The Man And The Hood

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

Anatoli Knyazev.

KG Beast. Red Hood sized him up, running a mental check against the notes he'd read from Batman's files back when he was still Robin.

Cybernetic enhancements, trained as an assassin by "The Hammer," a top secret cell of the KGB. In addition to being a master of several martial arts, his strength was cybernetically enhanced, and was also said to have mastered the use of every deadly weapon known to man.

This wanna-be cyborg, once cut off his own damn hand to escape a trap rather than surrender. Yeah, Jason knew he had to tread carefully here.

And with him involved in this scheme which has ensnared Red Hood, Black Mask suddenly had the upper hand for the first time in this whole bloody scuffle."Weapons. On the floor," Beast ordered, his voice rough, low, and with a foreign accent. Jason tilted his head, playing it cool.

He reached for one of his pistols with exaggerated slowness, then slipped the sheathed sword off his back. "The knief too, slowly," Beast added, his arm twitching as if itching to fire. Jason let it all clatter onto the ground, deliberately flicking this hands behind him instead of handing them over.

The metals clinked against the floorboards.

"Whoops," he said with his tone light and mocking. "That was intentional. He asked you to—"

"You really are as pathetic as I figured," Jason lazily cut in, disrupting Black Mask's rant.

"Glad I could confirm it face-to-face." He added. Black Mask's head snapped toward him, fury practically radiating off his body.

"What the fuck are you on about? I've got you bleeding out, trapped, with a goddamn submachine gun pointed at your skull." Red Hood's voice dropped lower, smoother, with an increase to his cocky tone.

"Exactly. And even with all that, you still look like you're a mile away from me. Scared. Does the sight of me really get under your skin that much?" That hit home.

Black Mask's grip on the gun twitched, and rage started taking the wheel. "You asshole, I'll show you what happens to low lives like you who think you can fuck with me. I'll show you pain before I kill you." He stormed forward, every step of his was fueled by pride and anger even though some part of him clearly knew better.

He stopped just shy of Jason, close enough to spit in his face but not close enough to take the swing. "See?" Jason's voice sharpened, his tone rising with every word.

"Shut up, I have the upper hand here." Black Mask began, "You couldn't even help yourself. So tell me, why the hell do you think you could tear through my business? And even dare fuck with my money? Why slaughter my men like pigs in a pen? What do you gain?" His voice built and built until he was practically yelling the last bit.

"Why don't you ask him?" Jason jerked his head toward KG Beast.

"Huh?" Black Mask spun around, confused, looking for an answer. Beast just shrugged—flat, expressionless, shoulders moving like chunks of muscles.

"What the hell are you—" The Red Hood moved.

Quick as a whip crack. The crowbar was in his hand and hooked around Black Mask's belt before the man even realized what was happening.

One savage yank, and Black Mask was ripped off balance, dragged into Red Hood's waiting arm. KG Beast froze up—he couldn't risk firing without putting a bullet straight through his contractor. Red Hood spun him tight, clamping an arm around his throat in a chokehold.

The crowbar hit the ground with a dull clang, swapped for his second pistol, now pressed hard against Black Mask's skull. "One twitch," Jason growled, "and the walls are getting a new paint job. Trust me, it ain't gonna be a pretty one." He pressed the gun against his head.

"Don't move!" Black Mask barked at Beast, real fear leaking through his anger. He tried to sound tough but it cracked at the edges.

"I know you—you'd do it. That's why you came here. But what happens when he fills you full of holes the second you pull the trigger, huh?" Jason tilted his helmet, casual as if they were discussing the weather. "Do you even have to ask? I'll use you as a meatshield and walk out alive."

The truth was uglier. Red Hood could already feel the blood loss making him sluggish, his muscles heavy, his vision starting to fuzz.

He didn't have long before he lost his edge. He had to wrap this up now. "Where are my manners?" Jason said suddenly with a smooth voice, almost mockingly.

Black Mask blinked. "What?"

"You must be wondering how much I'm enjoying this little present of yours." Jason shoved him forward. "Why don't you find out?"

"Wait—what are you—" Black Mask stumbled, foot crashing down onto the hidden plate with a sharp snap.

CLANK.

The steel trap bit into his leg with a vicious bite, metal teeth sinking deep.The scream tore out of him through his lungs as blood gushed instantly, his body convulsing with pain as he tried to fight it but couldn't. He clenched his teeth so hard it was a wonder they didn't shatter, hands trembling as his knees gave out. "Kill this fucker!"

He bellowed at Beast, the words warped by agony were high-pitched and furious all at once. "The Beast might hit you. The objective will do anything to survive, including using you as a human meatshield." KG Beast's barrel never wavered, still aimed squarely at Red Hood.

Jason loosened his grip around Black Mask's neck, unwrapping the arm that had been holding him tight, though his pistol never left the obsidian skull pressed firmly against the man's head.

With his free hand, Jason reached back into the utility belt strapped around his waist. His gloved fingers fished out a small canister the size of his palm. A quick flick pulled the pin free, and he dropped the tear gas to the ground right between Black Mask and the hulking merc.

The canister hissed as smoke spilled out, thick and fast."Don't shoot, don't shoot," Black Mask croaked, panic instantly crawling into his voice. KG Beast hesitated, his mechanical eye narrowing, knowing exactly why he couldn't fire. If his contractor dies, so does the rest of his payment.The gas spread all over the room, curling upward and filling the space.

Black Mask coughed hard, his voice breaking between ragged gasps. His eyes watered, vision swimming as his throat burned. Already bleeding from the leg trap earlier, he looked a wreck—as his jaw clenched tight, his entire body twitching between pain and suffocation.

Red Hood, meanwhile, had already slipped back into the haze.KG Beast's cybernetic eye flickered red, shifting into infrared mode. A soft hum came from the implant as his vision recalibrated, picking up heat signatures through the fog.

He scanned the room, searching. Only one shape glowed bright through the smoke—Black Mask, collapsed to the floor, writhing in pain. No sign of Red Hood. He cursed under his breath and rushed to his employer, wondering how the Red Hood got away from the trap.

Dropping low, Beast pried open the steel trap still gnawing at Black Mask's leg. The metal teeth groaned and snapped as he forced them apart, pulling the jagged ends free. Black Mask screamed—loud and guttural, a howl of pure agony that ripped from his chest as fresh blood streamed down his shredded leg.

"Kill that son of a bitch," he rasped, his voice was cracked and wet from the gas. His hands trembled as he grabbed onto Beast's armored forearm, using it like a lifeline. KGB Beast tore a strip of Black Mask's tailored pants without hesitation, knotting it tightly around the wound.

The make shift tourniquet stemmed the bleeding for now. He shoved a half-empty bottle of whiskey into his boss's hand. "Keep pressure on it," he ordered, his voice sounding calm but clipped.

Black Mask tilted the bottle back, gulping hard between shallow breaths as the burn of alcohol mixing with the pain. Beast rose and switched his vision back, red glow in his eye dimming as his focus shifted toward the hallway. Blood trailed across the floor, dark streaks smeared like breadcrumbs leading straight out the door. Red Hood's earlier drops.

The mercenary followed the trail, his footsteps heavy and deliberate. The hallway stretched long, lined with fresh wallpaper and well polished flooring. The path led him to the end of the corridor, where a sharp right turn descended into a stairwell. The streaks of blood pooled at the corner, but stopped there, suddenly cut off.Beast raised his weapon first, cautious.

He edged around the corner, lowering his frame, scanning for heat, for sound.

Nothing. Just empty steps spiraling downward.

Then—Glass shattered behind him. The sound burst suddenly and violent, shards scattering across the floor. Beast's head snapped around, but too late.

Jason came swinging through the broken window, grapple line retracting fast. His boot—driven by the weight of his uninjured leg—slammed into Beast's chest like a battering ram.

The impact launched the mercenary backward. His massive body flipped, somersaulting down the stairwell, colliding with the steps in brutal thuds before crashing hard at the bottom.

Jason hit the floor, a wince flashing behind the helmet as pain shot up his injured leg. He dropped low against the wall, ripping open the last of his medical supplies. Shaking hands worked fast as he pulled up the leg of his pants, finishing the bandage job he'd rushed earlier with his foot bare.

The fabric pulled tight around the wound, clipped down, slowing the bleeding. The pain was still excrutiating, but at least the blood wouldn't cost him consciousness.

If it hadn't been for the enhancements that came with his time in the League, he'd be done already. No way he could've pried open that trap earlier, no way he could even be standing here now. Every move hurt, but adrenaline pushed him forward as he wore back his boot and dropped the leg of his combat pants.Still crouched, Jason dug out a small canister of disinfectant spray.

He misted it over the blood he'd left at the corner and down the hall, neutralizing the blood so it couldn't be traced to revealing his identity. He didn't stop there—he sprayed the puddle from the trap room too, even the one belonging to Black Mask. No evidence to trail.

He wasn't giving Beast any easy tracks.When he finished, he stepped back into the room. His pistol was out, barrel leveled at Black Mask's head. "Don't move, shithead." Roman Sionis, propped against the wall and clutching his leg, drained the last gulp of whiskey and let the bottle slip from his hand.

He stared at Red Hood, his lips twitching between a sneer and grimace with shallow breaths. "You don't want me dead," he said, his tone trying to sound confident but faintly roughed up at the edges. "If you did, you'd have pulled the trigger already."

"Not right now," Red Hood answered, his voice was flat but still sounded dangerous. "Killing you now wouldn't be satisfying. I've got an entire fantasy about how I'm going to end you. Slowly. I'll watch you beg, plead, scream. I'll peel you apart, strip your flesh piece by piece until you're nothing but a mash of nerves and muscles. A live human anatomy model. I'd skin you alive—but keep you breathing just enough."

Even behind the black mask, Jason saw his eyes widen, the flicker of real fear. Roman gulped hard, his throat bobbing. For once, the mighty Black Mask had nothing to say.

Red Hoodducked into cover as the sudden roar of automatic gunfire shredded the room, bullets tearing through plaster and splintering furniture.

The stream of fire carved lines across the walls, purposefully avoiding Roman.Black Mask's pulse spiked, his heart thundering as the reality began to set in. He was about to be caught in the crossfire between Red Hood and KG Beast. He needed out.

