The Man And The Hood

[Hms Scarborough]

He grabbed a couple other stuffs

Click to shrink...

Some other things? maybe

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

After robbing a couple of gang members who were too stupid or too confident to think someone would dare cross them, Jason had finally carved out a sliver of space for himself on the south side of Gotham City.

Not exactly prime real estate, more like a roach motel stacked in concrete and bad decisions—but it was home, or at least the closest thing he'd allow himself to have.

The apartment sat at the very top of a beat-up building that leaned more sideways than upright, like it regretted ever being constructed. But that was part of the appeal.

Jason had deliberately chosen this location for its anonymity and inaccessibility. No working security cameras. No nosy neighbors who stayed awake past eleven.

And more importantly, no clear sight lines for anyone trying to tail him. If he needed to go dark, he could—twisting and turning through Gotham's labyrinthine back alleys, taking detours so winding even Google Maps would throw its hands up.

If things got too hot, there was always the textile warehouse near the docks. Now, he had options. A tactical luxury.

Lucky for him, the landlord was a bloated, graying man with more interest in rent checks than personal details. He didn't ask questions, especially not when Jason paid six months in advance. In cash.

That kind of gesture made the landlord practically fall in love. Jason could probably store a crate of human heads in the hallway, and the old man wouldn't blink—so long as he kept the money flowing.

The neighbors? Ghosts. At least that's what they thought of him. He'd never said more than two words to any of them. His schedule ensured that he always returned long past midnight, slipping in through his window like a shadow with nowhere to rest.

When he left early, often just after dawn, it was usually to restock supplies, tail someone on his hit list, or blend into the city crowd. That's when he used the front door—because sometimes, it paid to look normal.

Earlier that day, though, there had been an unexpected break in the routine.

He'd run into an old lady struggling to carry two full bags of groceries up the stairs. The elevator was out of service again and halfway into a month of maintenance.

Jason wasn't in the habit of doing favors, but something about the old lady's quiet determination stirred something in him.

So he offered a hand.

She smiled, surprised and grateful. He took the bags, slow-walked up the narrow stairwell, listening to the echo of their footsteps bounce off the walls like ghosts of conversations past.

The building smelled of mildew, old spaghetti sauce, and faintly of piss—layers of urban rot baked into the walls.

When they reached her door, just two units away from his own, she turned to thank him.

Jason gave a soft smile in return. Polite. Genuine, even. A rare warmth touched his face, so honest that if she'd glimpsed what lay beneath, what he was planning for the evening, she might've screamed and slammed her door shut.

Because that smile? That smile belonged to a man with a kill list.

And tonight, the first name was about to get scratched off.

- - -

As the sun dipped below Gotham's skyline, the city choked under its usual neon haze, flickering signs and broken street lamps casting jagged shadows along the apartment blocks.

Inside Jason's flat, it was nearly pitch black. Most of the space was left untouched by artificial light, except for one corner—a single exposed bulb hanging from the ceiling hummed with a faint electric buzz, casting a pool of amber across the room like a lazy spotlight.

The curtains were pulled tight. Blackout fabric. Not just for sleep—for secrecy. Any wandering eyes would see nothing but the dark shape of drawn blinds.

Jason stood like a statue, back straight, eyes locked on his investigation board. It loomed over the desk like a madman's mural—newspaper clippings, photos, red thread, maps, and annotated reports.

Faces of crime bosses, names, and notes in his sharp, angular handwriting. Targets. Traitors. Clues.

At the center was a printout of the Joker's face, taunting and grinning, stabbed through with a hunting knife.

After a moment of stillness, he moved. Deliberate. Quiet.

He crossed the apartment and entered the small bathroom. From beneath the sink, he dragged out an old wooden stool and placed it beneath the ceiling vent.

With one swift motion, he popped the vent open and reached inside. Dust and cobwebs spilled out. His fingers gripped something cold, the metallic edge of a medium-sized trunk.

Lowering it carefully, he took it into the living room. It hit the wooden floor with a soft thud, and he crouched beside it, flipping the latches with practiced ease.

Inside lay the tools of his nocturnal profession, gear that was lethal, tactical, and deeply personal.

He stared at it for a long beat, letting the gravity of the night wash over him.

First, the black tactical pants, reinforced at the thighs, with padded knees designed for both protection and swift, fluid movement.

He slid into them effortlessly. Next were the boots, steel-toed and combat-ready. They weren't just for walking, they were for stomping, kicking, and surviving.

