Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A boy is brought in.

He looks her age.

He looks a lot like her, actually.

He is side by side with the Important Woman, her holding his arm and forcing him to walk forward with her. They stop walking, and someone pushes the boy from behind so he is kneeling, shoves him again so he is prostrate.

The boy is in a strange paper gown. It’s almost in that color that only the Important Family is allowed to wear. The color of all the growing things outside. The color of the sacred waters. The color of life.

The paper gown is open in the back. Usually people are covered there. The girl shows no reaction, of course, but she ponders.

Something is off about the boy. Something in his eyes, the way he holds himself. Like he isn’t totally there.

Maybe he’s up far away in his head. The girl goes far away a lot. In her head, at least. She tried to go far away with her body once.

They caught her. They killed everyone who spoke to her. The kind family who took her in. The raggedy man on the sidewalk. The angry man who yelled at her, and yelled louder when she didn’t respond.

They made her watch, and then they took her back to Master to be punished. It was a full year before she healed completely. The scars will be with her always.

She’s old enough, now, to know when a scar is for a few months or for a few years of for forever.

She never tried to run away again. It was one thing to punish her, but she could never be the reason other people became empty. Never again.

No matter what.

The Important Man speaks. He pauses, and this is when the ones brought before his throne are supposed to respond, but the boy doesn’t. The girl braces herself.

She has seen plenty of death before.

The Important Woman steps forward and speaks. She goes on, talking fast, gesturing to the boy. Pleading. Fearful. Desperate. She is not usually these things.

The Important Man raises a hand, and everything stops.

He beckons her forward, and the girl slips out from just a step right and behind the throne. She approaches the boy, bows, and strikes.

He is down in one, two, three breaths.

The Important Man speaks, and he sounds pleased. He and the Important Woman go back and forth. The girl returns to her spot at the throne.

Just another Shadow, tucked away.

A blur. A person. Armed. Sword. Towards the throne. Kick to the solar plexus. Nerve strike on the throat. Grab the sword.

The girl deftly hands it to the Important Man.

She returns to her spot again and doesn’t watch as he delivers the finishing blow.

The head rolls across polished marble.

The girl zones out. Keeps her gaze distant, spread throughout the throne room. Keeps her mind equally distant.

She does feel eyes fall on her, though. Her training is too good for anything else. The boy is staring at her.

For the first time since he got here, his gaze looks sharp.

“Damian. I have a real treat for you,” Mother said. “Today you shall fight one of your father’s proteges.”

Damian hadn’t known his father had proteges.

The child brought out was older than him. Gangly and thin. Not the thinness of a warrior, however—the thinness of sickness. He was lacking muscle tone and looked like a strong wind could blow him over.

His eyes were glassy and inattentive as well. He appeared thoroughly unaware of his surroundings. Or, if he was, he did not care. Assassins milled about the training arena, armed, and the teenager didn’t blink. Not even when they passed behind him.

Damian arched an eyebrow in inquisitive judgement. “Is my father training cannon fodder?”

Mother brushed a hand over the boy’s shoulder. “He was a great warrior, once. One of your father’s enemies apprehended him. Now he is insensate.”

“I will not make the same mistake.”

“I know.” She stepped out of the painted square in the field. “Begin!”

The boy was more formidable than Damian had initially assessed. He now sat on a bench in the arena with the One Who Is All holding a wrapped ice pack to his shoulder.

He was fortunate that Grandfather had not deigned to watch. He could not afford to be found lacking in comparison to his father’s foot soldiers. That was humiliating.

No, he must best the other boy, and soon. Damian al Ghul is second to no one.

From across the field, the boy looked over at them. It almost seemed as though he was truly looking at them. In any other circumstance, he would catalogue such an action as a threat and a slight. But Damian doubted he had the cognition necessary for that.

This boy was a threat only in how he was compared to Damian by others.

The One Who Is All handed him his juice glass.

The boy started coming over to them, and Damian stood up aggressively. But with dignity. He does everything with dignity.

The boy handed them his mezze. Handed the One Who Is All his mezze. She took the small plate carefully. Nodded at him, then dipped her head in a bow.

The boy frowned. He hovered over them indecisively, ignoring Damian entirely. Finally, he patted the One Who Is All on her shoulder and shambled away.

“How rude,” Damian huffed. To ignore the heir to the world like that? And only the Al Ghuls and Cain himself were permitted to interact with the One Who Is All.

The boy was lacking even the most basic of knowledge.

Nevermind how cruel it was to give the One Who Is All food but not permission to eat. Though Damian couldn’t say it was first time it had happened. There had been occasions where meals were interrupted by the arrival of couriers or enemy assassins. Grandfather would pass whatever was in his hands to the guard dog while he dealt with the matter, and then reach for it back afterwards.

Damian had asked, once, what made the One Who Is All so different from the other guards. Mother had smiled grimly. Stroked Damian’s hair while she explained.

“You and I are people,” she had said. “We speak, and think. We use our manners when it’s called for, and our swords at other times. We can sing and make beautiful art and play chess. One day, you will rule the world, Damian. You are to be superlative as a man. The One Who Is All was created to be a weapon. Weapons do not think. They do not speak. They can only “act” so far as they are wielded to. They do not create; they only destroy.”

“…Our other guards are people,” Damian had said, with a lilt of a question in his voice.

“Our other guards were raised like you and me before they came into our service. There is something called a self-fulfilling prophecy, Damian. The One Who Is All has been treated like an animal since her birth, and so an animal she will be. There was never a possibility for her to be anything else.”

From across the courtyard, Mother watched.

They were sparring with practice swords in the private training room the next day.

Damian loved the private training room. There was less pressure there. He didn’t feel the weight of the eyes of the entire League on him. It was… marginally more acceptable, or less humiliating anyway, if he made any mistakes.

Plus, it meant he got to spend time with just his Mother and no one else or any missions to distract her.

The private training room was more relaxed. Damian felt he could speak more freely there. There were no other listening ears, after all.

“What is wrong with Father’s soldier?” he asked. Wood knocked together dully as the practice swords met.

“I have told you this already, Habibi. He was captured by an enemy. His mind is lost now.” Mother spun in a swirl of skirts and hair and a fast-moving blade.

“But how? What happened?”

“He sustained a traumatic brain injury. Commonly abbreviated by medics as a TBI. I suspect he also suffered oxygen deprivation while crawling out of his grave.”

“His what?!”

Damian was suddenly flat on his back with a stick at his neck. Mother quirked an eyebrow up in silent judgment. He felt himself flush. He took her proffered hand and pulled himself up.

“Again. Begin!”

They danced.

“So he is risen from the dead? I thought only the magic of the Lazarus Pits could do such a thing,” Damian said.

“There are many beings once thought dead who have recently resurfaced. Jason was simply the most accessible to us. I am studying him,” Mother said. She wasn’t even out of breath. It wasn’t fair. It was amazing. Damian would be like her, one day. “And it is not so unusual a thing, within your father’s circles.”

“And what circles might those be?”

She smiled wryly. “You will learn your father’s identity when the time is right. You have not yet earned the privilege.”

“Of course, Mother.”

He swung his blade just a little bit harder.

The girl stood at the door while they sparred. The clack of sticks, the grip-peel sound of feet on mats, the relaxed cadence of voices. The Important Child was breathing heavily.

She worried about him, sometimes. She had been much stronger than he was, when she was his size. She had known how to take a bullet, how not to flinch when a sword bit her skin. The little one was so ill-prepared for the real world. His first mission must be coming up soon. How was he supposed to survive? He hardly trained. Most of his day was spent listening people making mouth sounds. He would write or type or paint sometimes during this, always listening raptly.

What a waste of time. Time the littlest one at this base did not have.

It was kill or be killed, and she did not think he knew how to avoid being killed.

The Important Child was soft. Not hard, like her. He had a small creature he snuck out to feed and pet every night. The girl was always a lookout for him. He was not supposed to have the small animal. He already had a very large animal, and that was supposed to be it.

The Important Child made cooing noises and other mouth sounds at his small animal. The girl stood with her back against one of the pillars and watched. The creature was getting bigger. It was the size of two of the Important Child’s hands now. No longer small enough to squish underfoot.

That was good. It was soft, too. The girl thought she liked soft things, despite how easily killable they were.

She shouldn’t be around them. She was danger, and cutting, and harshness. But the Important Man thought it was good when she was dangerous to other dangers. So she was allowed to protect this one soft thing, the Important Child.

Maybe she would go with him on his missions. So he would stay safe. She did that with the Important Woman, sometimes. She went with the Important Child to his classes. To feed the small animal. To meals and meeting with others. To the room where he slept at night, so she could stand guard in there and watch for dangers.

Soft things like the Important Child wouldn’t be able to handle dangers on their own. That was why dangerous things like the girl had to exist.

The Important Child was important. She was not.

Soon enough, the sun was setting, and the Important Child stood and left the stables. His large animal was there too, but he had already lavished attention on it when he first arrived. The girl followed two paces behind him.

The Important Child returned to his sleeping room, and the girl took up her post. Back straight, legs apart, hands down by her sides. By her weapons.

She never used her weapons. There was no point. She would never kill someone again. The Important Man did that. She simply… took out threats and delivered them to him.

She knew that…

She knew it was just as bad. But. She wasn’t sure what other options there were. She would end herself, so no one else would become empty because of her, but then who would watch out for the Important Child?

So she was alive. And others weren’t.

She knew that every time the Important Man killed someone, it was on her. He would be dead many times over by now if she hadn’t been protecting him. Protecting him, killing for him, allowing him to go on and kill even more.

All her fault.

She caught a glimpse of her own face on the shiny thing across the room. She usually looked away, but…

She looked like that boy. She looked a lot like that boy. In the eyes, the set of the jaw. Their same dark hair. The tilt of their eyebrows, the fullness of their lips.

There were plenty of other people who had similar traits to her. She knew this. But this was… more. She had never met someone who looked so much like her. Exactly like her. A copy, but as a boy.

She hadn’t known that was possible. For two strangers to look so much like each other.

But then, there was a lot she didn’t know.

Chapter Text

Jason was in the Box. They called it the Box, anyway. It was a sealed indoor training room with a one-way mirror set into one wall, about two stories high.

He was fighting four assassins. Going through the motions on automatic. It required no thought. His training had been so good, so thorough, that his muscles remembered how to take down high-level opponents even without conscious input.

Still, no one liked being in the Box. It was rarely a good thing to have the personal attention of the al Ghul family.

Jason was in the Box a lot.

“Stop! This drill is over!” the intercom crackled, before cutting out again. Jason and the masked assassins all looked up to the “window,” waiting.

For long moments, there was nothing. No further instructions. No punishments doled out.

It wasn’t a good thing for anyone to lose a fight. Fights always ended with someone in trouble.

Talia stormed into the box, throwing the doors open behind her. She marched up to Jason and slapped him across the face. Slapped him again. Whirled back around to yell up at the window.

“He never fights back when it’s me! Explain that! Never when it’s me!”

The doctor rushed into the room, stuttering apologies, or explanations, or something. Jason wasn’t listening.

He glanced around the Box absently. The other assassins stood stock still, at attention, ready to leap into motion. Jason didn’t care. The fight was over now, with Talia here. Talia was basically his step-mom; she barely counted as a Rogue and she only killed when she had to. She would protect Jason.

He could let his guard down.

The girl was back. She had followed Talia in and was now standing placidly behind her for the screaming argument with the neurologist. She was as covered head-to-toe in black as all the other assassins—the same standard issue League garb, nothing at all to mark her as separate, but Jason recognized her anyway.

The only thing uncovered was her eyes. Jason saw those eyes in the mirror every day. And she was small—clearly a kid, like him, and short and scrawny just like him too.

Though Jason was getting bigger lately. The doctors talked about that sometimes. They said… Hm. It had something to do with the shots.

Jason hated needles. The League didn’t care. They just restrained him for it.

Talia and the doctor had stopped talking at some point. Talia stepped around catch Jason’s eyeline. She glanced between him and the girl.

“And her,” she said. “He responds to her.”

Jason motioned to the girl to come sit next to him, but she shook her head. Talia sat down beside him instead. “Ignore her, Jason. She is not listening, I assure you.”

He stared after her for a moment longer, frowning.

The sun was setting. They were sitting on a small clifftop overlooking the Persian Gulf. There was a slight breeze, the scent of flowers on the air. You would never know they were just a half mile from a League Base.

“He misses you. Honestly, I can tell,” Talia said. “Since he lost you, he’s changed. He’s become… unforgiving. I know that most probably don’t see that quality in him… but you know. I know it, too. I think you, and Dick Grayson before you, gave him light. Gave him hope. He feels responsible for you. Your loss is his failure. He misses you… Jason?”

Tears slipped down his cheeks. The most expressiveness he was capable of.

Talia rested her hand on the back of his neck, pulling him in to lean against her shoulder. “Jason.”

Jason felt like he was waking up.

He was screaming. Acid scorched his skin. He felt like it was peeling off. His throat and nose and eyes were burning.

A hand yanked him up by the wrist and pulled him from the acid. The… the fucking Lazarus Pit. Holy shit. That was Talia dragging him along. Running them both past the guards.

Oh shit. Jason sprinted faster. He could be in pain later.

He was in a stranger’s body, not his own. He was bigger than he should be. Older. At least sixteen, if not seventeen.

His legs were longer, so thank god for that.

They kept running. One of the guards was right on their heels, close enough to yank, but she made no motions to. Just ran with them. Which, okay. Jason was rolling with that as well.

They came to the edge of a cliff. Jason didn’t let himself slow down. Talia would have a plan. He knew it. He had to trust in that.

“Do not seek him out,” she said, breathless. She shoved him off the edge of the cliff. “You remain unavenged.”

A pack and the guard fell down after him. There was a boat waiting. Jason grabbed the pack and swam towards it. The guard followed.

Seconds later, they were speeding away, headed for the Arabian Sea. Jason’s heart was a jackhammer in his chest, beating hummingbird fast. He could feel his blood pumping.

Lights on the cliff. Distant voices.

He gunned it.

A half hour passed before he was calm and secure enough to even think about drawing his focus away. He leaned back in sudden exhaustion. The adrenaline crash was brutal. His limbs felt made of lead.

“So,” he said. “What’s your story?”