Using the wall as support, he pushed himself upright, limping toward the exit. He leapt, planting his hands and feet on either side of the frame, hauling himself up with surprising agility for a wounded man.

"Bring me his head," he hissed, voice shaking with fury as he glanced back at Beast. KG Beast paused his fire but didn't lower his weapon, his eye glowing faint as it tracked Red Hood's movements.

"If you'll excuse me," Roman muttered, half to himself, "I've got a business to run. Next time I see you, it'll be your head mounted on my office wall."

From behind the overturned table he was using as cover, Red Hood barked back. "You better watch your back, Roman. I'm coming for you. And when I do, no one in this city will be able to save you." Fear struck Roman upon those words, but he got a grip and limped out, leaving Beast and the Red Hood to their war. The gunfire started again.

Jason rolled to the side as bullets chewed through the spot where he'd just been. He tossed a pillow high into the air, the object catching Beast's attention. The mercenary's weapon swiveled toward it for a split second—long enough.

Jason shifted from another angle, slower than usual thanks to his leg, but trying to be precise. He fired. The bullet slammed into the barrel of Beast's cybernetic gun arm, sparks bursted out from the impact. Red Hood closed the distance, pushing straight into melee.

His movements were jagged, more out of raw grit than finesse. The clash of metal and fists echoed through the room as they traded blows Red Hood drove forward with his sword despite his leg, and Beast caught a glimpse of the red bat crest on Jason's chest plate. His lip curled into a sneer, as he bared his teeth.

"You're one of his boys." His voice was thick and hateful for someone who was known to be detatched, memories of Gotham's Dark Knight flashing across his mind.

Rage hardened his expression. "Batman owes The Beast an arm. Killing one of his sons will do just fine. Tonight, Red Hood shall fall to KG Beast."

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

"Your marksmanship is quite impressive—to be able to make that shot right into this gun's barrel. Like he cost me my arm, you also wish to take this one," the man growled, his thick accent wedging through the static tension in the air.

Jason tilted his head slightly, unbothered. The cracked fluorescent light above flickered, throwing shadows across the walls of the half-destroyed room.

The smell of gunpowder mixed with the faint scent of expensive perfume and blood. "Dude," Red Hood said dryly, "you have a fucking gun for an arm. Don't wrap me up in whatever beef you've got with Batman. Leave me out of it. I'm my own man, and I'm here for Black Mask. That's the only business I've got tonight—not fighting some half-robot psycho out for vengeance because he got his ass handed to him by someone else."

"Either way, orders have been given," the brute replied coldly, his single organic eye narrowing with murder in it. "Red Hood's death is already inevitable. Encountering one of his boys… is just an appetizing bonus. The Beast shall enjoy th—" He never finished.

In a flash of movement, Red Hood drove forward, planting his boot and twisting his hips into a thrust aimed right for KGBeast's heart. The air split with a high-pitched metallic shriek as a solid yet retractable blade shot out from beneath the Beast's cybernetic arm, deflecting Jason's sword mid-lunge with a shower of sparks.

The impact sent a metallic echo through the narrow hall, the force vibrating through Jason's forearm. He was shoved back, his boots skidding across the cracked tiles as KGBeast retaliated with a brutal swing from his mechanical arm.

Jason tried to sidestep, body instinctively coiling for a counter—but his right leg didn't respond fast enough. Pain lanced up his thigh like lightning, locking his movement for a crucial second.

The blade came down with a brutal whoosh, and Jason barely managed to block it with his sword, the clang ringing through his skull. The weight behind KGBeast's arm was monstrous—the gun, the metal, the sheer mechanical density—it all made every swing hit like a sledgehammer. Red Hood parried it, but the effort rattled through his bones.

He grit his teeth, switching tactics. Raising his pistol in one hand while steadying his sword with the other, he fired off a series of quick, controlled shots.

The muzzle flashes illuminated KGBeast's masked face and metal plating. But the brute deflected the bullets with terrifying precision, sparks scattering like fireflies as he deflected each round with his blade before lunging again.

Jason caught the movement, but this time he was slower—his balance off, his footwork sluggish. KGBeast's diagonal upward strike was too fast to evade. Jason raised his blade to block, but the motion left him wide open on his flank.

He tried to pull the trigger again—to shoot the bastard point blank—but KGBeast's attack came first. The metal arm connected with the side of his helmet in a crushing blow.

The world tilted violently. Jason's shot went wild as pain exploded behind his eyes. Before he could recover, KGBeast's heavy boot slammed into his chest, launching him backward.

Jason crashed through the bathroom door with a deafening crack, shattering ceramic tiles and splintering the mirror behind him. Shards scattered across the floor like glass rain. He groaned, pain crawling up his ribs as he lay amid the wreckage, his breathing ragged inside the helmet.

'The longer this fight goes on… the worse it'll get,' he thought, forcing himself up with one arm. He glanced down at his leg. The makeshift bandage from earlier had already failed; blood seeped through the fabric, dark and wet. His emergency patch-up wasn't holding anymore.

Footsteps echoed from beyond the doorway—heavy, deliberate, and sounding like bad omen.

KGBeast's shadow stretched across the tiles before his frame appeared, filling the narrow entryway like a statue.

"Your old man put up more of a fight," KGBeast sneered with his voice low and guttural. "To think you could face the Beast in that condition... pathetic. Either you're too cocky to run, or you really do have a death wish. Either way, tonight shall be the end of the Red Hood."

He advanced slowly, the dull metallic thuds of his steps mingling with the faint dripping from the busted sink. The air felt tighter with each stride, heavy with the smell of gun oil and dust.

"Come out, boy," he mocked, tilting his head. "It's too cramped in there. This fight could end much quicker if the Beast were to bash your skull against the tiled wall." His voice oozed arrogance, his grin attempting to break through and cause Jason to fall into despire.

Jason exhaled through his teeth, his voice calm and casual. "Don't get too cocky. If not for my busted leg, this would've been over ages ago. Old man."

He wasn't bluffing—just stalling. Shooting directly at KGBeast now would be useless. The bastard could react fast enough, interrupt his aim, or just block it entirely with that metal arm. Every bullet would just be wasted unless he used them smartly—like bait. That was how he'd managed to disable the gun-arm earlier: by catching him off guard with precise aim. But now the bastard knew better.

Jason's gaze flicked briefly to the arm, realizing the faint mechanical hum had changed pitch.

"Hah… much better," KGBeast's voice came again, low and confident. Then the sharp, mechanical click of a reload broke the silence.

Jason's eyes widened beneath his helmet as he realized—the son of a bitch had fixed his weaponized arm.

The sound of rapid gunfire tore through the night air, ripping apart the tense silence as red-hot bullets shredded the bathroom walls. Dust, plaster, and broken tile burst outward in violent sprays while smoke clouded the room . Each impact echoed with a sharp metallic ping, the noise reverberating through the building's narrow halls.

KGBeast finally stopped firing after what felt like an eternity. The smoking barrel of his cybernetic arm hummed with heat, faintly glowing beneath its scorched plating. He exhaled slowly, lowering the arm with mechanical ease. The silence that followed was unnerving—only the faint hiss of settling dust and the distant hum of the city beyond the shattered window filled the air.

He started toward the bathroom, boots crunching over debris. He leaned his weight against the doorframe, cautious, his single eye scanning the ruin inside.

Was it over? Did he finally put the Red Hood down for good?

He expected to see the vigilante sprawled across the floor—bleeding out, maybe twitching from shock, or at least hiding behind the busted tub. But instead, the room was empty. The mirror was shattered, the sink cracked in half, and fragments of porcelain littered the floor. Water trickled from a broken pipe, collecting into small puddles that reflected the faint glow of the room's light.

Red Hood was nowhere in sight.

The floor was clear. The window—far too small for any grown man to crawl through. That only left one possibility.

"Above…" KGBeast muttered under his breath.

His instincts kicked in a split second too late. As he tilted his head upward, his one good eye met the faint red glow from Red Hood's visor. Jason was pressed flat against the ceiling, muscles strained as he held himself up. His injured leg braced against the upper frame of a cabinet, the other foot dug into the wall for leverage. In his right hand, he'd jammed a crowbar halfway into the tiled wall, using it as a handle to suspend himself.

The moment their eyes met, Red Hood's body shifted. His left arm moved off the wall and went straight for his pistol.

Both men drew their weapons at the same time—but Jason was faster. Two sharp cracks split the air, muzzle flashes flaring like small explosions as bullets ripped toward the mercenary's head.

KGBeast jerked back, his metal shoulder scraping the doorway as he narrowly avoided the rounds. Jason fired two more shots through the wall before dropping down. His boots hit the ground with a heavy thud, sending another wave of dust into the air.

The mercenary pressed his back against the opposite wall, breathing hard as he adjusted his grip. The doorframe beside him was riddled with bullet holes. Jason stepped out of the smoke with a pistol in one hand, sword in the other, his stance sharp and steady despite the pain in his leg.

Three small pellets rolled across the cracked floor toward KGBeast. He barely had time to register them before they burst open with a hiss—thick black smoke flooded the room, swallowing everything in sight.

"You're a trained assassin, aren't you?" KGBeast called out, his voice echoing through the haze.

Two quick shots answered him, each pinging off his cover.

"What gave it away?" Jason's voice came from somewhere in the fog, calm and teasing.

"Even with your wounded leg," the mercenary replied, "the Beast cannot hear your footsteps." He aimed at the sound and fired twice, bullets cutting through the smoke.

Jason smirked beneath his helmet. "Well, this is quite the matchup—the Soviet lapdog versus the bloodthirsty assassin."
"Within this smoke," KGBeast said darkly, "the Beast has the advantage."

"Oh yeah?" Jason ducked low and shifted positions. "Enlighten me."

"The Beast has a cybernetic implant for a left eye. Meaning," he fired again, rapid bursts lighting up the haze, "I can see you even through this smoke." Jason's heart pounded in his chest as he weaved between the bullets, taking cover behind a cracked partition.

"That's quite the coincidence," Jason muttered, his tone steady as his helmet's sensors flickered to life. "Because I see you too."

