscious so that he can escape.
He gasps for air out of habit, because he's supposed to be breathing, it's supposed to be normal, and then he gives Barbs some images through the cameras of how he brings the gun to his head, but his arm stays there for a few seconds before he lowers it, puts the gun away with trembling hands, and moves on.
He's surprised that Barbs hasn't told the others about one of her final plans until now, but that works in her favor.
A car stops nearby, he walks towards it and gets in.
Inside, one of his men gives him something to drink. The nearby cameras must already be broken. As they pass through a busy street, he activates intangibility and invisibility, enough for the car to change direction until they reach the second car they'll get into.
This whole being more dead than alive thing is actually pretty cool. There had to be some good in dying.
The next phases of the plan are underway. Most of the mafias should be history, obviously, and the rest will take a little time, but that's okay.
Danny said he wanted to handle the Court of Owls a bit, something about protecting the Talons and making sure there aren't any more in the future, also some theft and money laundering. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to teach those three how to launder money quickly using other rich people? But these guys deserve a quiet life, so he lets it go.
The Court should pay out somehow, quietly, as much as they like being in the shadows.
He's having a manic psychotic episode to fake, caused by some drug overdose.
Why hadn't he carried out that plan?
Oh, right, the Joker. There's a good chance they'll throw him in Arkham, but since the Joker is already dead, he doesn't have to worry about that. If only he could eliminate Bane faster without raising suspicion, it would be almost perfect.
Although he's going through a psychotic episode, so he could go kill the guy himself right now…
_____________
The three of them are surprised! Actually, the plan to fake madness really works for Red Hood!
That gave them time to deal with the court case. A curse is easier to pin on Gotham.
So they just watch the drama unfold, making sure Red Hood achieves his goals.
"It's over," Tucker announced. "Enough money in our pockets to do whatever we want and donate to all the organizations Sam wants."
"Excellent," she celebrated. "Do you think they'll call for help for Hood?"
“No,” was all he said, still watching all the action from afar. “Don’t meta's with Gotham, not for Hood,” he replied to Sam. “That road trip we never did the way we wanted…we should do it.”
“Once everything’s done, we can travel the world. I’ve always wanted to go to this botanical garden in London,” Sam said softly, as if he couldn’t quite believe it.
None of them had felt hopeful for a long time. The school could wait until they felt more like people than survivors, until they could be at peace in a classroom again.
This time they had time; hope no longer felt like a joke.
“I want to go to a beach, with one of those drinks with little colorful umbrellas, lobster, a jacuzzi,” Tucker blurted out, also in a low voice, like a secret.
“The biggest gothic festival in the world in Germany.”
“All those street food stalls in China.”
“Real matcha tea, not the Starbucks kind, real matcha.”
“I want to go skiing,” he blurted out, holding his breath even more than he already does, but Sam and Tucker looked at him, more hope, a small smile. “I want to go steal from NASA, a real astronaut suit.”
“So, can we steal Michael Jackson’s red jacket?” Tucker asked.
“Why not?” He smiled at his friends, thinking, "I want to try as many burgers as I can."
"I'll take the barbecue! Shall we go to New Orleans?" Tucker suggested.
"To Mardi Gras," Sam chimed in.
Hope felt good. "I want to go to Venice and enjoy it."
"Carnival!" Sam blurted out.
"I'm getting to the trap!" Tucker showed them the screen; Batman was already in position.
Time to move for the show.
_______________
Tim wants to make it clear that once this is over, he's going to punch Jason.
What kind of suicide plan is this?
So Jason has a select group of men who:
Are highly trained in weapons, infiltration, and stealth.
Have enough spite, intelligence, and a willingness to die for a cause, but are calm enough to wait as sleeper agents.
Have a twisted loyalty to Jason that they're willing to commit suicide for him. Suicide! Not to die in some gang war from a stray bullet, not to die on some highly dangerous mission as a risk everyone assumes, something that comes with the job—no, these people have orders to commit suicide! Once their targets are reached, with enough bullets in their bodies or some other method, they would then calmly go to a pre-planned location to commit suicide ON JASON'S ORDERS. THESE PEOPLE WERE GOING TO COMMIT SUICIDE! All so they would never have to pay for their crimes!
PEOPLE WHO HAD ORDERS TO KILL JASON HIMSELF!
Barbara was mobilizing the entire police force in Gotham because—and this is what you need to know about Jason—he's organized, very organized. He has lists of people he wants dead, ordered by who he wants dead as soon as possible. The most urgent.
It's a long list, many names. Number 1 is the Joker, and number 2 is every possible rogue. From number 3 down were rapists, pedophiles, and other criminals.
Jason kept these death lists as a way to relax, like people who plan their suicide for the distant future and then go through with it…looking back, that was a huge red flag they ignored.
Had Jason always been suicidal? Like this? Clever enough to have recruited his executioners and for none of them to back out.
What you need to know about these lists is that they're always changing. Urgency shifts the names, or when Jason talks to a victim, they decide they don't want their attacker dead. But these are long lists that he doesn't share.
Sometimes he's grateful that something like the Death Note doesn't exist in his world because Jason would undoubtedly fill those pages.
There are two riots happening, one in Arkham and the other in Blackgate. Unfortunately, any evidence of the drug Black Mask used on Jason had been lost because there was a fire in the basement of the building, which of course later exploded. He was just checking and found Steph was only knocked out with some bruises and a bullet in her leg.
"Forget the Joker, he must be dead by now. We need to stop Hood."
Jason had already taken down Cass, gotten into a car, and disappeared. Jason might even be dead already.
"Nightwing has arrived at the cave," Alfred reported. "I'll need Dr. Leslie."
"Black Bat is on her way," Damian reported. "I'll go get her."
"Batman?" he asked, confused. Bruce has been silent. “Batman ” he called.
Jason harbors a lot of resentment toward Bruce. If he's deranged enough, he might be looking for him.
“I see Batman moving. His vital signs are a mess, like it's the fear toxin. He's unresponsive, but he's moving,” Barbara reported. “The images of the cowl aren't responding.”
Cass, Steph, and Dick are incapacitated. Only Robin and he remain. What if something happened to Batman, along with a deranged Red Hood?
“We need backup.”
“I have images. Oh my God! We have to call Superman now!”
Barbara is horrified by what she sees.
Batman seems to be just as agitated as Hood, because he started attacking him brutally.
Batman is covered in blood. Hood makes a sound, a signal. Shooters are nearby, not only targeting Batman, but most of the bullets are hitting Hood.
The sound of gunfire freezes Bruce in place once he's locked his seat, but more shots follow. He can only watch as a van pulls up next to Jason's body and drives away.
"Stop that van!"
______________
Jason has too much work to do, that's the reality.
With all the important members of Gotham's crime families dead, along with other drug lords also dead, it leaves a gang war where no one knows where to turn, not with all the potential bosses more than dead.
Luckily for Jason, he had planned this for a long time, fantasizing about this in those early days when he debuted as Red Hood, something this big, this powerful.
His alias and new suit are also ready; he had been killed in a very public way, his heart rate had changed, his eyes had turned blue again. By the time Bruce wakes up, everything will be ready, no one to blame!
First, he'll have a breakdown because he'll believe he's killed "innocent" people, not just the Joker. His memories will be hazy enough, and the security camera footage will be there soon enough to make it impossible to stop him. He broke Dick's leg, shot Steph in the leg too, though without seriously damaging anything vital, and knocked Cass unconscious with a less severe leg fracture. Overall, all three have severe concussions that will keep them bedridden.
Only Red Robin, Signal, and Robin are available to deal with a gang war, two riots, and the mess he left behind.
Long live faking a manic episode!
It also served him well to release all that pent-up resentment. Dick took it worse in that regard, but at least all the other villains he took down also got something that makes him feel much better.
It would have been more cathartic to yell at Bruce, but he's not complaining. He released a lot of that fury with Bane. The others will take a while to discover his body; it's no big deal.
For now, he has to take down all organized crime in the city, and honor the men and women who died for him.
Is it hypocritical of him to have a small Battalion? No, because they are all adult men and women who chose this path, without any illusion of glory. None of them wanted glory for this plan; they wanted peace, to end it all, and to rest.
They are not people deceived by an idea of glory and heroism; they are not children! The youngest of them was 47 years old.
They were people who sometimes made him uncomfortable because they had this faith and loyalty toward him that he felt he didn't deserve, that he couldn't give them more. He wanted to live up to their expectations, for them, and he always felt he was failing, but they wanted this; they wanted him too. They believed in him and in what he could achieve.
He felt that the more he tried to win back his family, the more he failed them, the more he betrayed their feelings, but they understood.
They still saw him as a child, a teenager really, who had been robbed of everything, like all of them, and who was trapped in this limbo.
He cared about his people, his alley, his town. Now he knows that some of those feelings stemmed from the fact that he was actually thinking like a dead man. Crime Alley was his refuge, the place that haunted and protected him. All the people in it were his.
His to protect, his to see them happy, his so they could be free.
And Jason only wanted that for his children, his hardworking girls, and his merry men.
He wants them to have opportunities, to eat, to have a home, and to be safe.
He is a guardian spirit, he always has been a protector, both in life and in death.
He also knows what it's like to lose everything, even purpose, waiting for the end. Some of those people no longer had the will to live. They wanted this, they believe in this, and they want peace. I always give them the opportunity to repent, to show them they didn't have to do it. I could fake their deaths, give them enough money for a comfortable retirement somewhere, with the peace they sought. Some took it. They decided they wanted to be different people, to leave everything in Gotham and, when the time came, to leave.
He will hold funerals that are truly beautiful for them, for his men, for his group. They will be buried with all the honor and dignity they deserve, or their bodies will be cremated as they wished.
These are names he will not forget. They are important to him. They are not nameless soldiers who can be sacrificed without a second thought.
His people will not die in vain. They will not be forgotten. They will not be an example or a cautionary tale for those who come after.
These are people with tragic lives who chose to leave in the way they chose, ridding the city of various evils; real people with real lives, with real suffering and real hope; people who fought, who endured, and who chose to say, “I’m tired, I deserve to rest and do it my way.”
So, in reality, their tears are real, not an act; they are not fake; their pain is not fake. These are their people, their men and women who understood what it is to be born into the misery that is Gotham, born from its depths, forged by all the cruelty and turmoil, surviving it all, without surrendering. Not truly. Choosing death can be a relief; the pain never goes away. Sometimes hope dies forever. Sometimes stopping is being kind to yourself instead of hurting yourself more.
He will fight every war for his people, for Gotham. He will weep for them while he fights; he will weep for them when he returns to say goodbye to the others, to those who remain alive.
A different helmet, still red.
There's no bat symbol this time, even if they reconcile (which he highly doubts), he doesn't need it anymore.
Just as planned, Roy arrives first, startled by the voicemail he received.
"You're alive!"
"Not really," he replies to the archer, not bothering to wipe away his tears. "It'll be a long few days."
"What the hell, Jaybird?"
______________
The town is a disaster, that's a fact. It seems like chaos, but there's control within this chaos, created by Red Hood.
His tracks have been erased. Red Hood even says that in a few days, the Oracle system and the cave will be affected, completing the plan.
Red Hood also invites them to the funerals, which they attend with all due respect.
Danny understands. Even if the people of Amity Park didn't want him there, Amity Park was his, its people were his too. Letting them go, getting them out of there, even though a part of him wanted to keep them there because they belonged there, and he screamed every time he took each family, each person, away.
The people of Amity Park were his. He set them free, safe, even if it tore him apart inside because he wanted to see them safe.
Erasing all traces of his existence felt like losing something precious, something Sam and Tucker might not fully understand.
So Danny understands Red Hood differently for allowing his people, his men and women, to make this decision, for setting them free in this way.
They are protectors spirits.
Red Hood will mourn the people he set free who chose peace for themselves.
He will mourn the residents of Amity Park who are far from where they belonged but are safe now; he will mourn the town that no longer exists.
Someday, after his journey, perhaps someday when he feels at home somewhere else and makes it his own, he won't be replacing the first one. One child doesn't replace another; they aren't organs that can be transplanted and easily accepted.
People aren't truly replaceable.
His only solace is knowing that all his people are safe, that he can visit some or say goodbye to others.
Mr. Lancer, for example, won't be able to rest easy if he doesn't hear from them soon.
So Danny is also forgiving, giving simple orders and making sure Hood's people are safe on the other side.
Danny can almost see it, Robin, he means. Dead children will always be dead children. Red Hood doesn't even bother to hide his identity, his tears, his weeping. He's not ashamed to show himself like this in front of all his people. He looks like a child who has lost his entire family. Moving among the coffins and urns, with small sobs, moans of pain, crying, his fists clenched, and a red-haired man beside him holding him.
He can almost see Robin more than Red Hood, the imposing crime boss and vigilante. The second Robin, the one who cared more about the people, his people, his fight.
Danny wonders if the other people can see it too.
Danny wonders if Jazz, Sam, Tucker, and Valerie were looking at him like that too. People had died in Amity Park, ghosts had been erased from Amity Park, and Danny feels their pain even if he never speaks to them in life or death.
So he makes small ice flowers that look like crystal, different for each coffin and urn, leaves them there, and then makes a bouquet for Red Hood, with an extra flower.
Red Hood is dead too. His funeral, which his brothers and others who might have wanted to attend weren't allowed to attend, was a tragedy. Red Hood was buried under the wrong name, next to the woman who betrayed him to his killer, in the wrong cemetery, only to receive a memorial that reads "a good soldier," not a statue alongside other fallen heroes. A defiled memory.
Robin deserved more than that, not because he was Robin, but because he was a brutally murdered child who never received justice.
Danny almost prefers not having a grave because it would be more painful to receive something that Red Hood received.
So he delivers a bouquet with an extra flower and assures Hood that his people will be safe on the other side.
Red Hood then makes him a symbolic grave, a headstone with his name and stars carved into the slab. The grave is between the Todd family, Willis, Catherine and Jason Todd, and a woman named Natalia Knight. Hood and Arsenal stay there while Sam and Tucker weep, embracing him. There's something akin to peace, something that settles in his chest, and he allows himself to cry as well.
He will leave his hazmat suit down there in the ground later. He thinks Jazz should be there too, but he knows she's not ready yet. He will tell Jazz, give her the address and the means to come.
Danny Fenton is dead. Danny Phantom is gone too, along with his hazmat suit. They rest in a grave without a coffin. All of history, the life before them, has finally returned to the ground.
Jason Todd was killed while he was Robin. Jay Peters, as Red Hood, has also died in a hail of bullets. The mantle of a hero, the light of Gotham that died and returned as something different with a different name, stolen from his own nightmare, is also gone, returned to the ashes that scatter in the wind to be free, never held back, never contained, and never again under the yoke of his former family.
Danyal Nightingale may be Jason Nightingale's friend and cousin. They say goodbye without anyone else noticing. Sam drives out of Gotham with less tension on his shoulders. Tucker sleeps motionless in the back seat, and Sam watches the figure in the rearview mirror shrink until it disappears from sight.
Danny hopes Jason will be alright in the days to come.
Danny also looks at his driver's license, the one Clockwork had given him. He hadn't understood why Danyal instead of Daniel, so now he realizes that Clockwork hoped he would become friends with Jason Todd, close enough for them to exchange names. It had come to him as a suggestion: Nightingale, as he wanted to be, more like a cousin than a brother, because brother is still too soon, but cousin is fine.
Jason had told him that Danyal is a variant of his name.
Because Red Hood had been Talia al Ghul's son in everything but blood or name, but he was once also her son.
As a symbol of their friendship and family bond, written only on paper, where no bat or bird could discover it.
____________
Roy arrives at the mansion suddenly days later; perhaps it's his face that makes Alfred not ask him any questions.
Dick goes up to the mansion, not letting anyone follow him. He has to talk to Roy first, so he moves as quickly as possible to see him. His broken leg doesn't stop him, because if Roy is there, then he's bad and serious. It could be Roy, furious and yelling at them about Jason, but Dick knows that's not the case when he enters the living room and sees his friend.