The guard said nothing. She—they?—was completely covered in the deep gray League robes that everyone wore. Blending into the night perfectly. It just had to be a new moon, didn’t it? Jason couldn’t see for shit.

Not that seeing the fine detail of standard issue League garb would tell him anything anyway. But still.

Actually, his guard was kind of small.

“Are you a kid?” he asked. “How old are you?”

No response.

“Look, we’re not in the compound anymore. Ra’s isn’t here. Talia isn’t here. You don’t have to keep up the whole silent ninja schtick.”

Still nothing.

“I mean, you’re a deserter, right? You’ve already left. So at this point what’s it gonna hurt if you just talk? My name is Jason.”

Silence.

He sighed. “They really don’t skimp on the brainwashing, do they? Look. I have no clue what’s going on here. We’re gonna be in this boat together for days. At the minimum. Please talk so I don’t go insane.”

Nada.

“This is gonna be a long fucking trip.”

Day One of the boat ride from hell. Talia’s survival pack was well-stocked. It contained ration bars, MREs, iodine tablets, cash, four different passports, and a laptop.

Jason immediately tossed the laptop into the ocean. He filled his canteen with saltwater and dropped some iodine in. There was a little filtration device on it and everything.

“Why the hell did she only pack one of these?” he asked. “Are you a stowaway or something?”

The guard said nothing.

Jason took a long drink then passed her the canteen. She took it, but didn’t drink. Jason shrugged.

“Suit yourself. I think it’s boiling hot out here already. This is gonna be miserable. How are you not baking in all that?” he gestured to her full get-up.

Still nothing.

“Man, B wishes we were as obedient as you guys are. I don’t think Nightwing’s ever been quiet this long in his life.”

Silence.

“Nightwing’s my brother. Kinda. I don’t think he likes me very much. Or at all. Kinda hates me, actually, for stealing Robin from him? But B told me I could be Robin, so. I feel like I should be in the clear on this. Besides, Robin is Batman’s partner, so it’s Batman’s call. Not Dick’s decision. Not my fault his loser ass got fired.”

The guard just stared at him.

“If you’re not saying anything, I’m just gonna assume you’re agreeing with me,” he warned. “C’mon. Give me something here. A name. Anything. What do I call ya?”

More silence.

It was getting kinda creepy now.

Jason’s eyes flicked over her heavy robes one more time. “You should drink some water,” he said.

Nothingness.

“You know. Drink? Like.” He mimed tipping back a drink and swallowing. The guard nodded, once, and drank. Jason felt weirdly relieved.

She drank half the canteen.

“You…” He swallowed. “You didn’t need my permission, you know. You can drink whenever you need to. Or want to. Anytime.”

She screwed the cap back on and went back to placidly holding the canteen and staring at him. Doing nothing.

“Can you understand me?” he asked. “Shit, do you not speak English? Oh fuck. Um.” He switched to Arabic. “Can you understand me now?”

She didn’t respond.

Jason tried Hindi. She didn’t know that either, and Jason didn’t know Pashto or Urdu or any other regional languages to try. For once, he wished Bruce had been more of a hardass about niche training objectives. Speaking eight gazillion languages would actually come in handy here.

Dick spoke eight gazillion languages. He would be able to communicate with her. Would probably have her talking and laughing and completely at ease by now, somehow undoing years of brainwashing with just one conversation. He was perfect like that.

Jason hated him so much. He wasn’t even here.

He wondered idly if they missed him. Mourned him. Not missed him. Because he was dead, not just missing. The Joker had killed him.

You remain unavenged.

So probably not, then. It wasn’t exactly a surprise. Jason could tell that Bruce had regretted adopting him towards the end. And he and Dick had never really been brothers. Foster siblings at best, and Dick had aged out. Kinda weird that he kept in contact at all, actually, and it was definitely only because of cape business.

He wondered how Bruce was doing, defending Gotham all alone with no one to watch his back. Probably relieved. Jason had only been a liability, hadn’t he? An idiot kid who got himself killed. The bright Robin colors were designed to draw attention, to draw fire, and by God had he.

Maybe this had been Bruce’s goal all along.

Jason stopped the boat in Dwarka and booked a hotel room with two beds. He ordered enough room service to feed a gala and asked the concierge for whatever English newspaper he could find to be delivered in the morning.

The fake ID Talia had provided listed Jason as eighteen. The amount of cash he tipped ensured the concierge didn’t question it.

He definitely thought they were two runaways, though. But as long as he didn’t call anyone about it, Jason couldn’t care less what he thought.

He flopped down onto plush bedding and flicked the TV on, idly munching on finger foods while he channel surfed.

“What sort of shows do you like?” he asked. The guard stood at attention beside the door. Jason motioned her to the other bed, put food in her hands and mimed eating. She began to eat, hesitantly.

God, fuck Ra’s al Ghul and fuck the League of Assassins. Needing permission to eat. Jason wanted to kill him.

Hypothetically, of course. Robin doesn’t kill.

Not that Jason is really Robin anymore. B benched him, thinks he’s a killer, thinks he’s—

Nope. Not thinking about that.

Deep breath in, 1 2 3 4. Hold, 1. Slow breath out, 1 2 3 4 5 6 7. Paced breathing exercise. Good for calming down.

Jason went through it three more times. He flipped on a Bollywood movie. Turned on the subtitles, just in case his mystery guard could read Hindi. And it was good for him to see the words spelled out anyways. Practice.

He would probably be getting a lot of use out of Hindi in the next day or so. He doesn’t know how long he’s gonna stay in India. Talia had given him passports for Pakistan, Denmark, Brazil, and New Zealand. No doubt she’d had an entire travel itinerary written up on that stupid laptop. How to go to ground and avoid the League, as if her operatives could never be compromised.

Which. What the hell was he doing with the League in the first place? How did he get here? Had Talia stolen his body right after the bombing? The Lazarus Pit could explain his resurrection, but not his missing time. Not how the hell he was suddenly older, bigger, more masculine, almost passing as an adult. Clearly he had been with the League for a while. Talia had included testosterone in the survival pack. They must have been giving it to him back at the palace.

Time had passed. At least a year. Right?

What the hell was today’s date?

Tomorrow’s newspaper couldn’t come soon enough.

Jason came to with two dead bodies in the hotel room and blood on his hands. The guard was back at her post by the door.

“Why didn’t you stop me?” he asked. The concierge. The hotel manager. Dead.

The newspaper was spread out in sheets throughout the room, some of them seeping blood.

BATMAN RETURNS JOKER TO POLICE CUSTODY

A picture of him and Robin—a new Robin—flying away into the night.

He already knew. It wasn’t new information. He had read it… earlier, he had…

It was coming back to him now.

He was a killer, now.

Bruce would never take him back.

He shouldn’t be surprised, he told himself. Clearly Robins were replaceable. Look at what happened to Dick! No one who actually gave a shit could raise a kid for nine years just to let them age out of the foster system. No one who gave a single shit could have a kid die on his watch and then snap up a new one just like that.

This kid was going to get killed. Just like Jason had. Didn’t he know that? Did Bruce tell him anything about what happened to the past Robin? Or did the new kid just not care?

It’ll never happen to me. I’m different. I’m adopted. That’s what Jason had told himself. Meanwhile Bruce was going through kids like they were tissues. He was just another rich white man after all, treating street kids like they were… Like they were his personal…

Like they were child soldiers.

He’s going to get more kids killed.

He never cared about any of them. If he did, the Joker would be dead.

Jason would have killed the Joker for Bruce. He thinks even Dick would have killed the Joker, if he had hurt someone he loved. The fact that Bruce didn’t…

The Joker is going to kill more people.

Didn’t Jason’s death mean anything? Isn’t that why Batman has his precious no-killing rule? Because death is meaningful?

But clearly Jason’s meant nothing. Meaningless. A live clown, in and out of Arkham. A new Robin, fresh faced and naïve.

Holy shit, none of it had ever meant anything. Bruce had just been using him the whole time. A convenient, distracting target for his enemies. Disposable and replaceable.

Jason had thought they were family.

Bruce was a monster. Jason was a killer now. He had no future, no family, nothing going for him, and the League nipping at his heels.

Talia would never let him…

“Fuck Talia,” he said. He opened up the pack and took all the cash out, leaving the rest behind. “I’m going shopping. Stay here.”

He held up a flat palm, stopping the guard in her tracks. He accompanied it with a stern look. Jason ducked out of the hotel window.

The guard could figure herself out. She’d just go running back to the League anyway. She was as much a tracker as the little devices no doubt embedded in his clothes and shoes, and fuck, maybe even his hair?

Jason needed to find a clothes store, fast.

Chapter Text

Jason learned a lot over the next two years. He only had the one episode of Pit rage, thank God. All his other kills were premeditated. Careful. Spotless and traceless.

Jason was very good at what he did. Talia made sure of that. She always had new ideas of things to learn that were just crucial to his education. Explosives. Poisons. Firearms. Bladed weapons. Combat piloting. Magic.

He killed a lot of assholes, after he finished learning everything he could from ‘em.

Batman always said to be prepared for anything. And soon, Jason would be.

Bruce would never see him coming.

The bomb plan had been too simple. Unsatisfying. There was no theater to it. No gratifying moment of realization. If Jason had just pressed the button, blown the Batmobile sky high, Bruce would never have learned his lesson. No. Jason was going to teach him something. And see that he had learned it, in the final seconds as the light died from his eyes.

He had always valued a decent education.

Talia could attest to that, too.

Lady Shiva didn’t often return to League bases. She was mostly a free agent. All the very best were—the League was fairly hands-off with operatives after they reached a certain level. But still, it was worth dropping in now and then, to see Talia and catch up.

Gossip was worth its weight in gold, in their circles.

She sipped at her tea in Talia’s private quarters. The other woman was nattering on about her son. Sandra was half-listening, half considering if the child would be worth fighting one day.

“And my heir? How is she working out for you?” she asked.

“Excellent. Supremely well-trained. She does your legacy honor,” Talia said, lifting her own teacup.

“Good. I look forward to fighting her.”

“One day. Not yet,” Talia demurred. Sandra did not roll her eyes.

Honestly. A fighter as good as her daughter, playing bodyguard for the al Ghuls? It was a waste. She could be revered. Worshipped. A force of unstoppable destruction.

It was times like these she almost regretted selling the child to Cain. But a deal was a deal, especially a deal as lucrative as that one. He had contracted a surrogacy from her and paid handsomely for her nine month sabbatical—owing for lost income and then some.

As far as she knows, the idiot never bothered with a paternity test. He didn’t even know the child wasn’t his.

Sandra did. She was thorough. Paid attention to detail. It was the main reason she dropped by Nanda Parbat as often as she did.

Her daughter was destined for greatness.

“Perhaps you wish for a demonstration?” Talia asked.

“Of course,” Sandra said. She set her teacup down and smiled.

It always benefited to play nice with the princess.

They strode through the halls of the palace, other assassins bowing as Talia passed. They found the One Who Is All doing her duties, guarding Damian during his swordplay lesson. Damian and his instructor sparred for a few minutes more, both no doubt keenly aware of their audience but giving no outward sign.

Other assassins gathered closer to the training arena. Lady Shiva herself was practically an omen, and watching the One Who Is All in action is the best education any of them will ever be able to hope for.

One of the young men caught Sandra’s eye. He looked… familiar.

“Who is that?” she murmured to the princess.

“Shafrat lieazir,” Talia whispered back. “The son of my Beloved.”

She nodded. As she had suspected.

Perhaps her son wasn’t worthlessly uninteresting after all.

“I believe he is my son,” she said quietly.

Talia did not react, continuing to watch the match. “I did not know you had a son.”

“Neither does Cain. He only paid me for one child, after all. I left the boy with his father.”

“Cain is not the father?”

She snorted. “No.”

Damian finished his match and looked to his mother for approval. Sandra almost winced. Such weakness. But Talia just nodded, indulging his childishness.

“Shafra!” she yelled. The boy snapped to attention. “Fight the One Who Is All.”

“Her?” he asked. Talia glared. Jason scrambled into the ring. “Of course, Lady Talia.”

Sandra grinned.

That was when the boy noticed her. He froze up.

He recognized her, then. Good.

This was right when the One Who Is All had responded to Talia’s hand signals and entered the arena. She didn’t wait for him to recalibrate.

He was down in two seconds.

“Again!” Talia yelled.

Jason staggered to his feet.

The next match lasted five seconds. The one after that, four. Then eight. Fifteen. That was impressive—several people applauded.

Jason’s eyes were wild.

Talia finally took mercy on him and called him over. Damian had taken his place at his mother’s side after his match was finished. He looked up curiously.

“Jason,” Talia said. “Allow me to introduce you to Lady Shiva.”

“We’ve met,” he said tersely.

“Oh? Do tell.”

“Bitch betrayed me to the Joker. After beating me half to death.”

“That is no way to talk to your superiors,” Sandra said.

“Jason, Lady Shiva is one of the premier assassins of the League. You will apologize,” Talia said.

“Like hell!”

Talia backhanded him. Jason glared venomously.

“Sorry, Talia,” he muttered.

“And?”

He shook his head. “I’m not apologizing to her.”

“Very well. Then you will face her in the arena.”

Sandra smiled. “You put on a poor showing last time, boy. Let’s see if this round goes better for you.”

“Wait—”

“Actions have consequences, Jason. Begin!”

Sandra struck.

Jason was down in seconds but Sandra did not relent. This was his recompense, after all. She kicked at his ribs while the boy curled up in a ball to protect his vital organs.

“I was right to leave you with Willis,” she said, landing another blow. “Even Bat training couldn’t make you anything more than the inferior twin. You’re not a challenge! You’re pathetic.”

Jason sobbed.

Talia was an excellent doctor. She was kind and gentle, patching Jason up in the infirmary. Reminded him of Alfred.

He leaned into the contact, just slightly, as she finished wrapping his ribs.

“She said…” he started. “She called me the inferior twin? What did that mean?”

Talia sighed and stepped back. Jason mourned the loss of contact. “There are some secrets the Lady Shiva kept solely to herself. I had thought she only had one child.”

“Right. Me.”

“No,” she said. “No, I thought Lady Shiva’s only child was the One Who Is All.”

“What?!”

