A Red Hood: Outlaws Story
Part One: The Feral Raccoon
The warehouse district of Star City smelled like low tide, rust, and bad decisions.
Roy Harper had made more than a few of those in his time. But tonight, he was sure he wasn't the one making them. The man currently trying to cave in his skull with a pipe wrench? He was the bad decision.
Roy rolled sideways, the wrench sparking off the concrete where his head had been. He came up firing—not lethal, just a sonic arrow to the chest. The blast should have sent a normal guy flying.
The man in the black helmet didn't fly.
He staggered back half a step, the sleek helmet's LED visor flickering from a grin—:D—to something closer to annoyance—>:(
"Not bad," the man said, voice distorted through the skeletal jaw grille. "Not good, either."
"You're a chatty one," Roy quipped, nocking another arrow. "Gotham's that way, chrome-dome. Go bother someone who cares."
The man tilted his head. The visor shifted to :/, unimpressed. Then he moved.
Half-Kryptonian meant half the powers, but double the attitude. Roy had learned that the hard way when the man backhanded him through a stack of pallets. He didn't have Superman's hearing—thank God, or he'd have heard Roy's colorful vocabulary from three blocks away—but he had the speed. The strength.
The heavy leather jacket, studded with silver spikes along the collar and shoulders, caught the sodium lights as the vigilante strode forward. Chains jingled. The wrench in his gloved hand spun like a baton.
"You're not half-bad with that bow," he said. The visor flashed :). "Pity."
Roy dropped a smoke arrow at his feet and backflipped onto a cargo container. "Jay, any time now!"
From the shadows above, a familiar growl answered.
"Stop having fun and start shooting."
Red Hood dropped between them like a hammer.
Jason Todd landed hard, coat flaring, twin pistols already drawn. He didn't fire. Instead, he straightened slowly, the red bat emblazoned on his chest catching the light, and sized up the unknown vigilante with the kind of disdain he usually reserved for rich assholes and clown-themed psychopaths.
"Nice helmet," Jason said flatly. Visor flickered to >:(. "Too bad it's ugly."
The man laughed—a grinding sound through the jaw grille. "You must be the leader. The one with the 'no killing' rule he keeps breaking."
"I have a 'no idiots' rule," Jason corrected, cracking his neck. "You're about to make me break it."
Roy dropped down beside him, arrow trained on the stranger's chest. "Half-Kryptonian. No enhanced hearing, but he's got everything else. Strength, speed, durability. And a wrench fixation."
Jason's helmet turned slightly. "A wrench."
The man twirled the wrench once. :D. "You two done?"
"Yeah." Jason raised a pistol. "We're done."
He fired. The man caught the bullet.
Not deflected—caught. The round flattened against his reinforced glove, and he dropped it with a metallic ping.
Jason holstered the pistol. Roy saw the shift in his shoulders—that particular tension that meant things were about to get ugly. The Red Hood way.
"No," Jason said softly. "That was me being polite."
He stepped forward. The wrench swung.
Roy felt his eyebrows climb. Even half-Kryptonian strength, and Jason just... stopped it. The armored gauntlets under his jacket sleeves were smoking slightly from the friction.
"You hit my guy," Jason said, low and cold. "You talked trash. Now you're gonna learn why I don't need powers to clean up this city."
The man tried to pull the wrench back. It didn't move.
Visor flickered nervously. :/. :0.
"Roy," Jason said. "Shoot him."
Roy grinned. "With pleasure."
The taser arrow hit the man square in the chest. Half-Kryptonian or not, fifty thousand volts made him drop.
He hit the ground hard, twitching. The visor cycled through glitchy, broken emotes—XD, :^, :')—before finally going dark.
Jason released the wrench. It clattered to the concrete.
"Not bad," Roy said, nudging the unconscious vigilante with his boot. "For a guy with a punk-rock fashion disaster and a tool fetish."
"He fought dirty," Jason said.
"Nah." Jason crouched, pulling off the man's helmet with a grunt. Underneath was a sharp, angular face—young, early twenties, dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. Jason studied him for a long moment. "He fought angry. There's a difference."
Roy's smile faded. "You think he's got a story?"
"Everyone's got a story, Roy." Jason tossed the helmet to him. "Let's get him somewhere quiet. I want to know why a half-Kryptonian is playing street-level kingpin with a wrench and an emoji mask."
Roy caught it. The visor flickered weakly—:)—before dying again.