He pulled on his torso armor next, kevlar-infused and sculpted to fit under his brown leather jacket, which smelled like gunpowder.

On the chest of the armor was a bold, crimson bat symbol, purposely faded and scratched, but unmistakable. A ghost of his past as Batman's protégé. A memory that refused to die.

Then came the gloves. Black with crimson accents, padded and armored across the knuckles, built for brutal efficiency. Every item he wore spoke to a war he never stopped fighting.

With the trunk now nearly empty, he turned toward the couch. On its handle rested his utility belt, lazily draped but meticulously maintained.

It was similar in design to Batman's, but its contents were another story. This wasn't a belt meant to save lives, it was built to end them.

On one side: smoke pellets, flashbangs, grenades, and C4 packs. Tools of chaos.

On the other: sleek, silver throwing knives, modified shuriken, and compact tech.

And in the rear compartments were first aid supplies, lockpicks, extra clips of ammunition. Essentials.

He strapped it on, its familiar weight grounding him.

Next stop, the weapons table.

On the far end of the room sat a black duffle bag, heavy and long, with its zipper already halfway open. He approached it like a man greeting an old friend.

Inside, a symphony of firearms—each deadly, each handpicked. He unpacked them slowly.

A submachine gun. A short-barreled assault rifle. The heft of each weapon told him everything he needed to know— balance, recoil, stopping power.

Then, the sniper rifle—sleek, deadly, and silent. He lifted it to his eye and peered through the scope. The crosshairs were crystal clear, ready for precision.

Perfect for the coming war.

But the real smile came when he picked up the twin pistols.

.40 caliber. Custom-machined. Extended mags, fast draw, clean trigger pull. Beautiful, brutal things. He checked the slides, loaded the mags, and strapped them into his side holsters with a smirk that lasted longer than he meant it to.

Back to the gear, a grappling hook, slightly janky compared to Bruce's elegant tech, but functional enough. Explosive gel and remote detonators. Into the belt they went.

Then, his melee options.

A dagger, forged during his time with the League of Assassins. New and ready to be blood-stained, with the hilt wrapped in custom leather. That went to his thigh.

Next, the sword. Longer, with red-and-black accents on the hilt, sharp enough to split bone. He strapped it to his back. A memento of his time in the League and his training under Ra's al Ghul.

Finally, the crowbar.

Brutal. Raw. Covered in minor modifications, pikes, weight adjustments but still the same weapon that once nearly killed him.

A relic of the Joker. A reminder of pain. And power.

He positioned it alongside his sword—two scars, two stories.

Then he turned to the mannequin by the wall.

The helmet waited. Glossy red, armored, and sculpted into a smooth, emotionless shape. The lenses—blank white at first, blinked to red as they activated, then to black. Thermal, night vision, tracking overlays.

With the helmet on, he was no longer Jason.

He was Red Hood.

And tonight?

Tonight was the beginning of the most bloody chess game Gotham would ever see.

Time to hunt.

- - -

He stood alone atop a derelict rooftop, the crumbling edge of the building beneath his boots dusted with soot and broken gravel.

Gotham stretched out before him in cold silence, its jagged skyline lit only by the flickering lights of streetlamps and the faint glow of neon signs in the distance.

A low fog crawled across the city's bones like a living thing, wrapping alleyways and rooftops in its pale embrace. The air was damp, thick with the scent of rain-soaked concrete and something faintly metallic—old blood, maybe, or the city's ever-churning rot.

In his gloved hand, he held his helmet, its sleek, crimson shell reflecting the dim city light in faint glimmers.

He stared down at his target below—the Bertinelli compound. Guard posts, tight security, a perimeter laced with men holding rifles they didn't fully know how to use.

Their confidence was false, born from decades of power and complacency. Jason knew better. He'd been watching them for weeks.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, his breath visible in the night air. Then, with practiced ease, he raised the helmet to his head. The shell slid over his face with a soft hiss of seal and steel, locking in place with an almost comforting click.

A strange sensation washed over him.
"What is this… feeling?" he muttered under his breath, voice barely more than a ghost in the wind. The words drifted off into the silence, unheard by anyone but himself—and maybe the city, if it ever cared to listen.

It wasn't adrenaline. It wasn't the thrill of the hunt. No. This was something else.
He stood motionless, still as a statue, as the realization crept in.