“Years ago,” she started. “Nineteen years ago. David Cain approached Lady Shiva with a contract for surrogacy. She would carry his child for a large sum of money and hand the babe over at the end of her term. The child she produced was the One Who Is All, who was then trained by David Cain for ten years before beginning her service to the al Ghul family. David Cain, of course, still supervises her continued training.

“This is widely known. What I did not know, however, was that she had had twins. You were the other baby. She says she left you with your father?”

Jason nodded. “Willis. It was his phone that had her contact info. Led me straight to her,” he said. “Why—Why leave me and sell her?”

“She was only paid for one child,” Talia said calmly. “You were a surprise. And David Cain is not known for kindness in negotiations.”

He sat with that for a moment. Talia continued her work, splinting his fingers where Shiva had stomped on them.

He had a twin. A sister. He—

He had a family after all.

His family was the One Who Is All. The saddest member of the League. The al Ghuls’ personal attack dog. She took out threats, and Ra’s finished them. Something about honor or whatever.

The most badass member of the League. The unbeatable one.

“Why can’t she talk?”

“She was sequestered away from human language for the first ten years of her life, aside from the occasional mission or test. She only knows the motion of the body. But she knows it better than anyone. It has made her a warrior without per, but also, entirely mute.”

“So… Does she know? That she’s my twin?”

“Jason, I don’t believe she even knows the concept.”

“What’s her real name?”

“She doesn’t have one.”

“What?”

“The One Who Is All is not a person. She is a weapon, plain and simple. Weapons do not need names.”

“That isn’t right!”

“Take it up with David Cain then,” Talia said placidly. “No using your left hand for six to eight weeks. This is good thing. It will give you an opportunity to practice with one hand tied behind your back. I expect you to stick to your standard training regimen otherwise. And to maintain a similar level of skill.”

Jason nodded hurriedly. Training with one hand behind his back? Why hadn’t he thought of that? What if Batman broke his fingers during their confrontation? What would his plan have been then?

He would have to do it with the other hand too. Switch it up, once his left one was healed.

He was so caught up in his plans that he forgot about his sister for the rest of the appointment.

The one who looked like her was leaving. He was packing a bag, hugging the Important Woman, speaking words and waving goodbye.

The girl was being shipped off with him, to keep him safe. The Important Woman had given her a very significant look. Which. There was only so far she could interpret that.

She would do her best, though. She always did.

They boarded onto a plane from the tarmac out back behind the palace. The pilot took off swiftly.

The boy who looked like her sat down with a serious look and started talking. Serious-earnest-concerned. Concerned. Regretful. Sad. Pitying.

Sad.

Sad-sad-sad.

He kept talking at her. The girl almost wanted to comfort him, but she knew better. Her touch was only for hurting.

The boy touched his chest. He said a word. Slowly. Repeated it.

The girl nodded. That was his word. His identifier.

Not that she would ever be able to repeat it.

He looked at her expectantly. Waiting, patient. Hopeful. Nervous. Confused. Sad.

The girl tapped her temple and shook her head.

Anger.

She braced for the hit but it never came. Instead, the boy stalked off to go smoke on the other side of the plane.

They landed in a city of stone and brick and concrete. It stank. The air was thick and hot and hazy. People kept their heads down and their eyes searching. The clothes were a different style than what the girl normally saw.

The boy set up a base for them and instructed the girl to stay in it while he went out. Which went against what the Important Woman wanted her to do. So the girl waited until he was thirty seconds out the door, then slipped out the window. She crawled up the side of the building, over the roof, and began her pursuit.

The boy headed into a building, so she followed. He showed a card to get in the door. The girl showed a pretty smile and danced her finger along the guard’s wrist. The boy took a seat on a stool at the bar. The girl slid into a booth with three men and smiled again. A drink was put in front of her fast.

Man #1 was talking to her. Flirtatious. Curious. Cautious. Asked a question—she knew the upward lilt towards the end that always came.

She smiled mischievously and sipped at her drink. They wouldn’t expect a response, hopefully.

Man #2 laughed and shouted something up to the bar. The other men were speaking now too, to each other, to her, to the woman behind the bar. The girl smiled whenever they turned their attention to her. Giggled at every question. Waggled her eyebrows suggestively. Rested her hand on Man #3’s arm for just a moment.

She had a clear line of sight to the boy. Watched the bartender prepare his drink with hawk-eyed focus. Paid less attention when he just spoke to others, rather than instigate anything.

Still. She would not allow him to be touched.

A single touch could hold a tracker, could hold skin-absorbing poison, could hide a needle. She knew all too well the different ways to kill with just a pat on the shoulder.

The boy was aware of her. His eyes caught hers in the mirror that made up the wall behind the bar. Flashed with anger. Flushed with embarrassment.

The girl had smiled. Turned back to the men. Twirled her straw around in her glass.

A half hour later, he came over to their table. He spoke to the men, and at her. She assumed it was for their cover.

Whatever he said, they ended up leaving together afterwards. The boy waited until they were back at their base before hissing out angry questions.

The girl didn’t sigh. She was too well-disciplined. But. She had thought he was a bit smarter than this, that he had realized the futility of speaking at her over the past three years.

She stared at him flatly.

Embarrassment-shame-anger. Anger. Disgust.

Disgust?

The girl… didn’t like that. She understood it, of course. But.

Pity earlier and disgust now. Fine then. She had dealt with far worse.

She knew she wasn’t right. That her head was off. That even the Important Child had understood mouth sounds back when he was still small and pudgy. That likely everyone else did too.

But she didn’t know why. And she had no clue how to change it.

She had tried speaking before. The punishments had been harsh. She had tried again in secret. She had failed miserably, been found out, been punished with a gunshot and a muzzle for a year.

Humans need tongues to live. For swallowing, water and spit and food. When someone loses their tongue in an accident, they need to have a new one made. Even if the new tongue isn’t capable of speech, it’s necessary for life. It had happened to a League operative, years back.

The girl is grateful Trainer only used a muzzle. She still remembers the feel of it sometimes. Forgets she’s not still wearing it when she first wakes up.

She will never speak. Ever. It’s been years since the muzzle. She has accepted it.

This boy hasn’t.

He threw his arms up in exasperation and stormed away to the other side of the room. The girl took up a post beside the entryway door. The boy turned, saw, and—

Disgust. Again.

The girl did not react.

Shame-hatred-anger. He took deep breaths, held them, released them slowly. He did that a lot.

Strange. What was the shame about?

The boy started talking again. He gestured a lot. Pleading. Earnest. Angry. Scared.

Weird mix.

Flat palm up towards her—his sign for stay. Trying to sneak out the window. The girl made no secret of following him this time, and the boy paused halfway in and halfway out. He pursed his lips. Said something.

Flat palm stop again.

She ignored it yet again.

The boy crawled back in the window and sighed. He talked to himself a bit, because he certainly wasn’t talking to her.

He tried again, with the same result, again.

The boy gave up and the girl went with him. She smiled to herself. Behind his back, of course.

She stopped smiling watching him cut off the heads of eight people.

Chapter Text

Jason was doing research. There had to be a way to communicate with his twin. The closest parallel to her situation that he could find was those stories about feral children raised apart from human society. Would that have to be her cover story? The real thing was just human trafficking, but like. Very atypical human trafficking.

No one has ever dealt with this specific brand of bullshit. Jason was going to wring David Cain’s neck.

Y’know. If he could. He was a bit intimidated by the world-class assassin who had trained someone unbeatable.

Jason couldn’t even beat his own mother, who was he kidding? He was the spare twin. His sister was the real deal. If she couldn’t defeat Cain on her own, then no one could.

It seemed impossible.

But he knew they could never go back to the League after this. Finding his twin had required a massive change to his plans. Jason had family, now. He would never abandon her.

Step one of not abandoning and not giving up on his sister was learning how to communicate with her. But unfortunately, the more he learned about sign language, the more it seemed like it wouldn’t work. It was just another language, wasn’t it? If his twin couldn’t learn one, why would any other be any easier?

Though.

Had anyone ever tried to teach her to talk before?

Yeah yeah, all the research said age six was the cutoff, but. But.

He couldn’t give up before he tried.

“Okay, uh, One. Let’s do this thing.” He sat cross-legged in front of her on the floor, her mirroring him. “My name is Jason. Jason. Jaaaayyyysoooon.”

Silence.

He didn’t sigh.

“Can you repeat that? Jason. Jason.”

Nothing.

“Please try. It doesn’t matter if you do bad. Just—please try?”

She didn’t.

Jason tried to coax her into speaking for two more hours. All the while, his rage at the League and at David Cain in particular grew.

His sister wasn’t going to speak. She knew what he wanted, and she wouldn’t do it. She was simply too traumatized. Whether it was the League brainwashing or Cain’s abuse or something else, talking wasn’t going to happen.

“It’s okay,” he said. “It’s okay. I’ll figure this out. You can’t talk? That’s fine. I’m sure there’s plenty of people in the world who can’t talk. They get by just fine and so will you. Okay? So will you.”

Jason sprayed the conference table with bullets to cut through the arguing.

“It’s my meeting. I invited you,” he said.

“And what is this shit—”

“You wanna die?! There’s easier ways to kill yourself!”

“Yeah. Like yelling at the guy who’s holding the AK-47,” he said dryly. It came out even flatter through the vocoder. “Listen to me, you drug-peddling dirtbags. You eight are the most prosperous street dealers in town. I am offering you a deal. I will be running the drug trade from now on. You will go about your business as usual. You will kick up forty percent to me. That is a much better deal than Black Mask will give you. In return, you will have total protection from both the Black Mask and Batman. The catch? You stay away from kids and school yards. No dealing to children, got it? If you do, you’re dead.”

“Okay, crazy man. This is all very generous, but why in the hell should we listen to you?”

Oh, Jason had been waiting for that. He dropped the duffel bag full of heads on the table. Someone swore softly.

“Inside the duffel bag are the heads of all your lieutenants. That took me two hours. You want to see what I can get done in a whole evening?” he asked. “Make no mistake. I’m not asking you to kick in with me. I’m telling you.”

“Who’s the chick?” someone asked. Jason didn’t need to look behind him.

“No concern of yours,” he said.

“She your girl?”

Jason made a face, and was immediately grateful for his helmet. “She’s none of your business, is what she is. Don’t touch her if you know what’s good for you.”

The dealer huffed a laugh. “Alright then. And what should we be calling you?”

Jason grinned. “The Red Hood.”

Jay and Una Nguyen were twins who led completely normal civilian lives in Crime Alley. Jason really hated their cover names, but it was the best he could come up with. Nguyen was as ubiquitous as Smith for their ethnicity, and he actually hadn’t known he was Chinese until meeting Shiva. He had just been contently vaguely Asian, and proudly said he was from Crime Alley, born and bred.

It’s not like Willis ever talked about Jason’s mom. He hadn’t known shit about her.

The Vietnamese name only helped distance his current identity from his former one, though. And. Una. Jason will be honest, it was a placeholder. It was a terrible name and he knew it. But he couldn’t exactly put “the One Who Is All” on a birth certificate, forged or not. And he had shortened it to One already. So Una was a natural progression.

Of course, their cover story would be going over a lot smoother if his twin would stop bowing when he entered the room.

Jason gave a thin smile to the other people staring at them in the library and hustled over to the computers.

“You have to stop doing that,” he hissed. His twin said nothing, of course. Jason claimed two seats for them and hunched his shoulders up.

At least she was sitting. Not literally standing guard at his back, like she had done last time.

Jason could never go to that branch of the library ever again. God knows what they thought of him. His twin couldn’t more obviously be abused if she was carrying a flashing neon sign.

She still won’t eat or drink without explicit permission, every time. Jason has taken to ordering her to do so whenever he does. It makes him feel sick.

She doesn’t sleep, either. Stands guard at his bedroom door and seemingly meditates. Or maybe she’s just bored out of her skull. Jason doesn’t know when she sleeps, but she has to be doing it sometime, right? It’s impossible to just not sleep. You’d die.

So she must be doing it in short little bursts.

It’s probably why she’s so short. The testosterone and the Lazarus Pit had caused Jason to shoot up like a weed, but his twin was still short as hell. The lack of sleep must be stunting her growth. Probably had been for her whole life.

Because she had been in a shit situation literally all her life.

Anyway. David Cain was on the Red Hood’s hit list, right after the Joker and Batman. The world would be a better place without any of them in it.

So was Lady Shiva, may she rot in hell.

Jason had spent five years total training, honing himself into a machine. He wasn’t on his twin’s level. But he didn’t need to be. He just needed to be better than the monsters.

He settled into his research. Sign language wasn’t gonna learn itself.

The boy handed her the tablet he had been fiddling with. It was open to an array of colorful icons. She looked up at him.

The boy pressed one button, and a sound played. He picked up his glass of water and pointed to it.

The icon on the button was a little drawing of a glass of water.

It all clicked together inside of her head.

He had done it. He had found a way for her to communicate without talking, without language. With trembling fingers, she tapped the image of a burger. A different sound played. The boy beamed, and rushed off to the kitchen. He returned quickly with a pile of snacks. He tossed a plastic package at her, and the girl caught it and tore it open.

She looked up at him one more time, and he nodded, encouraging.

She ate.

She had asked for food. And gotten it. With the tablet full of pictures.

She had a voice.

She started studying the other icons. There was a folder function. It would be better if she could rearrange—no, she didn’t have permission for that. She was only borrowing this voice. It belonged to the boy. But it had icons for food, drink, toilet, bed. A heart. A few with words written on them, which. Obviously she couldn’t read. What was she supposed to do with those?

But nevermind. There were icons for a knife, a gun, a little baggie with white powder in it. One button had a selfie of the boy on it. Another had a candid shot of her. There was a Bat symbol. Pictures of some of the buildings they sometimes went to.

There was a folder labeled with a rainbow that opened to buttons for every color she had ever seen. She realized a double tap on the burger emblem opened a full folder of different images of food. The glass of water did the same, with different liquids. There was a sun and moon folder that showed the sun in different positions in the sky, the same with the moon, and different types of weather. There was an icon of a wheel that opened to show different vehicles.

She explored.

There were so many. But there were blank spaces too, areas for more folders, a little bar at the bottom with green filling it about a fingernail’s width. There could be more words. There weren’t.

Was that what the boy had been doing with the tablet? Adding in all the words? She hadn’t thought anything of it when he had taken her picture (Trainer took videos all the time), but clearly it had been for the custom button.