"Creepy," Roy muttered. "But kinda cute. Like a cyberpunk chihuahua with anger issues."
Jason was already walking. "You're carrying him."
"Because I caught the wrench."
Roy looked down at the unconscious, heavily armored, half-alien body. Then at Jason's retreating back.
He slung the kid over his shoulder and followed Jason into the dark.
Roy had made it three blocks.
Three blocks of lugging a half-Kryptonian punk-rock brick wall over his shoulder, chains jingling with every step, the unconscious weight pressing his spine into an early grave.
"You know," Roy grunted, readjusting his grip, "for a guy with an emoji helmet, he's heavy."
Jason didn't answer. He was walking point, scanning rooftops, shoulders tight. The silence meant he was thinking. Jason thinking was usually worse than Jason shouting.
Then the vigilante woke up.
Roy felt it first—a twitch, then a full-body flex of muscle that shouldn't have been possible after fifty thousand volts. The half-Kryptonian twisted like a feral cat, boots slamming into Roy's chest plate hard enough to crack composite polymer.
Roy went down. "Son of a—"
The man landed in a crouch, breathing hard. His helmet was off—Jason had tossed it aside—and for the first time, Roy got a clear look at his face.
The kid was young. Twenty, maybe twenty-one. Dark hair plastered to his forehead, sharp jaw, and a face that looked like it had been through a war. Scars crisscrossed his cheeks and brow—old ones, white and raised. But the worst was on his left cheek.
Not a scar from battle. A carving. Letters pressed into his skin like someone had taken a knife and written a question they expected him to answer.
Roy's blood went cold. "Jay."
Jason had already seen it. His helmet was locked on the kid's face, body still as stone. When he spoke, his voice was low and dangerous.
"Riddler do that to you?"
The kid said nothing. He reached up, tore the chains from his neck, and then ripped his own helmet off the ground—the one Roy had been carrying. For a second, Roy thought he was going to put it back on.
Over the roof edge. Into the dark. It clattered down four stories and splashed into the bay.
"No," Roy yelped. "I was gonna sell that!"
The kid pulled something from his jacket—a plain black face mask, the kind you could buy at any corner store. He tugged it up over his nose and mouth, hiding the skeletal jaw aesthetic, hiding the Riddler's mark. Only his eyes remained visible.
And those eyes were feral.
"I don't need the helmet to beat your asses," he said, voice muffled through the cloth. He dropped into a fighting stance, wrench in hand. "You want to take me in? Earn it."
Jason removed his gloves. Slowly. Deliberately.
"You know what I see?" Jason said, stepping forward. "I see a kid who got carved up by a narcissist in a green suit and decided the best way to deal with that was to dress like a Hot Topic clearance rack and hit people with a wrench."
Jason met him head-on—no guns, no gadgets. Just fists and fury. The kid was faster than a human had any right to be, even half-Kryptonian. He moved like something that had been in a hundred alleyway brawls and learned to like the taste of blood.
But Jason Todd had died in an alleyway. He'd been beaten to a pulp by a clown with a crowbar. He'd clawed his way out of his own grave.
He did not lose fistfights.
Jason caught the wrench swing, twisted, and drove an elbow into the kid's ribs. The half-Kryptonian grunted but didn't go down—he bit Jason's armored shoulder, more animal than man, and kneed him in the gut.
"Feral," Roy muttered, circling with the bow. "Like a goddamn raccoon."
The kid ripped free of Jason's grip, leaving scratches on the helmet. His face mask had slipped—Roy caught another glimpse of that carved cheek, the letters raised and pink. He didn't fix it. He just snarled.
"You don't know me," the kid spat. "You don't know what I've been through."
"Try me," Jason said. His voice hadn't raised. That was the scariest part. "I died before I was old enough to drink. Came back wrong. Killed a lot of people. Still not sleeping great. What's your excuse?"
It was barely a second. But a second was all Roy needed.
He drew the arrow—not his usual taser. The shaft was black, the tip a sickly green that glowed faintly in the dark. Kryptonite.
The arrow buried itself in the concrete an inch from the kid's boot. Not lethal. A warning.
But the proximity alone was enough.
It wasn't a human sound. It was something raw and alien, a vocal fry that made the hair on Roy's arms stand up. He stumbled back, clutching his chest, eyes wide and burning with fear he couldn't hide.
"You wouldn't," he whispered.
"I wouldn't have to," Roy said, keeping the bow trained. "If you'd just talk to us."