The tension snapped as both of them stepped out of cover almost simultaneously, silhouettes glowing red and yellow in each other's infrared vision.

Jason didn't hesitate—he surged forward. His movements were sharp but controlled, putting all the weight on his good leg. The muzzle of KGBeast's arm lit up again, filling the smoke with a strobing fury of orange light. Jason dodged, slipping between the bursts and returning fire as he closed the gap.

They met at the center of the ruined room, metal clashing against metal. KGBeast swung his bowie blade with his right arm; Jason caught it on his sword, sparks flaring where steel met steel. The Beast pressed his gun-arm to Jason's ribs, ready to fill him full of holes—

But Jason reacted first. He drove his boot hard into the mercenary's chest, using the impact as leverage to propel himself backward. The hit sent KGBeast flying, crashing into the far wall with a metallic crunch that cracked the plaster.

"You wear his symbol," the Beast grunted, dragging himself up, "but you don't fight or move like him." He ripped a few shurikens from his belt and flung them. Jason deflected them midair, sparks glinting off his blade as the weapons shattered against the walls.

"Unlike your brother in arms, Nightwing," KGBeast continued, pacing slowly, "you aren't as nimble. Maybe it's your leg… or maybe he's just better than you."
Jason snorted through his helmet, his voice dripping with mock amusement. "Oh, so you fought Nightwing? I bet that was a fun time. Lemme guess—he whooped your ass, didn't he?"

The remark landed like a slap. KGBeast's expression darkened, his jaw tightening beneath his mask. His rage was almost palpable. With a growl, he once again detached the bowie blade from his arm and gripped it by the handle, taking a stance. Jason's quip had struck home.

The mercenary lunged first this time, swinging the blade in a vicious arc. Jason met it head-on, blocking and pushing back hard enough to make the metal shriek. He followed it with a roundhouse kick, his boot connecting solidly with the man's faceplate and sending him smashing through the wall into the hallway beyond. The impact left a crater of cracked plaster and scattered debris.

"The Bat left me to die," KGBeast roared, staggering to his feet, voice trembling with fury. "But I beat death and lost my arm! Nightwing cost me my first cybernetic arm and nearly my life. It bruised my pride.
Tonight, I'll have my revenge—and wear your bullet-riddled skull as my trophy!"

Jason sighed through his helmet, straightening his shoulders as his tone dropped to something colder. "You just can't let it go, huh? Fine. You wanna project your issues onto me, go ahead. But if you're so desperate for closure—then come and get it."

He charged forward, ignoring the ache in his leg. KGBeast fired to stop him, but Jason weaved through the barrage, each step deliberate and measured. He closed the distance in seconds, kicking the merc's cybernetic arm just enough to redirect the muzzle away from him before driving in with his sword.

The two clashed again—metal on metal, rage against resolve. KGBeast swung downward with his blade, Jason blocked and countered with a brutal headbutt that sent a dull crack echoing through the hall.

Then Red Hood drove his boot into the merc's chest, forcing him back through another wall, debris raining down around them as they crashed into the hallway.

"To be this worked up about Batman and Nightwing," Red Hood said as he stepped through the doorway, deliberately avoiding the hole he'd made, "They must have really done a number on you, huh?"

His voice was calm and mocking. But beneath the helmet, his eyes burned fiercely—focused and done with the games. He has to end things quick.

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

"I fear no one," KGBeast declared, voice gravelly and fierce as he pushed himself off the cracked wall, bits of plaster falling from his shoulders. His single, furious eye glinted in the dim light as he hurled a handful of shurikens with sharp, whipping motions of his wrist. Red Hood tilted his head slightly, almost unimpressed, as the metallic stars sliced through the air toward him.

"Now that's some bullshit," he muttered, his tone dry and casual as he deflected the shurikens midair with swift, precise sweeps of his blade. Sparks danced briefly in the air before dying out into the dust.

"You use distance as a shield," He continued, his voice calm, but the edge beneath it was smack-dab and deliberate.

"Pulling the trigger from far away saves you from facing your target up close. Deep down, you're afraid—afraid of what I'd do to you if you got too close. Afraid I'd leave you worse off than Batman and Nightwing did."

"Liar!" KGBeast roared, his entire body trembling with rage. His cybernetic arm whirred as he aimed, ready to unload a hail of bullets——but then, the sound of rapid footsteps echoed from the stairwell behind him.A group of guards, half-awake and still dazed from earlier, came running up, weapons drawn and their faces were hard with tension.

The moonlight streaming through the windows painted the scene in a pale, ghostly silver. Red Hood stood at the center of it, his crimson helmet gleaming faintly in the dim light. He looked like something pulled from a nightmare—steady, silent, and entirely unfazed. Across from him, KGBeast looked wild, sweat mixing with soot across his masked face, fury clouding his thoughts.

The guards hesitated only briefly before raising their rifles, aligning behind the mercenary as backup.

Red Hood sighed. "I showed restraint before," he said with a flat tone, but laced with irritation. "Knocked you all out instead of killing you. Guess you really do have a death wish." Then it hit them—something heavy, invisible, yet suffocating.

Jason's bloodlust flooded the air like a crushing wave. Every nerve in the room tensed. The guards froze, their fingers trembling on the triggers, their legs turning to dead weight beneath them.

The pressure was thick, almost physical, like the room itself had shrunk around them. "What is this?" KGBeast muttered under his breath, his eye darting nervously.

"What are you?"Red Hood didn't answer. He just raised his pistol and fired. Five rapid shots resounded through the silence like thunder. In an instant, the sound of bodies dropping followed—heavy thuds echoing down the staircase. Four guards went down clean, each with a bullet neatly between the eyes.

Only KGBeast remained standing, his blade raised just in time to deflect the last bullet that had been aimed for his skull. The impact sparked against his weapon, the bullet ricocheting into the wall.

"Still standing?" Red Hood said, shifting his stance and cocking his gun. KGBeast's lips curled into a cold grin. "This ends now." The mechanical gears in his arm whined as the weapon shifted, reconfiguring.

The sound deepened into a low hum as blue light began to gather at the muzzle. His gun was transforming into an energy blaster—its glow intensifying with every second. Red Hood's mind raced. He couldn't take that hit nor could he effectively evade it, not with his leg in this state.

He needed to think fast.Then, his pistol snapped up—not aimed at the merc, but somewhere behind him. He fired.

KGBeast flinched at the gunfire, instinctively glancing back. For the briefest moment, confusion flickered across his face. There was nothing behind him—no trick shot, no second shooter. Just empty space and debris.

But Red Hood's accuracy had been razor-sharp all night; he wouldn't miss by accident. Unless—Realization came a fraction too late. A sharp, metallic clank split the air as a grappling hook burst from the darkness, piercing straight through KGBeast's thigh. The mercenary roared in pain, staggering forward as Red Hood leapt, using the wire for momentum.

Red Hood swung wide, the line taut as he used KGBeast's own body as leverage to pivot midair. He crashed through a side window, shards of glass scattering in the moonlight, then reappeared through the next window behind the merc, his entry marked by an explosion of broken glass.

KGBeast spun, energy blaster charged and ready, the glow casting harsh blue across his masked face.Jason didn't hesitate. He fired a single, perfectly timed shot at the blaster's muzzle.

The bullet struck home. A massive explosion erupted from KGBeast's arm—white light, heat, and shrapnel tearing through the air. The blast sent both men flying in opposite directions, crashing through debris and collapsing walls.

The shockwave rattled the floor, scattering dust and smoke through the corridor.

Red Hood hit the ground hard, his body screaming in pain. "Fuck," he groaned through his modulator, pushing himself up with shaky arms. His leg dragged behind him, blood smearing across the cracked tiles as he forced himself to move. His chest burned from the blast, his jacket torn and smoldering at the edges.

Through the settling smoke, KGBeast lay sprawled across the floor. His body was scorched, parts of his armor melted into his flesh.

The entire cybernetic arm was gone—blown clean off. Sparks sputtered from the torn socket at his shoulder, his breathing ragged and shallow. Red Hood limped closer, each step was heavy and deliberate. His pistol was steady in his hand with the barrel aimed right between the mercenary's eyes. KGBeast's remaining eye flicked up to meet the crimson mask staring down at him. He coughed, his voice broken and weak.

"What… what are you waiting for? Finish me off." Red Hood stood over him for a long moment, silent except for the sound of his own breathing. Then he shook his head.

"Nah," he said finally, lowering the gun slightly. "Death's too easy for a soldier like you. I'd rather let you live with this humiliating defeat. But if you ever cross my path again…" His voice dropped, colder than before. "I'll make sure to give you a death so slow and excruciating that you'd beg me to end your misery." KGBeast's eye flickered with disbelief, pain, and rage all at once.

Red Hood holstered his gun, turned away, and began limping down the ruined hall. The light of the moon caught on the edge of his helmet, reflecting briefly as he disappeared into the shadows.

Behind him, the mercenary's heavy breathing filled the silence, mingling with the faint crackle of burning metal and the hum of broken circuits.

- - -

That morning, Roman Sionis rolled into his office like a storm that hadn't yet decided whether to thunder or erupt. Even with his injured leg still wrapped and fresh stitches pulling at his skin, he insisted on returning to work.

He'd received medical treatment the night before, but even while sedated, his mind refused to rest. Every fiber of his wanted to know how the ambush against Red Hood had ended. The doctors had advised him to stay in the hospital for at least a few days. He laughed in their faces. Crime, after all, had no off days—and neither did the man who ruled a fragment of it.

If he disappeared for even a moment, someone would inevitably make a move to replace him. He couldn't afford to look weak, not when he ruled a city where weakness was currency. So, in his usual stubborn fashion, he discharged himself against medical advice, injected with pain killers to help ease his pain.

They set him up with a sleek black cane which has a golden lion embedded at the handle. As he made way through the elevator and corridors, he looked like a wounded king still unwilling to surrender the throne.

"When I was losing consciousness last night," he growled, walking toward the elevator, "I expected good news this morning—that Red Hood was dead and his goddamn helmet was sitting on my desk waiting for me." He spoke with an abrupt tone. "But now I'm told he's still breathing? Likely still moving around Gotham like he's untouchable?"