She wanted to hug him. The way the Important Child hugged the Important Woman. She had seen the motion a few times, and it looked… nice.

The boy was staring at her. Nervous. Not good. The girl straightened and focused. Why would he be nervous.

He bowed to her.

The girl sucked in a breath. She shot up from the couch. Shook her head fiercely.

The boy just straightened and met her gaze. Nodded once, firmly. As if that was that.

But that was not that.

The girl shook her head again and bowed, deeply, in the kneeling bow demanded by the Important Man. She scrunched her eyes closed and held the position for long moments.

When she finally looked up, the boy was mirroring her.

She felt sick to her stomach. She clasped a hand over her mouth and breathed through her nose, swallowing down the nausea.

The boy’s gaze was steady. He got up and brought out a small whiteboard. Drew a stick figure in a dress and a regular stick figure. Put two horizontal lines between them.

She frowned. She didn’t know that symbol. She doesn’t know any of the writing symbols.

She knew the look in the boy’s eye, though. The same as earlier. His little drawing meant the same thing as them both bowing to each other.

No. The boy was a Shadow. The girl was a Shadow too, but she was lower than all the other Shadows. The boy… he was nearly part of the Important Family, for how he had been treated. The girl, on the other hand, was just their guard. Expendable. Used to eliminate threats before they could reach someone who mattered.

The boy was determined-angry-resolute. Always angry. He wouldn’t be changing his mind.

It wasn’t like she could argue with him.

Though. Determined-angry-resolute. Bowing at her. Giving her a voice. It was like he wanted her to argue with him. He had gone and made it possible.

The Important Man would shut this all down at the end of this mission.

She was the only Shadow here. No one else had to know. She could…

She set the tablet down. Shook her head.

The boy seemed to shatter.

Chapter Text

The boy was being stubborn. He would not sleep. When the girl had assumed her post by the door to the sleeping quarters, he had taken up a position on the other side of the door frame. Like he was a guard too.

The girl shook her head and pointed to the bed. The boy shook his head and pointed out the door.

There was another room, identical, with another bed across the hall. He had led her to it several times, imitating sleep and gesturing towards it, trying to coax her into it. At first, she had complied and sat on the bed, but then when the boy got up and left, she followed. After she realized what he really meant, she stopped sitting on the bed altogether.

Now they were at a stalemate.

The boy said something, tone dry and flat. He was tired.

Tough luck. He should sleep if he was tired. The girl ignored him.

The stalemate of both of them guarding an empty bed continued for six hours. After which point, the sun was rising, and the boy yawned and left the room. He wandered into the kitchen and began taking out cookware and ingredients. Two plates of scrambled eggs and toast were ready in about five minutes.

The girl sat down at the small table and dug in. The boy sat down opposite her. He placed one of his pieces of toast on her plate.

She paused.

What was he trying to say?

She passed the toast back, but the boy held up a hand and physically blocked her from putting it back on his plate. She could out-maneuver him, of course. But.

The boy dipped his head a bit, in what was almost a bow—the closest he could get while in a chair.

Oh.

More of that.

The girl very pointedly did not eat the extra toast. It sat abandoned on the plate until they were both washed and cleared away.

Before, Jason had thought that arguments required words. Now, on day three of a completely silent argument with his twin, he knew better. This was opening his eyes to whole new levels of pettiness, trying to express the idea of equality to someone who was A) unfamiliar with the concept, and B) spoke no language at all.

Jason was trying to get his twin to understand math to make explaining it easier. He kept trying to find new ways to visually demonstrate an equals sign. It was tough going.

He also kept the tablet handy. Offered it up frequently.

He only slept when he crashed in a chair or on the couch, for about a half hour at a time, anymore. He was utterly mystified at how his twin was alive.

Other than that, the two of them were going about setting up his gang. Getting the street dealers was just part one. Part two was the working girls. And that meant clearing out a lot of pimps.

The pimps didn’t tend to have a hierarchical structure, so there was no repeat of the duffel bag display. Just quick executions and putting the word out to the girls.

He dropped a few too many million buying up a hotel in the center of the Alley. Told everybody that it was for the working girls to use, to have a safe place to conduct their business, rather than back alleys or cars.

Taking over the drug trade had put his name on the street. The sex trade along with it made waves throughout Gotham. But he wasn’t done.

Part three: firepower. He needed people in his gang, following his orders. More than just dealers—he needed fighters. And then he needed to train and arm them.

So, weapons.

It was shockingly easy to get in contact with a scumbag arms dealer. Even easier to set up a meeting down by the docks.

He paced around the empty warehouse. His now. His twin stood sentinel a few feet away.

“C’mon,” he muttered. “8:30 means 8:30, jackass. Where the hell is this guy?”

Powell finally strode in, lackeys on either side. Jason wished he had lackeys. He needed to hire some fucking muscle, fast. Dealers were great but they could only do so much. Henchwork was a top industry in Gotham.

“So sorry for the delay,” Powell simpered. Jason rolled his eyes under the helmet. “But I’m sure you understand my caution.”

“Of course,” he said.

His twin tensed, for just a moment. Assumed a ready stance.

Fuck.

He hadn’t spent three years with the League of Assassins not to learn to listen to the One Who Is All’s very few tells.

“Mr. Powell,” Hood started. Keep it level. De-escalate. “I am prepared to make you a very generous offer. I’m starting up a new business venture here in Gotham, you see, and I could use some arms to guard my product. Word is you’re the man to see about that.”

“I can’t speak to what you may have heard,” Powell said. “My clients value my discretion.”

“I understand completely. I wouldn’t expect you to betray any confidences, but I see no reason why we can’t also come to a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

“You’re very new on the scene, Red Hood,” he said. “Gotham is a delicate ecosystem. Carefully balanced.”

“My beef is strictly with the bats and the birds,” he said. “So long as your other clients stay out of the Alley, we should be fine. I wouldn’t want to put you in an awkward position.”

“I appreciate that. I do. Unfortunately, Red Hood, it seems you already have.”

Twelve—twenty—thirty armed goons flooded the warehouse from all exits. Surrounding them completely.

Fuck.

“See, very recently I have brokered an arrangement with a lucrative client of mine for sole exclusivity. I deal to him and only him. And I’m paid very well for this loyalty.”

“You can’t collect payment if you’re dead,” Hood promised.

Powell smiled, condescending. “I’ll take my chances.”

He made a motion and his goons opened fire.

Jason hit the floor. He closed his eyes and prayed his armor was as good as Talia’s contacts had claimed.

People were screaming. The gunfire roared. And then it petered out.

Jason opened one eye. Nothing. He ducked his head up.

Goons were laying on the ground, bleeding, groaning, guns piled up next to Jason. Powell was gaping.

Jason stood. Not shakily. He had never been scared. He cracked his neck.

“You burned a bridge today, Powell,” he said. He picked up one of the semi-automatics. Took aim. Powell didn’t bother running. Just stood there and pissed himself. “Hope all that money was fucking worth it.”

He fired.

The boy bowed to her every morning. It was annoying.

He had set an alarm to go off on his phone every hour. Whenever it did, he offered her the tablet. He wouldn’t use it himself.

He wasn’t sleeping. He kept giving her his food. He wouldn’t take any of hers.

It was the worst.

The girl was pissed off.

He was going to get himself killed at this rate, despite her best efforts. She hated him, a little bit.

She had thought he understood, after the warehouse. Threats had appeared, she had handled it, he had dealt the finishing blow. Just like how she interacted with the Important Man. Afterwards, the boy had been smiling.

But then he offered her the tablet again. She didn’t understand.

He wasn’t listening to her.

Maybe she should expect that. No one listened to her; they didn’t know how. And she couldn’t talk. How could she ever communicate, then?

But it was day six of this argument and the boy was still being stubborn. He didn’t drive anywhere anymore. He couldn’t stay awake long enough. They had learned that after a near-miss on his motorcycle four days ago. He had tripped walking up the stairs today.

He was not like her.

This would kill him.

The boy’s alarm rang and he jolted in front of the stove. Stirred the pot absently. Then he said something to himself and offered up the tablet.

The girl took it.

The boy blinked sleepily. Turned back to the pot.

The girl waited.

It was a full minute before he registered anything unusual in that interaction. The girl was now very sure of her decision. The boy snapped his attention to her, eyes wide.

Said some words.

The girl glared at him fiercely. She pressed the icon of a red circle with a line through it, and the tablet spoke.

The boy responded. A question. Eager.

She repeated herself.

Now he was getting frustrated. Good.

She pressed the button again.

The boy said something. Angry. Incredulous. Happy.

What the fuck.

The girl pressed that same icon for the third time and now accompanied it with a rude hand gesture she had learned.

Happy. Smug. Shocked.

He thought it was funny.

The girl doubled her rude hand gesture. She pressed the button again with her elbow, and the boy laughed.

That was not the end of it.

The girl… lay down in a bed that night. The boy practically collapsed in his own with relief. He was out within seconds. She knew, she could hear him snoring. Lightly, but audible.

She could get back out of the bed. He would never know.

She had accomplished her goal. Gotten him to sleep. Evened the score, after he harassed her into talking earlier.

Beds were soft. The sheets were so soft. There was a pillow. The comforter was heavy over her, and warm. She usually got so cold at night. She didn’t have to hold the tension of alertness in her muscles anymore. She stretched out her legs. Curled them up. Rolled onto her side, clutching the blanket to her chest.

It was so soft.

She felt tears prickle in her eyes and blinked them away, settling into a meditative breathing pattern. Inhaled. Held for a beat. Exhaled, slower than the inhale. Repeat until calm.

She didn’t quite remember falling asleep.

It was so fucking easy to hire henchmen after his twin’s display at the warehouse. People practically fell over themselves to join up. Killing the boss and leaving all the goons? Genius. He took his twin to every meeting now. By choice. Not just because she wouldn’t leave him alone.

He was pretty sure she got the “equality” concept by now, or at least was starting to understand it. Unfortunately that did not significantly change her behavior around him. She had gone from being his overbearing League babysitter/security detail to just being a regular overbearing sibling with no life of her own.

Which. He should do something about.

Somehow.

Introduce her to… hobbies, or friends, or something. TV. Maybe she could stay in the penthouse all day and watch TV.

Because it turns out giving his twin the means and permission to express herself had kind of backfired on him.

“No, I’m killing this guy,” he said.

His twin shook her head. Arms folded.

“This isn’t your decision. It’s not like I’m making you kill the guy. Just let me do my thing.”

“No,” spoke her tablet.

The man in question was sobbing on the ground beside them. He kept begging pathetically. Jason didn’t give a shit, not after what he had seen the guy try to do to one of his working girls.

“He deserves to die,” he insisted.

“No.”

“God, it figures that’s your favorite word, doesn’t it? Listen. We may be equals, but my own actions aren’t up to vote.” He took out his gun and cocked it. She kicked it out of his hand, hard enough that it fell apart when it hit the brick wall of the alley.

Hood shook out his hand, hissing. He pulled out his backup gun.

Five minutes later, he was out of weapons.

“I swear to God!” he yelled. The asshole on the ground cringed and cowered. “You’re a Shadow, aren’t ya? This is what we do! If you don’t let me do my damn job, I swear to—I will tell Talia.”

His twin just glared, her gaze steady. She had no clue what the fuck she was saying. What was the point of threats? God.

What a waste.

Jason kicked at the human piece of shit on the ground and walked away.

His horrible nuisance twin didn’t stop at just that one guy. No, she stopped him from killing Every. Single. Person. That he needed to.

Jason was this close to snapping.

He stormed into the penthouse and didn’t bother looking to see if she was following. She was. She always was.

He had traded their previous shitty apartment for the penthouse of his brothel, which doubled as the official office space of the Red Hood. The shitty apartment was now a safehouse. They also both had three new aliases each, but Jason wasn’t terribly attached to any of them. The penthouse was being rented under the name of a shell company, for business use. He hadn’t decided on what he wanted their primary identities to look like.

Jason ripped off his newly-infamous helmet. "Why'd you even follow me to Gotham if all you're gonna do is keep me from doing anything?"

His yet-unnamed twin said nothing. Of course.

But she could glare with the best of them. She folded her arms, and Jason huffed.

"You know, you're free now. You can go. You don't have to be here. I rescued you, you're free, go-- see the world or whatever. Learn to talk."

She stood unmoving. Not even a twitch.

Jason sighed. "Can't I just have one murder? Please?” he asked. “Listen, I’m a crime lord. Killing’s in the job description. It’s what I came here to Gotham to do.”

Hate burned in her eyes.

“God, you’re worse than Bruce! They deserve it, alright? Geez.”

This was insanity. He was arguing with someone who couldn’t talk. They should ship him off to Arkham right now.

Jason collapsed at the dining room table, letting his forehead thunk onto the wood. “I outta call you Barbie, then, since you know everything. So much smarter and better than me, with your not killing people. Ever think I might have a point? Some people just need to be gone.”

His twin—like an asshole—said “No.”

“You don’t even know what you’re saying no to,” he said. It wasn’t fully true, he knew. She was disagreeing with him as a concept. As a person. She was debating philosophy with one single word.

She was the worst, most stubborn person Jason had ever met.

But Jason could be even worse-er. He had won the fight over her talking. Over their sleeping arrangements. He could out-stubborn her on this, too.

“You ever heard the phrase ‘an unstoppable force meets an immovable object’? No? I’m shocked.” He twisted his neck so his head was lying sideways on the table. “Anyway, it’s apt. You don’t know what that means. Just trust me.”

His twin continued glaring at him silently. Jason sighed.

Chapter Text

Jason was seriously thinking about naming his twin. Which was an absurd sentence, but true. She needed a name. A real one. And unfortunately, she couldn’t pick it herself, due to the bullshit.

Every day, Jason thought about wringing David Cain’s neck.

Anyway, names. It needed to be something fitting. Easy to say. Just in case she did learn to talk a bit one day.

Jason had been reading the Iliad lately. Unrelatedly. Kinda. And.

The idea of the all-seeing Cassandra, the seer who could have saved the world, if only anyone had listened, if only she hadn’t been cursed…

Yeah.

It was a bit morbid, but every other idea he had was shit. Not good enough. Not suiting enough. Cassandra—Cass—was perfect, as far as names go.

As a sister, she was still fucking annoying.

