CHAPTER 82: The Predecessor.
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Maverick_DaSupreme
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- Feb 2, 2025
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[Damian Wayne's POV]
Gotham's nightlife had been boiling over these past few days, noisier and more restless than usual. It wasn't hard to figure out why—the bounty. Jason's bounty. Ten million dollars for a single head. It was enough to set every gutter rat, trigger-happy merc, and wannabe killer loose on the streets.
Even the smallest criminals, the kind who normally kept to their pathetic little corners, were suddenly bold, looking at Red Hood like he was a winning lottery ticket walking around in body armor.
I kept hearing the same whispers wherever I went. Ten million. Ten million. Ten million. It clung to Gotham's air like the stink of smoke after a fire.
And even though father forbade it, I couldn't help myself. I'd been using my patrol hours to search, to hunt, to watch the city for any trace of him. Not for the bounty.
Never for that. I wanted to find Jason. I wanted to speak with him.
For over a week I scoured rooftops, alleys, and streets, yet not even a glimpse of him. It was as if he had dissolved into Gotham's shadows. He had gone silent. Some would take that as cowardice, but I didn't believe it for a second. I didn't know him before the League, but I knew grandfather well enough. Ra's al Ghul never trained cowards. Which meant Jason was still out here, somewhere. Watching. Waiting. The question was—where?
Tonight was no different. Twenty minutes of leaping over rooftops, scanning every corner, and still nothing. Even when a burglary broke out down below—a jewelry store, the windows shattered, alarms screaming—he didn't appear. If Red Hood truly "protected" his so-called territory, wouldn't he have intervened?
I dropped in and handled it myself. The burglars folded easily enough; a few broken noses were enough to end their ambition for the night. Blood smeared across my gloves as I perched near a gargoyle, shaking it off with a sharp flick of my wrist. "Doesn't he protect his own territory?" I muttered aloud, irritation bubbling in my chest.
That's when the voice cut through the night.
"Isn't it past your bedtime, kid?"
The sound startled me enough that my body reacted before my mind did—I spun around, blade sliding free, boots stepping back from the gargoyle to claim solid footing on the rooftop. My eyes swept the shadows behind me, scanning every line and angle. No one. Nothing but the whisper of wind. My grip on the sword tightened.
"I see you have plenty of time on your hands if this is what you're doing." There it was again. A voice, calm, deep, carrying that distorted edge of a modulator.
My heart leapt into my throat, and then I saw him. Jason—no, Red Hood—perched on the gargoyle I had just abandoned.
Helmet gleaming under the pale light, posture relaxed, gun resting low at his hip like some gunslinger out of the West. He wasn't aiming it, not yet. Just holding it there, close, reminding me he could draw faster than I could blink.
With narrowed eyes, I answered him sharply. "Patrolling is a duty, not a waste of time." My voice didn't waver, but inside I couldn't decide whether I should be wary of him or treat him like the annoying bastard who kept forcing himself back into my life out of nowhere.
He tilted his head, almost curious, like he was studying me. "I meant chasing after someone who doesn't want to be found. That's a waste of time. But since we're going down this road… yeah. Patrolling is a waste of time if you're not putting down the mad dogs that actually need to be put down. Not tossing them into Arkham just so they can take a short vacation before the system spits them back out into society again."
Of all the words he spoke, that last part dug at me the most. I almost found myself agreeing, almost leaning into the temptation of it. But I kept my expression cold. I already knew where I stood on that matter, and I wasn't about to show him.
"Wait," I said slowly, piecing it together.
"You knew I was searching for you? All this time?"
"For someone who walks with the Bat, you weren't doing a great job," Jason replied, casual as ever. He gave a slight shrug, gun still resting against his hip. "Guess I'll have to make sure you never try again. Besides, what would a kid like you want ten million dollars for?"
The words cut, not because they carried truth, but because of the insult behind them. Did he really think I was chasing him for the bounty? Did he see me as that low?
My grip tightened on my sword. "So which is it? Jason? Todd? Or …the Red Hood?" I asked, refusing to dance around it any longer.
He chuckled beneath the mask, the sound dry and bitter. "I see Bruce told you about me. Huh. I'll admit, I'm surprised. Thought he'd keep that our little secret. Guess he's gone soft over the years."