By the time the elevator doors opened to his private floor, his temper was simmering. Two guards stepped forward immediately to open the double doors of his office.

The moment he got inside, the air thickened. His dark oak desk gleamed under the morning light spilling through the tall windows, but it did nothing to ease the tension coiling inside him as he took his seat behind the desk. He drummed his fingers against the armrest of his chair, every tap echoing his irritation.

"He was injured—limping, barely able to stand!" Roman's voice thundered across the room. "And yet that second-rate mercenary, that overpriced half-machine, lost to him? To a man who could barely move?" Ms. Li, his ever-composed assistant, stood beside his desk with her digital tablet in hand. She'd been waiting for the eruption, and she got it.

"I've already summoned one of the surviving men from last night's operation," she said evenly. "He claims to have witnessed the end of the fight." Roman's head snapped toward her, his mask's hollow eyes catching the light. "Then where the hell is he?"

"Send him in," Ms. Li said into her earpiece, connecting to the guards outside. Moments later, the office doors creaked open and a man in his early thirties stepped in. He wore a navy-blue hoodie and scuffed black boots, looking like someone who'd rather be anywhere else.

His face was pale—either from exhaustion or sheer fear. Maybe both. "I am Kever—" Roman cut him off instantly with a whip-like tone. "I don't care who the fuck you are. You were there last night?"

"Yes, sir," the man stammered. "I was on patrol whe—"

"You mean when you and your buddies failed to protect me?" Roman's voice cracked out. "I was nearly shot by a mercenary who looked like he was weeping blood!" Ms. Li needed clarification as she glanced at the man. "Weeping blood?" The man swallowed hard.

"Y-yes. He was our team leader. During the fight, Red Hood damaged his eyes. Roman didn't speak. He just leaned back in his chair.

The survivor described the chaos, how Red Hood dismantled KGBeast and left him alive but broken. He told it in fragments, glossing over details that made him look cowardly. What he didn't say—what he couldn't bring himself to admit—was that he'd been one of the men who'd tried to assist KGBeast before everything went to hell.

He'd seen it all from the bottom of the staircase. The moment Red Hood unleashed that suffocating wave of killing intent, he froze—every instinct in his body screaming to run. Then came the shots. Five of them. Clean, precise and efficient. The four men in front of him collapsed in unison, their skulls bursting like overripe fruit.

The fifth shot was for KGBeast. He didn't need to see it to know. When their bodies rolled down the stairs, one crashed into him, lifeless eyes staring into nothing.

He hadn't dared to move. He just laid there beneath the corpse, pretending to be dead himself, trembling as he watched Red Hood limp out of the building like a ghost leaving carnage behind. When the man finished his story, the room went silent.

The tension thickened until it was almost suffocating. Roman's gloved hand rested still on the armrest of his chair.

His breathing was calm, but his aura radiated pure frustration. "Sir?" Ms. Li's voice was careful, almost soft. "Are you alright?" Roman turned slowly toward her.
The hollow sockets of his black mask gave nothing away, but his voice was cold and deliberate when he finally spoke.

"I am being forced," he said, "to consider negotiating with a lunatic for pest control."

The words hung in the air. To him, Red Hood wasn't an enemy anymore—he was a problem that Gotham's underworld itself couldn't seem to exterminate. A pest too cunning to trap and too dangerous to ignore.

Roman's fingers tightened around the armrest. "If the beast couldn't kill him," he muttered, "then I'll need someone worse."

And as Ms. Li noted something quietly on her tablet, Roman Sionis sat in silence, his mask staring out the window at the city below—thinking on how he could convince the Joker to come work for him. Or if he could even trust that lunatic to stick to the assigned job and not double cross him.

- - -

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[Maverick_DaSupreme]

[Jason Todd's POV]

The door gave a soft creak as Jason stepped into his apartment, the faint smell of gunpowder and rain still clinging to his jacket. The place was quiet—too quiet—but that was how he liked it.

Tossing his keys onto the small table near the entrance, he kicked off his boots and made his way toward the bedroom, each step heavy with fatigue. He'd just come back from a twenty-four hour diner where he went to clear his head as he couldn't get any sleep—though by the time he got back, it was already morning.

The first thing that caught his eye was the full-body mirror across the room. He stopped in front of it, letting the faint orange glow of the rising sun spill across his reflection. His shirt hung open, showing streaks of dried blood and bruises blooming like ink under his skin.

He studied himself with the kind of detached calm that only came from habit. Other than the deep gash in his leg from that trap, most of the damage wasn't too bad—just some nasty bruising across his ribs and shoulders.

He'd been up against a damn machine gun at close range in a half-lit room. The fact that he wasn't in a morgue right now said a lot about his reflexes—and his armor.

Still, the impact spots where the rounds had hit his body armor throbbed like hell. His muscles ached every time he moved, and the stitched-up wound on his leg burned under the bandage. He bent down slightly, touching the edge of the wrappings, remembering how close that trap had come to snapping his bone clean through. If it hadn't been for the thick leather of his boot, he might've been limping for life.

He sighed quietly and stripped off his upper gear, tossing it aside before limping into the bathroom. The small fluorescent light above the mirror buzzed faintly as he sat on the counter's edge, unwrapping his bandaged leg. His movements were steady but tired, his eyes sharp even through the exhaustion.

He cleaned the wound and started rewrapping it with methodical precision.

His body healed faster than most—something he still wasn't sure was a blessing or a curse—but even with that edge, he knew better than to jump into another fight just yet. One wrong move, one kick or sprint, and he could tear those stitches wide open again.

As he secured the new bandage, a voice echoed in the room—low, direct, and too close for comfort. "Look at you," it said, the tone dripping with mockery. "All bitched up by Black Mask and that cock-sucker who calls himself 'Beast.'"

Jason froze. The scissor in his hand was immediately raised, his body snapping into fight mode. His eyes darted around the bathroom, searching every corner, every shadow. The air felt thicker now, pressing in. Then his gaze landed on the mirror again—and his breath hitched. His reflection was staring back at him, but it wasn't him.

The figure in the glass had jet-black hair, the streak of white gone completely. Its skin looked almost lifeless, pale with faint veins tracing beneath. Its eyes were wrong—dark pits with a faint red glow beneath. There was something feral in the smirk curling at its lips, something that didn't belong to Jason anymore.

Jason exhaled through his nose, lowering the scissor slightly, his pulse steadying. "You again," he muttered, almost sounding bored. The tone wasn't surpris—it was annoyance.

The reflection grinned wider, voice smooth and venomous. "Yes, me again." Jason's jaw tightened. The faint hum of the bathroom light filled the silence between them. He stared at the figure for a long moment—like he was trying to decide if it was real, or just another ghost clawing at the edges of his sanity.

And for a second, as the morning light crept into the room and washed across the mirror, it almost looked like the reflection was smiling first.

"You've been gone for quite some time," Jason muttered, his voice calm but edged with irritation as he continued rewrapping the bandage around his leg. "I actually thought you were gone for good."

The reflection chuckled darkly, its voice carrying that familiar blend of mockery and venom. "Try all you want to convince yourself, Jase, but you can't get rid of me.

You're nothing without me—just a weak little bitch pretending to be Gotham's new big-bad."

Jason didn't even look up this time. "Could you stop with the foul mouth? You're starting to get on my nerves." His tone was casual, but his jaw was tight, his patience wearing thin.

"Oh, am I?" the reflection sneered. "You were wounded and outsmarted by Black Mask and KGBeast, of all people. How much more pathetic can you get?"

Jason's eyes flicked up briefly, a small, humorless smile tugging at his lips. "For that, I'll give KGBeast some credit. He set up a solid trap—I didn't spot it at first glance."

The reflection's smirk widened, its blackened eyes gleaming faintly under the fluorescent light. "You mean until you got caught in it."

Jason let out a slow breath, forcing down the irritation simmering in his chest. "If you've got nothing useful to say, then get the hell out of my head," he muttered, focusing on tightening the bandage around his leg. "I'd rather step on that damn trap again than sit here listening to myself get talked down to by my own reflection. Cut me some slack—for all it's worth, you're me."

The reflection let out a sharp, dismissive laugh—a cold, rasping sound that made Jason's shoulders tense. "Pffft!"

Jason raised an eyebrow, glancing at the mirror. "What was that for?" he asked, tone flat but with a flicker of annoyance. "No matter how much you deny it, you are me. End of story." His voice softened slightly, like he'd already come to accept that truth, whether he liked it or not.

The reflection tilted its head, a wicked smile curling across its pale lips. "At some point, I was," it said slowly, savoring each word. "But during those three years after the battle at Lian Yu… I became something more."

Jason's hands froze mid-motion. The bandage hung loose between his fingers as the words sank in. The reflection moved along the mirror's surface like it was pacing a room Jason couldn't see.

Its movements were smooth, ghostlike—shifting from one side to the other as if it actually had space to roam. The real Jason's reflection was gone, replaced entirely by the thing wearing his face.

"When you returned to Gotham," it continued, "I gained an identity of my own—separate from Jason Todd."

Jason forced himself to stand upright, his weight leaning on the counter. The muscles in his jaw twitched. "Who are you?" he asked, keeping his voice calm, though his tone carried a quiet warning beneath it.

The reflection laughed—a harsh, unhinged sound that filled the small bathroom and seemed to rattle in his head. "You and I may share the same body, Jase," it said, leaning close to the mirror with an almost feral grin. "But we're not the same."

Jason's gaze hardened. "That still doesn't answer my question," he shot back, irritation breaking through his composure.

"What's this so-called identity of yours?"

The reflection just smiled wider, baring its teeth like it knew something Jason didn't. It didn't answer. It didn't need to. The silence itself was a tool of he's. Jason could feel the pull—an old, familiar darkness pressing against the edges of his mind, trying to make him doubt, to make him crack.

He exhaled slowly, running a hand down his face before muttering, "You're not real."

But deep down, the truth clawed at him—because every time he said that, the reflection seemed to smile a little wider.

Jason finally looked up, locking eyes with the thing in the mirror. His patience had worn thin, and the silence between them stretched until it became something thick. The reflection tilted its head, that unnerving smirk still plastered across its face.