“No,” he says, because he still holds onto hope, because he can’t go through this again, “Roy.”
“I came for a few things and… I can only give you this.” He pulls out a small box, almost like a ring box, barely 10 x 10 centimeters, made of polished black wood. Roy hands her the box very gently, his expression somber.
“What? What is this?” He asks, on the verge of hysteria
“He wanted you to have it, to see.”
“Roy, please,” his voice cracks, “please.”
Roy looks like he’s about to cry right there, but he holds him tightly by the shoulders, dragging him to the nearest armchair. “Listen to me carefully, listen to me.”
“Roy, Roy, no, no, I can’t, it can’t be, please, Roy,” he begs, though he doesn’t quite know what to ask, but Roy seems devastated.
“It’s yours, yours, it belongs only to you. You can’t let anyone take it from you, tell you that you can’t keep it. It’s yours, only yours, so you’re going to keep it and protect it, hide it, but they must never take it from you. This is what he wanted.”
“No, no, no, no, no, why! Why is it like this?!” he shouts. He knows what it is, but it doesn’t make sense. No, Jason was so big, so tall, his body couldn’t have been reduced to this! This little box! It's not enough! No!
The redhead looks even more devastated. “He never felt like he belonged, that everything was conditional, you know…you know how he is, proud, hurt, wounded, a big ‘if I don't belong then they can't have me, I don't belong to them’ kind of thing, so they scattered a good portion of his ashes,” he explained. Dick doesn't know if he's the only one trembling; they're both trembling. Roy's grip is almost painful on his shoulders. “He arranged this, left instructions, took a message with me,” he says. “So this is yours, only yours, only if you want it. So you'll keep it, you won't give it to anyone else, not that bastard Bruce, not Alfred, not Talia, not anyone else, just you.”
He nods through tears. Roy looks at him for a moment, not knowing what Roy is thinking. He can't think. Roy's grip loosens; he's not interested. He can't do this again. It shouldn't be like this again. It shouldn't be just this little box. This tiny box—too tiny!
Little wing.
His little brother, who's back, who's grown up, shouldn't be little again. He can't even hug him properly. Such a small box, barely fitting in his hands.
Something enters his field of vision: a book, a very small hardcover edition, Pride and Prejudice. He looks up.
"I grabbed this loose copy," he confesses softly, murmuring, "just in case."
"Just in case?" he stammers, his voice automatically lowering as well.
"I really don't want anyone but you to have this." He looks at the small box, serious. "As friends… if they ask you what Jay left you, you have this book. Jay left you this book, just this book, understand?"
He opens his eyes. Because of their friendship, an excuse, a kind gesture, perhaps the last, one more secret to keep between them. He nods, gripping the book tightly. Roy gets up to leave the room as he stares at the small box, polished black wood.
He wants to faint, wants to die, wants to wake up. Everything is spinning, but if he loses consciousness, it will be stolen.
If Jason wanted only him to have a portion of his ashes, then so be it. He won't let go, he won't give it to anyone else. His alone, so Bruce can't reach him.
Roy Harper hands a letter to Alfred, who is nearby, shaken, and continues on his way.
When he arrives at the cave, he sees that Bruce Wayne is still in confinement, looking unhinged inside.
He approaches the first vigilante he sees, who turns out to be Spoiler. He takes some keys from his jacket pocket, keys with tags; Spoiler's are easy to spot when the tag is purple.
“Here, safe deposit box, his shelter near the Thai place in Navarow.” He places the key in Steph’s bewildered hand. “Just yours. The nurse asked me to pass this message on her behalf. He’s sorry about the mess in her leg.”
“What?” is all she says.
“Where is he?” Cass asks.
“He’s gone,” is all she replies.
Cass knows Roy Harper isn’t lying. The pain is real, the anger is real, the despair and sadness, even the urge to give up, to collapse. This pain and sadness isn’t fake, it’s not a trick. The redhead approaches her, places a key in her hand, which she clutches tightly.
“Shelter in the Diamond District, near the tea shop.”
Steph collapses beside him, staring at her own key.
“The pit?” Tim asks from the computer.
“The pit needs a body. His ashes are gone too,” he says, his voice heavy with sorrow.
Tim doesn't know if it's Steph or Cass making that ragged, gasping sound. He just looks at Arsenal. Tim doesn't need any more confirmation than Cass, who's clinging to Steph. Roy isn't lying; his pain is real.
Jason is gone again, this time for good. He's very grateful they soundproofed Bruce's cell, even if they already knew this was Jason's crazy plan. He lets the air out of his lungs and sits down in the chair.
"This is Duke's, Bowery's hideout on 6th," he tells her.
Duke is outside with the Birds of Prey. Things have calmed down considerably after almost a week of chaos.
Tim can admit he shouldn't have forgotten that Red Hood took over Gotham's underworld in his debut with alarming precision and efficiency, practically with just a few thugs under his command who weren't even loyal to him; they just wanted the job.
So now, with many more people willing to fight for his cause, in his name, and die for him, Jason was a formidable force.
Much of the guerrilla warfare and skirmishing was in Jason's territory; his people were already there, taking steps further to gain firm control under the command of Jason's lieutenants. Other disputes in different sectors kept them occupied, while also monitoring the problems in Arkham and Blackgate.
At first, it was obvious that no one knew they had been attacked until the Red Hood forces arrived to take control.
Arkham was almost easy, straightforward. The group that had gone to Arkham had enough cash and could transfer more to anyone they encountered. The few who refused were blackmailed and shot in the legs. Many guards and staff stepped aside when it became clear that the Red Hood group was after the rogues; they even delayed the police and gave them another way out. When the police arrived, many also had those expressions of ‘well, what can we do?’ with feigned anger and words like ‘oh, that damn Red Hood criminal and his people!’ ‘we’ll catch them, no doubt! When we finish checking, make sure they’re not still around here,’ ‘what a shame, we were so slow’—they weren’t even being subtle.
Blackgate was more like a massacre and chaos. The extermination squad entered in prison guard uniforms; much of the staff was bribed, extorted, and locked in administrative rooms. Tim is actually more surprised that the Warden was on Jason’s side all this damn time. He made things so easy.
If they’d had time, it would have been simpler to go little by little, only looking for certain criminals in their cells and not causing a commotion, but Jason knew he didn’t have time. There were many criminals who needed to be eliminated, and things would be chaotic, so they simply went to the most important cells to move on to the other criminals.
To avoid mistakes, they had photos of each person and which section they were in.
Very few sex offenders survived, but many were castrated, lame, or maimed. It was more difficult for the group to escape.
Jason had too many people on his payroll, enough to go door to door. At this point, Tim truly believed that every adult in Crime Alley was part of Red Hood's group.
Oh, and they found Bane's body.
It was a perfectly coordinated siege, one that Jason had meticulously prepared, even without being directly involved.
Not everyone was killed; there were so many castrations and injuries that the hospitals were overwhelmed.
Some even had acid thrown on their private parts! Jason didn't discriminate; man or woman, if they were on the list, they were either dead or on their way to the hospital.
Jason was always the distraction. The attacks had started before Barbara saw him on the security cameras with her phone, so from the moment he was free and wearing a black mask, she should have raised the alarm.
Perhaps the worst part was that many people had let it happen. They had seen Red Hood's men and let them carry out their mission. For a moment, when things calmed down, the police officers, whose corruption had been the least of their crimes, continued their pursuit.
Barbara's mistake hadn't been hiding what she knew about this plan, because she understood it would have been a disaster if Bruce or Dick had found out; the mistake came from underestimating how many people Jason had.
That was the mistake Barbara and he made: underestimating how many people were involved in Jason's nuclear plan.
He's tired.
He can't even blame Jason; it had been a trap set by the Joker, not the other way around. Only, of course, the Joker didn't know this ending.
Tim doesn't even know if he'll get anything. Roy only gave him the key to Duke, and he's hurt by that. He raises his head when he hears the sound of the monument's glass opening. Roy is taking the suit; he had grabbed a duffel bag and is just carrying it out.
"What are you doing?" he asked harshly.
“Doing what he wanted,” he says firmly, harshly, with tears welling up. “He wants me to bury this stupid suit in his grave, so that’s what I’ll do.”
Part of Tim knows there will only be more problems if he lets Roy do this—take the suit, put it in Jason's grave. He knows it's wrong. But he doesn't even have hope that Bruce will ever be functional again; losing the suit or not won't make a difference to the damage. Jason always hated that thing; it bothered them all to varying degrees. Robin should have been buried when Red Hood returned to the family, should have been taken away when Jason was so alive by his side.
Roy just hands him the dominoes and a phone. "I wanted you to keep these, Robin's dominoes. Don't give them to anyone."
"His phone?" he asked, confused.
He nodded. "And Damian?" he questioned.
"He was outside feeding Batcow."
"Okay." He walked toward the only motorcycle Jason had left, putting more things in the compartment, pressed the button, and they watched the motorcycle drive away.
"Why are you taking everything?" Cass asked.
“I don’t even know if I want to know what happened to make… to make Jay so depressed. He’d improved so much. I don’t know if you had another damn fight or what was the final straw” he sounded tired, running a hand through his hair. “I just know he must have been in a bad way to do all this. This is him saying, ‘You can’t have me, I don’t belong to you!’ So I’m going to fulfill his last wishes!”
“There wasn’t a fight,” Tim told him.
“Don’t lie to me! It’s always a fight with you guys and that sick bastard! He’s never good enough for you!” he exclaimed, tears finally flowing.
“Damn, you don’t know?” he muttered incredulously, more tired, more fed up. “The Joker set him up.”
“Of course!” he snorted furiously.
“You know how Jason provoked Black Mask into bringing out the Joker and all that?” He told him, Roy just nodded, roughly wiping away his tears. “The Joker wanted to do something similar. Jason was investigating Black Mask for a new drug. They manufactured a drug, used it on Jason, and it reacted with the Lazarus Pit. Jason was drugged under the influence of the Joker and Black Mask's experiment; he wasn't thinking.”
“Tim, what the hell are you saying?…”
“The Joker's plan was to have Batman and Red Hood under this drug in their hideout so he could play with them, but the drug and the pit reacted,” he explained, looking at the perplexed redhead. “The substance altered them more than expected… Bruce killed the Joker and everyone else in that hideout, not just the thugs.”
“What?” That was all he said, even taking a step back.
“That’s why we have Bruce in the cell, not just because he was there when Jason…” He sighed. “There wasn’t any big fight, just the Joker.”
“Shit, fuck, fuck! That explains everything!” He stepped back, agitated. “He called me, sounded bad, nervous. He said he’d messed up, really messed up, but he just wanted to hear my voice and Lian’s! That he already had the solution, he just wanted to calm down, he just wanted to calm down!” He sobbed, devastated. “He said not to come, just that he’d messed up with you guys, he just needed to hear us out! He said we’d see each other soon! He promised Lian! He said he’d sort it out, that it wouldn’t be for nothing, and he’d leave Gotham for a while!” He screamed, crying, devastated, still denying it, “He promised Lian, he promised him, and then I got a message to come alone. I got there and he was already dead. I got there and they’d already cremated him. He was already dead! He was dead, he was gone! All this mess, this whole plan, he was already dead! And all because the Joker sent him to be drugged with some crap?! Did he have a reaction to the pit?! Is that what killed him?!”
Tim just nodded, looking at Damian who had already gone downstairs. Dick was probably upstairs having a breakdown, since he was the one who had first encountered Roy.
The truth was clearer now.
The Lazarus Pit had affected the toxin, making it more volatile and powerful. The security camera footage showed the veins in Jason's arms less black, lighter, but he was still erratic.
The effect wore off much faster because Jason's constantly battling body had burned it out of his system. He had faced Bane and killed him.
When he got into that car, he must have had more control, not enough, but more control. Then he reappeared to face Bruce and was riddled with bullets right there. Jason shouldn't have believed that Bruce would lose control like that, or that the Joker would manage to administer the toxin. Jason had initiated his nuclear plan; there was no turning back. There would be no forgiveness for him, even if they knew he was under the influence of an unknown substance. Perhaps at first he should have had hope, since he had promised Lian something: to escape Gotham, them, Bruce. And then he decided that all the people who had died for him hadn't done so in vain. He followed his plan to the end because there was no hope that anything would improve; he wasn't going to let everyone else die in vain.
Roy just screamed in frustration, in pain, only to go to the containment cell, pounding on the walls of a Bruce who couldn't hear them. “It's your fault, you fucking bastard, you son of a bitch! If only you had chosen Jason the first time! You're the only sick monster who chose the fucking Joker and slit his son's throat! It should have been you! It should have been you! If only the Joker had died! If only you had left him dead! And now Jason is gone forever! There won't be a next time! There's no coffin to dig up! There's nothing! Nothing!”
“He can’t hear you,” Tim warned her.
“But he can read my lips! Jason is dead! His ashes are gone! If you had let Jason kill the Joker, he’d be here! How am I supposed to tell Lian?! Huh?! Huh?! How am I supposed to tell Kori?! I’m glad he didn’t leave you anything! You have nothing but his ghost! You can’t have him! You never will! You chose wrong! He doesn’t belong to you! He never did!” she sobbed again, ceasing to pound on the cell wall.
Walking away, sniffling, vigorously wiping his face with his jacket sleeve.
“Harper,” Damian’s voice filled the void.
“I’m not going to apologize for that. He’s a damn bastard who hurt him,” he blurted out.
“I didn’t expect that.”
Roy looked older, more wounded. He walked over to Damian and handed him an envelope and a key. “You know where it is. Many of his swords are yours, and whatever’s in that box,” he said, pulling out another envelope. “Give this to Barbara. I was going to go, but I just want to get out of here. I want to be done with this.”
“Okay,” was all Damian said.
“God, I still have to go find Talia and two ex-girlfriends,” he complained.
“Do you want help?” Steph asked.
“No, no,” was his reply. “He asked me to. I’ll handle it. I just want to leave this city.”
“Roy,” Tim called one last time, though the man didn’t turn around. “Do you know who’s in charge?”
“Crime Alley was already functioning without Jay before; Jay was always the distraction,” he confessed. “Everything is organized, divided among his trusted people. Crime Alley will be safe…don’t get too close; they never liked you much.”
(Roy returns to Crime Alley, to the safe house, and Jason is there. The spell is broken, and he remembers everything. He still yells at Jason while hugging him. He won’t do that shit again, but he understands why it was necessary. Luckily, Roy is spared having to lie to Talia because someone else already did it for him.)
________________
Bruce wonders if death would be kinder, or if he deserves it. His memories are hazy, but they're there—in the hatred, in the ease with which he strikes the Joker's body. The most surreal thing is when he can only see unfamiliar bodies beneath him, blood everywhere.
The image of Jason being shot is there in his retinas, forever tattooed on his soul.
Everything else is honestly blurry; even in unconsciousness, everything is dark and silent.
At first, the containment cell wasn't soundproof, so he heard what was happening.
He hates the part of his brain that's annoyed at not having better countermeasures against Jason.
Tim had already hidden a Batmobile from him before. Why did he think Jason wasn't hiding things? The truth was, he'd gotten used to Jason doing things dramatically—shouting, demanding, saying everything he felt. He'd forgotten that this was the same kid who'd planted a bomb under the Batmobile, who could have killed him, who wanted to kill him but didn't want him to get away so easily, without even knowing who Red Hood was.
He'd also started believing his own lies. Dick was so furious, he was uncontrolled energy, power and freedom. Sometimes the criminals were more terrified of Robin because they could hear him laugh but couldn't see him. Other times he wasn't even laughing, but the colors were enough to send adults running in the opposite direction.
Dick had also been kind—smiles, an act to lower their guard, to help, to not scare the children.
Jason had his alley accent; all of Gotham, even where he failed, people trusted Robin.
Jason had carried many small children and babies as Robin with a naturalness that surprised him. He had defended women fervently and criticized many people for their opinions, with the same stance as Alfred.
Jason had been Gotham, laughter, even tears, but people felt so safe by his side. They had loved him, and Jason loved them. He felt for them, suffered, got angry, and was moved by them.
