The Man And The Hood

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

The air inside the abandoned warehouse was thick with the smell of oil, rust, and stale blood. The dim flickering overhead lights cast long, jagged shadows across the cold concrete floor. The walls, once pristine and sturdy, were now cracked, scrawled with graffiti and streaked with the remnants of forgotten fights. Old machinery lay dormant in the corners, their iron frames twisted and covered in a layer of grime.







The battered and bloodied young man lay on the cold, hard ground, his hands tied tightly behind his back. He groaned in pain, his bruised body trembling under the flickering light of the dimly lit warehouse. Towering above him was the grinning menace of Gotham, the Joker. Dressed in his signature purple suit, the mad clown exuded an aura of pure malice.







The victim, none other than Robin, groaned in agony, his head snapping to the side as fresh blood trickled from his split lip.







His once-bright green tights were now stained with dark crimson, the blood seeping from countless cuts and abrasions that covered his chest, legs, and face. His mask, now ripped in several places, hung loosely around his face, exposing the raw, swollen skin beneath. His breath was shallow, the pain in his chest making it hard to draw air. Each breath seemed to send a wave of agony through his body, and his vision blurred from the damage.











Above him, standing like a twisted specter, was the Joker—dressed in his signature purple suit, his green hair unkempt, and his lips pulled into a manic, bloodstained grin. His eyes gleamed with sadistic pleasure as he surveyed his work, the cruel glow in his gaze never wavering. The Joker was in his element here—this broken, dilapidated place, with its rusting remains of a once-thriving factory, now the backdrop to his chaotic kingdom.











"Well, well, well, what do we have here?" The Joker's voice dripped with mock concern as he crouched down, his face inches from Jason's. His gloved hand twirled a crowbar casually in his fingers. "You're a mess, little bird. Looks like Gotham's new favourite sidekick is finally learning the true meaning of pain."







Jason's bloodshot eyes flickered open, and his lips parted as he tried to speak, but the words came out in a strained rasp. "Y-you… bastard…"











The Joker's grin widened, his pale face lighting up with twisted joy. "Oh, that's cute! That's real cute." The Joker's hand swung the crowbar down with brutal precision, slamming it into Jason's jaw with a sickening crack. Jason's head jerked to the side as blood poured from the split in his lip, and a harsh cough wracked his body.











"Ow, that's gotta hurt," the Joker sang, almost in delight, his voice high and mocking. "But don't worry, this is just the beginning. We're going to have so much fun together."







The Joker moved around Jason like a predator circling its prey, each step deliberate, filled with malice. He stood behind Jason, dragging the tip of the crowbar along the ground with a sharp scrape, the sound sending a chill down Jason's spine. "You know, your predecessor—what was his name again? Oh, yes, Boy Blonder! That batty little rat had a bit more fight in him. He was a bit more of a challenge." The Joker's voice dropped, turning venomous. "But you? You're just… well, you're a disappointment."











Jason tried to push through the agony, trying to lift himself up, but the pain from his ribs and the gash in his side was too much. The Joker's words—twisted and mocking—stung worse than the crowbar ever could. The Joker wasn't just hurting him physically. He was attacking everything Jason stood for.







"Come on, pumpkin," the Joker's voice was now syrupy sweet, and before Jason could react, the crowbar came down again, landing on his forearm with a brutal THWACK that sent waves of pain coursing through his body. The bones in his arm shattered, and he let out a ragged scream, his body convulsing in response.







"Wow, that looks like it really hurts," the Joker said, his tone dripping with sarcastic sympathy. He tilted his head, feigning concern as he crouched slightly to get a better look at his victim's battered face. Then, with a sudden burst of manic energy, he swung the crowbar in his hand, delivering a brutal blow to the young man's already swollen jaw.











The Joker stood back, observing his handiwork with an almost childlike curiosity. "Hang on, that looks like it hurts a lot more," he remarked, patting the crowbar against his gloved palm. His grin widened as a gleeful glint sparked in his eyes.