"Don't worry," it said, voice slick with mock amusement. "I'm not so heartless that I'd leave you without an answer. Though, watching you rack that messed-up brain of yours does sound entertaining." It tapped a finger against its chin thoughtfully, pretending to consider the idea like a scientist toying with a lab rat.

Jason stayed quiet, refusing to give it the satisfaction. His expression was calm, jaw locked tight, though the faint pulse in his temple betrayed the irritation simmering beneath the surface.

"Damn," the reflection sighed, rolling its eyes. "You're no fun." It leaned closer to the mirror, its tone shifting to something darker, quieter, almost intimate.

"You think you've been in total control. You think you buried me in the darkest corners of your mind and left me to rot. But no, Jase. I've been here all along. Where do you think your sudden strength came from? The speed, the endurance, the near-superhuman tolerance for pain? You really think that's all you?"

Jason blinked, his brow furrowing slightly. "What? I thought Ra's—" The reflection cut him off, its voice rising with sinister amusement. "You may have been kissed by Lady Death, but that doesn't make you super human. You think you know the truth, but you know nothing."

The grin that spread across its face was slow and unnerving, stretching wider until it looked almost inhuman. "You've been living in a fog, Jason. I've been the fire keeping you alive in it."

Jason's expression hardened. "For once," he said, voice low but edged with frustration, "can you just give a straight answer instead of talking like a low-budget Riddler?"

The reflection laughed softly, an eerie, broken sound that seemed to echo in the small bathroom. "Temper, temper," it teased, waving him off with an exaggerated flick of its hand. "You'll find out soon enough."

And just like that—it was gone. The dark reflection faded, and the mirror once again showed only Jason's own exhausted face staring back. The faint buzzing of the overhead light filled the silence that followed.

Jason exhaled through his nose, the tension in his shoulders slowly easing. "That crappy bastard," he muttered under his breath. He leaned in closer to the mirror, studying his own tired eyes as if searching for any trace of what he'd just seen. There was nothing—no trace of darkness, no voice, no movement. Just him.

He finished wrapping the last strip of bandage around his leg and tightened it, wincing slightly at the sting. The bathroom smelled faintly of antiseptic and iron, a mix he'd grown too used to. As he stood up, he tested his weight on the injured leg. It still hurt like hell, but it would hold—for now.

His thoughts wandered back to the words of that twisted reflection. If even half of what it said was true, then something inside him—something born from before and within his missing years—was festering beneath the surface.

He shook the thought off, though the unease lingered. There were more immediate things to focus on. Black Mask would soon make his move to break Joker out of Arkham, and Jason needed to be ready—no matter what state his body was in.

As he left the bathroom and limped back toward his room, the last thing he saw in the mirror's edge was the faintest flicker—barely there, but enough to make his gut tighten.

For just a second, the reflection had smiled again.

- - -

Damian descended the long steel steps into the Batcave, his boots echoing faintly against the stone floor. The air was cool and heavy with the familiar scent of oil, metal, and the faint hum of machinery. The massive cavern stretched around him, bathed in soft blue lighting and shadows that reached up the jagged walls.

He had just returned from his solo patrol—a long, uneventful night spent monitoring rooftops and chasing false alarms. But when he reached the main floor, he realized something was off. The cave was silent.

Empty.

His father was nowhere in sight. He frowned, glancing toward the Batmobile's empty parking space before activating his comm.

"Father, where are you?"

Batman's voice came through a second later, low and steady as always. "Already on my way back."

Damian exhaled, a mix of relief and mild annoyance in his tone as his father seemed to be having an eventful night. Of course, he wasn't worried. His father was Batman, after all—practically untouchable.

Still, there were nights when even the Dark Knight needed someone to double-check that he hadn't been ambushed by some lunatic with a death wish. In their line of work, one moment of bad luck could turn either of them into the next casualty.

A few minutes later, the distant roar of the Batmobile echoed through the tunnel, followed by the sight of the black vehicle sliding into its berth. The canopy opened, and Batman stepped out, cape swaying lightly as he headed toward the main console.

"Where have you been all night?" Damian asked, crossing his arms as he approached, sounding more like a nagging parent than the son of Gotham's most feared vigilante.

Before Batman could reply, Nightwing appeared from behind him, removing his mask and running a hand through his messy black hair with that ever-present grin.

"Made a stop at the hospital," Batman said, his tone clipped as usual. "Had to interrogate the mayor's associates."

"Did you get anything out of them?" Damian pressed, his voice firm and analytical. "Confirmation that Red Hood was the one who attacked them?"

Batman didn't answer right away.

Nightwing, leaning casually against the console, took over. "Not even close. Those guys kept their mouths shut and pretended they didn't see a thing. Claimed everything happened too fast." He smirked slightly. "Even when Bruce here applied a little… pressure—literally, they played the victim card…literally."

Damian's eyes narrowed. He could tell his father had held back. Political officials—people with connections and power. Batman was always careful with them, always aware of the line he couldn't cross. Damian, however, had no such restraint. If it were up to him, they'd be talking within five minutes.

Before he could comment, the calm hum of the cave was shattered by a blaring alarm. Red warning lights flashed across the cave, reflecting off the polished vehicles and metal surfaces.

"What's happening?" Nightwing asked immediately, the lighthearted tone vanishing from his voice as he turned toward the massive monitor.

Batman was already typing on the console, his fingers moving with habitual precision. "Explosion reported. Midtown sector."

The main screen came to life, showing shaky footage from a nearby traffic camera. The three of them watched as a bright flash lit up the street, followed by a roaring shockwave that sent cars flipping and debris scattering across the road. Flames engulfed the scene, but what came after made even Damian's expression harden.

People—civilians—were attacking each other. Tearing at one another like animals, their movements jerky, looking scared, angry and unnatural.

Nightwing leaned forward, disbelief etched across his face. "What the hell…"

Batman switched to the police scanner, and the cave was suddenly filled with frantic noise—gunfire, screams, and the desperate voice of an officer cutting through the chaos.

"Help! I need backup now! There are—there are things down here! Hideous monsters all over!"

Damian shot a quick glance toward his father. "Monsters? In Gotham?" His tone carried more confusion than disbelief, though his hand was already moving toward his utility belt. The signal crackled again. More gunshots.

Then a sharp cry.

"Help!!"

The line went dead, leaving nothing but static. The sound filled the cave like a low, steady hum, matching the tension that now hung thick in the air.

Batman's eyes narrowed behind the cowl as he straightened. "There's only one criminal in Gotham with that kind of M.O.," Batman said, his voice low but certain enough to make the cave feel even colder.

"Scarecrow."

Nightwing's head snapped toward him, disbelief clear in his eyes. "Scarecrow? No way. He's locked up in Arkham."

Batman didn't look away from the screen, the chaotic footage reflecting off the white lenses of his cowl. "Then either he escaped," he replied, his tone clipped, "or someone out there is recreating his work."

On the monitor, the madness unfolding across midtown grew worse. Civilians were tearing each other apart in the streets—swinging pipes, smashing bottles, clawing at anything that moved. Others were convulsing on the ground, screaming at things that weren't there. Police officers were firing into the crowd in panic, unable to tell friend from foe.

Damian stood beside them, his face set in a frown as the glow from the screen flickered over his sharp features. "They're attacking each other," he muttered under his breath, unable to look away. "It's like they're possessed."

Batman said nothing. His jaw tightened beneath the mask before he finally stepped back from the console and turned toward one of the reinforced glass cabinets built into the stone wall. The cabinet hissed as it unlocked. Inside, neatly arranged vials of liquid shimmered under dim blue lighting.

He took several of them and tossed two toward Nightwing, who caught them effortlessly.

"What are those?" Damian asked, stepping forward. "And why am I not getting any?"

"They're antidotes," Batman said, tucking a few into his belt compartment.

"Counteragents for Scarecrow's fear toxin—assuming he hasn't altered the formula." He turned toward Damian, his tone shifting from neutral to firm. "And you're staying here. You've never fought Scarecrow before, and this situation could turn lethal fast."

Damian's brows furrowed, irritation flickering in his expression. "I can handle myself, Father."

Before Batman could respond, Nightwing spoke up, voice calm but serious. "He's right, kid. If you get hit with that toxin, I don't even want to imagine what it'd make a kid like you—do." His usual teasing tone was gone; this was pure honesty. "Stay put. You'll do more good here monitoring the situation."

Damian clenched his fists, clearly biting back the urge to argue. His pride didn't take orders easily—especially not when it came to being benched.

"But I can—" he started.

"Stay here, Damian." Batman's tone cut clean through the air, direct and absolute. He didn't raise his voice; he didn't need to. "We may need your help remotely, but until then—stand by."

The silence that followed carried Damian's quiet frustration. His eyes trailed after them as Batman gestured for Nightwing to move. The older hero gave the young Robin a reassuring look before sliding into the passenger seat of the Batmobile.

"Just when I was getting pumped up for the Titans party." Nightwing muttered, hoping they catch the culprit in time for him to make it to the party in two days time.

With a low growl of the engine, the sleek black vehicle shot forward, the roar echoing off the cave walls as it disappeared into the tunnel.

Damian stood there for a moment, his jaw tight, the glow of the console screens painting faint shadows across his face. "Experience," he muttered under his breath, glaring slightly at the spot where the Batmobile had been moments ago.

The cave was quiet again, except for the hum of the computer systems and the faint chirp of bats deeper in the dark. He exhaled sharply through his nose, turned back to the monitors, and brought up the live feed of midtown. If he was going to be benched, he'd at least make himself useful—and maybe find something his father missed.

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

Batman and Nightwing had been at it for over an hour, moving through the chaos with practiced coordination, aided by the police who tried their best to manage the wave of panic tearing through the streets.

The night air was nerve rackingly thick with fear and the acrid stench of smoke from the earlier explosion. Broken glass littered the scene, catching the flashing red and blue lights of patrol cars. Every few seconds, the muffled sound of distant shouting echoed down the alleyways. One by one, the citizens affected by the toxin were sedated or restrained, their violent frenzy giving way to uneasy silence.

"This incident has Scarecrow written all over it," Officer Wright muttered, adjusting his jacket as he stepped beside Commissioner Gordon. His tone carried a grim certainty that came from years of experience in the GCPD.