The kid's gaze snapped between them—Roy with the glowing arrow, Jason with his cracked knuckles and unreadable red mask. His breath came fast, shallow. He looked like a cornered animal.
A victim who'd learned to bite first.
"My name is Kain," he said finally, through gritted teeth. The mask had slipped completely now. The scars were visible. The Riddler's mark. All of it. "Not that it matters."
Jason took a single step closer. Not aggressive. Careful.
"Kain," Jason said. "I'm not gonna hurt you."
"You literally just tried to break my arm."
Then Jason did something Roy had only seen a handful of times. He reached up and pulled off his own helmet.
Jason Todd's face was pale, tired, and scattered with old scars. A white streak in his hair. The kind of eyes that had seen too much and forgiven too little. He looked at Kain like he was seeing a mirror.
"Riddler carved you," Jason said. It wasn't a question. "He likes leaving his mark on things he thinks are questions worth answering. You escaped. Now you're out here breaking kneecaps because you don't know what else to do with the anger."
Kain's jaw tightened. His hands shook.
Jason holstered his pistol. Took another step.
"My point," he said quietly, "is that I've got room on my team for angry strays with bad attitudes."
Roy lowered the bow. "Wait, seriously?"
Kain stared at Jason. The feral edge hadn't left his eyes, but something else flickered there now. Something smaller. More fragile.
"You don't know me," Kain said again, weaker this time.
"No," Jason agreed. "But I know what it's like to wear scars someone else gave you. And I know you don't have to carry that alone."
The night was cold. The bay lapped at the pilings below.
Kain looked at Jason's offered hand.
Then he turned and vaulted over the edge of the roof.
"God damn it," Roy shouted, running to the side.
But Kain hadn't fallen. He'd landed on a lower fire escape, already moving, already gone—a shadow among shadows.
Jason walked to the edge, helmet in hand, and watched him disappear.
"You gonna go after him?" Roy asked.
Jason stared into the dark for a long moment. Then he pulled his helmet back on, the red lenses glowing in the night.
"Because he'll be back," Jason said. "They always come back. And next time, I won't give him a choice."
Roy sighed, slinging his bow. "You're a terrible foster parent."
"I'm not a foster parent."
"You literally just tried to adopt a feral raccoon boy."
"So is Supergirl, and you don't see her biting people."
Jason started walking. "Give it time."
Part Three: The Boiler Room
Kain's secret base wasn't much. An old boiler room in a textile mill that had been condemned since the 80s. Leaking pipes. A single cot in the corner. A workbench covered in half-repaired gadgets and stolen tools.
He crashed through the rusted door and slammed it shut behind him, sliding the bolt with shaking hands. His chest burned. The kryptonite arrow hadn't even touched him—just the proximity—and it felt like someone had poured acid into his veins.
His ears rang. A high, constant whine that made his teeth ache.
He stumbled to the center of the room and punched the wall.
Brick crumbled. Dust exploded. His knuckles split—human pain, the kind that felt almost good compared to the kryptonite agony.
He punched again. And again. Four walls. Four corners. Each hit sent fractures spiderwebbing through the masonry.
The fourth punch broke through to the other side. Cold air rushed in. Kain pulled his fist back, knuckles shredded, and leaned his forehead against the cold brick.
Except he wasn't Kal-El's son anymore, was he?
Six Years Ago. Universe-332.
Kain had been seventeen years old, and the sky had been screaming.
He remembered his father's hand on his shoulder—his real father, the one with the cape and the jawline and the endless, exhausting hope. Superman had looked him in the eye and said the words Kain would replay every night for the rest of his life:
"Get to the breach. I'll hold them off."
Kain had argued. Of course he had. He was seventeen and half-Kryptonian and stupid with the need to prove himself.
Superman had smiled. That stupid, perfect, heroic smile. And then he'd turned and flown into the horde of shadow-things that were eating their universe from the inside out.
He'd run through the breach, dragging a civilian in each arm, and watched over his shoulder as his father's red cape dissolved into static. The breach snapped shut behind him.
Universe-332 was gone. Everyone he'd ever known. His father. His mother. The Titans of that world. The pizza place on 5th and Main.
Kain had landed in this universe—Universe-Prime, or whatever they called it—covered in ash and screaming for a father who didn't exist here.
Five Years Ago. Metropolis.
It had taken months. Kain had been hungry, scared, and running on fumes. But he'd tracked the signal, followed the sound of a man who sounded like his dad but wasn't quite right.