“Can I see your tablet?” he asked, holding out his hand. The only thing she was holding was her tablet. “I wanna recode one of the buttons.”

She handed it over, warily. Watched with sharp eyes as he messed around with the settings. Switched the One Who Is All button to say Cassandra instead.

He didn’t press it, though. It was Cass’s voice, not his.

He handed the tablet back, and she immediately pressed the icon. “Cassandra.”

“That’s your new name,” he said. “Cassandra…”

Fuck.

Not Todd, fuck Willis. Not Woo-san either, because fuck Shiva too. Not Wayne. Goddammit.

And definitely not Cain.

“Cassandra al Ghul,” he said. Shrugged. Whatever. It was something. Talia was the closest either of them had to a mother figure anyway. And it’s not like she would ever know—this name wasn’t going on any legal documents.

Jason rung for his monthly check in. “The sky is red.”

“Good. Hello, Jason,” Talia greeted. “How is your plan progressing?”

“Well. I’ve established myself in Gotham. I control the drug and sex trades over most of the East End. I have a small crew to start, but we’re growing.”

“Any problems?”

He paused.

She fucking knew.

“There was a slight kerfuffle at the docks.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

“Got betrayed by a potential arms dealer. He had some exclusivity deal going on. Decided to eliminate me as a potential conflict of interest. It backfired on him, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Talia said. “And where was the One Who Is All during this?”

“Kicking arms dealer ass.”

“So she was the one who eliminated your problem.”

“I guess.” He shrugged. “Seems like a waste of time to ask me things you already know.”

“I was giving you the opportunity to tell me your perspective of the encounter. I thank you for your honesty, Jason. It shows integrity and honor,” she said. “And this only serves to assure me I was right to send the One Who Is All with you on your journey.”

He bristled. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

“She is not a babysitter. She is your bodyguard. It is an entirely different dynamic.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“It was never my intent to stifle you. If you are truly so ill at ease with the situation, you are welcome to send her back to Nanda Parbat.”

Fear spiked in his chest. He was careful to keep his face schooled. “No, it’s fine,” he said casually. “You’re right. I wouldn’t have gotten out of the docks alive without her.”

“Are you sure? I confess I do rest easier having her close at hand to Damian.”

“I’m sure,” he said. Firm but not too vehement. “Thanks, Talia. For everything.”

“Of course, Jason.”

They said their goodbyes and he cut the line, heart hammering in his chest. He breathed out a slow breath.

His sister was never going back to the fucking League of Assassins ever again. His sister, who was more adamant than even Bruce in her stance against killing. His sister who was almost gentle in her takedowns. His sister who would never have chosen this life for herself, not in a million years.

She was the only family Jason had. He had talked big game the other day, telling her to get out, get away from him. But he would panic if she ever left.

She was the only real person left in his life.

Jason would be damned if he let her down.

The boy sat cross-legged in front of her. The girl mirrored him. The tablet sat open on the floor between them.

The boy said something, short, one mouth movement. Pointed at her as he spoke.

Pointed at the photo of her in one of the icons on the tablet. She pressed it.

It said something different. Longer.

The boy repeated the first word, then the tablet’s word. Pointing between the button and her all the while.

She nodded. Her new signifier. She understood. Her past signifier had been a long phrase, so this was definitely an improvement.

The boy stared at her. Expectant. Hopeful. Nervous. He tapped his lips. Raised an eyebrow. Asked a question.

She shook her head.

Disappointment, sadness, exhaustion. He was getting sick of this. Sick of her. He might not even know it yet, but she did. He was sick and tired of her not talking.

As if she could just make the words come out of her mouth.

She pressed the button with the photo of herself. It said the word. She touched her chest.

The boy’s eyes lit up. He nodded eagerly, scooching forward a bit. He now put a flat hand to his own chest and said another small word, a different one. He pointed to the tablet again, and she pressed the button of him.

“Jason.”

He frowned. Held out his hand. She put the tablet in it, and he fiddled with the coding again. Said a string of words as he passed it back to her.

“Jay,” the girl—with her tablet voice—said. “Cass. Cass. Jay.”

The boy nodded. He said a bunch more words. He must like the sound of his own voice, she thought. She had never heard someone speak so much to her. In the League, everyone knew not to. They didn’t bother speaking to a girl who couldn’t understand. But the boy—Jay—spoke as if she was anyone else.

It was foolish of him. It made something in her chest feel weird and tangled and light.

She wasn’t worth speaking to. But Jay did anyway.

He was so strange. This was her strangest assignment ever. The boy—Jay—was treated like a member of the Important Family, but he was new. And he did not act like the others. Though he still expected her to treat him like the Important Man, to fell his enemies and leave him with the finishing blow and the glory. Yet he considered them one and the same. Equals.

Many contradictions. He did not make sense. She wanted to open his skull and peer inside his head.

He wanted her to talk. He had given her a voice. He hated everything she had to say. He gave her a new signifier anyway. One short enough that she could memorize it, at least.

He wanted her to be able to speak it. And his signifier, too. He had even shortened it to be easier for her.

He was kind. He had insatiable bloodlust. He wanted to kill someone new every day. He never punished her for stopping him. He had yet to even strike her.

He made no sense at all.

The girl—Cass—stared intently while he rambled.

They were scouting through the new territory. Cass was familiar with scouting. She knew the mechanics of it. There was a symbol on her tablet of a bullseye, like at a shooting range. She was supposed to press it whenever she found a threat.

She had been equipped with new gear. Sturdy and heavy. All matte black. Covering everything except her eyes, where she wore contact lens cameras anyway.

It was very different from traditional League garb. So was the bo—Jay’s outfit. The same black material. Tactical pants. A brown leather jacket and a red helmet. Stompy boots.

Cass also had stompy boots. She loved them a little bit.

It took effort to move silently in them. Novel.

Jay had them stop in and check on the working girls. Cass was familiar enough with the professional to recognize them as who they were. They worked with their bodies like she did, but in a different way.

Jay was friendly-protective-soothing with them. Cass approved.

The women were hesitant-cautious-wary. Cass didn’t like that. She understood, she just didn’t like it.

Jaay kept talking, but the women eventually shooed them away so they could get back to business. Jay and Cass got back to business too. Jay had gotten them both grappling hooks, and it had taken Cass about a half hour to get the hang of using hers. Jay clearly had experience.

They flew.

Swooping through the city from crumbling high-rise buildings, leaping onto parking garages and apartment complexes. Everything was concrete and stone around here. Little embellishments. More plain brick, less carved gargoyles. Their hooks caught on roof lips and streetlights all the same. They swung like spiders in the breeze.

Like bats in the night.

Cass spotted a man walking. Concealing a weapon. Too fast steps. Focusing on the person ahead of him. She pressed the button on the tablet-like device that was sew into her left forearm sleeve. It spat out the phrase just like her tablet back at the base did.

Jay fumbled his next swing, turning to look at her. Cass pursed her lips. She pointed down at the man.

Jay frowned, confusion, and said something. It was then that the man surged forward and drew his weapon, pressing it to the small of his target’s back.

Jay looked at her again. Awe. Horror. Amazement. Fear.

Cass rolled her eyes pointedly. She leapt down off the building, landing in a crouch. Hard on the soles of her feet. Worth it.

The gun man turned around, but had the wits to keep his weapon trained on his now-hostage. He shouted something at her. Stupid. What was the point?

He was making threats. He was afraid of her.

He did not see Jay drop down from the next building over, behind him and his hostage. He was disarmed before he could blink.

Jay said something. Menacing. A threat. He pocketed the gun.

So he was capable of learning.

The gun man scrambled away as fast as he could, and Jay started speaking, softer, to his target. Cass stood sentry. Scanned the street.

This was not scouting.

This was patrol. The defense of a territory already claimed. Policing and enforcing their rules. Protecting their charges.

Jay was acting like they were both guards.

Cass had to admit she liked it. Using her skills to protect rather than hurt. To fly. To prevent harm before it even occurs, rather than to inflict it.

This was… nice.

She didn’t get to have nice things. She would hold onto this hard for as long as it lasted. A voice of her own and an equal and patrol. It would all go away soon, so she had to enjoy it now.

She banished those thoughts forcefully.

She kept scanning the street.

There was a drive by shooting on Jason’s way home from forging their documents at the library, and it really pissed him off. Worse, it was clearly targeted. Someone who knew he was the Red Hood. Knew his habits, his schedule, his face.

Someone who had seen him in just a domino would probably be able to recognize him by his hair. Which meant he had been ID’d by one of his own men.

And worst of all, Cass had dove in front of the bullets for him and taken a shot to the ribs.

Jason was going to kill whoever did this. He would find a way. Cass couldn’t stop him this time.

He hated her so much. Who jumps in front of bullets? He was going to slowly eviscerate David Cain when he finally met the man.

And Ra’s al Ghul, too.

For now, though, he had to find the traitor.

“You’re probably wondering why I’ve called you all here,” he said to his assembled gang. The second floor from the top of his building had been converted into office space. There was a big conference room that suited his needs perfectly. His captains were all in chairs, but Jason himself prowled the room. Cass, of course, stood at the door.

No visible sign of the bandages around her ribs. Of her previously punctured lung.

She hadn’t even flinched when she got shot.

“In case you didn’t hear, there was a shootout on 46^th street yesterday. A drive by aimed at me and my sister,” he said. He stalked the perimeter of the room slowly. “It’s funny, though. I can’t help but wonder how anyone knew that I was the Red Hood. Who has seen my face enough to be able to put a hit out.”

The crew was silent.

“Now, I like to think I’m a trusting guy. I don’t wanna assume anything negative about my own men especially. But I am also not an idiot.”

He paused for dramatic effect.

He turned to his sister. “Who’s the traitor?”

She stared.

Fuck. Did she understand? He gestured to the built-in tablet on her suit. She extended her arm. He pointed at her “target acquired” button. Understanding lit up in her eyes.

She pointed at Murray.

Jason grinned sharkishly.

He attacked. Captains cleared away and let the Red Hood do his work. He grabbed Murray by the shirt collar and punched repeatedly. The blood in his veins sang. He was thrumming. He was flying. He was—

On the ground, a boot on his throat. Cass glared down at him.

Fuck.

Not in front of his goddamn crew.

He grabbed her lower leg and heaved, trying to flip her. They grappled. Cass was good. She was snake-fast and read him before he even moved. She held back, though. Didn’t actually want to hurt him.

Jason couldn’t afford to hold back.

He struck out at her injured ribs, and she weaseled away. Fuck, he was despicable. Hurt in her eyes. He knew it was more emotional than physical. Cass lunged for his throat, stopped her hand inches away. Horror in her eyes.

Somehow that was worse.

His crew was scattering. Jason reached for his gun, aimed—

It clattered to the floor harmlessly.

Murray was getting away. Jones clocked him with a right hook. Murray went down like a stone. Jason knew there was a reason he hired Jones.

Aguilar went for his gun, and it met the same fate as Jason’s.

Jason dropped to his knees and held out a flat palm. Glared harshly.

Cass faltered.

She bowed.

Fuck.

Jason bowed back hurriedly, hoping no one noticed. They did, though. Shit. This just got better and better, didn’t it?

The situation was unsalvageable.

“It’s your lucky day, Murray,” he said. “I’m not going to kill you. In fact, you like the way Black Mask ran things so much? You can go crawling right on back to him.”

Murray paled.

Jason grabbed him by the arm and yanked him to his feet. “Come on. Let’s go see Mask.”

Red Hood left Nigel Murray tied up on the steps of Black Mask’s headquarters. Cass stayed on his heels the whole time. She looked at him warily. Suspiciously.

But Jason left Murray relatively unharmed.

Mask wouldn’t.

But what Cass didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

Chapter Text

Jason sprawled out on the couch morosely. Cass was fiddling with her tablet in an armchair. The TV was playing. The news. Neither of them was watching it.

“I’m sorry, okay?” Jason said into the air. “But you can’t be undermining me in front of my crew. They have to respect my authority. I’m assuming you’re apologizing, too, by the way, so you better actually be sorry.”

Cass didn’t look up. “Gun.”

“Trying to memorize the sounds?”

“Blade.”

“Those are both folders, actually. Got different types of guns and blades inside, for further identification. Actual photos, too.”

“Drugs.”

“Don’t do drugs,” he said idly.

“Building.”

“Change of pace. Thinking of one in particular?”

“Food.”

“Have you tried out Demon Mode yet?” he asked. He had installed a secondary voice option the other day. It was both deeper and louder and sounded like a thousand horrors. Eldritch. Hence, Demon Mode.

He stood up and ambled over. “Top right corner, see? Right there.” He pointed to the button set away from the others, careful not to touch it. He had read up about AAC etiquette. Cass’s voice was Cass’s voice. It wasn’t right for anyone to just go and steal it.

Cass pressed the button. It was a demon emoji, and touching it put a black and purple cast over the entire screen. Cass pressed the button again. The cast disappeared.

Again. Pressed a different button.

“Gun.”

“That’s for intimidating people. On patrol and stuff.”

“Target acquired.”

“Yes! Exactly like that, Cass. Great job.”

“Food. Burger.”

“Okay, well it’s not really meant for that. But sure, I’ll make lunch. That is what you want, right?”

“Burger.”

“Yep. Got it.”

He wandered over to the kitchen. Cass followed. She passed him meat and spices while Jason lit the stove.

He pondered as he prepared the meat. He was doing all of this with the goal of killing the Joker. It was why he returned to Gotham. He’d still be happily in Nanda Parbat, doing League stuff, otherwise.

He had been content with the League. Fulfilled. Doing important work. Talia had always given him missions with meaning. Taking out bad guys, the worst of the worst. Not that the League itself didn’t also have an honorable mission, even if Jason didn’t agree fully with their methods.

And also fuck Ra’s.

If it weren’t for Ra’s, the League would be a perfect home for him.

But this mission was too important. The Joker needed to die. He had to.

Only Cass would never let him. Not if she knew, or was present when he took him out. And she was always present. Cass had absolutely no life of her own. She stuck to Jason like glue.

She needed hobbies. A distraction. Not just so Jason could achieve his goals, but in general. It wasn’t healthy to live like she was. She needed to be her own person. With her own life, and her own interests, and things she did independently of him. She needed to learn the concept of privacy and then have some.

She needed to truly live.