"Okay, let's try and clear this up, pumpkin," he continued, the mocking endearment hanging in the air like a venomous taunt. He raised the crowbar high above his head, the motion slow and deliberate. "Which hurts more, hmm?"











Robin barely had time to react before the metal came crashing down again.







"A?" the Joker asked, his voice sing-song as he delivered another merciless strike. "Or B?" Another savage blow followed, each one accompanied by the sickening crunch of bone and muscle giving way.







"Forearm?" He swung the crowbar like a baseball bat, the force making Robin's arm buckle awkwardly.







THUD.











"Or backhand?" The next hit landed squarely on Robin's ribs, forcing a pained gasp from his cracked lips.







THWACK.







The Joker leaned back and surveyed Robin's pitiful form, his own face splitting into a wide, maniacal grin. "Decisions, decisions," he mused, chuckling as if he'd just told the punchline to a hilarious joke.







Robin's face was barely recognizable, swollen and smeared with blood. His body trembled as he tried to speak, his voice reduced to a faint mumble.











The Joker leaned in close, placing a hand to his ear theatrically. "Ehh, ehh, ehh… you gotta speak louder, lambchop!" he jeered, his breath hot against Robin's ear. He studied the boy with mock pity, tilting his head. "You know, I think you might have a collapsed lung. That always impedes the oratory."







With a deranged chuckle, the Joker reached out and ran his gloved fingers through Robin's blood-matted hair. But Robin, summoning what little strength he had left, spat a mouthful of blood into the Joker's face.











The clown prince froze, his grin faltering for just a moment. Then, his expression twisted into something far darker.







"Now that," he said, his voice low and venomous, "was rude." Without hesitation, he grabbed Robin by the hair and slammed his face into the cold, hard ground. The impact sent a fresh wave of blood splattering across the concrete.











Straightening himself, the Joker reached into the pocket of his suit and pulled out a crisp white handkerchief. He dabbed at his face, shaking his head in mock disappointment. "The first Boy Blunder had some manners, you know," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.







Despite the unbearable pain coursing through his body, Robin managed a weak, defiant smile. It was enough to reignite the Joker's fury.











"I suppose," the Joker said, drawing out the words as he tapped the crowbar against his chin, "I'm going to have to teach you some manners. You should learn to follow in his footsteps." He paused, pretending to consider the idea before waving it off with a dismissive laugh.







"Nah," he said, his smile returning, this time more sinister than ever. "I'm just going to keep beating you with this crowbar."











Jason's vision blurred as the pain threatened to overtake him. But even as darkness crept into the edges of his mind, there was one thought that lingered: he wasn't done yet. He wouldn't go down like this. Not by the hands of this monster. He couldn't.







The Joker's smile grew wider as he raised the crowbar high. Jason's body was on the verge of collapse as the beating continued, each strike punctuated by the Joker's unhinged laughter. The sound echoed through the empty warehouse, a chilling symphony of madness and cruelty that seemed to stretch on forever.











***











[Ra's al Ghul's POV]







Ra's al Ghul's sharp gaze turned toward his assistant as he strode into the room with an air of tension that mirrored the night outside. The man held a tablet displaying the latest update on the operation Ra's had so meticulously planned. Despite the apparent success of their objective, there was no word from their unpredictable ally, Joker—only the chilling report that Batman's protégé had been abducted.











"What is it?" Ra's asked, his voice calm yet edged with a dangerous curiosity.







The assistant hesitated for a moment, clearly reluctant to deliver bad news to his formidable master. "I'm afraid it's as you feared, sir," he said, bowing his head slightly.











Ra's turned from him, walking slowly to the massive window at the far end of the room. The ancient glass panes framed a view of the vast mountain range, their peaks cloaked in darkness and dusted with fresh snow. The night was cold, unforgiving, and utterly silent—much like Ra's himself when his plans went awry. He clasped his hands behind his back, his posture commanding despite the weight of the situation.







"And the Detective?" he asked, his tone betraying only a flicker of concern.