I said nothing, letting silence be my shield. I wasn't going to play into whatever game he was baiting me into.
And then—everything changed.
The air thickened. His posture didn't move, but something shifted, something primal and terrifying. It was like the rooftop itself shrank, like the night turned sharp around me. A wave of killing intent rolled off him, pressing down on me, cold and suffocating.
"I might have to kill you," Jason said softly, almost conversational. "Since you know who I am under the hood."
He wasn't bluffing. I felt it—every nerve in my body screamed at me that he meant it. A violent shiver crawled up my spine, my legs almost trembling against my will. My grip on the blade faltered as sweat dampened my palms, the weapon threatening to slip free. My throat tightened, forcing out a gulp I couldn't stop. I was sweating, but I was freezing at the same time, paralyzed in the grip of something I couldn't shake.
I hated it. I hated this weakness.
From below came startled voices, carried up from the streets. "Hey… what's going on?"
"Dude, you feel that?"
"Something doesn't feel right."
"Let's get out of here!" Through the corner of my eye, I saw them—men scattering into the dark, abandoning whatever crime or shadow business they'd been tangled in. They ran like animals fleeing a predator.
And I understood them. How was he doing this? What had Jason become?
And more importantly—what was he going to do to me?
Questions tore through my thoughts, frantic, piling one atop the other as I fought to break free of the invisible chokehold he'd wrapped around me.
I stood there, frozen. The Red Hood was right in front of me, closing the distance at a pace that felt unbearably slow, deliberate—like a predator circling prey it had already decided was too small to escape.
His hand slid over his right shoulder, fingers curling around the crowbar strapped to his back. Every second stretched out longer than the last, and the air grew heavier with the suffocating weight of his presence.
My chest tightened as I struggled to breathe. Why couldn't I move? Why were my legs betraying me? Those thugs earlier managed to scramble away—even if it was a pathetic, sluggish retreat, at least they had motion. Me? I was rooted in place.
Maybe it was because I was closer, maybe it was because I could feel every ounce of bloodlust rolling off him like smoke. It was terrifying to realize that this suffocating pressure wasn't even directed at me fully, but I was still drowning under it.
The crowbar slid free, its metallic scrape sharp in my ears. He wasn't even rushing—he drew it slowly, almost mockingly, like he wanted me to feel each second dig into my nerves. My pulse hammered against my throat. Was this how others saw him? Was this what Gotham's criminals felt before he struck?
I clenched my teeth. No—if I was truly trapped, then I had only one way out. Pain. I could bite down hard enough on my tongue, shock my body into movement, tear myself out of the paralysis. But I hated that it had come to this. I hated that he made me even consider it.
WHAM.
The sound wasn't from the crowbar. It was the sudden collapse of pressure, vanishing as quickly as it came. My lungs sucked in air sharply, too quickly, and the weight slid off me, leaving nothing but a clammy memory on my skin. Goosebumps prickled up my arms, and sweat dampened my collar. My pride burned hotter than my fear.
"Relax, lil devil." His voice cut in, teasing, casual—as if the last thirty seconds hadn't been a nightmare. He lifted his hands to his helmet, twisting it off with a hiss.
I glared at him, scowling. "Oh, that's funny to you?" My voice cracked with annoyance, sharper than I wanted.
"Yeah." His smirk carried no remorse. He was always like this. Push you to the edge, then laugh when you scrambled for footing. That bastard would drag you through hell just to amuse himself. I was seconds away from biting through my own tongue, and he found it entertaining.
Jason turned, strolling toward the ledge with the same careless gait he always had. He dropped down, resting on the edge of the rooftop, legs dangling over Gotham's endless nightscape. "You know, for a kid born and bred in the League of Assassins, you're doing a pretty poor job at staying hidden during patrols." His voice was half-tease, half-critique.
My jaw tightened. How long had he been watching me? The thought made my stomach twist. Had I been patrolling for nights, thinking myself unseen, only to have him perched in the shadows, studying me?
"What was that?" I finally asked, forcing my voice steady, but my chest still felt uneven. I meant the suffocating bloodlust, though I didn't want to admit how shaken it had left me.
Jason didn't even bother looking at me. "Come on, Damian, you aren't that dense."