Crime Alley was his people. They gave him information, Jason protected them, and sometimes the Batmobile was loaded with supplies, clothing, and hygiene items.
He remembered the first time Dick, curious, had looked in Jason's utility belt and found many condoms and other contraceptives. He had been mortified, not knowing what to say, until he saw Jason hand them out to some girls, along with sanitary napkins and tampons. Anyway, she had gone to his office not knowing how to start the conversation until she managed to say a few words and he had to explain.
He was sure that only Alfred and Dick knew about contraceptives and condoms; Barbara had found out about sanitary napkins on her own at some point, and he knew that nobody else knew about them either.
Not even Tim knew.
He hadn't wanted to admit that Red Hood actually helped Crime Alley in his violent way, even though it worked. He ignored that part of the city again, the one his son forbade him from entering.
He had forgotten that people loved Jason. He didn't follow Red Hood's operations and his people very closely because Jason was suspicious of them. They too were possessive of their son; Jason's "merry men" always looked at him badly, they feared him but hated him; they were somewhat kind to others but never to him.
He can't even call his son a hypocrite. On the subject of "child soldiers, crusade, the mission," there weren't any children involved. They were all adults who chose their path, not for some illusion of glory, but because they believed in Jason's vision and in Jason himself.
The children feel safe with Red Hood, even those who don't belong in Crime Alley. Jason will take shots, jump off buildings, hold up buildings, go to the other side of the world for the children of Gotham, for his children of Crime Alley.
He had preferred to see all of that as signs that the Jason he remembered was indeed him, the protector. He closed his eyes thinking of Robin and opened them seeing Red Hood. He couldn't stand it, so he just closed his eyes and listened.
He wants to scream at Barbara for not telling him this, for hiding it. He really wants to. Why didn't she say anything?
Even if he knows why he didn't say anything.
He wants to get out of there, find Jason, his plan doesn't make sense, he doesn't understand why his people would kill him, why? Why? he loves her son, he needs her son.
It's Clark who tells him, when his children have gone up to the mansion, that there's nothing but sadness, that face Clark makes when he has to say things he hates.
He knows the drug reacted with the Lazarus Pit.
He knows Black Mask used on Jason.
He knows the Joker administered it to him.
Jason's plan was his only option if he lost hope: to go out with a bang, take as many people as possible with him, and then die so he'd never have to pay for his crimes—the ultimate way to escape the law and Bruce. That's what it had been: the ultimate escape plan where Bruce could never reach him.
Jason had many people willing to die for him in battle, but he also had people willing to kill themselves at his command. (Bruce wondered where he had learned that from. Were his people fanatics for Red Hood?)
An armed group entered Arkham, with money, blackmail, and weapons. The asylum staff stood aside and let the armed group gun down their targets before leaving the island.
Another armed group was at Blackgate. The Warden had been on Jason's side the whole time, waiting for the right moment and the order. He himself had checked on the Warden, spoken with him, surprised that he had lasted so long. Perhaps that was it—that he knew how to survive.
It took them more difficulty to escape, but they did. They left behind a prison full of corpses and inmates going mad with the chaos.
There were others who ended up in the hospital, savagely castrated, shot with a shotgun, stabbed, and covered in acid. There were also those wounded, whether in the legs or losing a hand. Bruce thought it was almost like branding them. The hospitals were still full.
Somehow, he feels they are letting something slide. Things calmed down a bit, so the corrupt cops continued their pursuit.
But Jason was already dead, from day one of this coordinated attack.
Jason's order was to kill him, steal his body, and cremate it.
Not buried, just ashes, so he wouldn't return a second time, so he couldn't mourn over a grave. His children were trying to find him before that happened, to recover his body.
He wasn't going to leave that cell either. His children were too preoccupied, too paranoid about what he would do if they were given the chance.
Jason's people were definitely waiting for him, perhaps even disappointed that they couldn't shoot him.
He had been hitting Jason as soon as he saw him; he would have killed him too, with his own blows. Jason was waiting for him. One signal, and he covered himself with his cape, trying to get away.
I beat you, Batman.
He had said that, he had smiled, his eyes shining, the blood covering him, that crooked smile, and then…
He had called him ‘Batman,’ not even ‘old man’ or anything like he always called him, Batman.
Jason had won the moment he had formed, instead of a criminal organization or a mafia, a faithful and loyal company, perhaps almost a cult.
It still seemed incredible because he was sure that these people loved Jason, they cared for him, they had feelings for him, but they were willing to kill him, kill his son, their leader, the center of everything, kill him, burn his body, and then carry on with the mission.
He doesn't understand it. They shouldn't want to do it, they shouldn't follow the order, but they had followed it, and then those same people had taken their own lives.
He doesn't understand it.
All this level of coordination, of manipulation, hidden in plain sight—not even that, they just never thought Jason was capable of leading. He wasn't charismatic like when he was Robin, he wasn't like Dick, a born leader who made people want to follow him. Jason wasn't like that.
Jason was growls, sarcasm, jokes about death, condescending, cruel, aggressive.
Even Ra's is charismatic, captivating, he convinces people of what he does, ceremonious.
Jason is none of that.
…Not with them. He wasn't gentle with them.
But he knows that children see the Red Hood and adore him.
Jason was so sweet when he was a child. He made him laugh, he cooked for Alfred when he woke up early to surprise him, polite, a loudmouth, but always smiling.
Tim had said that the best photographs of Batman's smile were with Robin, with Jason. He had seen one of those photographs and it had felt like another life.
Jason was never that sweet, that kind again… but sometimes a little of it would seep through in his demeanor, small glimpses…
Jason wouldn't give them his kindness again, his concern, his caring gestures. Why did Jason do that? He chose the Joker. Dick had gone from a distant brother to one who bullied him. He had scared Tim. Steph suspected him because of the fright he had given Tim. Cassandra kept an eye on him. Damian insulted him. And Duke… Duke didn't really have any prejudice against Jason. They were friendly, and Jason never bothered him.
Red Hood never bothered Signal, only playful little taps on the shoulders or ruffling his hair.
Jason had no reason to be the way he was with Duke.
Jason…remained that sweet, smiling boy to others, even shy, so easy to love, and they were all willing to go along with this madness because they also knew they couldn't fight him. Together, yes, but perhaps Jason didn't want them to suffer because of him at the hands of 'Batman'.
Perhaps it was helplessness, the rage of helplessness that he saw in many of them when they looked at him.
He felt indignant, jealous, angry. This was his son, he was his, his baby, his firstborn, the one who was only his. Willis Todd had barely been in the picture, so easy to forget and leave behind. Catherine Todd was Jason's mother; he didn't need to compete with her. They weren't the Graysons, they weren't John and Mary Grayson who had been good, attentive, loving parents, parents who would always be perfect because they would never have the chance to fail.
Murdered so cruelly, their lives cut short in an instant, Dick loved them so much. He felt that Dick could never be his, could never call him his son, could never be better than John Grayson.
Dick wasn't used to staying in one place. Dick didn't belong to Gotham. Dick had always been of the world, like Clark, who, though he protects Metropolis, Superman belongs to the world.
Dick became Nightwing. He felt so proud because he was better than Batman. He belonged to the world, he even belonged to space, to other planets. He was always proud of him.
Jason had been his. Jason would always be of Gotham. He would never leave Gotham, never leave the mansion. He was his.
He had looked at him with hope, with joy, as if he couldn't believe that Bruce wanted to adopt him, wanted to make him his own, and then called him "Dad." He had monopolized him, only his, and Alfred's too.
I remained silent when Alfred gave Jason the room that had once been his as a child, his childhood room, the heir's room. Alfred had given it to Jason, and he never said a word.
The idea never crossed Dick's mind; he never thought of giving him his childhood room. Dick had chosen it for its light, and also because it was available, not cluttered with old things. Jason initially slept in Dick's room, then Alfred removed his childhood belongings and put Jason there.
Damian had realized it. He'd asked for Jason's room when he arrived at the mansion because it was different from the others, and they'd told him no. They'd said Jason had chosen it and it would always be Jason's; he couldn't have it, he couldn't go in there, it wasn't his.
Even if it had been a lie, Jason had never chosen it; Alfred had put him there. He hadn't thought much about it until it dawned on him that Jason was being adopted as his son.
Willis Todd wasn't competition.
Then, when the others arrived, they chose their rooms without a second thought. They never asked which room had been their childhood room. Only Damian had noticed, but he let it go when it became obvious that no one had chosen rooms for their siblings.
No one found out about the lie, and Jason never said a word.
Tim had his parents. As negligent as they'd been, Tim loved them. Tim didn't even want to be adopted by him.
Cass was his daughter, just as Jason was his son. David Cain was pure cruelty, and Lady Shiva hadn't even tried. Cass called him Dad.
Steph has her mother; she doesn't even see him as a father. She's like Barbara, who stayed for Dick and then never left, even though their relationship would change. Steph was there for Tim.
Steph was so much like Jason. He had been unfair to her. He couldn't let it be like that; he ruined it. She didn't deserve any of his attitude.
She was there for Tim, then for Cass. She would stay in the family like Barbara.
Damian… Damian was his, but he no longer knew how to relate to him. He didn't know what to do, how to treat him. He tried, he really did, but it didn't feel right. He couldn't fit in. He was making mistakes. Then he lost track of time. When he came back, Damian was attached to Dick. He was annoyed, but he also felt relieved because if he failed, Dick could do better. He felt such resentment toward Talia for hiding Damian from him. She had stolen so many years, so many milestones, moments he could never get back. He couldn't hold baby Damian, little Damian taking his first steps, Damian, who had been so proper… Damian, who was less cold now, who had learned to love more, but that achievement wasn't his.
Duke had living parents who had loved him all his life. Duke was so grown up now. He wanted him, but he knew he could never be his.
Dick had Bludhaven and the world.
Barbara had the Birds of Prey and owed him nothing.
Tim had Young Justice, which was leaving, not really tied to Gotham, but to him.
Cassandra was going to the other side of the world or with Barbara. Steph, who also didn't owe him any explanations, or who was going off with Barbara and Cass, not tied to him. Damian, who had Jon, or who was really just learning to truly love the city. Duke, whose life was practically set.
Jason was supposed to be only his, the cheerful son who helped Alfred bake cookies together, who went to baseball games with him, who liked cars and rock music, who didn't destroy chandeliers, who liked to read in the library and watch movies with him, the one who would go to university because he wanted to, who didn't even think about leaving the mansion or becoming independent, who wouldn't leave Gotham unless he decided to go to a university somewhere else in the world, but it would surely be in the United Kingdom.
Jason would always stay in Gotham.
It was supposed to be that way, and then…
…
Even now, Jason belonged to Gotham. He always returned to Gotham, always longed to go home, but he couldn't accept it as it was, not like this, not deciding he could kill, not seeing that despite everything, he could be both kind and cruel. It didn't make sense, he couldn't.
Jason couldn't be… not this man for whom people were willing to go to war, not this man who would order them to commit suicide and they would do it. He couldn't be his baby, cheerful, funny, loudmouthed, passionate about literature, and dramatic. He couldn't be this captain who planned this assault on the entire criminal underworld, left his orders, died, and yet his people still won because they followed the orders he left behind. He couldn't be this man who ordered executions with such ease. He couldn't be that man who smiled at him with bright eyes and then died in front of him.
They couldn't be the same person.
He'd had a minor breakdown, the first of many. They'd soundproofed the cell so he couldn't hear what was happening in Gotham, even fogging up two of the cell walls so he couldn't see the computer. Then Roy Harper came in. He couldn't hear him, but he could read his lips, as he later said.
If he had chosen correctly that night… would anything really have changed? He wouldn't even have had to kill him himself. If he had let Jason kill the Joker, if he had chosen differently, he always regretted acting the way he did. It seemed the right answer was always not to have acted, and he wouldn't have broken his code, killed those people with his own hands, and Jason wouldn't have built this army.
Years ago, he had said the worst words in the moment. Jason had heard him, absorbed those words, testing him, always testing him.
He had been so proud of all his other children. Nightwing would always be more indispensable than Batman. Batman had to aspire to be like Nightwing.
Barbara moved forward, transforming into Oracle, so capable that most didn't even believe she wasn't a perfect machine, an AI that even surpassed programming.
Tim was a much better detective than him, so intelligent, unpredictable.
Cass was already impressive, so kind too.
Steph was her own person, independent, free.
Damian had changed, gentler, kinder, discovering who he wanted to become.
Duke, my God, he trusted that kid so much. They all entrusted Gotham to him during the day. Duke had Gotham to himself during the day and barely broke a sweat, the Gotham sun.
Jason was always his biggest mistake, Batman's failure. He'd told him so to his face, had said it in front of everyone, had made it so it would always be that way…
Part of him refused to admit defeat. Without Jason at the helm, things were bound to go wrong… but he knew they wouldn't, just like the first time Red Hood arrived in Gotham. Crime rates in Crime Alley dropped, and now he knew they would drop even further. There wasn't enough police force; the country's army would never enter Gotham. Jason had won, taking all the rogues and criminals he hated with him. Dead, never to be caught, immortalized by the people as their protector, the great Red Hood who cleaned up the city, incapacitated his vigilantes, and left his company in charge.
He wouldn't even have a grave, a coffin, a body to hold. He couldn't have it, he could never have it again. He couldn't defile his memory, twist it like he did the first time. He broke Dick and Cass's legs, shot Steph in the leg too. Destroyed much of Barbara's cameras. He left the city with only Red Robin, Robin, and Signal.
Steph would recover the fastest, but Dick and Cass would have to spend more time on the sidelines. Gotham no longer had Batman. He wondered if Jason had learned of the Joker's plan and let it slide to remove Batman from the equation forever.
When things calmed down, there would be no more fighting. It would be like in the beginning: crimes to solve. All his children were detectives, but there would no longer be different mafia families. Jason had always been good at cleaning up his streets; his people would know what to do.
Jason had won, being the perfect distraction, without even lying to them. Everything was there, and they—he—had dismissed it, underestimated it. He underestimated emotions and feelings, underestimated Jason's love for his people, for Gotham, underestimated the love Jason felt for them, and believed that he would always come before Crime Alley. He underestimated the power of the people, underestimated those who for centuries had united for causes and leaders who fought for them. Jason's greatest gift had always been that: his way with civilians, the transparent way he felt for them. Jason hadn't changed at all, he realizes now; he was still the same, only the focus of his mission had shifted.
People rarely question their morals so much; they are wronged, they feel. Some don't know they can do anything, others are resigned to the fact that the system in Gotham is corrupt. They hold onto that pain and resentment. Even justice doesn't alleviate the pain, nor does revenge, but it leaves a void; it can bring peace.
Jason understood that: the helplessness, the pain, the rage, and the longing for something better. Being Robin wasn't enough. Red Hood made it possible, and he couldn't understand it, couldn't accept it. How could someone be so cruel and kind? How could someone see a corpse and then laugh with children? How could Jason cry for people he didn't know and then act differently?
This shouldn't have happened.
Jason won. Even though Barbara knew the plan, he still won because they hadn't expected a company.
Jason crushed everything and left cleanly. His ashes were… gone? Scattered, perhaps? His son died having heard that he wasn't his. His son died accepting that he would never be loved unconditionally, and he had returned the situation with indifference. He left him nothing: not a note, not an object, nothing, not even a grave to mourn at. Nothing. There would be no more miracles, no more chances to use a Lazarus Pit. He would never return.
Ashes that had been carried away by the wind, shot in front of him, because that's how he chose it, so the image would be etched in his mind forever, so he would see him die as he saw his parents die helplessly, and then far away, with the classic Jason drama.
Like the Jason of Jauhar, twisted and dramatic…
His people easily following him into death.
Self-immolation was too much work, an explosion was ineffective, a hail of bullets was easier and more impactful.
He couldn't arrest them, because if Jason had already installed the Warden that Bruce, Barbara, and Tim approved, what guarantees he didn't have him ready again? He couldn't imprison the other men of Jason who had stayed behind; they would get out. No one would pay for their crimes…except Bruce himself.