Gordon's face was lined with exhaustion as he nodded. "Yeah," he said quietly, turning to where Batman and Nightwing were finishing up. "That's his signature."

Batman's silhouette lacerated against the smoke as his cape flickered with each passing gust of wind from the police choppers circling overhead.

Nightwing moved beside him, scanning the last cluster of victims with a mix of tension and controlled energy. His expression was serious but calm, he had the feeling that things were only beginning to spiral.

Once they ensured the area was secured, the duo left the affected citizens to the GCPD and proceeded to run a quick investigation before the hand off thr scene to the police. The sectioned-off area was barely visible beneath the flickering streetlights and broken signs.

The explosion had blasted open a section of the walls, leaving cracks that spidered across the pavement and shattered glass from the resturant. Bits of burnt debris still smoldered as the smell of scorched metal and chemical residue filled the air.

It was clear that the blast wasn't meant to kill per-say; it was a setup system, meant to disperse the toxin into agitated citzens who's nervous system had experienced a spike of adrenaline from the fear of the explosion.

Damian's voice broke through the comms in his usually composed manner. "I'm scanning the area now. Give me a moment." His drone whirred quietly above the space, its sensors cutting through the fog. After a few seconds, his tone shifted slightly. "I found something. Top of the resturant—looks like a canister hidden behind the vent frame." Since he was prohibited from directly engaging, he resulted to using a drone to help him stay vitually present.

Nightwing and Batman looked up toward the vent frame just as Damian remotely extended a mechanical arm from the drone. The small device latched onto the metal grating, unfastening it with quiet precision before pulling free a silver canister. The dull cylinder reflected the red glow of the emergency lights, its surface scratched but intact.

"Stay back," Gordon warned the nearby officers, raising a hand as he saw the drone approach Batman and Nightwing with a canister. The two vigilantes moved closer to inspect the object, their motions were calm and methodical. Batman crouched beside it, pulling out a small handheld analyzer from his belt. He scanned the canister with narrowed eyes behind the lenses of his cowl.

"It's empty," he said after a pause. "But there's residue left inside. Enough to confirm Scarecrow's latest work."

Gordon's phone buzzed. He glanced down, frown deepening as he read the message before answering the call. "Talk to me." His expression hardened with each word he heard. When he hung up, he exhaled slowly.

"Security just confirmed Scarecrow's escape from Arkham. They didn't issue a warning—they thought they could cover their asses by bring him in quietly without causing a fuss, and before he made it this far. They underestimated him."

Batman's jaw tensed slightly, the faint flicker of irritation in his eyes betraying what he already suspected. Scarecrow had spent years at Arkham but it was only a matter of time before he made an escape. Now he had.

Before Gordon could say more, a lieutenant called for him. At the same time, Damian's voice came through again as Gordon seem to receive his own report at almost the same time. "Same incident seem to be reocurring at two places. It looks like the explosion earlier was meant to serve as a diversion to draw our attention here, giving them time to carryout the others." As Batman and Nightwing listened, they watched Gordon give orders to his officers regarding the current development.

Batman didn't waste a second. He transmitted the analyzed data from the canister back to the batcave computer. "Alfred, work on formulating an antidote to the chemical composition of the toxin." He ordered.

Damian's voice came back through, quieter now, and quite thoughtful beneath the static. "If Scarecrow keeps this up, you think Pennyworth would be able to develop a cure fast enough before the toxin spreads through that section of the city like a wildfire?" His tone carried unease, something rare from him.

Batman was silent for a moment before responding. "If it's just a modified version of the old formula—if he only added new compounds—then Alfred should he able to." He and Nightwing began moving, his cape fluttered behind him as they made their way toward their vehicles.

"But if Scarecrow generated the formula without his original work at the core…" He climbed into the Batmobile, the engine roaring to life. "…then Gotham's in for a long night."

Nightwing, already straddling his bike, shot Batman a quick glance. "I'll handle the east side, you take the northwest." Batman ordered.

"Understood."

The two roared off in opposite directions, engines howling against the wet pavement as rain began to drizzle lightly from the smoky sky.

A few blocks later, Nightwing cut into a narrow alley, the glow from his bike reflecting off the rain-slick brick walls. He spotted a small group of Scarecrow's followers trying to make a run for it, they sprinted toward a van as they ran from a busy area which now had toxin victims loosing their minds to traumatically overwhelming fear.

The movement of the victims were jittery and erratic under the toxin's influence. The goons looked unhinged, wearing gas masks painted with crude, distorted smiles.

With a smirk on his face, Nightwing made a loud entry with hus bike as he pulled up between the goons and the van.

"Awwn, you shouldn't have." Nightwing said to them. They would have already disappeared, only they didn't ecpect the Bat family to respond to their current attacks on time since they should normally have been preoccupied with the first one.

"What?" Damian asked, his voice cutting through the comms.

"They've got a party waiting for me," Nightwing replied, grinning beneath his domino mask as he ducked a wild swing from one of Scarecrow's deranged followers. "They were trying to make a run for it, but either way, it's a party full of freaks in Scarecrow gas masks."

Damian sighed, loud enough for it to be heard through the comms. He frowned, genuinely confused—and slightly irritated—by the cringe remark that just came out of his older brother's mouth.

"Sometimes I don't know whether to be displeased or impressed by how efficiently you manage to annoy me."

"Eh, call it a talent," Nightwing said, spinning his escrima sticks as he swept one thug off his feet.

As Nightwing kept the situation under control, the police were hard at work sedating the toxin victims still flailing in the streets as they attacked snd slso ran from every moving thing, their terrified screams fading into uneasy murmurs. But Batman's attention wasn't on them anymore. His mind was elsewhere, thinking about Scarecrow, and that alone was enough to keep his jaw tight even with a steady pulse.

He knew what Jonathan Crane was capable of. if he had managed to orchestrate multiple gas attacks in less than an hour, the thought of what that man could accomplish with even a few more hours made Batman's gut twist—but his expression, as always, remained unreadable.

Minutes passed before the chaos began to settle. Between Batman, Nightwing, and the GCPD, most of the affected citizens were restrained or unconscious, though subduing them without causing injury had been far from easy. Their erratic movements and sudden bursts of aggression made every engagement unpredictable as each victims were constantly bombarded with visions of nightmare creatures.

But just as the silence began to return to the streets, the night's tension was split apart by an unexpected intrusion.

Every television screen and every digital feed across Gotham flickered—then shifted into static. The eerie hum of the broadcast filled the city, echoing across rooftops and through empty alleys. Within seconds, an image came into focus.

"People of Gotham City…"

The voice that came through was calm but soaked in malice. On-screen was a figure seated in a dimly lit room, his long black hair fell over his shoulders like dark vines.

A tattered straw hat sat crookedly on his head, and beneath it, the dull glint of a gas mask obscured his face. The lenses gleamed a sickly yellow under the faint light, reflecting just enough to make him look more inhuman than ever.

His look seemed like some sort of darker alteration of Freddy Krugger—brown, worn-out garments patched with straw along the hems, and a faded red scarf wrapped around his neck. His gloved hands came into view, each finger capped with a syringe that glimmered faintly in the light, forming claws made of needles.

When he curled his fingers, the motion was slow and deliberate, almost theatrical, letting each needle catch a glint from the dim and ambiant lighting around him.

He looked like something born from a child's nightmare—a walking myth who could transform into the personification of fear in the eyes of victims, with just a sting from anyone of those syringes.

Scarecrow had finally made his grand appearance.

"Damian," Batman's voice came through in it's usually low and firm tone, his eyes fixed on the large advertisment screen right above the scene where he was running damage control. "Trace the broadcast signal. Now."

"I'm on it," Damian replied instantly, fingers flying across the keyboard as multiple windows opened on his screen. The soft hum of his computer was drowned out by the steady tapping of keys. His expression was one of focused determination, the green glow of his monitor reflecting in his sharp eyes.

Within moments, he spoke again. "He's masking the signal, somehow shielding the transmission from any traceable interference. It's like he's running it through a self-contained loop that blocks external access."

Batman's silence stretched for a few seconds, as the police ran clean up. Finally, he gave a quiet hum in response, not of frustration but thought. He had hoped for some kind of clumsiness from Scarecrow, that would surely have made it easier to end his shinannigans before it escalates from this initial stage. But Scarecrow was meticulous with his approach.

Still, it didn't stop the faint, simmering irritation beneath Batman's calm demeanor. Gotham was his city—his garden, as he sometimes called it in his thoughts—and Scarecrow was just another weed growing too wildly. He could never completely get rid of weeds due to his no kill rule, but he could trim them down, again and again, no matter how much they keep coming back.

- - -

[Jason Todd's POV]

The low growl of his motor bike was one of the many things that cut through the quiet hum of Gotham's night, at that area section anyway. Jason leaned slightly forward on his bike, weaving through the dimly lit streets with ease born from habit.

The city stretched out around him—grimy, restless, and alive in that way only Gotham could be. Neon lights flickered along the sidewalks, reflecting off the wet pavement from a recent drizzle. The smell of smoke and oil lingered in the air, carried by the cold breeze rushing against his jacket.

He wasn't out for trouble tonight. Not this time. He just needed a drink—something to take the edge off and maybe, just maybe, a conversation to ground him a little.

There was a decent bar on the east end where he liked to stop by, and if luck was on his side, Ms. Li might be there too. She was easy to talk to, unpretentious, direct with her humor.

There was something about her that pulled him in—a calm steadiness that cut through the noise in his head. Maybe he'd buy her a drink tonight, have a real conversation, see if there was something worth building there.

As he sped past an intersection, the wind whistled around his bike's helmet, muffling the city's distant chaos. Then, suddenly, the massive advertisement screen on the corner of Harbor and Kane flickered. The bright commercial lights glitched into static before cutting abruptly to an image that made Jason instinctively hit the brakes. The tires screeched softly against the tarred road as the bike came to a halt. He looked up.

The screen stabilized, revealing a dark figure in a tattered hat, sitting in shadow. The voice that followed was all too familiar.

"People of Gotham City," Scarecrow's distorted tone echoed through the air, his voice crawling out of the speakers like the poison he spreads. Jason slowly flipped up his visor, the faint reflection of the screen lighting his face beneath the helmet.