So it was intentional. He admitted it without saying the words, and that only made me hate it more.
Just what had he gone through to wield that kind of killing intent? What kind of scars did it take to summon that pressure at will, then tuck it away like it was nothing? I couldn't stop myself from wondering if I'd ever carry that kind of darkness—or if I already did.
"Can I ask a question?" My voice came quieter this time.
Jason squinted at me, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. "That's all you've been doing all evening."
I shot him a glare, but deep down, I knew he missed this—the constant banter, the little jabs. He acted like it was just to irritate me, but I could see the flicker in his eyes when he teased me. It was the closest thing he allowed himself to call affection.
"Is it about sex?" he shot back suddenly, grin widening.
My face heated instantly. "What? No!" I snapped, more defensive than I meant to be. I hated that he caught me off guard so easily.
"Good. Save that conversation for your old man when the time comes." His tone was dismissive, but I could hear the faint amusement behind it.
This bastard. My fists curled, and I wanted nothing more than to sock him just once, right in the jaw. Not because it would change anything—but because it would wipe that smug look off his face for at least a second.
"You seem calm for a guy with a bounty on his head," I muttered, trying to change the subject before he got under my skin further.
Jason leaned back slightly, shrugging like it meant nothing. "Yeah, can you believe Black Mask? Ten million. He must really underestimate me if he thinks that's all I'm worth." His grin held no fear, no tension.
More like he was entertained.
I studied him. Even with his memories back, even with the blood on his hands, he seemed unshaken. Maybe this really was who he was—Jason Todd, reckless and cocky, armor made of defiance and scars.
"I see you're still as cocky as ever." I sat beside him, my legs dangling off the ledge as well. Gotham stretched beneath us—silent, sprawling, ugly and beautiful all at once. "Mother told me about what happened with Deathstroke at Lian Yu."
His jaw tightened briefly, though he didn't turn toward me. "I did everything in my power to make sure Slade paid for what he did to Ra's al Ghul."
I blinked, unsure how to follow that. I had expected something else in his voice—but it was steady, almost reflective. The awkward silence between us deepened, heavier than before.
"Now you're this big bad Red Hood," I said finally, trying to break it.
"That about sums it up." He shrugged, brushing it off like it was just another mask. "Your dad doesn't know you've been looking for me, does he?"
I didn't answer. My silence was all the confirmation he needed.
Jason's eyes narrowed slightly behind the shadows. "You've spent most of your life in the League. Do you really agree with Bruce's definition of justice?"
The question cut deeper than I expected. My father's code had always been there, looming, binding. "I can't say I do," I admitted. "It goes against everything I believed in for most of my life. But… he makes the rules. And as much as I'd like to, I can't go against his no-kill rule."
Jason nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "That's good. Stick with it. You might find a better way to weaponize that code for he's to your advantage. Besides, kids your age should be worried about crushes and school bullies, not spilling blood."
I almost laughed at the hypocrisy. "Father said you were barely ten when you became Robin."
"Yeah, I'm not the best person to give advice on this sort of thing," he admitted, his voice dropping softer. "But from experience, I'll say this—be yourself.
Always. There's no shame in it. But when Bruce tells you to listen on things that could risk your life, do it. He means well, even if it doesn't feel like it."
That wasn't the kind of talk I'd expected from him. For once, he wasn't teasing, mocking, or baiting me. He was… honest. It unsettled me more than his bloodlust had.
"Unlike me, you might only get to live once," he added, staring down at the helmet in his lap.
"You don't have to worry," I said quickly, trying to reassure him—or maybe myself. "I'm always careful."
Jason chuckled, low and dry. "Pfft. Like you get to choose who you're matched up against. Or the odds of walking away alive." He slid the helmet back over his head, sealing his face behind that cold red mask.
"You're leaving?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.
"Yeah. All this chitchat is making me feel weird inside." His sarcasm was back, a shield for whatever softness had slipped through earlier.
He rose, turned toward the edge, then paused. "Meet me here tomorrow night. You might learn a thing or two." His voice carried the same cocky tone, but I caught the faint thread of sincerity beneath it.
Then, without hesitation, he dropped off the ledge—vanishing into Gotham's shadows like a madman with a death wish.