The assistant shifted uncomfortably. "On his way," he replied, his voice tight. "But I fear he won't arrive in time, sir. The boy… well, the situation appears dire."







Ra's exhaled slowly, his breath fogging slightly against the chill radiating from the glass. He shut his eyes, his expression unreadable. "Let us hope he does," he said, his voice low and contemplative.















Though his face betrayed no emotion, Ra's mind was racing. This wasn't how things were meant to unfold. He had anticipated chaos when aligning himself with the Joker—madness and bloodshed were always part of the clown's repertoire—but he had never intended for the young one to be caught in the crossfire. This was not his way, not his style. The boy had potential, after all, and Ra's was nothing if not a man who recognized the value of untapped greatness.



















The assistant lingered in the doorway, unsure whether to speak or leave. Ra's sensed his hesitation and, without turning, dismissed him with a single wave of his hand. The man bowed slightly before retreating, leaving Ra's alone with his thoughts.











The snowfall outside thickened, the flakes swirling like restless ghosts under the pale moonlight. Ra's opened his eyes and studied the scene, a rare twinge of doubt tugging at his otherwise unshakable confidence. The Detective, Batman, had faced countless trials before and emerged victorious. But tonight, Ra's wasn't sure if even the Dark Knight could outpace the merciless clock ticking against him.











Joker was a dangerous gamble, a force of chaos that could never truly be controlled. Ra's had known this when he struck the deal, but desperation had clouded his judgment. Now, the consequences of that choice weighed heavily, not only on him but on the life of a boy who should never have been dragged into the depths of this madness.











As the moments passed, Ra's remained still, staring into the storm. For the first time in years, he felt a pang of regret—not for himself, but for the Detective. If Batman failed, it wouldn't just be his protégé who paid the price. It would be another crack in the fragile balance between order and chaos, one that even Ra's al Ghul might not be able to mend.











......







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[aymdrim]

you inverted your intro and your 1st chapter otherwise pretty good , for a beginning

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

you inverted your intro and your 1st chapter otherwise pretty good , for a beginning

Click to shrink...

Thanks for bringing my attention to it.

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

[After a while into the beating…]











It was quiet. Too quiet.







The kind of silence that seemed to seep into the bones, chilling the marrow, as though the world itself had decided to hold its breath. The only sound that cut through the stillness was the frantic, pounding thrum of Jason Todd's heartbeat. It hammered in his skull, relentless, a grim reminder that life was slipping from him with each tortured beat.











His vision was a crimson blur—his blood, thick and sticky, dripping steadily from the gash on his forehead. His face felt cold, but the pain was an inferno. His limbs ached like they were being torn apart, each breath a struggle, ragged and shallow as if his lungs were too broken to draw in air properly. He could feel the weight of his own body, the oppressive pressure of his wounds, and yet, all that registered in his mind was the pounding of his heart, each throb louder than the last, louder than everything else.











Somewhere, far away but painfully close, there was the sound of footsteps, slow and deliberate, echoing in the hollow vastness of the abandoned warehouse. The faintest hint of a presence that Jason could not escape. His eyes, barely open, flicked toward the source, but his blurred vision offered little clarity. What he could make out, though, was enough.











The Joker stood over Jason like a predator inspecting its prey, a wide, sickening grin stretched across his face. Bloodied and battered, Jason could barely lift his head to acknowledge him, but the Joker didn't seem to mind.











"Been fun, hasn't it, kiddo?" The Joker's voice was disturbingly casual, as though he were speaking to an old acquaintance, not someone he'd just beaten within an inch of their life. His eyes sparkled with perverse delight as he casually twirled a bloodied crowbar between his gloved fingers. The sound of it scraping against the floor made Jason's skin crawl, but there was no strength left in him to even flinch.











Joker's laugh—high-pitched and unnervingly cheerful—rang through the warehouse. "Aw, don't be like that, Boy Blonder. Giving me the cold shoulder already?" His grin deepened, and he straightened his tie with exaggerated flair, savoring the moment like it was a fine wine. "Maybe this wasn't as fun for you as it was for me, but hey, you can't win 'em all."