Cass, it turned out, liked crap television. She liked the overacting, the drama. The excessive, overplayed body language. She loved soap operas, telenovelas, old black-and-whites, the original Star Trek series. The worse the acting, the better. She watched it all on silent.

Jay spent one whole day shopping with her. When they first arrived in Gotham, he had taken her to a secondhand store and they both grabbed a pile of the nearest, cheapest clothes in their size. Cass was familiar with undercover work. League clothes were noticeable. There were plenty of missions which required her to dress in a certain way in order to infiltrate successfully. Even her very first.

This shopping was different. They went to stores with minimal clothes and minimal lighting, in a district with glittery glass high rises and people in similarly glitzy clothing. Jay paid with a little black card rather than with cash. The staff at the stores took measurements of them both, made adjustments to the clothes. Like how the Important Family’s clothing was made. Tailored.

Their initial Gotham clothes were sorted into separate rooms in the penthouse and the new clothes were put in their closets. Cass understood the message loud and clear. She made sure to wear the new stuff only from then on. Dresses and suits. Jewelry. Pantyhose. Makeup.

They both got haircuts as well.

They blended right in at the new building they went to. Other people were dressed similarly. The building was full of plush chairs, a stage at the front. The lights were already dim when they went in, but dropped completely throughout the building soon. Spotlights shone on the stage.

The curtains moved. It revealed people standing on the stage.

The play began.

Cass was enthralled.

The Iceberg Lounge was the hottest spot in town. The 44 Below was the club beneath the club, the place where the magic happened. Where all the bigwigs gathered to discuss business.

The Iceberg Lounge had drug deals in every corner. Ecstasy, cocaine, heroin, cheerdrops. The 44 Below operated on a higher level. Ships of stuff, whole pallets. Weapons. People.

Territories were redrawn. Trades and treaties were made. The fate of Gotham was decided more in there than on the streets where the Bat operated.

Naturally, the Red Hood had to be there.

Nouveau riche socialites Jaden and Cassandra Cheng, whose identities only had the thinnest veneer of plausible deniability, were on the list.

“Gentlemen. Ladies. Pleasure to meet you all,” Jason said. He and Cass slid into the booth.

Salvatore Maroni. Carmine Falcone. Peyton Riley. Johnny Sabatino. Maria Bertinelli. Oswald Cobblepot. Robert Dubelz.

“And who are you supposed to be?” Falcone asked.

“Jaden Cheng. But I believe you know that already. I own the hotel out on 56^th. As an emerging businessman in Gotham, I thought it would be a good idea to meet with other successful local business leaders.”

“Of course,” Peyton said, sipping her whiskey.

“And your shadow?” Fenice asked.

“She’s not my Shadow. She’s her own Shadow. Independent and autonomous, ya hear?”

“I hear,” Maroni said. “No one touches your girl, eh?”

“Not my girl. My sister.”

“56^th is a dangerous neighborhood. It’s Black Mask’s territory,” Fenice said.

“That’s not what I hear. I hear Red Hood runs things there now,” Jason said.

“Red Hood is young. An upstart. Black Mask will put him back into his place soon enough,” Maroni said.

“There is a system for these things,” the Penguin said. “Checks and balances. Gotham is not so easily disrupted.”

“About these checks and balances,” he said. “I think they won’t be a problem. Red Hood may be new on the scene, but he’s not new to Gotham. Or the Alley. This is an Alley problem. It doesn’t concern the rest of Gotham.”

“I’m afraid that power struggles always concern the rest of the city,” Riley said. “As much as we all like to think these disparate territories are self-contained, they are not. Especially in the eyes of the Bat.” She stared at him dead-on. “And make no mistake. The Red Hood is going to draw out the Bat.”

“I’m sure the Red Hood, whoever he is, has a plan for the Bat. The man has always been distracted by threats to his Robins.”

The people at the booth stilled. Maroni tapped his cigar on the edge of a crystal ashtray. Riley set down her glass.

“Going after Robin is a deathwish,” Cobblepot said. “The Bat has changed after the last one. This newcomer wouldn’t know that.”

“This newcomer knows more about the last Robin than you could ever know,” Jason snapped.

“This newcomer won’t last the month,” Falcone said.

“Give him through the month,” he said. “Let him prove himself. You’ll see.”

Cobblepot shook his head. “It’s not worth offending Mask. That would set off a territory war through all of Gotham. That’s the last thing anyone wants.” He looked around at his fellow mob bosses. “If it were me, I would have this Red Hood character killed.”

“Red Hood took over the Alley in less than two weeks. Ran the Ibanescus out of the East End already. You throw in with the Hood or you become irrelevant,” Jason said.

“I don’t think so. I think the Red Hood is a flash in the pan. Capitalizing on a big name that isn’t his own. No real power,” Maroni said.

“The name is clearly bait for the Bat,” Jason said.

“See, that’s the thing. Baiting the Bat. That ends with people in and out of Arkham, not settled into power and running things.”

“If I were the Red Hood,” Riley said. “I would take the money I’d made and skip town. Before he ends up at the bottom of Gotham Harbor.”

“Good thing you’re not the Red Hood,” he said. “He’s made of sterner stuff.”

“Careful, now,” Falcone said. “You’re speaking to your betters.”

And that hit all the wrong notes with him.

“No one is better than anyone else. Trust me,” he said. “Gotham curses us all the same.”

“That’s funny,” Riley said. “Do you ever let your sister talk, Mr. Cheng?”

“She’s nonverbal autistic,” he said. He turned to Cass and nodded at her.

“Cass.”

“That’s her name,” he said. “Don’t expect full sentences, though.”

“Jay.”

“Only family gets to call me Jay.”

“Gun.”

“I know, Cass. Thanks.”

“Autistic,” Fenice said dubiously.

“Yep,” Jason said. “She’s my business partner. My right hand.”

“I heard that the Red Hood had a shadow,” Maroni said. “One who he can’t control. Disagrees with his methods.”

“Shadows are only controlled by the Demon’s Head,” he said obliquely. Blank or confused looks met him. “Cass may be a Shadow, but she isn’t mine.”

“Independent and autonomous,” Fenice quoted.

“Right,” Jason said.

“The Red Hood and the Shadow,” Riley said. “Quite the pair.”

“A flash in the pan,” Maroni said.

“Uprisings against Mask in the Alley come and go every few months. What makes you think Red Hood’s any different than any of the others?” Penguin asked.

“Because Red Hood is a Shadow too,” he said.

“And what, precisely, is a Shadow?” Fenice asked.

“Here’s hoping you never have to find out,” Jason said honestly.

“You’re a brazen man. Mr. Cheng,” Maroni said. “Strolling in here. Taking a seat at our table. Implying all these things and then keeping secrets. Asking our favor the whole while.”

“As I said. I’m an entrepreneur. I know what it takes to make it in this city.”

“Why don’t you show us what makes a Shadow so special?” Riley asked.

Jason grinned. “You’re in luck. Cass is the best of the Shadows. Cass?”

He turned to her. How to ask this?

Nah, fuck it. She knew the word “begin” in Arabic, because Talia said it a billion times a day at the start of every match.

“Who wants to face her?” Jason drawled.

“Me,” Dubelz said. Jason smiled. He took a moment to silently pray that Cass knew what this one single word meant.

Everyone reshuffled to allow Dubelz out of the booth. Jason motioned “stop” to Cass after she stood. Looked at her carefully. Took a stance.

Cass mirrored him.

“Bada!” he called.

She struck. Dubelz was an absolutely huge mountain of a man. Heavyweight. A brawler and a mob boss in his own right.

Cass had him pinned to the ground in under three seconds. She left her hands resting around his neck. Looked up to Jason.

He nodded. Cass leapt off the mob boss and dragged him to his feet by his lapels. Shoved him back into his seat. She bowed. Jason bowed back, as much as the booth would allow.

Sabatino eyed him. “Me next,” he said. “No offense to Robert here. I’m sure you understand.”

“Of course,” Jason said. Dubelz looked miffed.

“Bada!”

Three seconds exactly this time. The twins bowed to each other again, Jason prepared for it this time.

Who knows. Maybe the others were writing it off as an Asian thing. Or, with his luck, they knew better, and knew exactly how weird the overly deep post-battle bows were.

This whole thing was just making Cass look like his enforcer. Which. Wasn’t a bad thing, for his reputation. But it wasn’t good long-term when it came to convincing Cass of her equality.

“Is she actually autistic, or does she just not speak English?” Riley asked.

“It’s both,” Jason said.

He was like 80% sure.

Jason was also autistic. Bruce had had him assessed and everything.

“Alright,” Maroni said. “I’m listening. Let’s give your little special ed crime operation a chance. You have one month.”

Chapter Text

Jason probably should have seen this coming.

Two new, incredibly rich socialites on the scene, living in the penthouse of Red Hood’s base, with paper-thin backstories and forged identities? Everything about them was a red flag. They were very obviously Red Hood and Shadow, sure, but more importantly, Jason just had to go and make them upper class. In Gotham. Like a moron.

It’s not like anyone would’ve bought into the idea of a poor drug lord though. He’d been backed into a corner. Nouveau riche socialites, fresh on the scene, had been the best civilian cover he could come up with. On paper, Jaden and Cassandra Cheng were ex-foster kids who had recently come into an inheritance from their late great-uncle and started living large.

They got invited to the annual Wayne Foundation charity gala.

It was the event of the year. Everyone would be there. Not going would draw way too much attention to them—of an entirely different type than they had now. Gossip. Speculation. No one had any serious problems with Brucie Wayne, the kind-hearted philanthropist who took in those poor orphan kids. At worst, people were annoyed by him, and jealous. Snubbing the event would make the tabloids.

Even if it was just a single line, they couldn’t afford that.

They had to go.

Jason sighed and checked the box to RSVP.

Jay made them go and get even fancier clothing made just for this mission. It had to be tailored from scratch.

Cass was in a silky black dress with a lace bodice and a slit up the side. She had insisted. She had a knife hidden on the opposite leg, and the slit gave her greater mobility if she needed to move fast at any point.

Jay wore a suit, like a fool, and had to move carefully so as to avoid flashing the knives strapped to the inside of his jacket. Their weight affected how it hung on him, too. It was obvious.

Too many people noticed.

No one noticed Cass’s knife. Or the stiletto blades attached to the back of her heels, either. They looked like decorative metal detailing to the untrained eye.

But not every eye here was untrained. Several of the people from Jay’s little nervous demonstration were there. Three of them spotted both Cass and Jay’s weapons. A woman with short hair and a very small dress had also noticed. And there were vigilantes here.

To Cass, a person’s way of moving is as distinctive as their voice. As unique as a fingerprint. Over the past few weeks, she had had the opportunity to spy on their enemies in the area. Jay was wary-defensive-scared-angry whenever he saw them. Cass kept a close lookout.

She spotted the big dark one, the purple one, and the little colorful one.

There was another she had never seen before, too. A fighter, experienced since young childhood, on par with the other vigilantes. He went and interacted with them, too. Familiar. Comfortable. Relaxed.

Cass tapped Jay lightly on the arm and inclined her head towards him. Jay tensed. He muttered something under his breath. Followed it up with a question.

Cass pointed at her tablet and shook her head. Jay said something again. Resolute-apologetic.

She gave a pointed look back to the few people around the unknown fighter. Turned down the volume on her tablet until it was barely audible, certainly not enough to be overheard in the din of the ballroom.

“Spoiler. Robin.”

Jay said something, and looked around hurriedly. Nervous. Fear.

Looking for eavesdroppers. Cass shook her head. Jay glared at her venomously.

She rolled her eyes.

It was then that the little crowd came over to speak at them. To them. To Jay.

Polite-interested-keen from the unknown fighter. Bored-awkward-nervous from the Purple Fighter. Wary-keen-suspicious from the Colorful Fighter.

Jay was a wreck.

Nervous-aggressive-suspicious-angry-scared. Protective.

Cass wondered briefly if she should be pleased or offended.

She settled on offended.

Who the hell did Jay think he was, feeling protective over her? Cass protected people, not the other way around. It was like he hadn’t even been paying attention at all these past three years, or the much more demonstrative past two months.

The unknown fighter and Jay finished their verbal sparring, and attention shifted to Cass. She pressed her identifier button.

“Cass.”

Unknown fighter said something, face breaking into a beaming grin. He held out a hand, and she had seen this, she knew to grip firmly and move up and down once. Strange ritual. People were strange.

The two others also said their strings of words, and Cass shook their hands in turn. The conversation carried on, and Cass tuned out. Boring. Everyone was just being polite.

Until Jay said something and horror flashed across everyone else’s faces. The unknown fighter started talking very fast, apologetic-scared-shocked. The others were embarrassed.

Cass grinned.

Colorful Fighter said something to her.

“Jay,” Cass said. She pressed the heart icon. “Love.”

Jay said something to her then, and the unknown fighter was apologizing to her too now. Cass arched an eyebrow at him. He quailed. Said his apology-word one more time.

“You look just like my brother,” what a fucking prick. No Jason the fuck did not. It’s been four years since Dick last saw him, and during that time, Jason went through puberty, injected a shitton of testosterone into his veins, got dunked in a Lazarus Pit, and started killing people. He grew over a foot taller, put on more than a hundred pounds of mostly muscle, and has war in his eyes now. Even his hair and eyes are different.

Dick deserved for Jason to have said worse, honestly.

At least he had the good sense not to say that Cass looked just like his dead little brother, true though it may be.

“So how do you two know each other, anyway?” Jason asked, just to force Dick to come up with a cover story on the spot. Fuck that guy.

“Oh, we’re next-door neighbors! Timmy here’s practically family,” Dick said, squeezing Tim’s shoulders, and.

What.

Jason should have done more research. He should have…

He should have swallowed down his feelings and researched the new damn Robin no matter how much he wanted to avoid thinking about the kid. About his funeral shroud being worn about as a new kid’s cape. About Bruce finding and picking up a new orphan just six months after Jason died.

Unless he hadn’t.

Unless the new Robin wasn’t an orphan. Wasn’t Bruce’s new son.

Was truly and fully just a child soldier. A kid Bruce had no attachment to. No obligation to, no responsibility for. An employee who clocked in and clocked out.

Holy fucking shit.

He was going to kill him. He was going to kill Bruce Wayne.