Bruce would be locked up because he repeated so many times to all his allies, friends, and his children that he would lose control and that he had to be locked up forever because he would lose his mind, and now he was in that containment cell, if he didn't choose to die.
He lost everything a long time ago.
He lost the moment he stopped truly looking at his son, he lost from the moment he didn't trust him, from the moment he was afraid of what he could become because he didn't understand him. Perhaps this had always been the end, no matter what; Jason loved the city and its people more.
He would rather die than let himself be thrown into Arkham or any high-security prison, he would rather die than deny that the massacre was necessary, he would rather die than give Bruce the opportunity to tarnish his memory and tell the story, he would rather die than belong again because he chose this.
The rest of the country won't care; they don't know how things are in Gotham. The other heroes will find out because he doubts Roy Harper will stay quiet this time. Everyone will find out because Batman will remain locked up since Red Hood beat him. Talia will know, and… she doesn't know what she'll do, but perhaps she'll even keep an eye on Crime Alley for Jason, making sure her other children don't go in there or take control, just watching. He lost her son a long time ago and didn't even realize how much he had failed him until now.
_____________
The days have been filled with work, white-collar crimes, acquiring many buildings, forming construction crews, more jobs, even a new school in addition to improving the ones already in the alley.
Honestly, he hasn't even had to use Constantine's spell to keep his siblings away.
He went to check on the mansion and found Bruce in a containment cell, disturbed by the belief that he had killed someone, docile, very sad. He even feels a little bad for him, but Batman is out of the way, and with all the chaos he's creating out there distracting everyone, he's been able to improve many things.
Susan even says he seems like a very happy and cheerful young man, which is strange because it's a very radical change in his personality, but Danny wrote to her that it could be because he's happy and satisfied that his refuge is so safe, that the happiness of his people makes him happy, and he's much less stressed than before. That must also explain why he can sleep like a baby.
He looked less tired, even a little younger, if you will. Talia asked him if he'd used a Lazarus Pit because he had some baby oil on his face and looked better.
Children were playing safely in the streets.
Many of his girls had resumed their studies because they had better incomes.
Families had more income, more food, they had hope!
No more supervillains escaping from prison or Arkham. He was actually very surprised that Melissa and Roger hadn't blown up Arkham as they said they wanted to.
For now, he had Arkham in his pocket. Without the Court of Owls paying attention, he was refurbishing the site. He was going to demolish it! Build a real psychiatric hospital!
Suji and his team of civil engineers were overly enthusiastic about the project.
He would wait a while before rebuilding Blackgate now that the birds knew he'd put the Warden there. Although he didn't want to delay his miraculous third resurrection because his family was falling apart, maybe, just maybe, he'd gone a little too far, just a little. He would return; maybe this time they would want him and wouldn't make such a fuss about his people. There was nothing else to do; he wasn't going to disband a group that worked well. The people were happy, safe, fed, they had a future—why risk it?
Even if Tim finds out, he won't do anything. The difference between Bruce and Tim was that Tim was more practical. He didn't follow the code because he believed in it like Cass. Tim had killed many people too, without it bothering him. Tim didn't kill because it was part of the company's regulations, so to speak. Tim was also the Batman who used weapons or was more flexible in his morals.
Without Bruce at the helm, many things could change.
He had actually gone to visit Bruce without consequences. Perhaps it didn't help his father's fragile mental state, but it allowed him to talk to him. He only appeared in his cell, somewhat translucent, if you will.
Sometimes with fake blood, just to talk.
He sighed. Perhaps the most difficult part was his plan to fake his resurrection. The ashes Dick had were part of the plan.
When Danny explained which parts of him could be reconstructed, he was interested, but he didn't have time to learn how to do that, so he just used someone else's ashes. Then he spent the first month cutting off one limb and letting another grow in its place. He started with part of a finger, then a finger, then two, then his hand, then part of his arm, and so on until he was sure of it. He cut off his arm, had it cremated, replaced the ashes with those of his arm, and that was it!
If his siblings decide to hate him, then he has the spell—easy.
_____________
If he was honest, Tim was only annoyed at first because Jason had managed to conceal his suicide plan and how well-prepared he'd left his criminal group? Cult, Cavalry? for after his death and the changes in the city.
Two months later, he truly cursed him because his systems, programs, files, reports, and information—his entire network, the Batcave's and Barbara's—were destroyed by a virus that wiped everything out. Tim barely paid attention to the Watchtower system.
But everything else was gone, gone forever as the final part of Jason's master plan, the end of the story.
He didn't take it well, nor did Barbara. It was a blow to many other systems: hospital records, police, schools, civil registry—everything.
The city's cameras had exploded, but there wasn't much panic.
Lucius was also annoyed because even his systems were compromised, but he couldn't tell if there had been any modifications.
Barbara had backup hard drives only to discover that if she tried to connect them to any new computer, they would become corrupted.
He himself had to ask Bart to get him a new computer without any components from other companies, but his own hard drives were too large for incompatible technology. He was hit by the analog bug because he had often mocked Jason for being so out of touch with pop culture and technology.
So he had to build his new computer from scratch with components from other companies, he had to program and create new programs that would surpass the previous ones, AND HE CAN DO IT.
The problem was never whether he could or couldn't do it; the problem was that it was an inconvenience, that he didn't want to have to do it, and now he did.
The city's security cameras weren't even a priority for the city, given the authorities' usual disdain.
The biggest problem now was having to use some protocol to remove Bruce from the public eye. He didn't trust Bruce, no matter how calm he seemed in the cell. Sometimes he talked to his hallucination, like most people did. Honestly, it's very worrying that everyone in this family suffers from hallucinations.
The truth was, they had five protocols on Bruce: the one Bruce created for himself, Barbara's, Diana's, surprisingly, Constantine's, and his own.
All to prevent Bruce from being a danger to others and to himself.
Bruce himself hadn't wanted to leave his cell, even though Alfred had asked him to.
Almost four months since the incident, the city was quiet. He had watched, like Alvin, what was happening in Crime Alley. It didn't even feel like Crime Alley. It was…well, less heavy with that oppressive atmosphere and something he couldn't quite explain.
Perhaps the only overwhelming thing was that many people wore red accessories or clothing, like a mark, like an amulet, like something that demonstrated something. It had intention, meaning, not just a pretty accessory, a little frightening when you saw how many people wore it in other parts of Gotham.
"Are you tired, Timbo?"—the voice of his hallucination was low, with that mocking undertone.
He looked up. Jason was there, almost real but without a shadow, still, waiting for something, a reaction. He didn't answer the hallucination.
"And what if you don't fix it?"
He suggested it as if it were a crazy idea, a whisper, a secret, but was there anything left to fix? They wouldn't get Bruce out of that cell, even if Alfred convinced him. Batman could no longer exist. Not when so many already knew, not when they had already restricted him.
He didn't know if he was grateful that Jason had broken Dick and Cass's legs. Steph was already walking more normally, but with Dick's leg so badly fractured, he couldn't leave the mansion. So, his breakdown was happening there. He couldn't self-destruct as much as the first time when Damian was watching him, but that broken leg prevented him from going out as Batman. Cass couldn't use the suit either and was just as confined to the mansion. Honestly, he preferred it this way. Cass would have left by now, and what he needed was as much help as possible to solve everything in the city. Cass will heal before Dick, so she can take charge of the city while he continues repairing all the systems.
His problem now is disbanding a well-structured faction whose leader (and martyr?) died, but morale is stronger than ever. Disbanding it will be difficult because he'd have to break up the organization piece by piece, but he couldn't just hand them over to the police if they'd all end up in prison, realize they'd been manipulated, and leave angry.
For now, he'll go eat at the mansion.
__________________
Can you see me?
Duke really wants to know if it was necessary to whisper the question when it's obvious he can see him.
Jason's ghost seems amused, his bright Lazarus-green eyes, floating upside down as if he needs to walk on the ceiling.
"Can you get that cobweb off over there?" he decided to ask, pointing to a particular corner.
Jason laughs but actually tries, running his foot over the cobweb, but it's unaffected; it's still there. Jason just makes a little 'tch' sound. Now indignant that he couldn't help Alfred remove that kind of thing.
"Too bad, I really didn't want to use the ladder," he sighs.
You're not funny —he says with a pout, the great Red Hood pouting because he's not scared.
"Did you expect to become a ghost?" he ignores the situation.
Honestly, I was surprised I didn't end up in Hell. I was in Heaven, and alone. Did someone say I could come here? I don’t remember that part very well —he confessed, now lying on the ceiling, trying to run his hand through the cobweb several times. —I think it was like that the first time.”
“I’m just as surprised as you are.”
Little shit. Jason seemed to become more engrossed in the cobweb; it reminded him of a cat lying down using its paw to hit something. Ha!
“Wow, you actually managed it! Thanks!” He laughed at the absurdity of the situation, at the ghost of Red Hood looking like a proud cat for removing a simple cobweb.
"I think this is Gotham."
“What?”
“What has me here. I feel the city, the people. She’s alive but dead, healthier. She breathes. I hear her.”
“That’s terrifying,” he murmured.
“Maybe she brought me here the first time.”
“But now that you don’t have a body, she can’t bring you back, so you’re here as a ghost.” That’s a big inconvenience “Do you regret it?”
Ask to be cremated? Hell no. The last time, my funeral had five people, and one of them was the officiant. Bruce didn't even tell Dick. I had to find out later that the academy held a memorial service, which no one here attended. I wasn't popular, I didn't have any friends, but some teachers were genuinely saddened. There was a girl there too; she was affected. My old neighbor mourned me as well. And don't even get me started on my grave. Did you know I was the first child Bruce adopted? His son? Not his ward like Dick. I was his son. My name was Wayne, and he buried me next to Sheila! Sheila! If he wasn't going to bury me like his son in his cemetery, he should have left me next to Willis and Catherine!
“I didn’t know that. Wait, didn’t she adopt Dick?”
He adopted it much later because everyone else found out.
“What a load of crap,” he sighed, crossing his arms.
Not even a decent funeral, not even the name, all the crap that went on afterward—I really wasn’t going to let them ruin it a second time. The only part I regret is that they didn’t come to my very short funeral.
“You had a funeral?!” Duke blurted out, staring at the ghost.
We all had funerals. I didn’t want to be treated differently, but there were funerals. I didn’t give anyone the chance to change what I wanted, what I felt. I’m satisfied with that.
“…Why did you have that plan?” It was something I wanted to know, to understand why.
The ghost just snorted, letting himself fall, though he landed on his feet. —When I lost hope, when I got tired of everything and of myself, if I ruined things with you all so badly that there wouldn't be another chance, if I was going to leave, at least I'd protect my territory. I wanted to leave Crime Alley and everything else safe… I was originally going to kill the Joker myself, but I didn't know if I'd find him, so I went ahead with the rest."
"You destabilized the whole city."
"But it's over" he said more calmly, even the gleam in his eyes dimmed. "No more Joker, no more fear toxin, no more Venom, no more Black Mask or Two-Face. There won't be any more escapes from Arkham or Blackgate, no more mobs or other crime bosses. I've taken them all off the map. Everything is controlled by my people. Have you seen them, Duke? There are kids laughing in Crime Alley."
"I don't know if I'm okay with it having to be this way," he confessed.
I think both answers are correct, and also that both were wrong but valid.
"What do you mean?"
We don't have the right to decide, but that would only work in a city other than Gotham. If criminals actually stayed in jail, I wouldn't kill. But we're a war zone. There are oxygen masks for babies. Nowhere is safe. I've eliminated all that. Now do it their way.
"…I understand."
It's not an excuse; it's just how I think. Bruce's way would only work if justice were real. I value people's feelings more, their safety. None of mine will have to fear that the people who hurt them can do it again. I'm giving them what no one gave me… I don't regret that. I did what I thought was best, what will keep them safe.
"Good… even though Barbara and Tim hate you for the computers."
Yeah, I forgot to tell you not to do that part, but I was high and having a panic and manic attack at the same time. Honestly, it wasn't worse. In fact, this is a good time to tell you that there's actually another part to the plan.
“Man, seriously? More?!”
After the police, other corrupt people are next, like prosecutors and businessmen, only there won't be gunfire. I tried telling the others, but they all think I'm hallucinating! Maybe they'll believe you, even though they won't be able to stop him, but now it really is the final phase, I promise.
________
“Are you still avoiding coming back to life?” Danny asked.
“Just a little bit,” Jason admitted via video call. “Actually, this is much more comfortable, although now I can’t even use the new suit,” he sighed.
“How much longer can you stretch it out?” he asked curiously, relaxed while eating potato chips.
“Maybe another month or two. Now that everything has settled down, it’s like a mini-vacation. None of my brothers are trying to show up at my apartment to steal my food, no one is pressuring me, the crime rate has dropped a lot, all my people are happy, my construction and remodeling crews are progressing well without anyone blowing up buildings,” he sighed dreamily. “Oh, by the way, Signal can see me. He realized I was a ghost, so if you show up, he’ll be able to see you.”
“Damn, so he can see you? I thought everyone ‘could’ see you,” he questioned, pouting.
“Of course everyone can see me because I let them see me, but I was trying to blend in just so they would know I was a ghost and not a…” “Hallucination”
“That your whole family hallucinated you, again? I don’t know if it’s weird or sad. Why would RR hallucinate you the first time? He didn’t even know you,” he blurted out, dismayed.
“I’m just as perplexed as you are, dude. The worst part is that this is where they draw the line. Signal already told them I’m a ghost, but apparently their hallucination can’t be a ghost. These are the same people who know about aliens, wizards, demons, vampires, but for me to be a ghost and not a product of their disturbed minds is unheard of. This is ridiculous,” Jason roared, offended and incredulous.
“It works for me, but it’s annoying. I’ve been there,” he nodded, letting out a sigh.
“Anyway, I have everything ready for when I magically and dramatically rise from my ashes. What I don’t know yet is whether I should pretend I don’t remember being a ghost or if I remember everything.”
“Sam is still amazed that faking your madness actually worked for you, even when it seemed like you were enjoying it a little too much” he told him.
“What can I say? I got everything I wanted to scream out at them, and they always think the worst of me.”
"You're not supposed to remember things that happen when you're dead. It's much weirder when you do, so it would be normal for you to forget everything that happened, if that helps."
"Maybe it's for the best, that way no one can use everything I've said against me." He seemed more convinced now. "All the programs are new, so they won't be able to notice anything new in the analyses, although Arsenal says I should have returned by now. Nightwing is having a hard time, but don't they say 'absence makes the heart grow fonder'? Or something like that?" he commented, stretching to relax a little more. "Anyway, Batman won't be a problem for us anymore. Even if the Justice League summons you, Basty won't be there, RR isn't usually around in moments like that, and Nightwing won't be after you," he said, watching the other boy become more cheerful. "You know what you should do? Some trick so that when they summon you…" "People see you as someone else, so, for example, in the very unlikely event that the League summons you, Nightwing would only see my version of Robin while Superman sees one of his Kryptonian parents or something like that; they shouldn't be able to see you until you want them to. It's good emotional blackmail."
“That’s a good idea! I don’t know if I can do it, but I’ll see if it’s possible to do something similar.” He looked for somewhere to jot things down, writing:
“We have to throw them off, even if you’re wearing a full astronaut suit now,” he said, looking at the clock on the screen. “Hey Danny, I have to go now, we’ll talk later.”
“Okay Jay, see you later, thanks for that idea!”
The screen showed that the video call had ended. He was happy for Danny, who seemed much more alive in these few months, less tired, and certainly better fed.
Those boys deserved a peaceful life.
Now he had to return to the mansion, comfort Dick, Damian, Alfred—whom he also noticed was a ghost—and, of course, torment Bruce.
He was very pleased with this outcome. Even when he “comes back to life,” Bruce wouldn’t be able to touch him or lock him up in Arkham or any other prison. In fact, he liked how Bruce was now; it was easier to talk to him like this. It did him a lot of good not to be Batman anymore.
He put away his laptop, redressed, tidied himself up to look like before, grabbed his things, and left.