When he'd finally caught up—hovering outside the Daily Planet, catching a helicopter one-handed—Kain had landed on that same rooftop and shouted:
Superman had turned. Blue eyes. Dark hair. The same face.
But the eyes had been wrong. Softer. Less burdened. This Superman had never watched his universe die. He'd never had to choose between saving his son and saving everyone else.
"Who are you?" Superman had asked, genuinely confused.
And Kain had told him. Everything. The breach. Universe-332. The shadow-things. His father's sacrifice.
When he finished, Superman had been quiet for a long time.
Then he'd said: "I'm sorry for your loss. But I'm not your father. I can't... I can't take you in. I have a family. A son."
Jonathan Kent. Kain had looked him up later. A kid with no powers, or almost none. The son this Superman had chosen to have.
Kain had nodded. Swallowed the scream building in his chest. And said, louder than he meant: "Fine. I'll prove myself. I'll be worth your time."
Superman had opened his mouth—to say that's not what I meant, probably—but Kain was already gone.
Four Years Ago. Star City.
Proving himself had meant picking fights he couldn't win.
Kain had heard about Green Arrow. A vigilante with a bow, no powers, who fought alongside the Justice League through sheer stubbornness and trick arrows. If he could be a hero, Kain could do it better.
He'd tracked a weapons deal to the docks. Intervened. Threw a few punches.
And then Green Arrow had shown up.
Kain remembered the argument. Him trying to explain—"I'm Superman's son, I'm here to help"—and Oliver Queen not listening because some other half-Kryptonian villain had just torn up a bank downtown.
The arrow had hit him in the chest.
Kryptonite-tipped. Directly over his heart.
Kain had fallen into the bay, the green poison spreading through his veins like wildfire. He'd heard Green Arrow shout something—surprise, maybe regret—but the water had already closed over his head.
Instead, he'd crawled out three miles downstream, the arrow still lodged in his chest, and pulled it out himself. The wound had taken six weeks to heal. The scar was still there—a cratered, ugly thing over his left pectoral.
That was the first time someone had shot him.
Three years ago: Gotham city.
The Riddler had found him in an alley.
Kain had been eighteen by then. Homeless, exhausted, and running a fever from a wound that wouldn't heal right. He'd been stupid—slept in the open, too tired to find shelter.
Edward Nashton had crouched beside him, green bowler hat casting a long shadow.
"A half-Kryptonian," Riddler had murmured, almost reverent. "A riddle wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a red cape that doesn't fit. What are you hiding, little alien?"
He'd lasted thirty seconds before the green gas—Scarecrow's toxin mixed with kryptonite dust—had dropped him.
The experiments had lasted eight months.
Riddler wanted to know how Kryptonians worked. How much pain they could take. What happened when you carved letters into their faces—did they heal faster? Did the scars fade? What is the secret to your strength, little Kryptonian?
The ? on Kain's cheek was the only mark left that hadn't healed.
Riddler had carved it while laughing. "A question mark for a creature who doesn't have any answers. Poetic, don't you think?"
Kain had escaped during a prison transfer. Killed three guards. Ran until his lungs bled.
He never told anyone about the experiments. Never told anyone about Riddler's other questions. The ones that had nothing to do with Kryptonian biology and everything to do with breaking a seventeen-year-old boy who had already lost everything.
Present. The boiler room.
Kain slid down the wall, back scraping against crumbling brick, and pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes.
The ringing in his ears hadn't stopped.
The kryptonite burn in his chest hadn't faded.
And he couldn't stop seeing them—Red Hood's helmet coming off. That pale, scarred face. The way Jason Todd had looked at him like he understood.
"I know what it's like to wear scars someone else gave you."
Kain laughed. It was an ugly sound, half-sob, half-snarl.
"You don't know anything," he whispered to the empty room.
But the words felt hollow.
Because Jason Todd had died. Jason Todd had been tortured. Jason Todd had come back wrong and bloody and furious.
And Jason Todd had still offered him a hand.
Kain looked at his own hands. Bruised knuckles. Split skin. Shaking.
He thought about Superman's face—both versions. The one who'd died for him, and the one who'd turned him away.
He thought about Green Arrow's arrow, punching through his chest like he was nothing.
He thought about Riddler's knife, carving questions into his face while he screamed.
And then he thought about Red Hood, standing on that rooftop, helmet off, saying: "You don't have to carry that alone."
Kain pressed his forehead to his knees.
"I don't need anyone," he said.
The boiler room didn't answer.