And I was left sitting there, the echo of his words ringing louder than the silence of the city below.
Gotham's nightlife had been boiling over these past few days, noisier and more restless than usual. It wasn't hard to figure out why—the bounty. Jason's bounty. Ten million dollars for a single head. It was enough to set every gutter rat, trigger-happy merc, and wannabe killer loose on the streets.
Even the smallest criminals, the kind who normally kept to their pathetic little corners, were suddenly bold, looking at Red Hood like he was a winning lottery ticket walking around in body armor.
I kept hearing the same whispers wherever I went. Ten million. Ten million. Ten million. It clung to Gotham's air like the stink of smoke after a fire.
And even though father forbade it, I couldn't help myself. I'd been using my patrol hours to search, to hunt, to watch the city for any trace of him. Not for the bounty.
Never for that. I wanted to find Jason. I wanted to speak with him.
For over a week I scoured rooftops, alleys, and streets, yet not even a glimpse of him. It was as if he had dissolved into Gotham's shadows. He had gone silent. Some would take that as cowardice, but I didn't believe it for a second. I didn't know him before the League, but I knew grandfather well enough. Ra's al Ghul never trained cowards. Which meant Jason was still out here, somewhere. Watching. Waiting. The question was—where?
Tonight was no different. Twenty minutes of leaping over rooftops, scanning every corner, and still nothing. Even when a burglary broke out down below—a jewelry store, the windows shattered, alarms screaming—he didn't appear. If Red Hood truly "protected" his so-called territory, wouldn't he have intervened?
I dropped in and handled it myself. The burglars folded easily enough; a few broken noses were enough to end their ambition for the night. Blood smeared across my gloves as I perched near a gargoyle, shaking it off with a sharp flick of my wrist. "Doesn't he protect his own territory?" I muttered aloud, irritation bubbling in my chest.
That's when the voice cut through the night.
"Isn't it past your bedtime, kid?"
The sound startled me enough that my body reacted before my mind did—I spun around, blade sliding free, boots stepping back from the gargoyle to claim solid footing on the rooftop. My eyes swept the shadows behind me, scanning every line and angle. No one. Nothing but the whisper of wind. My grip on the sword tightened.
"I see you have plenty of time on your hands if this is what you're doing." There it was again. A voice, calm, deep, carrying that distorted edge of a modulator.
My heart leapt into my throat, and then I saw him. Jason—no, Red Hood—perched on the gargoyle I had just abandoned.
Helmet gleaming under the pale light, posture relaxed, gun resting low at his hip like some gunslinger out of the West. He wasn't aiming it, not yet. Just holding it there, close, reminding me he could draw faster than I could blink.
With narrowed eyes, I answered him sharply. "Patrolling is a duty, not a waste of time." My voice didn't waver, but inside I couldn't decide whether I should be wary of him or treat him like the annoying bastard who kept forcing himself back into my life out of nowhere.
He tilted his head, almost curious, like he was studying me. "I meant chasing after someone who doesn't want to be found. That's a waste of time. But since we're going down this road… yeah. Patrolling is a waste of time if you're not putting down the mad dogs that actually need to be put down. Not tossing them into Arkham just so they can take a short vacation before the system spits them back out into society again."
Of all the words he spoke, that last part dug at me the most. I almost found myself agreeing, almost leaning into the temptation of it. But I kept my expression cold. I already knew where I stood on that matter, and I wasn't about to show him.
"Wait," I said slowly, piecing it together.
"You knew I was searching for you? All this time?"
"For someone who walks with the Bat, you weren't doing a great job," Jason replied, casual as ever. He gave a slight shrug, gun still resting against his hip. "Guess I'll have to make sure you never try again. Besides, what would a kid like you want ten million dollars for?"
The words cut, not because they carried truth, but because of the insult behind them. Did he really think I was chasing him for the bounty? Did he see me as that low?
My grip tightened on my sword. "So which is it? Jason? Todd? Or …the Red Hood?" I asked, refusing to dance around it any longer.
He chuckled beneath the mask, the sound dry and bitter. "I see Bruce told you about me. Huh. I'll admit, I'm surprised. Thought he'd keep that our little secret. Guess he's gone soft over the years."