It's so much fun to have beaten Bruce at something, even Talia is surprised by it. Bruce won't leave his containment cell, even if he finally decides to go out, the other four methods for monitoring and containing him will keep him safe. Even if the world needs Batman, they'll figure it out; Danny's mysterious father said they were safe.
Tim is also taking advantage of the situation. Without Bruce around, Tim has been making some moves. He's really trying to kill Ra's al Ghul, and he'll succeed soon. Danny said that was going to be resolved; Ra's won't make it to the new year! He's also working on something against Lex Luthor, white-collar crimes, and maybe some mercenaries. He could offer his help, but it's more fun this way.
Dick's fracture is almost healed. Unlike Cass, whose break was clean and easy to heal, Dick's was more problematic. It broke the bone so badly that Leslie had to reinsert some pins that had already been removed. Now, Dick just needs to heal with the cast. Someone should really appreciate that; he had to be very careful not to cause permanent damage, but also not one as easily healed as Cass's. Removing Nightwing from the equation meant Dick couldn't wear the Batman suit. At this point, Cass was Batman, but only until Ra's al Ghul was alive, according to Tim's plan.
For now, "Bruce Wayne" was bedridden because he fell down the stairs, and his back and hip needed a lot of time to recover. Age, Tim had argued at the press conference, has Brucie out of the public eye. Richie Wayne also blamed the mansion's treacherous stairs. The cover story is that Brucie fell, and Richie then tried to help him. He couldn't help but laugh.
Even with Cass being Batman in Gotham, it's only temporary; Batman will disappear because the city was fine and no longer needed its Dark Knight. It's not how any of his siblings thought it would happen, but it works.
Jason has been practicing a lot; duplication is difficult when you want your replica to look like your 15-year-old dead self, but Jason makes it work.
"Is it really that hard to accept, Bruce?" he asks from the cell floor.
"You were already a monster; you didn't need to kill to be one," his slightly deformed double whispers behind Bruce. Robin, with his arm at the wrong angle, was perfect; the more imperfect he was, the more he tormented Bruce.
Even if Martian Manhunter looked into Bruce's mind, he would see hallucinations because Bruce always hallucinated. He wouldn't be able to tell which one was the ghost of Red Hood. Of course, Bruce would always realize that the Joker's death was staged, but for everyone else, it was a sign that his mind was confusing or blocking out memories to protect itself.
"You should have chosen me" he says bitterly, because it's true.
"You chose wrong, old man" Robin says.
The truth is, Batman was his enemy, he always has been. He hates Batman, he wants him dead, he hates what he represents, or what he claims to represent. Revenge? Justice? Hope? What a joke!
He hates him!
He hates Batman, he hates the influence he has on other heroes and vigilantes, he hates his reputation, he hates his hypocrisy, he hates his attitude, he hates that Batman will replace his father, he hates how he gets in his way, he hates his sanctimonious way of dealing with injustice, as if he knew anything about it.
As if Batman knew what it's like to have nothing to eat, what it's like to have no options, what it's like to be trafficked, abused, enslaved, and murdered. As if Batman understood that people are afraid, that they struggle to cope with the tragedies that befall them, as if Batman understood that many people commit crimes because they have no other option in Gotham, that sometimes they don't know how to do anything better, they've run out of hope, hope hurts, they resent it, they grieve, they accept it.
Even after getting an honest job, the feeling of calamity doesn't go away.
What good is an honest job when Scarecrow gasses your building? When Two-Face takes you hostage and your visa depends on a coin? What good is it when the Joker gets out of Arkham? When the mob knocks on your door demanding protection money? When the Mad Hatter uses you?
When your boss harasses you and no one stops him? When the police take you to an alley?
When everything falls apart?
Batman doesn't understand. He doesn't understand that people break and have to deal with it, with the trauma, with the fear. Even when they try to ignore it, it always ends up hurting them. Sometimes the pain is too much, and some drug makes it seem lighter. Sometimes alcohol, sex, or bad temper become a bad coping mechanism.
Batman has never had to experience it. He's never wanted to understand that sometimes you have to get your hands dirty to give people a little peace because the monsters that hurt them can't hurt them anymore. Only in their nightmares can they, but when they wake up, there's no danger.
It was never about revenge, not really, but about showing that he mattered, about keeping him safe. Batman never keeps his children safe. Batman took control and made Bruce the mask.
Jason loves his father, he loves Bruce, the Bruce who is clumsy in his attempts to communicate, which is almost endearing, the Bruce who is interested in any silly thing his sons are interested in, even if he doesn't understand it, the Bruce who spent time with Dick, the Bruce who could be a bit of a nerd about dinosaurs and the gray ghost, the Bruce who, when his sons are sick, forgets about the police and stays home.
That is Jason's father, the one who also died with him, although that's incorrect, actually annoying. He didn't "die," he was murdered, like the Waynes, the Graysons, the Drakes, like Willis.
Everyone always says "Jason Todd died," rarely does anyone say "Jason Todd was murdered." It might seem like the same thing, but it isn't.
To die is to suffer an accident, to contract an illness; it's that your lifespan has come to an end.
To die is not to be hit so that a bomb then explodes and the smoke and debris crush you; that is to be murdered. Jason Todd was killed, and nothing changed as he had been taught it should.
So Bruce was also killed and replaced by Batman.
Jason needed Batman to stop being the person and become the mask again. Jason wanted his father, who was somewhere inside the man he barely recognized. Batman was always the enemy, and now he had won.
Batman is dead, deceived, believing he had broken his code. The truth is, the Joker was already dead. The thugs and the hostages were people who had to die. Batman was only drugged, witnessing the scene his men and the trio had orchestrated.
It was just Danny controlling his body with a drugged, compromised mind who hit the people and the fake Joker, but it was his Merry Men who did all the killing.
The recordings were damaged enough because the suit's technology wasn't capable of withstanding the Phantom King.
Added to the trauma of seeing him being executed.
Bruce couldn't bear the confusing memories, his knuckles bruised, his body weary. How could it not have been him?
Batman has been defeated. Bruce can be a person again, be real.
They can't even blame him for it. After all, he's too reckless, too emotional, too stupid to be responsible for something like this.
As if any of them had ever truly known him, as if any of them knew him now.
Perhaps the only real change he underwent in the Lazarus Pit is something akin to sociopathy with some psychopathic traits. It's not as if he's an expert on the subject, but he feels too much and sometimes feels nothing at all.
All those people he had executed? The ones he killed himself? He doesn't even regret it. It doesn't ruin his dream. He feels nothing but disgust for them. He doesn't care, nor does he care.
Although he now has another possible explanation with the ghostly traits, as the undead creature he is, he doesn't pay much attention to it.
He feels nothing for what he's done, even if Roy says Dick won't be able to tolerate it much longer. Perhaps just a little guilt or discomfort, but his "family" should show him love while he's alive, not after he's dead.
Of course, when he rises again like a phoenix, with his newfound good spirits, everyone will think the Lazarus Pit was to blame for his bad personality—not that the trauma he suffered wasn't the obvious answer!
For now, he'll continue tormenting Batman in his cell until Bruce has to stay.
______________
The fire alarm goes off in one part of the mansion, breaking Tim's concentration.
Damian stops practicing his katas; he's been training too much, but it's better than going out recklessly like Bruce used to.
They go upstairs to the mansion. Dick's shouts calling for Jason make Tim shudder. For a second, he glances at Damian, who also looks bad. Dick was getting better.
They run up the stairs even faster. Dick is inside his room, the sprinklers soaking everything, but that doesn't make them believe what they're seeing.
Jason is there in the fire, a spontaneous, colorful fire in Dick's room. Tim pulls Dick away from the fire; he's in shock, just like all of them.
Someone turns off the water; the fire goes out. Jason is there, he's really there, sitting on the floor. The fire was dying down; it was coming from Jason's body.
"Jason?" Dick blurted out in disbelief.
Jason looked up at them, golden eyes staring intently. His black hair stopped moving like fire, his white streak growing slightly larger, just a little.
Many of the scars on Jason's naked body were gone or almost completely erased. Other scars remained perfectly intact, like the autopsy scar, a few scratches, and the scar on his neck was gone.
The unsettling golden eyes turned Lazarus green, which put them on alert, but then they changed to blue. The entire feeling, the oppressive atmosphere, vanished.
Blinking. Jason was breathing… Then he started coughing, alarmingly, and then vomited a dark green liquid that turned gray.
Everything was a bit chaotic afterward: someone covering Jason, Alfred bringing water, Tim taking a sample of the vomit, Damian moving Dick to sit on the edge of his bed. Duke moved Jason to the edge of the bed. Cass had brought the trash can so Jason could continue vomiting. Dick was hugging his brother, stroking his back in comfort.
When there was nothing left to vomit, Jason looked exhausted. He was crying and hiccuping. Dick handed him a tissue to help him sniffle.
"Is what's happening really happening?" Steph asked. "Or have we all lost it?"
"Why am I here? Why is everything wet? Why am I naked? What the hell?" Jason asked, his voice cracking, staring at them, completely bewildered. "Why are you looking at me like that?"
"You were dead!" Steph blurted out.
Dick started laughing. "You're alive! You're alive again, Little Wing! You're alive!"
"How? If the wind carried your ashes away, how did you manage to come back to life? You said you didn't have a body to return to, that you were a ghost!" Duke exclaimed,
“What the hell is this about me being dead?”
They called Zatanna, but she wasn't available. Constantine, for some reason, was, so he appeared and looked at Jason as if he didn't know what he was looking at.
The tests proved what Jason was: a Jason who didn't remember what had happened. He remembered the day before the disaster and part of the morning of the day of the disaster, but everything else was a blank.
Now that they were calm, they took a good look at their brother. Jason even looked a little younger. There was less hardness in his face, fewer calluses on his hands. If Tim's tests were correct, Jason had rejuvenated at least three years, from 24 to 21. There were no traces of Lazarus, or at least the level was low, lower than Cass's or Damian's.
The vomit had turned to such fine ash that it was difficult to keep the sample.
“I don't know what you want me to say, he's alive” John replied.
“But how?”
“Gotham” was all he replied. “The city feels less heavy, less dead, though I should tell you that usually comes with some detail, a trace, so Hood might become more supernatural or more in keeping with Gotham.”
“More in keeping?” Dick asked.
“You’ll notice when it happens, but he’s alive.”
“He was a ghost. Why doesn’t he remember being a ghost?” Duke commented.
“When you come back, you’re not supposed to remember leaving. Your memories can’t come back to this side” Jason blurted out, his gaze a little lost, his voice flat. Then he blinked, puzzled, coming back to himself.
The others stared at him, uneasy about the change.
“I mean things like that,” the blond one pointed out.
“When we talked, Hood said he felt like maybe Gotham had brought him here the first time, that maybe he was a ghost too, what he felt the city, the people, that Gotham is alive but dead, healthier, that she breathed, you could hear her—almost his exact words,” Duke said.
“I can’t believe it was true that Jason was around here as a ghost,” Steph said. “Sorry for not believing you,” she apologized.
“What else did Jason tell you?” Dick questioned, still holding his brother.
“Uh…” he tensely expressed himself, as if unsure how to say it. “What, he ended up in heaven again? He was very surprised he didn’t end up in hell or purgatory? But then he was here, but he couldn’t remember who told him he could be here.”
“Purgatory is so boring and a drag,” John remarked. “You bats are touched by the spirit of the city; maybe it was a favor.” He dismissed it as unimportant.
“I’m surprised I went to heaven a second time, though I still don’t know how I died.” Jason seemed pleased by this discovery.
“Gotham is both alive and dead, that’s true. The city has a spirit. It feels better now, overall. Hood will be more connected to it, but he brought it back. Who knows if there will be a next time, so stay alive.”
“I’ll do my best,” Jason replied petulantly, “but I’m not promising anything.”
They were all gathered in the kitchen, all except Jason, who was under the dining room table.
“Okay, I’m not the only one terrified of Jason, am I?” Tim asked.
“His personality changed drastically,” Damian agreed. “He offered to take me to a baseball game.”
“He took Alfred to the opera, he even wore a full opera suit,” Steph murmured, unable to believe it. “Who goes to the opera?”
“He’s watching a Turkish drama with Bruce! A Turkish drama! With Bruce!” Duke exclaimed quietly, alarmed.
“He’s happy, we went dancing,” Cass shared.
“Yeah, he dances a little awkwardly, but we actually went dancing,” Steph seconded.
“This can’t be Jason,” Tim declared. “Under a TV, next to Bruce’s cell, he’s spending free time with Bruce of his own free will!” I looked at Dick, who was just sitting there silently. “Dick, say something.”
“Jason was like that” he revealed.
“No, Jason was always the angry, reckless, sarcastic one,” Steph denied. “Bruce said it, Alfred said it, Tim said it too and you said it ”
“Even my mother said it,” Damian said. “The failed Batman, she’s called him that.”
Dick looked like he was about to cry. “Jason was never like that, Bruce… Bruce started saying that to everyone, too angry, too aggressive, out of control. I thought that’s how he was, but… Bruce erased all of Jason.”
“Are you telling me that all the crap he told me about not being like Jason, he made it up?” Steph asked indignantly. “Don’t be like Jason, don’t disobey, don’t be too forceful, don’t go it alone, take this seriously, don’t be reckless, and more crap. He made all that up?”
Dick nodded
“Okay, I know Jason was more cheerful before, I know he made Bruce laugh, but this is over the top,” Tim said, ignoring the way the blonde looked at him.
“Jason wouldn’t go on patrol if he didn’t finish his homework,” Dick said, pulling his knees to his chest, even though it was a little uncomfortable with the cast.
“Like everyone else, even if it’s a pointless rule,” Tim dismissed it.
“I can agree with that. It doesn’t make sense and it’s a waste of time. Dad should have realized how inefficient it is,” Damian seconded.
“Jason started it: not going out without finishing his homework, not going out for long hours on school days. Alfred told me Jason practically dragged Bruce into the Batmobile so he could go on patrol without him because Bruce couldn’t believe Jason wasn’t going to be Robin,” the older man recounted, clearly uncomfortable. “Jason called Bruce ‘Dad.’ He said the happiest moment of his life was when he went out as Robin for the first time because Robin gave him magic.”
“Oh" Cass murmured.
“Jason was like that.” Even with his aggressive attitude when he was bothered, he was a very happy child when he felt safe. I thought I had more time, that I could make up for how distant I was at first because he was small.”
“Small? Jason? Although the suit in the cave was small,” Duke commented.
Dick looked at Duke with that devastated expression. “Jason was 4’6 tall at 15 years old. Malnutrition affected him a lot. Jason was so small.”
“4’6?! Shit” Steph muttered.
“I would greatly appreciate it if you would stop hiding under the table,” Alfred’s voice interrupted their meeting.
Embarrassed, they emerged from under the table, looking at the butler.
“It’s just…Jason has changed a lot,” Tim admitted to the butler’s gaze. “Even this is too much.”
“Master Jason has always been the same,” the butler said without missing a beat. “Before, he didn’t feel safe. Master Bruce wasn’t able to give him peace of mind, and now he…” "He feels safe, after everything that's happened, that's the only thing that's changed."
The butler left them there to go about his business, apparently starting to prepare dinner.
They still didn't know how to feel about the change; it felt like a trap set to hurt them, to deceive them. But Alfred's words also made them uneasy, because they already knew it wasn't really the Joker.
It was unsettling to see Jason willingly spending time with Bruce, lowering a couch from the set of things next to a television and settling in to watch something with Bruce, talk about it, make casual conversation, and Bruce himself seemed disturbed at first until he simply let himself go.
It was strange because they weren't talking about Jason's suicide plan or that he had managed to carry it out. It unnerved them when Jason stared at them, his blue eyes darkening and then returning to normal.
They were on alert, and they would remain alert and close.
________________
Another episode ends, how annoying and poor Mahidevran! He shakes her head as he settles onto the sofa, out of the corner of her eye he sees Bruce roll his eyes.
Originally, if Bruce had protested about why they were watching ‘Magnificent Century’ or ‘Muhteşem Yüzyıl’, he would have agreed to watch something else, but Bruce didn't even complain, so there they were.