The moment the helmet clicked into place, something shifted inside him.
The tension he constantly carried in his shoulders—the tight coil of restraint, of pressure to hold back thirst for blood—loosened. His chest felt lighter, his breath came easier.

The buzzing static of internal chaos faded into something quieter, more focused.
Relief.

Not just mental, but physical, visceral. Like stepping out of a cage he didn't know he was locked in.

He was free.

Free from the weight of pretending to be fine. Free from the tug-of-war between the monster inside him and the man who still clung to the idea of morality.

With the helmet on, he didn't have to be conflicted. He could just act. Just move. Just punish.

But that freedom? That scared the shit out of him.

He wasn't stupid. He knew what it meant to feel peace in the midst of violence. He knew what it meant to crave the clarity that came with embracing the bloodlust, instead of bottling it up.

But fear never made him hesitate. He wasn't some coward running from the dark corners of his own mind.

No. He was going to see this through.
He straightened up, adjusting his stance as the final pieces of his plan fell into place. His crimson helmet reflected the city back at itself—distorted, warped, dripping with its own sins.

His grip tightened at his sides. The Bertinellis would feel him tonight, not as a whisper in the dark, but as a red storm crashing through their gates.

These weren't second thoughts. He didn't hesitate. His conviction had never wavered.

Cold feet weren't part of the plan.

Not tonight.

And certainly not ever.

- - -

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[Maverick_DaSupreme]

Jason had planned this down to the last, intimate detail, every move, every bullet, every scream and drop of blood that would soak into Gotham's underworld tonight like ink into a dying page.

The Bertinellis were his first stroke of violence, an opening act of terror. Weakened from within by bitter infighting and picked apart at the edges by the encroaching Falcone family, they were ripe. Vulnerable. Sloppy.

They wouldn't see him coming, and by the time they did, they'd be choking on their own blood, praying to gods that had long since abandoned Gotham.

He'd spent weeks preparing for this moment. Every lead, every supply run, every whisper on the street folded neatly into the plan. The arms store robbery had been clean, surgical, silent. No alarms, no witnesses, no evidence left behind. Just another ghost in a city that bred them.

Now, the weight of the .40 calibers on his thighs was reassuring, almost comforting.

The metal was cold, familiar. These weapons weren't just tools. they were extensions of himself, mechanical fangs forged for one purpose, to punish.

Grenades, explosives, steel wire coiled like a serpent inside his pack, each item with a job, each one picked with purpose.

The League of Assassins had drilled the concept into him, ruthlessness wasn't about emotion. It was about efficiency. Clean. Precise. Unapologetic. And tonight, he intended to honor that philosophy with fire and lead.

Midnight blanketed the city in a thin fog, and the Bertinelli stronghold loomed like a decaying monument to false wealth. A gaudy penthouse rotting atop a failed luxury development.

Jason moved like smoke, scaling the rusted fire escape with the ease of someone who'd done this a hundred times in worse weather.

His boots made no sound on the metal grates as he climbed higher, every muscle fluid and focused.

The first sentry never stood a chance.

A gloved hand wrapped around the man's mouth mid-yawn, jerking him back into the shadows.

The combat knife slid in under his ribcage, slicing through muscle and lung with a wet, grating sound. The man jerked violently, blood soaking through his shirt in thick, hot pulses.

Jason held him there, chest to back, until the body went limp. He let the corpse ease down gently, like lowering a heavy coat onto the ground.

The second guard stood by the rooftop door, a cigarette glowing in the dark like a tiny beacon of stupidity. Jason didn't bother with stealth this time.

One suppressed round.

The bullet punched through the man's temple, his skull bursting like a cracked egg against the brick. The cigarette slipped from his fingers and landed in a puddle of blood, sizzling faintly as the ember drowned.

Inside, it was even worse.

The Bertinelli enforcers lounged like they owned the world, boozing, betting, laughing over cards. The air inside stank of cheap liquor, body odor, and cigar smoke.

The furniture was worn, the wallpaper peeling, a mockery of sophistication now reduced to mold-stained corners and flickering lights.

They didn't notice the red-helmeted figure slip into the room, the soft clunk of metal boots muffled by the hum of their laughter.

Until the first grenade hit the floor.

"Fire in the hole," Jason muttered, voice low and casual, like he was announcing dinner.

The explosion tore through the room with a sound that cracked the walls and shattered the past.

A brutal symphony of flame and fragmentation. One enforcer was obliterated, just meat and heat and screaming remnants. Another staggered back, clutching the jagged edge of metal buried in his throat, blood pouring from his mouth as his legs buckled beneath him.