Outside, Gotham's ever-present rain began to fall.
Roy heard the screaming first.
Not the screaming of victims—he was used to that. This was the screaming of attackers. Deep, guttural, afraid. The kind of sounds tough guys made when they realized they'd picked the wrong fight.
He and Jason had been tracking a weapons shipment. Sixty-eight armed men moving product for Black Mask. Standard Tuesday.
Except someone had gotten there first.
Roy crested the shipping container and froze.
Below, in the flooded courtyard of the shipyard, bodies littered the ground like fallen dominoes. Men in tactical gear moaned, crawled, or lay completely still. Weapons were scattered everywhere—assault rifles, knives, a rocket launcher that had been bent in half.
And in the center of it all, Kain was not okay.
The half-Kryptonian moved like something possessed. His face mask was gone—Roy could see the scars, the Riddler's mark, the wild eyes. His jacket hung in shreds. Blood ran down his arms, most of it not his own.
He had the crew captain pinned against a shipping container.
Not tactical. Not controlled. Just pure, animalistic rage. His boots connected with the man's ribs, his chest, his face. The captain stopped screaming two kicks ago. Now he just made wet, gurgling sounds.
No response. Kain kept kicking. His breathing came in ragged, irregular gasps. His eyes had a green tint—not kryptonite green, but the aftermath of it. Like the poison was still in his system, burning through his veins, turning every emotion into violence.
Jason appeared beside Roy, silent as always. Even through his helmet, Roy could feel him watching.
"He's losing it," Roy said.
Kain drew his leg back for another kick. His boot connected with the captain's hip—a wet crack that made even Roy flinch.
Sixty-eight men. Alone. This kid had taken down sixty-eight armed men alone.
He didn't run—he dropped, landing in the courtyard with a heavy thud that made Kain's head snap up. The half-Kryptonian froze mid-kick, chest heaving, eyes wide and wild and wrong.
"Red Hood," Kain snarled. His voice was wrecked—hoarse from screaming, maybe, or crying, or both. "Back off."
"Not happening." Jason stepped forward, hands visible at his sides. No weapons drawn. "You're done. Walk away."
Kain spun and kicked the captain one more time—hard—sending the unconscious body skidding across the wet concrete. Then he turned on Jason, fists clenched, posture coiled like a spring.
Roy dropped down behind him, bow up but not drawn. "Kain. Kid. Look at me."
Kain's head whipped around. The green tint in his eyes caught the light.
"The kryptonite," Roy said slowly. "It's still in your system, isn't it? From earlier. It's making you angry. Making you more angry than you should be."
"You just beat up sixty-eight people and tried to kick a man to death."
"Maybe." Jason's voice was low, measured. "But that's not why you did it. You did it because the poison's burning through you and you don't know how to make it stop."
For a second—just a second—the feral mask slipped. Roy saw the kid underneath. The seventeen-year-old who'd watched his universe die. The boy who'd been shot and carved and abandoned.
Then the mask slammed back into place.
"Stay away from me," Kain whispered.
"I heard what you said." Jason kept moving, slow and deliberate, until he was close enough to touch. "You want to hit me? Hit me. You want to scream? Scream. But I'm not leaving."
"I'm not your father," Jason continued, voice softening just slightly. "I'm not gonna save you. I'm not gonna pretend everything's okay. But I'm not gonna let you tear yourself apart because some green rock made you forget who you are."
"I know who I am." Kain's voice cracked. "I'm nobody's son. Nobody's hero. I'm just—I'm just angry."
"Yeah," Jason said quietly. "Me too."
A long, terrible silence.
Kain's hands unclenched. Then clenched again. His breath came in shudders, and his eyes—those wild, feral eyes—finally, finally started to clear.
Jason caught him before he hit the ground—one arm around the kid's shoulders, lowering him carefully to the wet concrete. Kain's body shook uncontrollably, the adrenaline crash hitting like a freight train.
"I've got you," Jason said. Roy hadn't heard that tone in years. Soft. Almost gentle. "I've got you."
Kain's fingers latched onto Jason's jacket. White-knuckled.
"I can't—" Kain's voice was barely a whisper. "I can't do this anymore."
"Then don't." Jason shifted, pulling the kid against his chest. "You're done carrying it alone. You hear me? Done."
Roy lowered his bow, throat tight.
He'd seen Jason do a lot of things. Kill men. Spare men. Yell, fight, bleed. But holding a broken kid in a shipyard while the rain started to fall?