"Unfortunately," Scarecrow continued, "due to my incarceration at Arkham, I missed my favorite holiday of the year. So I didn't get to share in the festive spirit of Halloween with you all."

Jason exhaled softly, watching in silence as the image of the madman filled the sky above the street. The eerie flicker of the screen painted the cracked buildings and empty sidewalks around him in shades of sickly yellow and orange.

"But fortunately," Scarecrow went on, his voice growing shrewdly, "I made it in time for a post-Halloween celebration—one I plan to deliver in style. You should all be thrilled… because I'll be spreading fear across Gotham until everyone feels the true spirit of the holiday."

Jason tilted his head slightly, narrowing his eyes. "Yeah… that sounds about right," he muttered under his breath.

Scarecrow leaned forward on the broadcast, the dim light catching the edge of his gas mask. "I love this city. It's my home. Which means we're all one big, terrified family, aren't we? So… enjoy the trick or treat. My treat."

The broadcast ended abruptly, the screen flickering back to its regular ads—now dull and meaningless after the message that just aired. The night seemed quieter for a moment, as if even Gotham itself paused to take a breath.

Jason stayed still for a few seconds longer, the engine of his bike idling beneath him. Then he let out a low sigh. "And the weirdos just keep coming back," he muttered, shaking his head slightly as he flipped the visor back down.

With a few sharp revs of the engine, the roar of the bike echoed through the empty street as he took off again, the sound fading into the hum of the city. The red taillight cut a streak through the night as he sped toward the bar, the faint glow reflecting off the puddles in his wake.

Scarecrow wasn't his problem.

Not tonight. He knew the Bat and his loyal sidekicks would already be on it, chasing the trail, scrambling to stop another chemically induced nightmare before sunrise. He had no interest in getting dragged into that circus again.

No, tonight he wasn't Red Hood. Just Jason Todd—someone trying to grab a few drinks, maybe a few hours of peace, and definitely no family reunions.

At least, that's what he told himself. But he knew that was about to change the instant the insides of his jacket vibrated with a buzz.

RING!!!

- - -

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[Maverick_DaSupreme]

RING!!!

"Accept," Jason muttered, and the line clicked as the call connected to the small earpiece tucked inside his helmet. "When I gave you this number, I was really hoping you'd never use it," he said dryly, his tone carried that familiar blend of irritation and sarcasm he'd honed to an art over the years.

[Damian: Then why give it to me in the first place?]

"For emergencies, obviously." Jason replied, leaning slightly as he slipped through a narrow space between two cars.

The night's drizzle had slicked the streets, and the neon lights from billboards and diners stretched across the wet asphalt like long, bleeding streaks of color. His bike hummed beneath him, its low growl echoing faintly off the alley walls as he neared his stop.

[But this is an emergency.]

Jason let out a slow sigh through his nose.

"If it's about Scarecrow, you're wasting your breath, kid. Your old man and that 'Mr. Mouthrunner' can handle it. I'm out on a date tonight—with a few bottles—so… see ya."

He was about to end the call when

Damian's voice cut through again, sounding more urgent.

[Wait!]

Jason slowed the bike to a crawl before pulling up beside a flickering streetlight. The engine rumbled softly as he planted one boot on the wet pavement. "What?" he said flatly, though the impatience in his tone was impossible to miss.

[Father forbids me from engaging in anything Scarecrow-related.]

Jason huffed, a low amused sound that came out more like a scoff. "Of course he would. Imagine that headline—'Batman's little killing machine dosed with fear gas, goes on a rampage.' Yeah, real great PR." He leaned back on the seat, shifting his weight as he glanced across the street.

The pink glow from a half-dead diner sign flickered against his helmet visor, casting shifting reflections over the black and red finish. He scanned the surroundings of the bar opposite the street, but Li's car was nowhere in sight. Figures. "So what's that got to do with me?"

[There have been multiple incidents of Scarecrow releasing his fear toxin in populated areas within the past hour.]

Jason's jaw tightened slightly. "Yeah, I heard—three places hit already," he said, rubbing the back of his neck through the thick collar of his jacket. His patience was thinning by the second. "So what's your angle here, kid?"

[Those were the earliest. Two more have been hit since then. Both Father and Dick are stretched too thin.]

Jason's gloved fingers drummed lightly against the handlebar, the faint sound mixing with the quiet hiss of drizzling rain hitting metal.

"Alright… so what do you want from me, little demon?" he finally asked, though he already had a good guess where this was headed.

[He might've forbidden me from dealing with Scarecrow directly, but he didn't forbid me from going with a guardian. Preferably someone with real field experience.]

Jason's lips curled into a smirk beneath the helmet. "No way, kid. But I'll give you credit for trying to bend the rules." He shook his head, leaning forward slightly.

"Not my circus, not my clowns. I'm not getting dragged into another one of Bruce's messes tonight. I've got my own set of clowns to deal with."

[I know Father will be furious, but I can't just sit around. I learn best in the field. How else am I supposed to get better?]

Jason chuckled quietly, though it sounded more like a groan layered with disbelief.

"You're right—it'd definitely piss him off." He paused for a beat, the thought lingering as a faint grin crept across his face.

"Alright, kid. Meet me at the clock tower in fifteen minutes."

There was a brief silence before Damian's voice came back, calm but tinged with satisfaction.

[See you there.]

The line clicked off, leaving only the soft hum of the rain and the idle purr of Jason's bike. He stayed there for a moment, watching the street glisten under the amber glow of the lights, before sighing quietly. "Guess my night just went downhill," he muttered.

He twisted the throttle, the bike's engine growling to life again. The vibration buzzed through his leg—a dull ache still pulsing where the muscle hadn't fully healed. It was getting better though, faster than it should have.

Faster than normal.

He frowned beneath the helmet, wondering if that was something he should be worried about—or if it was just another reminder that he wasn't exactly the same man who died years ago. Maybe he'd come back different. Maybe something changed him at the highland of Lian Yu.

He shook the thought off, focusing back on the road ahead. The city stretched out before him, all wet, grim, and ever restless. The rain picked up, soft but steady, tapping against his visor with a quiet rhythm.

With a low rumble, Jason shifted gears and shot off down the street as the roar of his bike echoed through the empty block. Neon lights and lamp posts bled into streaks of red and orange as he sped off into the Gotham night, heading home to gear up for whatever mess his kid brother was getting him into on this little side quest.

- - -

In less than fifteen minutes, Red Hood had made his way to Robin, who sat on the edge of a rooftop ledge overlooking the chaos below. The city stretched endlessly before him—its skyline broken by pillars of smoke rising into a cloudy, orange-stained sky. From up there, Gotham looked like it was bleeding—alive, restless with both police sirens and that of ambulances, and with terrified civilians.

Down on the streets, victims of Scarecrow's fear toxin screamed, ran, and attacked each other as if possessed by demons.

The hallucination induced by the toxin was horrifying—those infected saw a world overrun by nightmare creatures, twisted things crawling out from the depths of hell itself. Every person became a monster to the other, and no amount of pleading or logic could break the illusion.

The worst part? The toxin hijacked the body. It kept their adrenaline spiked so high they couldn't pass out from the sheer terror. They fought until their arms went numb, until their sanity shredded itself into pieces. In their panic, they grabbed anything—pipes, bottles, even broken glass—to fend off their imagined attackers.

But in reality, those "monsters" were friends, family, or strangers trying to help.

Robin watched the madness unfold, jaw clenched beneath his mask. The wind tugged at his cape, carrying the distant echo of sirens and terrified screams.

"He said he'd be here by now. I hate being kept waiting," he muttered to himself, scanning the area behind him. "Especially not in this kind of emergency."

He sighed and crossed his arms, eyes darting around the rooftop. "I may be the one who asked for his help, but has he no respect for other people's time?" His voice came out with more attitude than intended, portraying his frustration.

He was composed as always, but the restless energy in his movements gave him away—Damian Wayne was eager for a fight, even if he wouldn't admit it out loud.

Then, out of nowhere, a modulated voice drifted from behind him. "I hear people who talk to themselves have a high chance of losing their minds."

Damian's eyes widened instantly. His body stiffened. For a split second, he imagined the cold bite of a blade pressing against his throat—that's how sudden the voice was, with enough time to slit his throat. Red Hood had appeared out of nowhere, and that alone was enough to set off Damian's instincts.

He swallowed his surprise and forced his expression back into its usual calm, though his voice gave away a hint of curiosity. "Even among the League, not many could sneak up on me." His eyes lowered briefly to Red Hood's boots, wondering how someone wearing heavy combat gear could move so silently.

"Even Father gives off a shift in the air when he's close, but you… you vanish completely. Almost like you're evading even the wind."

Jason chuckled beneath his helmet.

"Where's Robin? And what have you done with that annoying brat?" he asked, peeling off his headgear and revealing the faint smirk that always seemed half-serious, half-sarcastic.

"How did you do it?" Damian pressed, ignoring the teasing. He wasn't about to let the topic slip.

"Just one of my many talents. Call it a skill if you want." Jason's tone was casual, but his eyes—half-tired, half-amused—studied Damian's expression. The kid looked like he'd actually consider cutting the answer out of him if he didn't talk fast enough. "So," Jason continued, "what's the situation with Scarecrow?"

"Let's get going. I'll fill you in on the way. Five incidents in total has been reported—he's causing quite the ruckus."

"Before that," Jason interrupted, raising a hand, "you're not expecting me to fight Scarecrow alongside Batman, right? Because that's more Nightwing's department."

Damian shook his head. "No, not at all. Even as we speak, I'm disobeying his orders to stay put in the Batcave."

Jason gave a low chuckle. "I never saw myself as a fail-safe babysitter for you, little demon." His voice carried that trademark mix of mockery and brotherly fondness.

Damian just shrugged as they both fired grapple hooks and descended from the rooftop.

At the bottom, Jason tossed him a helmet.

"Here, just for you."

Damian caught it, already knowing what came next. "Hold on tight," Jason said, kicking the bike to life.

For once, Damian didn't argue. He wrapped his arms around Jason's torso as the Red Hood revved the engine, and the bike tore off into the night, slicing through the smoky air.