Then came the gunfire.

Jason was in motion before the smoke even cleared. His Twin Pistols roared with each pull of the trigger, muzzle flashes painting his armor in flickers of gold and red.

A bullet caught one thug mid-sentence, tearing his jaw clean off, teeth and gore spraying across the table in a pink mist.

Another shot struck home just above the brow, the man's head snapping back as the exit wound painted the wall behind him in a grotesque mural.

One tried to run. Didn't make it.

The last with any fight in him charged with a switchblade and a death wish. Jason sidestepped, fluid and fast, grabbing the man's wrist mid-swing. Bone cracked with a sickening crunch as Jason twisted.

The scream that followed was cut off when he drove the knife into the man's throat, steel sawing through cartilage and windpipe. He twisted the blade, then ripped it free. A geyser of blood sprayed across the wall like graffiti.

Silence fell.

Only one man remained, trembling behind an overturned table, curled in on himself like a rat in a trap. The bookkeeper.

Round face pale, eyes wide, his pants dark with piss. He looked up and found only the smooth, blank gaze of the red helmet staring back.

Jason reached over the table, grabbed the man by the collar, and hauled him to his feet.

"You live," he said, voice cold and guttural through the modulator. "You go to Sofia Falcone. You tell her the Red Hood owns this turf now. If she steps one toe across the line, she burns with the rest."

He shoved the man forward.

The bookkeeper stumbled over a corpse, nearly face-planting in a pool of blood, but kept going, slipping and scrambling, his panicked sobs echoing off the corridor walls until they disappeared into the night.

Jason stood amidst the carnage—shell casings littering the floor, smoke hanging in the air like a curtain, blood creeping across cracked tiles. He exhaled slowly, the sound barely audible beneath the soft hiss of his helmet's filters.

With smooth, practiced hands, he reloaded his pistols, each click and snap deliberate, methodical.

Phase one was done.

A message had been sent.

Gotham would learn.
And Gotham would fear the Red Hood.

- - -

The night air still hung heavy with the scent of smoke, gunpowder, and something else—something older, like rot buried under concrete, unearthed too suddenly. The silence that followed wrapped around the streets like a thick, suffocating oil slick, too dense to cut through.

Gotham didn't just fall quiet—it recoiled, as though the city itself was trying to forget what had just taken place. Word always traveled fast in Gotham, but this... this wasn't just another hit or turf war.

This was a statement. And the first poor soul burdened with carrying it was the Bertinelli bookkeeper—one of the few who staggered out of that slaughterhouse alive. Not spared by luck. Not by mercy. But by deliberate choice.

He reached the safehouse hours later, looking less like a man and more like a shell wearing human skin. His steps were jagged, mechanical, like each movement had to be forced through a wall of invisible resistance.

The blood on his clothes wasn't his, but the weight of it pressed down like guilt made tangible. He stank of death and panic, and when he opened his mouth to speak, his voice was paper-thin, brittle from too many screams swallowed whole.

"Red Hood," he said, more to the air than to Arturo, who sat across the table. "Red mask. There wasn't a warning—just shots. Screams. Bones. Blood everywhere. It—he didn't stop. Not once."

His hands trembled uncontrollably. The empty space between his fingers seemed to shake more than the flesh itself, as if even the air refused to stay still around him, almost shivering. Arturo said nothing.

The acting head of the fractured Bertinelli operation sat stiff-backed in a leather chair, arms crossed over a pressed shirt rolled at the sleeves.

His face was clean-shaven, square-jawed and prematurely weathered. He was young for the role he carried, but his eyes, had already buried more men than his age would suggest.

When the man finished his recount, Arturo didn't speak. Not immediately. He looked past the bookkeeper for a beat, his eyes hard and calculating. Then, without a word, he reached for the phone resting beside a spread of photos and tactical maps.

He dialed.

Miles away, beneath the dimmed glow of antique sconces and behind walls that had heard more secrets than prayers, Sofia Falcone sat at the far end of a long, polished oak table.

She held a porcelain espresso cup delicately between two fingers, her knuckles rough and calloused despite the manicured control in her movements.

Her presence filled the room before her voice ever did. Even seated, she radiated dominance—the type not taught, but bred.

The heavy velvet curtains behind her held back the city's cold light, casting the room in hues of amber and shadows. Somewhere in the background, a vinyl record played a low, melancholy jazz tune, something her father used to spin.