"We should get him back to the safehouse," Roy said quietly. "He needs rest. And maybe... maybe someone who's been where he is."
Jason nodded. He stood slowly, lifting Kain like he weighed nothing.
Kain's head lolled against Jason's shoulder. His eyes were closed, but his hands still gripped the jacket.
"Sixty-eight men," Roy muttered, following Jason out of the shipyard. "Kid's a menace."
"He's a survivor," Jason corrected. "There's a difference."
Behind them, the rain washed the blood from the concrete.
And for the first time in six years, Kain slept without dreaming of fire.
Location: Outlaws Safehouse, Crown Point, Gotham City.
Kain woke up to the smell of coffee and bacon.
His eyes snapped open. Ceiling. Exposed pipes. A window with bars on it. Sunlight—actual sunlight—streaming through grimy glass.
He bolted upright, fists raised, heart hammering—
And immediately regretted it.
His ribs screamed. His knuckles were wrapped in bandages he didn't remember getting. The scar over his heart throbbed with a dull, familiar ache. And his head felt like someone had used it as a battering ram.
The voice was low, female, and dangerous.
Kain's gaze snapped to the corner of the room.
A woman sat in an armchair, legs crossed, sharpening a sword the size of his torso. She was tall—really tall—with red-gold hair, dark skin, and muscles that looked like they'd been carved from marble. She wore Amazonian armor over a black undersuit, and her eyes were the color of winter storms.
Artemis. He'd done his research.
"Where am I?" His voice came out raw.
"Safehouse." Artemis didn't look up from her sword. "You collapsed. Todd carried you here. You've been unconscious for seven hours."
Kain's stomach dropped. Seven hours. He'd been asleep for seven hours. Unprotected. Surrounded by people who could have—
"We didn't touch your gear," Artemis said, as if reading his mind. "Your wrench is by the door. Your chains are in a pile. Your jacket is beyond repair, so Roy threw it away."
"You threw away my jacket?"
"It had blood on it. And a hole. And possibly some teeth."
Kain swung his legs over the side of the cot—a real cot, with blankets, when did he last have blankets—and immediately regretted that too. His head swam. His vision went spotty.
"You should rest," Artemis said.
"That's not what Todd said."
Kain froze. "What did he say?"
Artemis finally looked up. Her expression was unreadable, but something flickered in those winter-storm eyes. Something almost like approval.
"He said you'd try to run. He also said I should let you." She set the sword aside. "I disagree."
Kain stood. His legs held. Barely. He grabbed his wrench from beside the door—strangely comforting, the weight of it—and made it three steps toward the exit before the door opened and Roy Harper walked in.
Roy froze. Coffee mug in one hand, bacon sandwich in the other.
"Hey," Roy said. "You're vertical. That's good. You should probably sit down before you fall down."
"You're green around the edges, and not in a fun kryptonite way."
Roy's expression softened. He set down the coffee and sandwich on a nearby table—an offering, Kain realized. Food. Drink. Peace.
"Kid," Roy said quietly, "you took down sixty-eight guys last night. Sixty-eight. I counted. Then you collapsed in Jason's arms and cried for twenty minutes."
Kain's face went hot. "I did not cry."
"You absolutely cried. It was very emotional. I almost cried too, and I'm a rock."
"See, that's the spirit!" Roy grinned, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Look, Kain. I'm not gonna pretend I know what you've been through. I had a rough childhood too—drugs, neglect, the whole 'my dad sold me to the government' thing. But Jason? Jason died. He knows what it's like to have everything taken from you. And he doesn't offer help twice."
Kain's grip tightened on the wrench.
"No," Roy agreed. "But you need it. And we're the only assholes in Gotham crazy enough to give it."
Footsteps in the hallway. Heavy. Deliberate.
Jason Todd appeared in the doorway, still in his civilian clothes—jeans, a gray henley, his white streak visible in the morning light. No helmet. No guns. Just a tired man with too many scars and eyes that had seen too much.
He looked at Kain. Kain looked at him.
"You tried to leave," Jason said.
"And yet you're still here."
Jason walked past him—slow, unconcerned—and poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot on the counter. He leaned against the sink, cradling the mug, watching Kain over the rim.
"I'm not going to lock you in," Jason said. "I'm not your jailer. If you want to walk out that door, you walk. But I want you to think about something first."
Jason set the mug down. Crossed his arms.