I said nothing, letting silence be my shield. I wasn't going to play into whatever game he was baiting me into.
And then—everything changed.
The air thickened. His posture didn't move, but something shifted, something primal and terrifying. It was like the rooftop itself shrank, like the night turned sharp around me. A wave of killing intent rolled off him, pressing down on me, cold and suffocating.
"I might have to kill you," Jason said softly, almost conversational. "Since you know who I am under the hood."
He wasn't bluffing. I felt it—every nerve in my body screamed at me that he meant it. A violent shiver crawled up my spine, my legs almost trembling against my will. My grip on the blade faltered as sweat dampened my palms, the weapon threatening to slip free. My throat tightened, forcing out a gulp I couldn't stop. I was sweating, but I was freezing at the same time, paralyzed in the grip of something I couldn't shake.
I hated it. I hated this weakness.
From below came startled voices, carried up from the streets. "Hey… what's going on?"
"Dude, you feel that?"
"Something doesn't feel right."
"Let's get out of here!" Through the corner of my eye, I saw them—men scattering into the dark, abandoning whatever crime or shadow business they'd been tangled in. They ran like animals fleeing a predator.
And I understood them. How was he doing this? What had Jason become?
And more importantly—what was he going to do to me?
Questions tore through my thoughts, frantic, piling one atop the other as I fought to break free of the invisible chokehold he'd wrapped around me.
I stood there, frozen. The Red Hood was right in front of me, closing the distance at a pace that felt unbearably slow, deliberate—like a predator circling prey it had already decided was too small to escape.
His hand slid over his right shoulder, fingers curling around the crowbar strapped to his back. Every second stretched out longer than the last, and the air grew heavier with the suffocating weight of his presence.
My chest tightened as I struggled to breathe. Why couldn't I move? Why were my legs betraying me? Those thugs earlier managed to scramble away—even if it was a pathetic, sluggish retreat, at least they had motion. Me? I was rooted in place.
Maybe it was because I was closer, maybe it was because I could feel every ounce of bloodlust rolling off him like smoke. It was terrifying to realize that this suffocating pressure wasn't even directed at me fully, but I was still drowning under it.
The crowbar slid free, its metallic scrape sharp in my ears. He wasn't even rushing—he drew it slowly, almost mockingly, like he wanted me to feel each second dig into my nerves. My pulse hammered against my throat. Was this how others saw him? Was this what Gotham's criminals felt before he struck?
I clenched my teeth. No—if I was truly trapped, then I had only one way out. Pain. I could bite down hard enough on my tongue, shock my body into movement, tear myself out of the paralysis. But I hated that it had come to this. I hated that he made me even consider it.
WHAM.
The sound wasn't from the crowbar. It was the sudden collapse of pressure, vanishing as quickly as it came. My lungs sucked in air sharply, too quickly, and the weight slid off me, leaving nothing but a clammy memory on my skin. Goosebumps prickled up my arms, and sweat dampened my collar. My pride burned hotter than my fear.
"Relax, lil devil." His voice cut in, teasing, casual—as if the last thirty seconds hadn't been a nightmare. He lifted his hands to his helmet, twisting it off with a hiss.
I glared at him, scowling. "Oh, that's funny to you?" My voice cracked with annoyance, sharper than I wanted.
"Yeah." His smirk carried no remorse. He was always like this. Push you to the edge, then laugh when you scrambled for footing. That bastard would drag you through hell just to amuse himself. I was seconds away from biting through my own tongue, and he found it entertaining.
Jason turned, strolling toward the ledge with the same careless gait he always had. He dropped down, resting on the edge of the rooftop, legs dangling over Gotham's endless nightscape. "You know, for a kid born and bred in the League of Assassins, you're doing a pretty poor job at staying hidden during patrols." His voice was half-tease, half-critique.
My jaw tightened. How long had he been watching me? The thought made my stomach twist. Had I been patrolling for nights, thinking myself unseen, only to have him perched in the shadows, studying me?
"What was that?" I finally asked, forcing my voice steady, but my chest still felt uneven. I meant the suffocating bloodlust, though I didn't want to admit how shaken it had left me.
Jason didn't even bother looking at me. "Come on, Damian, you aren't that dense."
So it was intentional. He admitted it without saying the words, and that only made me hate it more.