Jason's body was a wreck. His limbs were stiff, his muscles screaming in agony with every slow, deliberate move he managed to make. He couldn't feel his fingers anymore, only the dull throb of the brutal hits to his chest and ribs. His breath came in strained, panicked gasps, a struggle to stay conscious.











Joker ignored him now, his hands moving to adjust his coat, speaking as though Jason were simply an afterthought. "Anyway, be a good little soldier. Finish your homework, and don't forget to brush your teeth before bed. Oh, and tell Batsy I said… hello." His words were soaked in mocking affection, as though he were a warped, twisted father bidding his son farewell. The laughter bubbled up again, echoing off the crumbling walls, bouncing around the cold, empty space like a maniacal choir.







With a theatrical flourish, Joker swept his coat over his shoulders, the fabric swirling dramatically in the air. His steps toward the door were slow and deliberate, each one a final punctuation mark to the twisted performance. And then, just as quickly, the heavy door slammed shut, and the sound of footsteps faded away into nothingness, leaving Jason alone in the stark, cold silence.







Jason's body trembled as he struggled to push himself up, the effort overwhelming his senses. His hands, still cuffed behind his back, scraped against the cold concrete floor. Every inch of him felt like it was unraveling, but still, he fought against the overwhelming fatigue, the pain that threatened to crush him.











He rolled onto his side, gasping for air, each movement sending shockwaves through his ravaged body. His right hand reached for the cuffs, twisting painfully as he tried to bring them to the front. His face, streaked with blood, was a mask of exhaustion and determination. He would not die here. Not like this.







Every movement was an eternity. Jason managed to get his hands in front of him and pushed himself to his feet, his legs shaky, like they might collapse at any moment. His mind raced, desperate for a plan, for a way out, but his body betrayed him. He stumbled, barely able to catch his balance, before crashing to the ground with a sickening thud, his head slamming against the cold concrete.











But Jason Todd was nothing if not stubborn. He dragged himself, inch by inch, his arms trembling with the effort. Each movement was a struggle, his blood pooling beneath him as he left a crimson trail across the warehouse floor. Every inch forward felt like it could be his last, but he refused to stop. Not when the man who had done this to him was still out there. Not when there was still a chance to survive.











Through the haze of pain, a faint sound reached his ears—a low, mechanical beeping. His eyes, unfocused and blurry, darted around the room. He couldn't see it at first, but then… a faint shape, hidden under a tarp, caught his attention. A crate. And with it, the ticking of a timer.







His blood ran cold as he crawled toward the source. With trembling hands, he yanked away the tarp, revealing a cluster of dynamite sticks, wired to a timer counting down—ten seconds. Jason's heart skipped a beat.











He froze. Time seemed to stretch out around him, each second stretching into eternity, mocking him with its inevitability. His hands trembled as he reached for the timer, but there was nothing he could do. He couldn't disarm it. He couldn't escape.







Closing his eyes, Jason let out a shuddering breath, as if willing the pain to disappear, willing the world to stop spinning. He had fought. He had given everything. And now, there was nothing left but the inevitable.







Outside, Batman's motorcycle roared to a halt in front of the warehouse, its tires skidding on the icy ground. His cowl hidden the grimace of worry etched on his face, but his eyes were locked on the tracker blinking in his radar, showing him Jason's last known location. He was close—he had to be close.











He sprinted toward the door, urgency driving every step, but just as he reached for the handle, the ground shook beneath him. The explosion was deafening, a violent roar that ripped through the night and tore the building apart. The heat of the blast burned through the cold air, and the shockwave sent Batman crashing backward, his body slamming into the snow.







The warehouse erupted in flames, the sky now illuminated by the inferno, the fire curling up into the blackness above, roaring as though the very heavens themselves had opened in fury. For a moment, everything was still. Silent.







But then, slowly, the sound of debris settling and the crackling of fire was all that remained. Jason Todd was gone.