"You've been running for six years. From universe to universe, from fight to fight, from one bad situation to the next. You told yourself you were proving something. Becoming worthy. But here's the truth, Kain—" Jason's voice dropped. "You were never unworthy. You were just alone."
"That Superman—your Superman—he didn't send you away because you weren't good enough. He sent you away because he loved you. And he wanted you to live."
"Stop." Kain's voice cracked.
"This Superman—the one here—he didn't reject you because you were broken. He rejected you because he was scared. Scared of what it would mean to have a son who'd already lost everything. That's not on you. That's on him."
"The Riddler carved you because he wanted to break you. Green Arrow shot you because he made a mistake. None of that—none of it—is your fault."
The wrench hit the floor with a deafening clang.
Kain's hands were shaking. His eyes burned. The scars on his face suddenly felt like they were on fire.
"You don't know me," Kain whispered.
"I know enough," Jason said. "I know you're twenty-two years old and you've been fighting alone since your world ended. I know you're angry and scared and you don't trust anyone because the last time you trusted someone, they died or hurt you or both. I know you're exhausted."
Kain's breath came in ragged gasps.
"And I know," Jason continued, softer now, "that you're not alone anymore. Unless you want to be."
A long, terrible silence.
Artemis hadn't moved from her chair. Roy was watching with wide, worried eyes. And Jason. Jason just stood there, arms crossed, waiting.
Kain thought about his father. The real one. The one who'd smiled and said "You can live" before flying into the dark.
He thought about this universe's Superman, turning him away on a rooftop.
He thought about Riddler's knife.
Sixty-eight men, beaten bloody because he couldn't stop feeling.
And then he thought about Jason Todd, carrying him through the rain. Roy, offering him a bacon sandwich. Artemis, letting him keep his wrench.
"I don't know how to do this," Kain said quietly. "I don't know how to... stay."
Jason's expression didn't change. But something in his shoulders relaxed.
"You learn," he said. "One day at a time. One fight at a time. And when you forget—when the anger gets too loud you let us remind you."
Kain looked down at the wrench on the floor.
Then he looked up at Jason.
"Does the safehouse have a shower?"
Roy let out a breath he'd been holding. "Oh, thank God. You smell like the docks."
"I'm serious, kid. You need soap. And possibly an exorcism."
Kain bent down, picked up the wrench, and for the first time in six years, smiled. It was small. Tired. Barely there.
"I'm not calling you guys my team," Kain said.
"Wouldn't dream of it," Jason replied.
"And I'm still leaving if you try to hug me."
Roy gasped in mock offense. "What about a firm handshake? A celebratory high-five? An interpretive dance?"
Kain walked past him toward the hallway.
"I'm taking a shower. When I get out, that bacon sandwich better still be there."
The shower had been the best thing Kain had felt in years.
Hot water. Actual soap. No one banging on the door. He'd stood under the spray until his fingers pruned, then stayed longer because he could.
He'd found a towel folded on the sink and a pile of clothes that actually fit. Black sweatpants. A grey hoodie. Socks without holes.
Kain stared at the socks for a full thirty seconds.
Then he pulled everything on and walked out.
The safehouse's main room was quiet. Morning light slanted through the barred windows. A chess board sat half-finished on a crate. Someone had left a mug on the counter with "WORLD'S OKAYEST VIGILANTE" printed on the side.
Roy was asleep on the couch, mouth open, one arm dangling. Artemis sat in the same armchair as before, reading The Odyssey in ancient Greek.
Jason stood at the kitchen counter, making breakfast.
None of them looked up when Kain entered.
That was intentional, he realized. They were giving him space.
"Shower work okay?" Jason asked without turning around.
Kain sat at the small kitchen table wooden, scarred, covered in coffee rings and watched Jason cook. The man moved like someone who'd learned to find peace in small rituals. Flipping eggs. Toasting bread. Pouring coffee into a chipped mug that he slid across the counter toward Kain.
"Drink," Jason said. "You look like death."
"That's the kryptonite hangover. It'll pass."
Kain wrapped his hands around the mug. The warmth seeped into his palms.
Roy snuffled awake, blinked twice, and immediately zeroed in on Kain.
"Morning, sunshine. You look marginally less like you fought a lawnmower."
"I feel marginally less like I fought a lawnmower."
"Progress." Roy sat up, stretching. "Jason made eggs. This is a big deal. He usually only cooks when he's feeling emotionally constipated."
"See? Emotionally constipated."
Jason slid a plate in front of himm, eggs, toast, bacon, a small pile of fruit. Kain stared at it.