Even so, when he himself felt overwhelmed, he switched to 'A Vida da Gente', a Brazilian telenovela that has Bruce more hooked than he lets on; he doesn't blame him, he's the same way, Layla, one of his many accountants, recommended it to him.
Bruce remains docile, still not entirely believing he's alive. When he looks at him directly, he searches for the small scar left by one of the many bullets that struck him. It's on the side of his forehead, partially covered by his hair, but it's there, almost vanished yet perfectly formed. He also has another scar on his arm, near his collarbone, where sometimes his clothing doesn't cover it, and sometimes it does.
His two replicas: one version of himself as Robin emerges from the side of the cell, and another version of himself as Red Hood stands upside down on the ceiling. Both are always in Bruce's sight, but the cameras can't see them—an advantage, no doubt, of the Batcave team not being sensitized to the ghosts of the infinite realms.
“You know, Bruce,” he turned on the couch to momentarily face his father figure, “the original plan was to kill you, dramatically as always, dramatically but quickly so you wouldn’t have a chance to do anything. However, this option is the best.”
“Jason, this is wrong,” he said hoarsely.
“You’re just a sore loser, Batman, you always have been” said his Red Hood double.
“You’re not invincible, you let me die!” echoed his Robin counterpart.
“Now that you can no longer be Batman, you can go back to being Bruce. You always complained that ‘I’ wasn’t ‘me’ anymore. It’s called trauma. You wanted your son back, but you weren’t my dad. Now you can be my dad again. Isn’t that better?”
“I beat you, Batman” Red Hood laughs. “I beat you, Batman! I killed Batman!” Drops of ectoplasm fall like blood.
“Don’t you love me? We’ll be a family again!” Robin cries.
“Now you can only be ‘Bruce,’ my dad, everyone’s dad. I think it’s good for our family.”
“Aren’t you proud of me?” they whisper before disappearing.
Bruce frowns, tense because the pool of ectoplasm disappears the longer he looks at it.
“I think being ‘your biggest mistake’ ‘your failure’ like Batman now has a different meaning, by the way, you’re an idiot for telling me that. How did you expect me to believe you love me if you tell me that shit?” He sighed in exasperation.
“That’s not what I meant. Letting you die was my biggest mistake, not you, not choosing you” he defended himself, his voice more broken than usual because he hadn’t really spoken in days.
“Although you must think I am now, but that’s fine. Your biggest mistake was underestimating me, deceiving yourself with your own lies about me. You said so many times that I was reckless and impulsive that you forgot I chose to be reckless. You trained me, didn’t you? At least at the beginning.”
“Yes, I trained you. You liked to learn,” he replied with a touch of bitterness.
He waved a dismissive hand gesture, turning back on the couch to watch TV, ready for the next episode. “I think this is a good time to legally return to life. Jason Todd-Wayne is back from the dead, literally. I’ll do some interviews, say we’re spending time together, maybe we could even post a picture on Brucie’s Twitter. We’ll put you in your bed, all recovered, I’ll sit next to you, and let the world see that we like watching dramas and soap operas together. Isn’t that a good idea? Father and son spending time together, just like before.”
There was no response for a moment. Oh my God, she's been kidnapped again! He thinks agonizingly, trying to keep watching.
“It's not called Twitter anymore,” was Bruce's only reply.
“You should buy Twitter and call it Twitter again,” he commented playfully.
“Maybe.”
The show continued. He reaches for more popcorn; it's incredible how time flies.
“The mother Sultana will be furious when she finds out Suleiman and Hurrem have married.”
“Jason.”
“What? Do you think she'll faint?” he asks, barely giving him a quick glance.
“Jason.”
“Shh! They're getting married!” He silenced him; the chapter was almost over, the minutes ticked away. He made a frustrated noise. "Forget the Mother Sultana, imagine how Mahidevran will take it. They always leave him hanging at the best part."
"I know you hate me."
“What? Oh my God, no, what the hell, Bruce?” He turned to look at him. “I hate Batman. You’re Bruce.”
“We’re the same person.”
“Of course not. Batman is this bastard who only thinks about the mission, who’s never been able to connect with his other children, a hypocrite, disconnected from reality, who slit my throat, but at least he killed the Joker, like he should have the first time.” He smiled with delight at the way the other shuddered. “Batman is out of the game forever, like the Joker, like Red Hood. All three of them are dead.”
“Will you just be my son now? Will you stop?” It was a valid question, so as far as Bruce knew, he hadn't returned to Crime Alley.
"Don't be an idiot. I have the perfect alias, some ideas for a new suit. I'll be Phoenix, literally rising from the ashes. Obviously, I'm going for red, but I can take a few days off. I've prepared everything so Crime Alley can move forward without me."
"You've died twice, Jason."
"I'll stop there," he pointed out. "The correct word is 'murdered.' I've been 'murdered' twice," he corrected with that cruel smile, "like your parents." A deliberate low blow. "We must call things by their names and for what they are. Alfred has told you this, even though you refuse to learn. Lying to yourself and blaming the victim is wrong. It's very rude of you, old man." He snorted, throwing some popcorn behind him, though it would hit the cell wall. "I don't hate you, Bruce. I rose from my grave screaming your name. You're just too caught up in being Batman, but now that I've beaten you and Batman is gone, I’m so happy, this is what you wanted, isn’t it? For me to come home. You’ve paid the price. You’re not Batman anymore, and I’m back. Why are you so difficult?” he complained.
“And now that you won’t be Red Hood anymore, will you change your ways?” The question was more rigid, the same annoyed tone as always. “You won’t kill anyone else, will you?”
“Bruce, I think no matter how many times I explain it to you, you never understand. I’ll tell you again, this time differently, even more clearly,” he emphasized, turning around on the couch again, facing him seriously. “Unlike you, Robin, Red Hood, and Phoenix never were and never are a mask. I’ve always been me, the person I need to be to survive in Gotham. I’m not like you, who needs, what, four personalities? Brucie, Malone, Bruce, and Batman. I’ve always been Jason. The helmet is only for protection and to protect your identities. I’ll do what I think is right.”
“You can’t go on like this. You have to stop. You’ll lose control.”
“Jesus Christ, I’m not a dictator, nor am I Ra’s al Ghul. You offend me. You’ve always said you wanted your children to be better than you. Dickie is better than Batman, a hero, but a hero doesn’t decide who lives and who dies. But you know, Bruce, you’re also a prince, the Prince of Gotham, and in that I can be better than you. You’re ‘the Knight of Gotham.’ Bruce Wayne is the Prince of Gotham. The others can continue being Knights of Gotham, but I keep the crown. I rule with an iron fist, but I’m very kind and loving to my people. I have a crown on my head, and you’ve fallen out of favor with Lady Gotham,” he gloated. “It’s your trust issues that brought us here, Dad. Can we keep watching? I want to see the faces of Mother Sultan, Mahidevran, and all the others when they find out Suleiman has married Hurrem.”
Bruce was taken aback, perhaps because he had just admitted something about Lady Gotham or how he viewed the city. He continued to wait for a response. Bruce sat back down in the chair Jason had given him; he wasn't some barbarian who should be watching all those programs standing up or on the floor when the couch was already taking up too much space for him to watch comfortably.
"I don't think she'll faint," was all he replied.
Finally, he was able to settle back down, ready to watch the next episode with more excitement. The mother Sultana hadn't completely fainted, and Jason could accept a draw in that respect because he'd already won in what mattered most.
_____________
He looked at the news that Tucker had shoved in his face on his phone: Jason Todd-Wayne was back from the dead. His friend looked so happy to be legally alive again, even if he was deader than before.
He planned to visit Arsenal next week and then catch up with them at the Canadian border. There was a vegan restaurant there that he was sure Sam would love.
Sometimes he sent pictures of his Turkish drama. He didn't know exactly what it was about. Tucker, for some reason, knew, and Jason had blocked him because he didn't want any spoilers. He'd even resisted looking into the real story, just to enjoy the show.
It was really fun to see Jason with his dazzling smile next to his siblings. Clockwork had told him that Gotham was going to be much better, even if Jason argued with his siblings at some point.
When he told him to befriend other members of the royal, he thought she meant Princess Dorothea. He didn't know Red Hood counted as royalty. Well, since Clockwork didn't tell him when he jokingly named Jason "King of Gotham," he didn't realize he'd actually just done it! But it's a funny little incident, so he lets it go.
Things are going well now, and that's enough.
__________________
Here are my long notes and a bonus scene:
In case you're wondering, Bruce and Jason are watching episodes 41 through 43 of 'Magnificent Century.' Why are they watching it? Why not? I imagine the other Batkids are very confused every time they approach because they don't know what's going on.
The Brazilian telenovela is really good!
This time, Jason and Danny become best friends, because Jason wouldn't date a 17-year-old when he's 24, but they have time, so they can sigh over each other for a few more years. They bond over being guardian spirits of their cities; they can understand what it's like to want to protect what's yours at all costs or the fear of losing it, even if Danny lost Amity Park. They bond over being childhood heroes and dying, coming back changed and feeling different because nothing will ever be the same. They talk on the phone, video chat at least 2-3 times a week, and have a group chat where Sam, Tucker, Danny, and Jason write silly things, usually suggestions for places to eat.
Jason saved the spell for when he needed it because he knew he would need it sooner or later, but he'd have the excuse that it was Lady Gotham's fault.
The Jauhar was a practice of mass self-immolation by Rajput Kshatriya women and girls in the Indian subcontinent to avoid capture, sexual slavery, enslavement, and rape when facing certain defeat during a war. Bruce's unbalanced mind lends itself to this comparison, since Jason's plan would only work if he lost all hope in Bruce and the Bat-family, so Jason went to his death along with many of his men to never face justice.
Jason just calls it a mass “murder-suicide,” the biggest “fuck you! I’ll take you all with me to hell” I imagined more in the style of Anck-Su-Namun committing suicide from The Mummy with “my body will no longer be your temple” (which is a very epic line).
Jason the villain, let him be evil, manipulative, murderous, with dangerous ideas, and give him a battalion; The number of soldiers varies from 300 to 1500, but Red Hood's group originally consisted of 442 men and women. After the nuclear plan, the number dropped to 315. Of those, 106 chose murder-suicide (or faked their deaths by fleeing Gotham), with Jason being the 107th.
Bruce and Tim believe Jason has a company or cavalry of 100 to 250 soldiers, but they still think he has a maximum of 150 'soldiers'.
Bruce doesn't believe Jason is capable, but this is my fantasy, so I say he could have almost 1500 men and women or more if he were less strict with recruitment (he doesn't even call them or think of them as soldiers; Jason cares about his people).
When I read about Jason's thugs in fanfiction, I never really imagine how many people there could be. 442 is a lot of people under one person, but also a small number for Gotham.
The Batfamily still thinks badly of Jason, even though Jason beat them.
Constantine did many things to secure his soul. Danny being the Ghost King is a reward for him, but it's not going to bother him either. For each objective achieved, he regained a contract on his soul, so he's winning.
The Justice League never found out!
Bruce truly believes he killed those people and the Joker, because all he saw was the staged scene, plus the state of his knuckles. The images of his cowl also show it, and of course, when he tells everyone that he's going to lose control of himself and that they should distrust him and his mind, everyone heard him. And even though he doubts himself, everyone will think it's his mind in denial because there's no one else to blame but the Joker. He's having a breakdown because his thoughts are spiraling out of control. There's also the fact that Jason was his first child he could call his own because he could never put himself above Dick's parents, since he respects them, but there's also this feeling that he could never compete with them.
The more children he has, the more disconnected he feels from them, even though he tries very hard.
Jason hates Batman but loves Bruce, which hurts him the most, so he's eliminated Batman. Eventually, the others might suspect something, but they still don't know "how" he did it. His rise from the ashes is dramatic. Not inviting them to the funeral is petty. He's very cruel to the Bat-family because he has the opportunity to unleash all the pent-up anger and return a cleaner version of himself. He continues to torment Bruce with hallucinations to ensure he can never be Batman again.
Danny was very kind to his parents, even if he technically lobotomized them magically. Jazz no longer wanting to study psychology seems right because maybe she was always trying to heal her family, but there's nothing left to heal, so she switches to studying law.
When they offer a name as a symbol of their friendship, I feel like it would have a great magical/supernatural meaning, even if they don't realize it, which would be the funniest thing for me.
I had a bad week last week; maybe it shows a lot because the original idea was for Jason and Danny to pull a bunch of pranks so the Batfamily would never find out what happened in Amity Park. It was going to be dead on its own, but it ended up being friendship. Everything is very changeable: anger, anguish, funny? cynical? "They all lived happily ever after," especially since neither Jason nor Danny face consequences for their actions. The Batfamily is too happy, too overwhelmed by the miracle to even think about complaining, and nobody's going to tell Danny to complain about his decision, which went against the wishes of everyone in Amity Park, his parents, and Vlad.
A bonus 10 years later! (Jason is 34, though he doesn't look it, Danny is 27)
John knew that sooner or later he would have to call Danny, because the world was in danger, and he knew the little king would wait for someone to call him to sort things out.
So there he was, in Gotham of all places, because it was the only place with a protective barrier. This barrier was caused by the city's guardian spirit, Phoenix, or Red Phoenix—it was just Red Hood with another name, another costume. His favorite excuse was that he could maintain the barrier because it was Lady Gotham's doing, and everyone believed that nonsense. Anyway, the summoning of the Ghost King to save humanity.
Danny had grown a lot, to be honest. Every time he went to check on him, he seemed to grow even more. What did this guy eat? Tall, strong, in an old-fashioned black and white astronaut suit.
"Why?" someone asked, maybe Superman. "What does this mean?"
Danny laughs, the sound distorted by the helmet, he just floats there, the star-studded crown burning in blue flames. “I am the Ghost King. The way you look at me makes no sense, does it? I am king of all that is dead. All of infinity is mine to rule. You are all my people, you are all my faces, you are all my sons and daughters to protect. You are still alive, so you can’t see me as I truly am if that’s what you’re worried about, Kal-El.”
Okay, maybe Red and this kid getting close has had more repercussions than he expected.
“How do you know my name, Your Majesty?”
“You’re already dead, you’re already one of mine even if you came back to life, you died, and all who die are my people” he explained calmly.
Before anyone else could do or say anything, Red stepped forward, bowing in a way that seemed more like mockery.
“Greetings, Ghost King, I welcome you to my sanctuary and the planet I inhabit” he said, now without his helmet, his eyes glowing, which his stupid domino mask couldn’t hide, like a cheap trick that most would obviously fall for. John could only roll his eyes at the sheer audacity.
Danny, the Bratt King, bowed in an equally ridiculous fashion, taking the crown in his hands as if he were removing a hat. “Thank you for your hospitality, Phoenix, King of Gotham, protector spirit of this sanctuary and inhabitant of this planet.”
He was sure that everyone else present couldn’t detect the lack of mockery or sarcasm in the other voices, especially because of the soft, otherworldly echo of both.
“I ask you on behalf of everyone if you could save our planet. Unfortunately, we can't handle this ourselves, and that's why we've called you. I hope I've interrupted your boring work.”
He can't help it and laughs. The others around him are alarmed. The illusion has shattered for them. Just watching this 6'6" astronaut float above the circle to open his helmet visor, the absolute darkness and silence would make anyone nervous.
The abyss that makes everyone look and see only two swirling green orbs far in the distance. Danny laughs, that snotty teenage laugh.
“If you ask like that, how could I refuse one of my children? A protector spirit, one of the rarest to see because you're alive, though not quite alive enough, one of mine” he says in his normal voice with its faint ghostly echo—pure charlatanism!
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” he resumed his confident stance. “What does Your Majesty desire in return?”
“You, to eat you.” Using a creepy voice with that dramatic line is so cliché, but the world will be safe.
“Phoenix,” one of Red’s many siblings called.
“I can prepare a proper feast if you give me five hours. Would 8 o’clock work for dinner?”
Danny laughed again. “Of course, though you should get more delicacies. It’s a deal.”