"Jason!" Batman's voice cut through the stillness, ragged and desperate, as he leapt to his feet and charged toward the charred remnants of the warehouse. His cape billowed behind him, but it was the sound of his boots striking the debris that filled the air—the only sign of his presence in the midst of the roaring flames.



The fire crackled, sending waves of heat into the night, but Bruce paid it no mind. His hands bled as he dug through the wreckage, recklessly scraping at the broken beams. His gloves were slick with soot and blood—his own, perhaps, but more so from the boy he had failed to save. His heart thudded in his chest with every passing second, each beat pulling him deeper into the vortex of guilt that seemed to threaten to swallow him whole.



"Jason!" he called again, his voice hoarse with emotion. The flames hissed and popped around him, but he couldn't stop. He wouldn't stop.



And then, through the smoke and chaos, he found him.



Jason's body lay limp beneath a pile of twisted metal and shattered concrete. His face was ghostly pale, streaked with blood, his eyes closed in eternal stillness. His once vibrant, rebellious spirit was now a faint echo in the shadows. Batman's breath caught in his throat as he knelt beside him, his hands trembling as they gently cradled the boy who had once been his son.



"Oh no…" The words slipped from Bruce's lips in a broken whisper. The weight of his failure pressed down on him like a leaden cloak. He had failed to protect him, to keep him safe, and now there was nothing left but the crushing reality of loss.



He lifted Jason's body with the careful tenderness of a father, his own emotions threatening to tear him apart. "Jason…" His voice cracked, the sound raw and filled with an anguish he had buried for so long. It was too much. It was always too much.





***



Later, Bruce stood outside the morgue, the night heavy with the scent of rain. He had brought Jason's body there under the guise of his civilian identity, Bruce Wayne—donating a large sum to ensure no questions were asked, no details revealed. The cause of death was registered simply as "explosion." The world would never know the truth of what had happened. But Bruce knew. And that knowledge, that brutal truth, would haunt him forever.





At Wayne Manor, Alfred, Barbara, and Dick gathered in the study, their faces grim, their hearts heavy with the weight of the tragedy. Bruce sat in silence, his head bowed, his hands pressed against his face. The clock ticked on, indifferent to the storm of emotions brewing within him.





Alfred, ever the steady presence, placed a gentle hand on Bruce's shoulder, offering the only comfort he could. "There was nothing you could have done," he said softly, his voice full of quiet understanding. "You didn't know he would be in Bosnia."



Bruce shook his head slowly, his voice barely a whisper as he spoke through clenched teeth. "For someone who's lost so many, you'd think I'd be used to it by now. But I'm not." His chest tightened with the weight of his grief, his failure. "I failed him, Alfred. I should've protected him."



Alfred said nothing more, simply allowing the silence to settle around them. Sometimes, there were no words that could ease the pain.



Dick, restless and torn between his own grief and the need for answers, stepped forward, his face a mixture of confusion and barely contained anger. "What exactly happened in Bosnia?" His voice was sharp, his frustration evident. "How did a mission tracking Ra's al Ghul lead to... this?"





Barbara, her eyes fierce despite her wheelchair, rolled closer to Bruce, her hand resting lightly on the arm of his chair. Her voice was calm but firm, a reminder to them all of the strength that remained even in the face of overwhelming loss. "Not now, Dick," she said, her words cutting through the tension that had thickened in the room. "This isn't your fault, Bruce. You did everything you could."



Bruce didn't respond. He couldn't. He didn't have the strength to explain, to confront the questions that gnawed at him. He stood in silence, the weight of his failure settling deeper within him, suffocating him in the shadows of his own mind.



Without a word, he turned and walked toward the staircase. The quiet hum of the house, the faint murmur of his family behind him—none of it could drown out the voices in his head, the haunting echo of the Joker's laughter that still reverberated in his ears. The laughter that had led them here. To this point of no return.



As he ascended the stairs, his footsteps heavy with guilt and grief, the voices below him faded into a distant hum, drowned out by the cold, relentless sound of his own heartbeat.



And Jason's absence, more deafening than any laugh, echoed through the hollow halls of Wayne Manor.









.......





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