She answered the call.

"Arturo," she greeted flatly, no warmth, just recognition.

He spoke. Slowly, methodically, walking her through every detail, his voice low, but tense.

As he spoke, her expression didn't change, not at first. But her eyes… those eyes narrowed like a blade being drawn, their amber flecks flickering under the glow of the sconces. Not with surprise, but something deeper. Intrigue. Irritation. Thought.

When he was done, silence stretched across the line like a wire pulled taut.

Sofia set her espresso cup down with calm precision, the tiny click of porcelain against wood echoing like a punctuation mark. She leaned back slightly, resting her thick forearms on the carved arms of the chair.

"So…" she said at last, her voice smoky and low, like gravel soaked in whiskey. "This Red Hood decided to play butcher."

She reached across the table and retrieved a cigarette case, flipping it open with one thumb. The silver glinted, etched with the Falcone family crest—an heirloom of brutal legacy.

She lit the cigarette with a flick of her father's old lighter, its flame dancing briefly in the dimness before dying into a spiral of rising smoke.

"And he left the bookkeeper alive," she continued, exhaling through her nose like a dragon choosing not to incinerate. "How considerate."

The room shifted. Subtle, but palpable.

Two of her lieutenants, seated nearby in the low chairs, exchanged a glance—silent but bristling. One tapped the edge of his phone nervously against his leg. The other froze mid-scroll. No one dared to interject.

"You say they didn't stand a chance?" she murmured, though she already knew the answer. "Of course they didn't. Those men were on my orders. It was a hand-off. Peaceful. Bertinelli turf, but I let them hold their corner—out of respect."

She drew on her cigarette again, eyes never leaving the swirling smoke. Ash fell into a cut crystal tray like snowflakes landing on marble.

"And this masked dog storms in, guns down six of our people—our people, like they were nothing. Then leaves one breathing just long enough to whisper the tale into your ears."

Her tone never rose. That was the terrifying part. She didn't need to shout. Her anger was the kind that didn't burn—it crushed.

Sofia rose slowly from her chair. Every movement deliberate, echoing the silence of the estate. She was tall, built broad across the shoulders, shaped by years of training and war disguised as business. The kind of woman whose strength didn't have to be visible to be felt.

She walked to the nearest window, pulling back the curtain just enough to glimpse Gotham's twisted beauty in the distance. The city flickered in the night like a fire that refused to die, all glitter and menace.

"I doubt someone like that makes accidents," she said, almost thoughtfully. "He didn't spare that man for mercy. He left him alive so we'd know. So I'd know."

On the speakerphone, Arturo's voice buzzed in again, quieter now. "Currently, his whereabouts are unknown. Say the word and we would scatter across the city in search of this guy."

Sofia stood in stillness for a moment longer, then turned and crushed the cigarette into the tray.

"No," she said softly, but the finality in her tone sliced through the room in stillness.

Arturo hesitated. Even her lieutenants looked up, eyes narrowed in disbelief.

"We don't react," she said, walking slowly back to her seat. "Not like amateurs. That's exactly what he's baiting. Fury. Recklessness. And we don't give that. Not to ghosts with guns."

She picked up the receiver this time, resting her elbow on the table. Her tone shifted, colder, clearer, every word honed like steel against whetstone.

"I want eyes. Everywhere he's been in the last six months. Every port. Every contact. Every shithole bar that might remember his name. I want patterns. I want pressure points. Find out why he's targeting us now—what made him believe the Falcones were open for business."

She paused, then added with lethal softness: "And Arturo… keep the bookkeeper alive. I want him breathing, blinking, and surrounded. Document everything. Red Hood left him for a reason, and I want to know if he's just the messenger—or the fuse."

She hung up before he could respond.

The room stood frozen in her wake, the record having spun to silence, letting the soft, living hum of the city fill the space between breaths. One of her lieutenants finally dared to speak.

"You think it's personal?" he asked, voice pitched low, almost a whisper.

Sofia turned her gaze toward him. She didn't smile, but the ghost of one touched her lips—tight, humorless, and dangerous.

"In this city?" she murmured, her stare lingering in the shadows along the wall. "Everything's personal."

Then, without fanfare, she poured herself another espresso, steady as a heartbeat.

The massacre hadn't just taken lives—it had drawn a battle line across Gotham's underworld. And soon, Red Hood would learn that crossing the Falcones wasn't a challenge.

It was an invitation for his own demise.