He extended his hand, and Red did the same, sealing the deal. Then they watched Danny fly off at top speed into the sky to deal with the alien invasion single-handedly. There was really no need to lose your temper so much. "Fine, I'm outta here."
"Constantine, you can't do this alone," Nightwing interrupted whatever he was about to say.
"Everything's fine. The Ghost King isn't going to eat your brother along with the appetizers. Maybe your brother will be dessert in bed, though the king isn't that kind. He's just looking for food. I have a lot to do."
Jason had shouted orders about bringing good food from different parts of the world, many different styles. He also said he had to tidy up his apartment.
When Duke asked him why his apartment and not the mansion, Jason said he couldn't invite a king to someone else's house when he had his own place—something about the culture of the dead, which Captain Marvel defended. He didn't seem worried at all.
Tim was much more direct: why had the Ghost King called him "the King of Gotham"? Jason dismissed his suspicion.
"Because I am. I've told you. You're the ones who thought power was going to my head. Lady Gotham said so. It's your fault for not believing me."
The Ghost King, meanwhile, seemed very relaxed, fighting in space, destroying the enemy as if it were a walk in the park. He was taking his time.
“You’re not going to sleep with him” Dick declared.
“I’m not John Constantine, you’re offending me” he growled as he put the cookies in the oven. “Nothing bad is going to happen to me.”
“You’re too familiar with all this, Jason” Tim said, arms crossed, clearly unhappy with what was happening.
“I’ve been listening to the city whispering the secrets of the dead to me for 10 years, and they know it. I don’t know where this attitude is coming from. You shouldn’t even be here. You should be looking for your husband” he argued, glaring at his brothers. “Learn from Damian. He’s too busy to worry about this.”
“Damian will be busy until September, but if he were here, he’d complain too,” Dick grumbled. He missed his little brother, but Damian was too busy with Doctors Without Borders.
“You should be out there with the Justice League. I don’t know what you’re doing in my kitchen” he told his older brother as he started chopping some vegetables. “Tim, go take care of your pregnant husband.”
Stop saying that, Kon isn't pregnant,” he grumbled. “He's just very empathetic and sensitive.”
“That won’t make his nausea go away. Go take care of your husband. I know there are men who experience all the symptoms of their wife’s pregnancy; it’s just rare that he’s suffering because of his surrogate mother,” he explained, pointing his knife at his brothers. “Dick, get lost with the garter belt. Tim, go take care of your husband, don’t be useless.”
“But you can’t stay alone with the king of the dead!” protested the eldest of the three, refusing to leave.
“We’re not going to fuck! And in the highly unlikely event that we do, let me fuck in peace! I’m 34 years old, Dick!”
“But you look like a kid! Does the king like you because you look underage?” he protested, worried.
“Don’t exaggerate. I don’t look that young” he grumbled, downplaying it and continuing with the preparations, changing cutting boards and knives to start slicing the meat.
Tim rolled his eyes, a little exasperated. “Jason, the press keeps publishing stories about whether your return to life years ago is because you’re a vampire, because you’ve barely aged.”
“There have to be advantages to dying, because I was already having existential crises before I died” he scoffed. “Now, I’m letting you both go. Don’t make me throw you out of here.”
Threatened with something they knew his brothers would carry out, they finally left his “apartment,” which was a very simple way of referring to his four-story building that he had converted into a home.
The five hours gave him enough time to cook, check that his people were alright, and that the whole city was safe. He knew that Dick had left the city to continue with the Justice League. Things had changed a lot in Gotham. It was less polluted, safer, even if technically that was because he had many of his own people in vacant jobs. A large part of the police force was loyal to him, as were the prosecutors and judges.
Once the absence of the Court of Owls became obvious, many things were able to improve. There were people who tried to emulate the old rogues, but there were too many vigilantes by then, and much more experienced, to leave them any room to maneuver. Eventually, his siblings remembered what had upset them about him, but it was too late.
Bruce has improved a lot, although everyone avoids talking about certain topics. He's mostly busy taking care of Alfred or looking after Cass and Steph's daughters. Soon, when the new grandchild is born, he'll be even busier. They slowly moved many things to Tim's nest so that the Batcave could be a cave again, even if Tim isn't always there these days. Now that he's preparing for a baby, he's decided to return to the mansion.
The food kept arriving. The burger orders drew skeptical looks, but many knew it was one of his favorite meals.
Right on time, Danny knocked on the door and stepped inside, taking off his astronaut helmet. “It really smells delicious. Does the League think I’m going to eat you like a cannibal, or that we’re going to fuck?”
“Fuck, blame Constantine,” he excused himself. The ring light was already a familiar sight to him; Danny had even surpassed him in height a few years ago. Now he was just the same old Danny Nightingale, sitting down, eager for the food.
“Does that mean I can bite your neck and they’ll get the wrong idea?” he asked curiously.
He bit the inside of her cheek, sitting down too, taking one of the sodas from the burger order. “How about you bite my hip? That’ll give them more to talk about,” he suggested, seeing Danny get a little nervous. “Although I’m open to suggestions if you have one.”
Maybe they’ve been hanging around for the last two years and this is just the most obvious excuse.
“Actually, I do have some ideas, but I always want to eat your food.”
Well, maybe they really will eat dessert in his bed. It’s good that he tidied his room.
Hi everyone! So here’s a bunch of the stuff I was considering posting near the holiday season last year. (Holy shit, that was 8 months ago.) As always, these outtakes are NOT canon. These posts were topical at the time, but I then decided that handling these subject matters in my tumbler social media alternate universe was probably not the place to do it, it would throw off the general vibe, and I was not equipped to write it in a thorough and respectful manner so I dropped it. The Christmas stuff was fun tho! Nonetheless, these are some highlights I really enjoyed :)
I know Arkham is a hellhole and it's reputation for being so is well earned but the people working there are heakthcare workers and if you've ever met anyone in the heakthcare industry, you will know that they're a riot - pun intended. But I do think some of them actually care about their patients and they do have good relationships with them. And for some reason, in mipy mind they’re either near retirement or extremely Gen Z.
Harley Quinn, formerly Dr Quinzel, getting greeted by all the nurses and doctors as if she never left, being directed to her "office". It has some of her old things from her actual office, her diploma, her plastic cactus with the googly eyes. It makes her feel safe.
The RN at the desk loudly contemplating her crossword answers so the Riddler can help her out "It's DIAGONAL, Donna."
The guard who is growing weed in his basement to pay for tuition offering Poison Ivy hypotheticals to solve while she's being escorted to the yard.
Killer Croc is brought in and after he’s been calmed down and medicated, he’s pretty chill. He loves the RNs, doctors not so much, adores the secretary Lucy who always makes the same joke every time he arrives “Mr Jones, would you like the pentahouse or a city view room this time?” and he always give the same answer and tells her that he’s “Just checking in for a spell.”. It makes him feel human.
“Oh my god, Bane, could you not have waited to crashout until after the game? It was my night off, man.”
A college student working in Arkham to pay rent gets advice from Two Face about his lease and shitty apartment with the damp and mould, leading to Two Face calling up an old legal aid buddy who does that sort of work to help the kid out.
Calendar Man wishing the staff happy birthday or whatever but also telling them that they can of course have that little sweet treat they want because it is World Water Day and it would be rude not to celebrate it.
Psychiatrists discussing other patient files with Scarecrow, not enough for him to know how it is but enough detail so he can help.
The Joker being wheeled past in a straightjacket, telling one of the “good docs” that he might want to take Wednesday night off. “You know, see your rugrats and your wife. Make sure the doors are locked. Better yet, go on vacation.”
The Arkham staff have a fantasy league going on where they bet on which Rogue is going to be brought in, by which Bat and how much damage the Bat takes in the process. One of the porters slipping a $5 bill under Bane’s door asking that next time he’s in a fight, could it be Tuesday after 2am and to please punt Robin like a football, otherwise he’s out of the pool and that “bitch Mary in HR is never going to shut up”.
Having beef with some of the Bats because of what the rogues admit in therapy. One of the nurses refusing Batgirl’s help when Arkham is on fire because “You called Garfield a loser, as if he hasn’t got bad enough self esteem!”
Across countless planes—heavens, hells, afterlives, in-between places—the constant background hum of existence stuttered. For a heartbeat, the machinery of judgment, reincarnation, punishment, and rest paused.
And then the screaming began.
Heaven, Hell, and the One Rule
In one Hell, the screaming of the damned was as normal as fire and brimstone.
It stopped.
Lucifer Morningstar froze with a glass of hellfire halfway to his lips. Around him, the Seven Sins went rigid, their bickering dying all at once. Their attention turned—not toward any rebellion, not toward Heaven—but downward, toward something deeper than their own Pit.
Above, in the Silver City, angelic choirs fractured mid-hymn. Wings stilled. Swords half-drawn, they looked outward, past the realm of pure light, into the far reaches where even angels rarely gazed.
A single, unified dread rippled through beings older than mortal language:
No. Not again.
They remembered the last time something this old moved. They remembered the cost of putting it back to sleep.
They remembered the one rule they had not broken.
The Infinite Realms Break Open
In the Infinite Realms, there was no single sky, no single ground. It was layers of afterlives and memory, rivers of ectoplasm carrying the echoes of every death in every world.
Deep in a dead current at the bottom of it all hung the Sarcophagus of Forever Sleep.
Its chains were made of concepts: slumber, denial, containment. Its wards were written in languages from universes that never reached stars. Around it floated seals set by beings so old that gods had learned from their mistakes.
No one was supposed to reach it.
No one was supposed to touch it.
The skeleton key slid into a lock that was never meant to turn.
The sarcophagus groaned as if the whole structure of death itself resented the motion. One by one, the conceptual chains snapped, their breaking echoing across thousands of ghost realms.
Inside, something vast and furious opened its eyes.
The first flex of Pariah Dark’s power was not a roar but a pressure wave. Ghost cities burst like soap bubbles. Old battlefields crumbled. Domains that had persisted for entire cycles of creation shattered under the sheer wake-up stretch of a king who had slept too long.
He rose.
The Infinite Realms shook.
Ghosts dropped everything and ran.
“Run! For your lives!” a woman’s voice screamed, amplified by terror and the currents of the Realm. Her warning rode along every ectoplasmic stream, bleeding into every psychic fault line it could find. “Run to any dimension you can reach—just run! He’s awake— If you don’t run, you’ll die permanently!”
The dead had always believed themselves past the worst. Now, they are refugees.
Watchtower – J’onn J’onzz
On the Watchtower, J’onn J’onzz sat in calm meditation, his awareness gently brushing the minds of Earth below.
Then the calm became a storm.
A tidal wave of terror slammed into his mind—billions of voices, not human, not living, shrieking in every language and none. He staggered, catching himself on a medical console.
Under the screaming, one voice cut clear as a knife.
Run for your lives. Run to any dimension you can reach—just run! He will kill, torture, pillage, and enslave you if you do not escape!
“Who are you?” J’onn sent back, straining to hold his mental footing. “Who is ‘he’?”
He didn’t get words.
He got an image:
A massive sarcophagus, chains snapping.
A Ghost wearing heavy armor, crowned in green fire, arises from his prison. A name surfaced from the depths of collective fear like a corpse out of dark water:
Pariah Dark.
J’onn’s eyes snapped open.
He slammed his hand onto the comms panel. “All systems,” he said, voice iron-hard despite the shaking in his mind. “Prepare for catastrophic psychic spillover. The afterlife is in collapse.”
Xavier’s School
At Xavier’s School, telepaths fell like puppets with cut strings.
Jean Grey hit the floor, clutching her head. Emma Frost cursed as diamond skin spider-webbed with hairline fractures from raw psychic impact. Charles Xavier’s chair rolled back violently as his mind was dragged toward an ocean of howling dead.
They felt people running.
They felt whole populations tearing themselves free of resting places, graves, planes of peace or torment, all surging toward any anchor they could find.
In Jean’s mind, something older than the universe recoiled.
Host, the Phoenix whispered, and for once, even it sounded small. Let me in. Fully. I am not enough as I am. I may not be enough even then—but without me, you will be ash in his shadow.
“His?” Jean choked, gasping. “Whose?”
Images blasted through her: A group of powerful ancient ghosts, incomprehensible silhouettes surrounding. These ancient ghosts combine their powers to defeat Pariah. He falls to the ground, seemingly defeated. One ghost takes away the Ring of Rage, another takes the Crown of Fire, depriving Pariah of most of his power. The Ghost King, Phoenix breathed. Pariah Dark. He was locked away because killing him would have broken too much. The afterlives themselves use him as a load-bearing horror. He was a danger and a necessity. And now his prison has been opened.
The dead were not merely running. They were abandoning a support beam of reality.
Peter Parker’s Migraine and the First Ghosts
At the Daily Bugle, Peter Parker’s world narrowed to amber and pain.
His Spider-Sense wasn’t just buzzing. It was a wailing siren wired directly into his skull, screaming that the foundations of everything were coming undone.
He grabbed his head with both hands.
“Parker!” J. Jonah Jameson’s voice blasted across the office. “You having a stroke on my time? What’s wrong with you, kid? You look like you swallowed a ghost.”
“Something’s… wrong,” Peter managed through clenched teeth. “Something really wrong. I don’t know how to explain it, but—”
The office door opened.
A familiar man in an old, worn coat stepped in, blinking at the lights. His hair was thinner, his face more lined, but Peter knew him.
He had known him his whole life.
“Peter,” the man said softly. “It’s good to see you again, son. God, I’ve missed you.” His eyes swept the office, filling with sorrow. “I just wish it wasn’t under these circumstances.”
Peter’s hands fell away from his head.
“Uncle Ben?” he whispered.
Ben’s smile was sad and gentle. “Yeah, kiddo.” He reached out and put a steady hand on Peter’s shoulder. The touch was solid. Warm. Impossible.
“All of us,” he said quietly, “where we were—it’s not safe. Feels like the floor dropped out from under us. So we’re running. Anywhere we can.”
“Running from what?” Peter asked, but he already knew the answer wasn’t going to be simple.
Ben’s eyes darkened. “Not what from whom,” he corrected.
Around them, more impossible figures bled through thin places in the air. Co-workers gasped and shouted as dead relatives, long-buried lovers, and lost friends appeared, eyes wide with fear.
“What—Mom?!” a receptionist sobbed.
Jameson took one look at the growing chaos, went pale for a split second, then barked, “Parker, get pictures!”
Peter didn’t move this wasn’t a story; it was an evacuation.
Wayne Enterprises
On the top floor of Wayne Enterprises, the temperature dropped like a stone.
Bruce Wayne was halfway through a sentence about quarterly earnings when he saw his breath fog. Tim Drake paused in his quiet correction of the numbers, looking up as the lights dimmed.
Damian Wayne, in an immaculate suit that did nothing to hide his impatience, sat near the window, watching everything and caring about nothing—until the world shifted.
They appeared near the glass.
Thomas and Martha Wayne.
Martha’s pearls caught the light. Thomas stood straight, eyes sweeping the office, Gotham’s skyline, and finally settling on his son.
“Bruce,” Martha whispered.
Bruce’s carefully cultivated idiot-billionaire mask shattered. The room narrowed down to her face, Thomas’s shoulders, the warmth in their eyes.
Tim’s attention jerked toward the doorway.
“Mom?” he croaked.
Jack and Janet Drake stood there, as solid and confused as the day they died. Jack lifted a trembling hand. “Timmy?”
All around the room, executives stared as their own dead appeared—spouses, children, parents, siblings—each with the same wild mixture of fear and relief.
Damian’s gaze darted between them all. Logic slammed into disbelief. His brain did what it always did: looked for the trap.
“This is a hallucination,” he snapped, standing quickly. “Some mass gas exposure. Fear Toxin. Shared delusion. Crane is experimenting, or some other rogue.” He glared up at the vents. “Everyone, breathe shallowly. We need to evacuate.”
“This is not Fear Gas, Damian.”
The voice was firm, calm, used to being obeyed.
Thomas Wayne stepped forward, his attention moving from Bruce to Damian, weighing, assessing, and finally softening. He said quietly. “My grandson.”