“—And Steph here is Timmy’s girlfriend!” Dick continued. As if Jason wasn’t simmering with rage right beside him. As if Jason gave one single shit about Little Timmy’s high school relationship.

Cass was side-eying him now. Hopefully his anger was visible only to her.

“That’s great,” Jason said. Because outright screaming at Dick was not the move. He had to be polite and shit.

“It’s been so great talking to you, but I think Tim and I better get going,” Steph said.

“Yeah, I think I see my dad and Dana over there. We better go talk to them,” Tim said. Steph took his arm, and they were gone.

Weird. He would have expected them to stay for the interrogation. Surely Batman had sent them over here with the intent of prying out as much information as possible. Unless they though Dick would have better luck alone? But how would—

“So,” Dick said, and there was something different about his face. “I haven’t seen you two around at one of these things before. Are you new in town?”

“Nope. Crime Alley born and bred. Our great-uncle just kicked it, and we came into a ton of money.”

“Wow,” Dick said, as if that was fascinating and not incredibly crass. “Well, I’m so glad you’re here. These things can get so boring, but you’ve been like a breath of fresh air.”

Was that a fucking line?

Dick met his eyes over the rim of his champagne glass, and. Nope. No no no no no.

Bruce sent this bastard over here to be a fucking honeypot. Jason was…

Jason’s brain was broken.

He was sure his face was flushed beet red with embarrassment, which was sending the wrong fucking signal. His brother was flirting with him. Jason was going to die.

Though that did explain Tim and Steph clearing out. But, wait. Those two were closer to their age than Dick was. By a longshot, even—Dick was six years older than Jason, Tim was, what, two years younger? Why would Bruce choose—

Their fake identities were supposedly twenty-two. Not nineteen, like they actually were.

Jason was a dumbass.

And now he was suffering for it.

He supposed this was his punishment for all the killings, he mused, as he heard Dick pull yet another shitty line out of his ass.

Bruce walked up to the podium.

“Ladies and gentlemen. Friends and colleagues,” he said. “It is a delight to see you all here tonight, for the annual Wayne Foundation charity gala. I am so pleased to see—”

He droned on, talking endlessly and saying nothing.

Jason contemplated stabbing a fork into his skull.

He also contemplated taking out one of his knives and throwing it.

His aim was good. He wouldn’t miss. Straight shot through the heart, and Bruce would fall back, collapse, blood would pool and soak through his dress shirt. He’d gasp, struggle to breathe as the blood began filling his throat. His eyes would go wide. Then dim, finally.

The Batman would be dead.

It would be so easy.

Cass was staring at him, body tense as a bowstring.

She would fucking stop him. She would wrestle the knife away, and win, because she was faster than him. God damn it.

And then Jason would be arrested and the Red Hood would be no more.

Even though Bruce deserved it. Even though he was a maniacal, obsessive prick who burned through a different child soldier once every few years. They’re fucking lasting less and less time with every Robin. How long until Tim dies, huh? And then whoever’s next?

Bruce Wayne was the biggest threat to Gotham City. Jason would be doing the world a favor.

Cass put a hand on his arm, staying him.

Jason seethed.

Bruce kept talking, oblivious as ever.

They went out the next night, too. In fancy clothes again, though not as fancy as before. Cass did still have to wear pantyhose and silk gloves, though.

It was a theater again, a massive, darkened building with a stage at the front. Like where they had seen the real-life acting. Cass thrummed with excitement. She loved the real-life acting. It was so much better than on the screen. She could practically feel what the actors were saying.

But this time was different. Women in tight clothes and big skirts poured out onto the stage.

They began to dance.

Cass had never seen anything like it in her life. It was beautiful. It was talking with motion. This was her language, and it had never been so glorious before. Never been a celebration before. Something good, something beautiful, not something to hurt people with. Not an invasion.

An invitation. A song.

They were singing without words.

A tear slipped down Cass’s cheek, and she let it. She had never…

She had never considered that her abilities could be used to create. Used for good. To bring people joy, to communicate, to tell a story. That she could work in concert with others who almost…

Were these dancers like she was? Or close, even? Did they speak motion too?

She had never met anyone who did. She had never known it was possible for others to be like her.

She was enraptured for the entire performance.

Jay glanced over at her when the lights went up, then did a double take. “Cass?” he asked. Afraid. Concerned.

“Love,” she spoke. With the voice that Jay had given her.

He stared at her. Looked back at the stage and nodded. Said something. Resolute-determined-happy-proud.

They would be coming here again.

Cass ran into the purple fighter on patrol that night. Jay was there too, but he wasn’t important.

Purple Fighter waved at her excitedly. She was loud. Expressive and open and concealing nothing.

Jay shouted back something aggressive, but Cass decided to wave, just as exuberantly as Purple Fighter had. Purple Fighter took that as a sign and started chattering away. Friendly-happy-hopeful.

She tapped the symbol for Jay’s gang members. “Ally.”

“No!” Jay said.

“Yes!” Purple Fighter said.

Jay grabbed her by the wrist and tried pulling her away. Cass stood firm. Jay gave up rather than injure himself.

Smart boy.

Cass pressed her greeting button. “Hello.”

This started Purple Fighter off again, talking fast and happy. Jay sighed.

He folded his arms to wait.

Cass stepped forward to… To talk.

She smiled underneath her mask. Jay was going to have a long wait.

Chapter Text

It happened the next day.

They were heading back form grocery shopping when they saw a mom and two small children who were exact copies of each other. Cass hurriedly tapped on Jay’s arm, pointing at them.

He froze. Stopped walking. Fear-sadness-regret-wistfulness.

He said something. Repeated one of the words. Pointed at the two kids, then gestured between the two of them. He said another word.

Understanding clicked in her head.

“Twins,” Jay said. He said more things. Pointed at the two kids again. Gestured back and forth between the two of them. “Twins.”

Cass nodded hurriedly. She understood.

Identical children. Two people who looked very alike. The same age.

Twins.

Jay was talking fast now, many words flying out of his mouth. Nervous-excited-happy-proud. More explaining, even though she couldn’t understand, even though she said she already understood. Jay did that a lot. Talked for the sake of talking.

Cass couldn’t begrudge him it, not really. It was impressive, to be able to speak.

She opened up her tablet. Pressed the button that had a photo of the Important Woman.

Jay stopped. Recalibrated. Said something different. Question-curious. Confusion.

“Oh!” he said. Then a long string of words. He cut himself off eventually, remembering that he needed to answer her for real. He glanced meaningfully over to the woman holding the two children’s hands. The twins’ hands.

Mother.

Mother?

Jay was talking fast again. Gesturing with his hands. No-denial-embarrassment-shame-longing.

Oh.

He wishes the Important Woman was their mother. 

Did everyone have a mother? Cass hadn’t thought most people did. She knew very few mothers, and very few people with parents. Was Jay wishing to fill an empty role or wishing to replace someone?

She opened the folder in her tablet full of stick figures. Clicked on the small icon for a family. Clicked again on the icon for the little boy.

Jay said something. Short. It stopped him short, too.

The cadence of the sounds was familiar. Cass knew that word. Heard it before, many times. It was the Important Child’s signifier.

Damian.

Jay sent something, a sentence, gruff and clipped. They started walking again.

Cass let it go.

Okay. Okay, Jason was not freaking out. He hadn’t realized no one had ever explained families to Cass, to the point where she learned the concept of “mothers” and immediately thought of Talia. Though he should have. He should have known better. Thought it through. Talia had told him as much, hadn’t she? She’d said Cass had no idea what twins were.

And today Cass learned that.

And then immediately asked some very hard-to-answer questions.

They didn’t have a button on her tablet for Shiva. An oversight. Just because Jason hated her guts didn’t mean Cass had no right to be able to talk about her. Though how the fuck he was going to get a photo of one of the world’s premier assassins, he had no idea. At least Dr. Talia Head was a public figure. Jason had snatched a glossy professional headshot off the internet.

Damian, though, was completely unknown to the public. For the very simple reason that he was unknown to Bruce.

His dad.

A pang of guilt rang in his chest. He shouldn’t feel guilty, though. He barely knew the kid. Had only interacted with him a handful of times. Talia had introduced him to Damian as “one of his father’s soldiers,” and everyone seemed perfectly happy with that description.

Jason sure as hell wasn’t Bruce’s son.

And Cass was not his daughter. There was no transitive property of adoption. The two had never met. They had no legal or biological ties to each other. They were nothing to each other. Cass was Jason’s family, not Bruce’s. 

Just like how Damian was Bruce’s family, not Jason’s.

He had no obligations to that kid whatsoever.

No matter how much he wanted to meet his dad.

Hell, Damian was a crown prince living in a palace right now. Why on Earth would he want to trade that for dirty, smelly, crime-riddled Gotham? Place was a pit.

He was better off never meeting Bruce. Safer. God knows Jason would have been leagues safer if he had never run off trying to connect with his own long-lost parent. So much shit would never have happened to him.

Damian was better off this way.

He better not ever try to run away to Gotham. He’d probably get killed by the Joker or something.

Damian wouldn’t do that. He was smart. Talia was watching him.

Bruce had been watching Jason, though. And he was, admittedly, kinda smart too.

His phone was in his hand without an intermediary step. Some quick taps and the line was ringing.

“The sky is orange,” Talia said, an edge of worry in her voice.

“In Gotham, it’s blue,” he said. “I, uh. Had a question.”

Talia said nothing, letting the silence hang expectantly.

“When are you going to have Damian meet Bruce?” he said in a rush.

“He is only nine. I am loathe to let him out of my sight quite yet.”

“Yeah, I know. I don’t blame you. But what about supervised visits? So you’re there with him the whole time?”

“Jason, where is this coming from? I thought you of all people would be the last to argue that he should meet his father.”

“I know. I don’t… like it, but. I’m worried,” he said. “That Damian might run away and try to meet him on his own.”

“Such a thing is impossible,” she said. “The security at Nanda Parbat is flawless. Our young prince is never misplaced.”

“I know. But. Bruce thought the same thing about Wayne Manor,” he said. “Not that I’m a prince or anything. I wasn’t even his son. Just… I just don’t want Damian to try running off and get hurt. Don’t you think it’d be better for him to meet Bruce in a controlled environment?”

“Jason,” Talia said crisply. “Do not tell me how to parent my son. Damian will meet my beloved when the time is right. Besides.”

And here she paused.

“You are on a very important mission for the League, shafrat lieazir. It is not yet safe for Damian to travel to Gotham.”

Oh.

Of course. Jason was so worried about the Joker, about the danger Damian would be in here, that he forgot he had been tasked to take care of it. To cleanse the city before the League’s heir arrived.

Duh.

“I eagerly await news of your success.”

Talia hung up with a click.

Black Mask had a pretty big shipment coming in. Weapons from all sorts of Rogues, not even limited to Gotham. Joker bombs, Captain Boomerang’s boomerangs, Mr. Freeze ray guns, etc.

An Amazo android.

And 100 pounds of Kryptonite.

So Jason stole it, naturally. He left Nightwing and Batman to fight off the Amazo while he took the Kryptonite for himself. All too easy.

And then he called Black Mask.

“Hello,” he purred through the helmet’s vocoder. “Do you prefer I call you Black Mask… Mr. Mask… Blackie?”

“Just talk. I’m listening. But when I say ‘I’m listening,’ I’m also thinking about killing you.”

“That’s not really a great way to begin our relationship,” he pouted.

“Yeah, well, I have anger management issues. I abate the urge by murdering people who annoy me. Did you fry my shipment?”

“Some of it. Some of it walked away.”

“I heard. I take it you took something.”

“I did. I think it’s the top-shelf item.”

“Sonofa—Which crate is it?”

“I don’t have the manifest number. But I can tell you…” Here he paused for dramatic effect. “…The box is filled with over one hundred pounds of Kryptonite.”

“Yeah. I’m gonna need that.”

“I heard you the first time. You keep saying that it’s yours. But I should remind you that I don’t care.”

“I see,” Black Mask said. “I suppose there’s no persuading you to give it back?”

“Your definition of persuasion being what?”

“For one, I don’t kill you. For two, I don’t kill your sister. Three, you can have a job. Work for me.”

Oh, this was too good.

“I don’t want to work for you,” he said.

“What do you want?”

“A tremendous amount of money.”

“How much?”

“Fifty million dollars.”

“Fifty? What, you trying to budget a movie?” Black Mask scoffed. “Believe it or not, I don’t have that kind of cash lying around.”

“Do a wire transfer.”

“That kind of traffic will send up too many red flags. I can do four million, cash, today. You get a transfer of ten.”

“I’m sure I can get buyers to meet my price.”

“I’m sure there are hippos who can paint houses, but I ain’t seen one,” Mask countered.

Fuck.

He’s right.

The only person in the city with the funds and desire for millions worth of Kryptonite was Black Mask. He could leave the city, go to Luthor, but—

This wasn’t actually about the money.

“Deal. Call me in an hour with a location.”

Black Mask, the coward, sent Freeze to “give him the money.”

It was a trap, of course.

Mr. Freeze walked in with four goons. He wasn’t going to walk out with any.

Cass was fast, but she could only protect so many people at once, and Jason was her priority.

“Congratulations,” Freeze bit out. “You actually succeeded in making me angry.”

He leveled his gun straight at Hood. A grappling wire hooked around it and jolted his arm up.

“You’re not the only one,” Batman said from the rafters.

“Nice to see you again. We’ll be taking the Kryptonite shipment off your hands,” Nightwing said, chipper and friendly as ever. As if he hadn’t been nearly blown up and gone a round with Amazo just earlier that evening.

“You can have it. I got what I came for,” Hood said, throwing himself into the fight with ease.

Fighting Nightwing was… different. Than it used to be. It used to be as humiliating and fast as fighting Cass. Now, though…

Well. The Red Hood wasn’t a scared little kid in a Robin suit anymore. He was Nightwing’s equal.

“And what’s that?” Nightwing asked.

He pressed the button on a clicker. Mounted machine guns burst out of the crates all around the warehouse. They opened fire, ripping into the concrete. Nightwing dodged.

“The lay of the land.”

Jason killed a warehouse full of Black Mask’s goons and then got in a fight with Onyx outside it.

And Cass. But Cass couldn't stop him from mowing down everyone with heavy artillery all at once.