Just what had he gone through to wield that kind of killing intent? What kind of scars did it take to summon that pressure at will, then tuck it away like it was nothing? I couldn't stop myself from wondering if I'd ever carry that kind of darkness—or if I already did.
"Can I ask a question?" My voice came quieter this time.
Jason squinted at me, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. "That's all you've been doing all evening."
I shot him a glare, but deep down, I knew he missed this—the constant banter, the little jabs. He acted like it was just to irritate me, but I could see the flicker in his eyes when he teased me. It was the closest thing he allowed himself to call affection.
"Is it about sex?" he shot back suddenly, grin widening.
My face heated instantly. "What? No!" I snapped, more defensive than I meant to be. I hated that he caught me off guard so easily.
"Good. Save that conversation for your old man when the time comes." His tone was dismissive, but I could hear the faint amusement behind it.
This bastard. My fists curled, and I wanted nothing more than to sock him just once, right in the jaw. Not because it would change anything—but because it would wipe that smug look off his face for at least a second.
"You seem calm for a guy with a bounty on his head," I muttered, trying to change the subject before he got under my skin further.
Jason leaned back slightly, shrugging like it meant nothing. "Yeah, can you believe Black Mask? Ten million. He must really underestimate me if he thinks that's all I'm worth." His grin held no fear, no tension.
More like he was entertained.
I studied him. Even with his memories back, even with the blood on his hands, he seemed unshaken. Maybe this really was who he was—Jason Todd, reckless and cocky, armor made of defiance and scars.
"I see you're still as cocky as ever." I sat beside him, my legs dangling off the ledge as well. Gotham stretched beneath us—silent, sprawling, ugly and beautiful all at once. "Mother told me about what happened with Deathstroke at Lian Yu."
His jaw tightened briefly, though he didn't turn toward me. "I did everything in my power to make sure Slade paid for what he did to Ra's al Ghul."
I blinked, unsure how to follow that. I had expected something else in his voice—but it was steady, almost reflective. The awkward silence between us deepened, heavier than before.
"Now you're this big bad Red Hood," I said finally, trying to break it.
"That about sums it up." He shrugged, brushing it off like it was just another mask. "Your dad doesn't know you've been looking for me, does he?"
I didn't answer. My silence was all the confirmation he needed.
Jason's eyes narrowed slightly behind the shadows. "You've spent most of your life in the League. Do you really agree with Bruce's definition of justice?"
The question cut deeper than I expected. My father's code had always been there, looming, binding. "I can't say I do," I admitted. "It goes against everything I believed in for most of my life. But… he makes the rules. And as much as I'd like to, I can't go against his no-kill rule."
Jason nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "That's good. Stick with it. You might find a better way to weaponize that code for he's to your advantage. Besides, kids your age should be worried about crushes and school bullies, not spilling blood."
I almost laughed at the hypocrisy. "Father said you were barely ten when you became Robin."
"Yeah, I'm not the best person to give advice on this sort of thing," he admitted, his voice dropping softer. "But from experience, I'll say this—be yourself.
Always. There's no shame in it. But when Bruce tells you to listen on things that could risk your life, do it. He means well, even if it doesn't feel like it."
That wasn't the kind of talk I'd expected from him. For once, he wasn't teasing, mocking, or baiting me. He was… honest. It unsettled me more than his bloodlust had.
"Unlike me, you might only get to live once," he added, staring down at the helmet in his lap.
"You don't have to worry," I said quickly, trying to reassure him—or maybe myself. "I'm always careful."
Jason chuckled, low and dry. "Pfft. Like you get to choose who you're matched up against. Or the odds of walking away alive." He slid the helmet back over his head, sealing his face behind that cold red mask.
"You're leaving?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.
"Yeah. All this chitchat is making me feel weird inside." His sarcasm was back, a shield for whatever softness had slipped through earlier.
He rose, turned toward the edge, then paused. "Meet me here tomorrow night. You might learn a thing or two." His voice carried the same cocky tone, but I caught the faint thread of sincerity beneath it.
Then, without hesitation, he dropped off the ledge—vanishing into Gotham's shadows like a madman with a death wish.
And I was left sitting there, the echo of his words ringing louder than the silence of the city below.