Damian went rigid. “You… know me,” he said, and for a moment the boy in him pushed past the soldier.
“Of course,” Thomas replied. “We’ve watched, as much as we could. And we’re here, all of us, because we are running.”
“Running from what?” Bruce forced out, voice hoarse.
Martha’s eyes shimmered. “From where we were,” she said softly. “From a king who woke when he should have slept forever. From a tyrant whose stirrings are tearing apart the place between life and death.”
Thomas looked around the conference room at the dozens of newly arrived dead, all wearing the same brittle terror.
“If we stayed,” he said, “we would have died properly. No afterlife. No second chances. Nothing.”
Damian swallowed.
“Ah....permanent death,” he repeated.
Thomas met his gaze and nodded once. “Yes.”
The boy who had faced assassins and demons felt, for a moment, very, very small.
The Fortress of Solitude: Frostbite’s Warning
In the arctic calm of the Fortress of Solitude, Kryptonian technology hummed with quiet purpose. Superman hovered a few inches above the crystal floor, reviewing odd readings from the outer edges of reality.
The readings spiked.
The Fortress didn’t shake so much as shiver. The air crackled with a strange, cold energy. A jagged tear opened in the center of the main hall, swirling with green-blue light.
Figures stumbled through.
They were tall and furred, white as the snow outside, walking upright with a warrior’s bearing. Not myths—people. Yeti-like ghosts, armor clinking, weapons sheathed, faces drawn tight with fear. At their head strode a massive figure with a prosthetic arm of intricately carved ice and glowing teal veins.
Superman landed in front of them, palms open. “You’re safe,” he said, voice as steady as he could make it. “My name is Superman. You’re in the Fortress of Solitude. What are you fleeing from? Apokolips? A trans-dimensional invader?”
The leader bowed his head slightly.
“Kal-El of Krypton,” he said. “I am Frostbite, chief of the Far Frozen.” He glanced back at his people—children clutching crystalline artifacts, elders huddled together. “We apologize for intruding. But we had no choice.”
“Why?” Superman asked. “What’s happening?”
Frostbite drew in a slow, steadying breath.
“We come from The Infinite Realms,” he said. “Your people might call them ‘the afterlife.’ But they are more than one place—they are the connective tissue. The glue that holds all your worlds’ deaths in balance. Every hell, every heaven, every world, every power, every timeline —all flow into it.”
He looked Superman in the eyes.
“And the Tyrant of that place has awakened from his Sarcophagus of Forever Sleep.”
Superman felt the words land like a weight.
“And the name of this Tyrant,” he repeated carefully.
“His name is Pariah Dark,” Frostbite said, each syllable heavy. “The Ghost King. Long ago, he was sealed by the Ancients, stripped of his ring and crown, locked away not because they could kill him, because killing him would break the multiverses.”
Frostbite gestured helplessly.
“Now he stirs. With the first flex of his power, realms crumble. His ancient armies answer his call. Our homes are destroyed. If we stay, we will not simply die—we will cease.”
Superman’s jaw set.
“You have sanctuary,” he said immediately. “All of you. I’ll contact the Justice League. If the Infinite Realms are the glue holding everything together, this concerns all of us.”
Frostbite bowed, relief flickering over his features—but not hope.
“Then may your sun watch over you, Kal-El,” he said. “Because if the Tyrant cannot be put back to sleep…”
He glanced toward the flickering portal, where more ghosts desperately pushed through.
“This may be truly the end of reality as we know it.”
Diana, Pandora, and the Fallen Amazons
In Gateway City, the museum was quiet but for the murmur of tourists.
Diana Prince adjusted a placard beneath a piece of Greek pottery, smiling faintly at a child’s awe. Then the air thickened.
It pressed down on her shoulders like the heaviest armor she had ever worn. Not divine presence. Older. Sadder. The weight of stories remembered and stories deliberately forgotten.
She turned.
A woman stood among the displays.
Her beauty was ancient and unearthly, framed by simple garments that failed to blunt the sheer myth of her. Sorrow pooled in her eyes like an ocean.
“Pandora,” Diana said.
Behind Pandora, the gallery was filled with women.
Amazon warriors in archaic armor, shields, and spears at the ready, faces taut with a mix of pride and bone-deep fear. Sister Diana had mourned. Names etched into her heart and the stones of Themyscira. A curator gasped and dropped a box of pamphlets. Another simply fainted.
“Diana,” Pandora said, inclining her head.
Diana’s hand twitched toward where her lasso would hang in uniform. She let it fall.
“Pandora. My sisters,” she said. “How are you here? What has happened?”
“We are fleeing,” Pandora answered simply. “The realm that once held us in death is no longer safe. The Tyrant King has awoken from his Slumber. The one your mother spoke of only in warnings.”
Diana’s mouth went dry.
“Pariah Dark,” she murmured.
As a child, she had heard the old stories: of a king who had tried to unmake the boundary between living and dead, to rule both. Of a coalition of beings older than gods who had bound him when they could not kill him.
“He was sealed by the Ancients,” Diana said. “Locked away. His crown and ring taken. His sarcophagus hidden where none could reach it.”
“The seal is broken,” Pandora said. “The Sarcophagus of Forever Sleep has been opened. Whether by arrogance or ignorance, the result is the same.”
One fallen Amazon stepped forward, saluting Diana with a fist to her chest. “The Infinite Realms is cracking,” she said. “Spirits from a thousand cultures are abandoning their rest. If the glue that binds the afterlives fails, all heavens, all hells, all reincarnation cycles may fall with it.”
Diana straightened, resolve hardening like tempered steel.
“Then we will fight,” she said. “For the living and the dead.”
Pandora looked at her with weary compassion.
“This is not a war that can be won by swords alone, Diana,” she said quietly. “This is the terror of a Tyrant who could not be killed… only stored.”
Coast City, Oa, and the Lore of the Ghost King
Over Coast City, Hal Jordan’s ring screamed in a tone he had never heard.
He rocketed toward the anomaly blazing across his ring’s display.
A vortex churned in the upper atmosphere, green-black-white energy writhing like a wound.
Two figures stepped out onto nothing.
Hal’s heart stopped.
“Hal,” said Martin Jordan, wearing his old bomber jacket, that familiar proud smile sitting uneasy on a face touched by fear.
“Dad?” Hal whispered.
Beside Martin stood a purple-skinned alien in a Green Lantern uniform.
Hal knew the face of the alien whose ring was chosen, Hal Abin Sur.
“It is good to see you again, Hal Jordan,” Abin Sur said. “Yes, even previous dead Lanterns of every core, and I, too, have fled.”
Hal’s ring threw up frantic readouts: ectoplasmic signatures, afterlife energy, cross-reality bleed.
“You… you’re both dead,” Hal said. “How are you—”
“The place we were is coming apart,” Martin said quietly. “Where we were supposed to stay. We’re running because staying means being erased. No heaven, no elseworld. Just… gone.”
On Oa, the Guardians gathered in a forgotten chamber, the central battery pulsing with sickly green overtones.
Ganthet lifted his small hands, projecting images to every Corps that would listen.
“The Infinite Realms,” he said, “are a convergence of the dead from a multitude of realities. Long ago, a being rose there who called himself Pariah Dark.”
The projection showed a towering armored ghost, crowned, bearing a blazing ring.
“The title of Ghost King is not passed by blood,” another Guardian said. “It is taken in combat. Power is both a test and a reward. The Ring of Rage and Crown of Fire amplify the King’s dominion, making all but the oldest Ancients bow.”
Images flashed: wars between realms of the dead, borders dissolving, the living plane buckling.
“Pariah Dark’s reign nearly tore the wall between living and dead to shreds,” Ganthet continued. “Attempts to destroy him almost shattered the underlying structure of reality.”
“So they didn’t,” said another Guardian bitterly. “They sealed him instead.”
The projection changed: a group of half-silhouetted beings, each embodying a concept older than any Corps—binding, balance, memory, finality. They forged the Sarcophagus of Forever Sleep around Pariah, chaining him with the energies of every emotional spectrum.
“They took his crown and ring. They hid them. They buried the sarcophagus in a depth no one could reach. And with Heaven, Hell, and all powers that touched death, they made an accord: this prison would never be opened.”
The Guardians bowed their heads.
“Someone,” Ganthet said, “has broken that accord.”
Apocalypse and the Burden No One Wanted
Deep underground, in a chamber older than many civilizations, En Sabah Nur watched reality ripple across ancient devices.
His Horsemen shifted uneasily at the sight of spirits flooding through unseen cracks.
“What is it, my lord?” one asked.
Apocalypse’s eyes glowed cold blue.
“A throne, long-abandoned, has been reclaimed,” he said. “Not by choice, but by necessity.”
He tilted his head, listening to echoes only he could hear.
“The Infinite Realms are the confluence of every death,” he went on. “Every god, every demon, every cosmic farce of judgment empties its refuse into the same ocean. That ocean always had a monarch. A hand on the gate.”
He smiled humorlessly.
“Pariah Dark was that hand. A tyrant, yes. But a structural pillar as well. The Ancients locked him away because killing him would have toppled the building. So they left him as a cursed cornerstone. A necessary horror.”
His gaze sharpened.
“And someone, somewhere, has pulled at that cornerstone. Now the building shakes.”
Strange, Darkseid, Ra’s, and Constantine
In the Sanctum Sanctorum, the Eye of Agamotto snapped open on its own. Doctor Stephen Strange grabbed the table as a vision slammed into him. A group of ancient figures encircled a raging king of ghosts. They tore a crown and ring off him, wrapped him in chains of shared power, and forged a sarcophagus from the fear of every soul that had ever died. He saw them approach Heaven, Hell, cosmic abstracts, asking—not for help, but for commitment.
This will never be opened.
Strange tore free from the vision, panting.
“There was an accord,” he said aloud. “A pillar left in place because pulling it would bring the whole house down. And someone has just yanked on it.”
On Apokolips, Darkseid watched ghostly distortions ripple across his burning sky.
“The Ancients,” he mused. “So proud. So careful. They had the power to bind but not the will to rule.”
His fists tightened.
“They could not stomach destroying their cornerstone, so they buried him. And left a key.” He snorted. “Cowards.”
In the mountains of Nanda Parbat, Ra’s al Ghul studied a churning scrying pool.
Portals: opening. Ghosts: fleeing. Across countless worlds.
“Even with all their preparations, they were afraid,” he told the silent League of Assassins around him. “Fear breeds contingency—and they were no exception.”
He gestured.
The image shifted to runic gateways and ancient mechanisms igniting all over creation.
“They wove failsafes that would activate if the Tyrant ever woke,” he said. “Not to stop him—no, they had no faith in that—but to warn the living that the end had begun.”
In a dingy London flat, John Constantine finally punched through the magical static enough to get Zatanna on the line.
“John!” she shouted over a background chorus of wailing spirits. “The Veil is in shreds, the House of Mystery is just gone, and I have dead people flooding into every circle I’ve got—what's happening?”
John lit a cigarette with hands that wouldn’t stay quite steady.
“What's happening,” he said, “is that someone, somewhere, decided the one line we all agreed on was optional.”
“John—”
“The Sarcophagus of Forever Sleep,” he said flatly. “It’s open. And Pariah Dark is awake.”
Silence. Then a sharp inhale.
“That’s not possible,” Zatanna whispered. “Nobody’s that stupid. Every god, every demon, every sorcerer agreed—”
“And yet, here we are,” John cut in. He looked out at a London sky laced with thin green cracks. “We couldn’t kill him. So they locked him away and used him as a twisted bit of scaffolding to hold up the system. Now the scaffolding’s moving on its own.”
He dragged on the cigarette, ash trembling.
“And every ghost that can run,” he said softly, “is running.”
The multiverse did what it always did in the face of the incomprehensible.
It held its breath.
A Tyrant King, too necessary to destroy and too dangerous to wake, had shrugged off his chains. The glue holding together life, death, and everything between had started to crack.
Heaven and Hell, angels and demons, sorcerers and soldiers, telepaths and scientists—all felt it.
And none of them were wrong to be afraid.
Author’s note: I came up with this story prompt because I’ve been reading a lot of crossover fanfiction. Whenever the Ghost King gets mentioned, John Constantine obviously freaks out because that being is what holds all of reality and the multiverse together. Most of the time, though, fics kind of gloss over that.
So I started thinking: what can I do to make it feel more epic, to really give it that weight of, “Oh no, this is bad—this is really, really bad”? That’s how I ended up with this idea.
If there’s any fandom you think would fit, feel free to add your own words and scenes—just let me know. I’d love for this to be a kind of collab chain where we keep adding all the other fandoms we want to throw into the mix. We’re talking multiversal here, so the sky’s the limit.
Jason stumbles into one of his shittier safehouses at almost the ass crack of dawn. It's been a long night and he really just wants to collapse into the shitty bed and sleep until the sun goes away.
He's stripping out of his Red Hood gear when all of a sudden a tiny (so small; how is that a person under there?) lump in the covers shifts and a head of tousled black hair peaks out to blink bleary blue eyes at him. The kid gives him a sleepy once over and Jason is suddenly reminded he's half undressed.
.
Danny had been forced to flee Amity Park. Gotham was... not ideal. But it was easy to disappear into and the ambient ecto masked his signature decently. So... he'll take what he can get. Including this shitty abandoned apartment he'd found to squat in.
Or, he thought it was abandoned. He is beginning to reevaluate when he wakes up at 5 something in the morning to the sight of the Red Hood pulling off his body suit to reveal a pair of Wonder Woman underwear.
All I can think of is now Danny phases through his blankets and takes a fighting stance and Jason is freaking the fuck out cause, "He can't be serious, can he? He's,Ike, 20lbs dripping wet and he is wide open on all fronts?!"
And then Danny bodies him and Jason is like, "Is this karma for all of my past sins? To be manhandled by a Superman-like twink?"
Cause for this, Danny has to be 4'9" Short King™️ compared to Jason's 6'2" tank ass
Danny's sleep deprived feral ass:
Jason, not wanting to hurt this kid but was also just picked up and thrown almost through the safehouses wall:
its so wild like “this generation with no fucking money is learning to prioritize essentials” and all these chucklefucks can write is advertisements for these companies
AND FUCK DRYER SHEETS LITERALLY NOBODY EVER HAS ENOUGH OF A PROBLEM WITH STATIC TO WARRANT PAYING OUT THE ASS FOR THAT SHIT
DO YOU WANT CLEAN CLOTHES? YOU DON’T EVEN NEED TO BUY FUCKING DETERGENT JUST MAKE YOUR OWN* IT’S SO GODDAMN EASY AND 80X CHEAPER
FUCK THE ENTIRE LAUNDRY INDUSTRY
*Fuck The Entire Laundry Industry Recipe
1 cup Washing Soda (not Baking Soda. Different things.)
1 cup Borax (not Boric Acid. Also a different thing.)
½ cup - 1 cup grated bar soap (you can use literally anything. I often use Ivory because it’s easy to get and I find it works well, a lot of people like Fels-Naptha, which is an actual laundry bar. Some people use Dr. Bronner’s. Really does not fucking matter.)
After grating your soap, combine all ingredients. That’s it. That’s the whole thing. Use maybe a ¼ cup per load.
Also you can MAKE your own washing soda very VERY cheaply.
Step one: acquire $5 bag of baking soda from Costco.
Step two: lay that motherfucking baking soda out on a baking tray.
Step three: bake the baking soda on a tray in an oven at 400° for 1 hour (to make the moisture evaporate, leaving washing soda)
Step four: revel in how easy and cheap it is to make your own washing soda, and maybe take a moment to be angry that the industry upcharges the fuck out of something that is so easy to make.
I see some of y'all complaining about static and/or wanting nice smelling laundry. Go to a craft store, find 100% wool yarn balls. If it doesn’t come in a ball, ask an employee to make it into a tight ball for you. Wash in the washing machine to make it felted. Remove from washer, add a few drops of essential oil to the ball, allow to seep in. Dry with clothing. Doesn’t need to be rewashed ever, and if it stops smelling, add few more drops of essential oil. Bam, reusable dryer sheets.
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