He stabbed Onyx through the shoulder. Pulled it out and gave her a dressing.

“C’mon. Up. This is the part where you try to stop me and I beat the hell out of you.”

“No,” Batman said.

Damn. Red Hood turned to face him.

He really was silent as a ghost.

“It’s not that part,” Batman continued.

“Wow. I didn’t even hear you land. That plane is really a stealthy piece of hardware when you want it to be,” he said. He drew two guns. “You can just be so quiet. So quiet.” 

He started shooting. The two vigilantes dove for cover, as much as they could in this back alley behind a warehouse.

“You see, Onyx, the Batplane can operate on two levels! When it goes for stealth, it’s beyond silent!” he yelled as he chased after them. He kept shooting the whole time. “It actually absorbs and amplifies the natural sounds in the environment! Amazing, right?!”

They kept running. Jason was grinning under his helmet.

He kept up his monologue. “But when he wants to be heard, man… He’s altered the engines so they coarse—hard!” he shouted. “So it he’s barrelling down on you in that bucket, it sounds like Hell itself is dropping out of the sky!”

Batman was… fiddling with a dumpster?

“Yes. It sounds just like that,” he agreed calmly.

The dumpster fucking exploded. Or something. There was fire, it was moving. Red Hood got hit with a moving dumpster.

It flung him through the air and back into the wall of a building, nearly two stories up.

“Ha! Fast! Always so fast!” he screamed. 

A grapple line caught around his ankle and dragged him back over the dumpster before he could hit the ground. He landed on a pile of garbage instead of asphalt.

“It has to be beyond thought! Well past instinct! You simply act! You—"

Batman yanked the cord.

Aaaand now he was on the ground, flat on his back.

“A finely tuned instrument. A body trained to perfection. Techniques honed and mastered. And expensive toys to wield against ‘malignant scum that ravage this city,’” he quoted. “But you’re not the only one with toys.” 

He tazed him. He tazed Batman.

He ran.

Batman followed.

If only it wasn’t fucking raining. Made chases hard. Red Hood scrambled up the side of a fire escape.

“I need to know,” Batman said.

“That’s right!” Red Hood crowed. “On the rooftop! Like—Argh! Like a proper battle! But I want you to ask yourself—why?! What have I done?!”

He punched him, hard, square across his face.

“Tell me!”

“Murder!” Batman shouted.

“No. I’ve killed. Not murdered.”

“Fine. No more blood.”

And then Batman threw him off the roof.

He jumped after him and came down swinging. “This is over.”

How was he so fucking calm? Jason felt near-manic.

“No. Not nearly.” And he ripped the face part of the cowl off. There was Bruce, middle-aged, dripping wet, bleeding from his nose. There were more lines on his face than Jason remembered.

“Look at you…” he said. “I guess we should keep it even.”

He undid the latches of the helmet, releasing them with a hiss. He dropped the thing on the ground.

Grinned up at Bruce.

“Oh, God,” his father said, horrified.

“No. Wanna guess again?”

Bruce put his fists up. He had lost a glove, at some point in the fight. “You can’t possibly imagine that I believe this… this ruse.” 

“Yes. I think you know it. I think you feel it in your gut. I think you’ve known it for weeks… Longer, really. You knew it when we fought in the graveyard. C’mon, you felt it when I switched with Clayface. That fight began with me and ended with him, but now… you know I’m standing right in front of you.”

“It’s not possible.”

“No. It really is.”

“Jason.”

He smiled. “Yes.”

“How did this happen to you?”

“That doesn’t really matter much, does it? Not to me.” He took his own glove off. “Here. That’s fingerprints.” He cut the back of his head with a knife. “And here’s blood. And even tissue. Check it all. You’ll find that it is me.” 

“It won’t make me believe,” Bruce insisted.

“No. It will. You are a creature of logic and science. You’ll have to know what I am, Bruce. But if I’m a ghost, or a zombie, or a clone, that’s not really what this is about.”

“Then what is this about?” 

“You, Bruce. What you are. And what I’ll be.”

“Which is what?”

“You. I’ll be you. The you you’re supposed to be,” he said. “If you had killed Joker, years ago, beyond what happened to me… You know what hell you would have saved this world. But no. His murder is a long list of sane acts you refuse to commit. You never cross that line. But I will. Death will come to those who deserve death. And death may come to those who stand in my way of doing what’s right. All of your adult life you’ve fought to save Gotham. Save her from herself. But you never, ever understood her. She’s evil. And you have to fight her where she lives. I live there. I’ll be the one who finally brings peace.” 

“No. You won’t,” Bruce said. As if he could stop Jason at this point. As if anyone could.

“The saddest part is that you really believe that,” he said.

He pressed the button on the detonator.

The helmet on the ground beep-beep-beeped and exploded.

Chapter Text

Red Hood blew up Black Mask’s gleaming highrise office.

Mask hired Count Vertigo, Captain Nazi, and Hyena to kill him. Hood killed Captain Nazi, knocked the other two out. Didn’t feel a lick of remorse about it, neither.

Then he called Mask up on his phone and offered to make a deal. Told him there’d be peace if he killed all his lieutenants. Sent a thug wearing his helmet down there to go supervise personally, spoke them both through the whole thing through his helmet’s speaker.

The thug got killed, of course. Black Mask turned on him, big shock.

Just in time for Batman to show up at the door and watch Mask pull the helmet off the body.

Cass was pissed at him. No surprise there.

It was like living with Batman again. If Batman was a nineteen-year-old Asian girl who never learned how to talk.

Jason decided he very much did not like that. If he wanted to live with a Bruce-alike, he would just go back to the Manor.

Not that he’d be welcome there, but still. It was the principle of the thing.

So Cass was pointedly ignoring him while watching silent TV in the living room. She had her tablet off and charging in a different room, even.

Where the hell did she learn what the silent treatment was?

Jason rolled his eyes. He went back to stirring the chili. Got out a ladle and scooped up big servings into two bowls. Put the bowls on plates, with crackers ringing them, and added spoons.

He glanced through the open space that served as the kitchen window. Cass was completely engrossed in her TV show. Not looking at him.

He palmed a small clear vial that had been hidden inside the paprika jar. Dumped its contents into Cass’s bowl. A completely tasteless sedative. Should knock her out for up to eight hours.

That was all the time Jason needed.

He was going to kill the Joker.

He brought both plates out into the livingroom and set one on the coffee table in front of Cass. He kept moving, not stopping to stay in the room with her, and returned to the kitchen to eat his own meal in private.

Hopefully she wouldn’t think anything of it. They weren’t talking, after all.

He watched with laser-focus as Cass absently picked up her spoon and tried the chili. She blinked, looked down at it. Took a sip of water.

Went back to eating, more actively this time.

The spice, he realized. She hadn’t known it would be spicy.

His shoulders relaxed.

A half hour later, Cass was dead asleep on the couch and Jason was at Amusement Mile.

The Joker was in the funhouse.

“Who’s there?” he asked. Just sitting alone in the dark like a maniac. “Tell me who you are… or I’ll kill you…”

He lifted his head up. Green hair hung limply in greasy strings. He had a day’s growth on his chin. Joker looked like hell. “…You think I’m kidding?”

“No. I’d never think that,” Red Hood promised.

He swung the crowbar down. Grabbed Joker’s wrist and twisted his arm behind his back. Hit him with the crowbar yet again.

And again. And again. And again.

His blood sang in his veins. This was it. It was finally happening. It was all coming together.

Just a few more hours, max, and he would be free. All of Gotham would be free.

Joker lay in a pool of blood at his feet. Passed out. Pathetic.

“Tell me,” Red Hood asked. He removed his helmet. “How does that feel?”

“It seemed only fitting, huh?” Hood asked. “The place of your ‘birth.’ The place of our first meeting. And now, where it ends.”

“Where is he?” Batman asked.

“Inside this building. Don’t bother trying to ditch me to go and find him. I’ve wired the building. I can blow it up at any time. That would seem fitting-- payback-wise.”

“I’m not going to let you kill him.”

“You can try to stop me. Do I look scared, Bruce?”

That was when a green mushroom cloud lit up Blüdhaven like a bonfire.

A Chemo attack. Sent by the Society.

“That was Blüdhaven,” Jason said confidently, telling Bruce what he already knew. “Oh my God, is Nightwing there? Imagine that. One son returns from the grave as another enters it. What a fitting ending this has become.”

Batman stood and stared a the glow on the horizon in horror.

“Good God, the ironies abound. Here we are and you have to run to the site of an explosion to dig through the wreckage and find the body of your ‘boy sidekick.’ If he’s there, Bruce, you’re too late. Again.”

Batman lunged.

“No! You’re not leaving! Not now! Not this time!” Jason shouted.

“Jason, please, I—”

“What? You ‘have to be sure’?! Getting out of that alive would be one neat trick. It’d take a hell of a lot more than batarangs and a few escrima sticks to survive. If ol’ Dickie is there, he’s dead. And if you leave… Someone else is gonna die tonight.”

Batman stared him down.

“Oh, look at that. He’s assessing the situation, and trying to throw off that terrifying vibe. Do I look scared, Bruce?”

Batman lunged, and the fight began. Jason kept quipping the whole time.

“Almost had me! You went for my shoulder and head! Made me choose my wound! Knowing all the tricks only helps a bit, right?!” he shouted, exhilarated. “I’ve got tricks, too! New ones.”

He fired a rocket launcher.

Batman was knocked off his feet, scrabbling to cling to the roof ledge with his fingers.

The rocket blew up the building across the street.

“I went for the cape! Surprised? You shouldn’t be! You wear all your weaknesses out in the open. Capes! Body armor! Weapons! Ha! You reinforced the belt so my blade couldn’t cut through it! Not going to make the same mistake twice and be left without your toys?”

“No. Never twice,” Batman said. “And let’s see how you do without your ‘toys.’ Enough! All of it ends tonight! You say you want to save Gotham! You say you want to be better than me! But it won’t happen! I know I failed you. But… I tried to save you, Jason. I’m… I’m trying to save you now.”

He stopped fighting.

Rage filled Jason’s chest.

“Is that what you think this is about? Your letting me die?” he asked incredulously. “I don’t know what clouds your judgment worse. Your guilt or your antiquated sense of morality. Bruce, I forgive you for not saving me. But why-- Why on God’s Earth… Is he still alive?!”

He opened the door of the roof and revealed the laughing Joker.

“Now we’ve got ourselves a party! One big happy-- All together again!” Joker crooned. “Who’s got a camera! Dracula, you must have a digital picy-poo on that hardware store you wear around your waist. Get one of me and the kid, first. Then you and me. Then the three of us. Then one with a crowbar.”

Jason shoved a gun up in his face. “You’ll be as quiet as possible or I’ll put one in your lap first.”

“Party pooper. No cake for you!”

“Ignoring what he’s done in the past. Blindly, stupidly, disregarding the entire graveyards he’s filled, the thousands who have suffered… the friends he’s crippled… I thought… I thought killing me-- that I’d be the last person you ever let him hurt. If it had been you that he beat to a bloody mess. If it had been you that he left in agony. If he had taken you from this world… I would have done nothing but search the planet for this pathetic pile of evil, death-worshipping garbage, and sent him off to hell.”

“You don’t understand. I don’t think you’ve ever understood.”

“What? Your moral code just won’t allow for that? It’s too hard to ‘cross that line’?”

“No. God Almighty, no. It’d be too damned easy,” Batman said. “All I have ever wanted to do is kill him. For years a day hasn’t gone by where I haven’t envisioned taking him-- taking him and spending an entire month putting him through the most horrendous, mind-boggling forms of torture. All of it building to an end with him broken, butchered and maimed, pleading, screaming, in the worst kind of agony as he careens into a monstrous death.”

“Aw, y’see. I’ve thought about that too,” Joker said, smiling.

“I want him dead-- maybe more than I’ve ever wanted anything. But if I do that, if I allow myself to go down into that place… I’ll never come back.”

“Why?”

“What?”

“Why do all the cub scouts in spandex always say that? ‘If I cross that line, there’s no coming back.’ I’m not talking about killing Cobblepot and Scarecrow or Clayface. Not Riddler or Dent… I’m talking about him. Just him. And doing it because-- because he took me away from you.”

“I can’t. I’m sorry. I just can’t.”

“That is so sweet,” Joker said.

“Well, you won’t have a choice,” Jason said.

“I won’t—”

“This is it. This is the time you decide. If you won’t kill this psychotic piece of filth, I will.”

He pressed the barrel of the gun direct to Joker’s temple. Put his own head right next to his.

“If you want to stop me? You’re going to have to kill me.”

“Stop this. Enough. You know I won’t—”

“All you’ve got is a headshot. I’m going to blow his addled, deranged brains out-- and if you want to stop it… You’re going to have to shoot me. Right in my face.”

“This is so much better than I thought,” Joker laughed.

“Stop this,” Bruce said.

“It’s him or me. You have to decide.”

“Please. Don’t.”

“I’ll count to three.”

“Put the gun down.”

“One.”

“Don’t.”

“Two.”

“No!”

“Thr—”

A batarang hit him in the throat.

Joker was saying something.

The building exploded.

Cass didn’t know what had happened. She had gone to sleep after her meal, which was unusual for her. She blamed Jay for that. He had gotten her used to sleeping, all the time, constantly. Cass did not need that much sleep. Now her body had a bad habit.

Jay’s fault.

But that wasn’t so bad. It was a problem, a liability, but not the worst part of the day. No, that was when she woke up and Jay was gone.

It was quick work to retrace his steps, track his trail. She found him in a strange-looking building. Just in time to see a beaten man with green hair shoot a gun at a pile of explosives. Just in time to have the building go up in flames around them all.

The dark fighter screamed. The green-haired man was laughing.

Cass grabbed Jay and dragged his body as fast as she could. He wasn’t fully dead weight-- not passed out from his wounds yet. He was keeping pressure on the left side of his throat. Blood soaked past his gloves, left a sporadic little trail as they went.

Fire crackled all around them.

Cass dragged them out into the open air outside. She flung Jay down onto the dirt. Ripped the bottom of her shirt into a long strip and tied it tight around his throat, loose enough he could still breathe. Jay slapped his hands back over the wound quickly, even after it was covered. His eyes were wide with animal terror.

Cass helped him upright and onto the back of her motorcycle. She started the engine and peeled out.