"You don't have to eat it all," Jason said, quieter now. "But you should eat something. The kryptonite burned through your system. Your body needs fuel."
"I know how my own biology works."
The first bite was strange. Not bad—good, actually, Jason could cook—but strange. Eating somewhere that wasn't a rooftop or an alley. Eating food someone had made for him. Eating while three people watched him like he might shatter.
He also never wanted it to stop.
Halfway through the eggs, Kain's hoodie sleeve rode up.
Roy's gaze flickered to his forearm. Then away. Too fast.
Scars. Layers of them. Old white lines and newer pink ones, crisscrossing his skin like a map of every fight he'd ever lost. Some were clean, knife wounds, surgical from Riddler's experiments. Others were ragged, bites, burns, things that hadn't healed right.
He pulled the sleeve down.
But Artemis closed her book. Roy stopped pretending to stretch. And Jason set down the spatula and turned to face him fully.
"Kain," Jason said. "Look at me."
Kain didn't want to. But he did.
Jason's face was unreadable. But his eyes held nothing but patience.
"I have scars too," Jason said. He pulled up his own sleeve. The skin underneath was a mess—puckered burns, long surgical lines. "From the crowbar. From the autopsy. From every stupid fight I've picked since."
"Artemis has scars," Jason continued. "Roy has scars. Some of them you can see. Some of them you can't. The point is you're not a freak. You're not broken. You're just another survivor sitting at a kitchen table, trying to figure out how to eat eggs without falling apart."
Kain looked down at his plate. At the fork in his hand. At the scars on his wrist, visible even with the sleeve pulled down.
"I have them everywhere," he said quietly. "Not just my arms. My chest. My back. My legs." He swallowed. "Riddler wanted to see how much I could take. How fast I could heal. He'd cut me, wait, measure, cut me again."
Kain's head snapped up. "What?"
"Your scars. Can I see them?" Jason's voice was calm. Clinical. Not curious,respectful. "Not because I want to gawk. Because I want to know what you've survived. And because I want you to know that you don't have to hide them here."
Slowly, deliberately, he pulled off the hoodie.
His torso was a canvas of violence.
Lean muscle,firm, strong, defined, the body of someone who'd been fighting since childhood. But overlaid on that strength was a lattice of damage. Burn scars across his ribs. A long, jagged line down his sternum. The cratered wound over his heart from Green Arrow's kryptonite arrow,still puckered, still pink, still angry.
And on his left pec, just below the collarbone, a brand. A question mark, burned into his skin. Riddler's final souvenir.
Artemis made a sound low in her throat. Not pity. Rage.
Roy looked like he might be sick.
Jason stepped forward. Slowly. He didn't reach out—didn't touch—but he looked. He looked at every scar like he was memorizing them.
"When I came back," Jason said quietly, "I couldn't look at myself in the mirror. The autopsy scars,they cut me open from neck to groin. Stitched me back up. I wore the helmet for months because I couldn't stand to see my own face."
"One day, Roy made me look," Jason continued. "Sat me down in front of a mirror and wouldn't let me leave until I'd looked at every single scar. Not to punish myself. To see them. To understand that they weren't weaknesses. They were proof that I'd survived."
Roy rubbed the back of his neck, looking embarrassed. "It was less 'made' and more 'emotionally manipulated.' I'm very good at that."
"You survived Riddler. You survived Green Arrow. You survived watching your universe die and your father sacrifice himself. Those scars aren't shameful, Kain. They're armor. You just forgot how to wear them."
Kain looked down at his own chest.
For six years, he'd covered them. Hidden them. Told himself they made him ugly. Unworthy. Broken.
But Jason Todd had the same kind of scars.
And Jason Todd was still standing.
"I don't know how to do this," Kain said again, voice rough.
"You don't have to know," Jason said. "You just have to try."
Kain pulled the hoodie back on. His hands were shaking. But when he sat back down at the table, he didn't pull the sleeves down over his wrists.
Roy noticed. Didn't say anything. Just slid the bacon sandwich closer.
Artemis opened her book again. But she was smiling. Just a little.
Jason turned back to the stove, cracked another egg into the pan, and said nothing at all.
And Kain ate his breakfast.
For the first time in six years, he wasn't hiding.
Three days of eating Jason's cooking, sleeping on an actual cot, and not getting stabbed, shot, or experimented on. Three days of Roy's terrible jokes, Artemis's silent judgment, and Jason's heavy silences that somehow felt more like conversation than words.