The roar of the engine mixed with the chaos echoing through Gotham—the perfect soundtrack to their uneasy alliance.

"I can see the damage Scarecrow's caused, but I don't understand why Father forbids me from tracking and engaging him," Damian said over the wind. "All I'd need is a gas mask."

Jason's voice came through, steady and slightly muffled by his helmet. "Take it from someone whose boots you're literally filling right now—Scarecrow isn't your average villain. If he wanted to, he could turn this city inside out in less than a day."

"What do you mean?" Damian asked, intrigued despite himself.

Jason made a sharp swerve past a red light. "Think about it—what happens when the rest of Gotham's psychos realize Scarecrow's got Batman struggling to keep up? You think they'll sit tight? No. They'll see it as open season. The city would spiral."

"Take a left," Damian said quickly, then added, "and that's true. The criminals would thrive on the chaos. The GCPD would be overwhelmed, and Batman would be spread too thin to manage it."

"Exactly," Jason replied. "And now, remind me—where exactly are we going?"

"A building near the coast, just before the bridge," Damian said.

Jason raised an eyebrow beneath his helmet. "How do you even know about that place, and what are we walking into?"

"Initially, I tried to trace Scarecrow's broadcast signal but failed. Right before it cut off, I got three pinged locations—probably relays he used to mask the main source. I sent two of them to Father and Nightwing, but kept the last one out. It's farther out anyway, and they're busy dealing with the chaos in mid-Gotham."

Jason groaned. "So you've basically got me running Batman's errands. Great. And here I thought I took this gig just to piss him off. Should've remembered my leg's still half-busted."

"Hope you're not too injured to fight," Damian said dryly. "I didn't call for a crippled Red Hood."

Jason smirked. "Relax. I've got twin pistols. I won't be doing much fighting."

As they neared the docks, the city noise faded into the distant crash of waves.

The streets were emptier here, darkness stretching long under the flickering streetlights. The faint chemical smell in the air mixed with the salt of the sea.

Suddenly, Damian's comm crackled.

[Damian!!]

"Father," he replied. Jason shot him a side glance but said nothing.

[Alfred said you snuck out. Where are you?]

"Don't worry, Father. I'm handling something. No need to be alarmed."

[Don—]

Damian ended the call before the order could finish. He wasn't in the mood for another lecture.

Jason parked the bike beside an abandoned factory, the engine growling one last time before dying out.

He looked around the area—dim lights, broken cranes, and the low hum of the waters. "We're here," he said finally, his voice quiet but steady as they looked around, eyes fixed at a building up ahead.

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

"Keep in mind, he's a lot more calculating than he lets on," Jason warned, his voice low but steady through the modulator.

"Confronting him head-on without absolute certainty that we've got him cornered might cost us. That's assuming he's even at this location in the first place."

"Got it," Damian replied without hesitation. His tone was pruned and focused. They moved out together, blending into the dark like two ghosts trained by the same hand. Their steps were light, coordinated, and silent—every movement was a reflection of years of League training that neither could quite shake off.

"Just like old times," Red Hood muttered, a hint of amusement curling beneath his tone.

Damian shot him a side glance, unimpressed. He remembered all too well what those "old times" had been—Jason taking every sparring session as an opportunity to beat him senseless just to prove a point.

They reached the side of the building, scaling up the rough concrete until they got to a reinforced glass window near the top right corner. The city's distant hum felt muffled here, replaced by the quiet hum of industrial fans and the occasional clang of metal from inside. Jason pulled a glass cutter from his belt and worked fast. With a faint click, the circular piece came loose, and the two slipped in effortlessly.

Inside, the air was thick with humidity and the sharp scent of detergent. The low drone of machinery filled the space—industrial washers rumbling, pipes hissing, conveyor belts clanking with damp linens. It was a wash house that serviced hotels and big corporations, one of those forgotten facilities that worked round the clock, manned mostly by tired, underpaid immigrants who just wanted to get through another shift.

Jason scanned the area, crouched on a metal beam overhead. "Doesn't really scream 'Scarecrow's secret lab,'" he muttered, eyes flicking between the factory floor and the far corners of the building.

He didn't trust the lead, not fully—but knowing Scarecrow, he wouldn't rule it out either.

The bastard was unpredictable, always hiding behind layers of organized distraction and fear. Using a noisy, populated factory as cover? That sounded exactly like something he'd do.

Without a word, Jason reached for his belt, pulled out a handful of shurikens, and flicked his wrist. The blades cut through the air with barely a sound, hitting their marks with precision. A series of faint crackles followed as multiple security cameras went dark.

"Let's check it out," he said quietly, and Damian nodded.

They dropped down behind a row of industrial dryers and moved through the facility with precise coordination. They weaved between workers unnoticed, keeping to concealment and timing their movements perfectly with the noise of machines.

They looked less like two vigilantes and more like wraiths gliding through the space.

The deeper they went, the hotter the air became, heavy with steam and the stench of wet cloth. They reached the back rooms—dimly lit areas lined with storage shelves, detergent drums, and piles of folded linens. Jason scanned every inch of the space with his tactical lens while Damian checked for hidden doors or vents that could lead deeper underground.

After several minutes, Damian exhaled sharply through his nose. "He isn't here," he admitted. His tone was flat, but Jason could hear the irritation buried beneath it.

"It was a long shot, I know… but still."

Jason glanced at him from behind the mask. Damian looked mildly frustrated, arms crossed and eyes narrowed at the floor.

For someone who rarely showed emotion, the disappointment was obvious.

"Don't get too worked up, kid," Jason said as they made their way back. "We've still got one more place to check." His tone softened slightly, and though his expression was hidden, the faint warmth in his voice gave him away. He preferred Damian snarky and full of attitude; seeing him so deflated felt… wrong.

"Where?" Damian asked, already curious, though he kept his voice steady.

Jason didn't answer immediately. He led the way down a narrow service corridor and out through another maintenance hatch. The night air greeted them again—cool, damp, and heavy with the scent of oil and rust from the docks. The factory lights flickered behind them as they stepped into the alley.

Then Jason stopped, looked down, and let a smirk tug at the corner of his mouth beneath the helmet. He tilted his head toward the circular metal plate at their feet.

"The sewers," he said simply.

Damian followed his gaze, eyes narrowing slightly. "You've got to be kidding me."

"Trust me, kid," Jason said, crouching to lift the manhole cover. The faint stench of decay and chemical runoff wafted up immediately. "If Scarecrow's really hiding out around here, that's where he'll be."

He looked back at Damian, his voice carrying that dry, teasing tone again.

"Come on, Robin. You're not afraid to get your boots dirty, are you?"

The boy gave him a flat look but said nothing, following him down into the darkness as the manhole cover slid back into place with a dull metallic thud.

"Any idea what exactly we're looking for down here?" Robin asked, his voice echoing faintly through the narrow tunnel as both of them made their way deeper into the sewer.

The air was heavy with moisture, thick enough that every breath felt like it carried the taste of rust and mildew. Faint ripples trailed behind their boots, disturbing the thin layer of grimy water that ran through the channel.

The walls were slick and aged, coated with decades of filth and algae that caught the dim yellow glow of Red Hood's shoulder light. Every few seconds, a droplet of water fell from the ceiling, creating a soft plink that echoed down the passage like a ticking clock.

"We just keep walking in the direction of the ping you got," Red Hood replied, his voice casual but laced with focus. "Check for anything out of place—Scarecrow's goons, hidden doors—"

"—or some evil lair he uses as a secret base," Robin cut in, his tone was half-serious but a bit too dramatic for the setting.

"A lair?" Red Hood repeated, his voice carrying a hint of mockery that came through even under the mask. He tilted his head toward Damian, a low scoff slipping out.

"What?" Robin asked, instantly picking up on the judgment. He turned slightly, his cape brushing the damp tunnel wall as they continued moving at a steady pace.

"You could've just called it his base of operation," Red Hood replied. "Did you really have to call it a lair? Sounds like something straight out of a Saturday morning cartoon." He shook his head, half amused, half incredulous.

Robin frowned under his mask but didn't slow his pace. "It's a secret base he hides and operates from," he said in a tone that suggested he was trying to sound logical rather than defensive. "Home base, hideout, whatever name you give it—it's still a lair."

Red Hood let out a short laugh, the sound muffled by the helmet. He'd seen Damian angry, proud, smug—but never slightly embarrassed, and it was oddly refreshing. He doubted the kid ever showed that nerdy side to anyone else. Maybe not even to his mother.

They continued forward, their lights cutting thin beams through the murky darkness. The tunnel stretched endlessly ahead, pipes rattling softly as water dripped from above. A faint breeze flowed through the space, carrying the distant scent of chemicals—something that didn't belong in a normal sewer. Red Hood's steps slowed a little as he scanned the surroundings, his instincts on high alert.

"Y'know," he muttered after a moment, glancing down the dark path ahead, "if Scarecrow really is hiding out down here, 'lair' might not be that far off."

Robin smirked faintly, the corner of his mouth twitching as he adjusted his domino mask. "Told you so."

Red Hood exhaled through his nose, amused despite himself. "Don't get cocky, kid. Let's just hope your lair theory doesn't involve us stepping into a gas trap."

- - -

Nightwing and Batman had wrapped up their end of the operation, but there was still no sign of Scarecrow anywhere. The air around them carried the heavy scent of burnt chemicals and fear toxin residue, faint but unmistakable. Police sirens wailed in the distance, flashing blue and red against the cracked walls of the abandoned building.

The few thugs they'd managed to capture were slumped against the floor, bruised, bloodied, and terrified—yet still tight-lipped. Even with Batman's methods getting more... persuasive, breaking a finger or two didn't yield the answers he wanted. It wasn't just loyalty keeping them quiet; they genuinely had no clue where Scarecrow was hiding.

Batman crouched over one of the unconscious men, his gauntlet pressing against the cold concrete as he studied the faint residue of toxin splattered across the thug's sleeve. His jaw tightened.

He straightened abruptly, his cape shifting with the motion, and turned toward the Batmobile parked a few meters away. "Alfred," his voice came through the comm, low and composed, "track Robin."

He didn't hesitate when he said it. He already had one suspicion when Damian had gone off the radar. That could only mean one thing: he'd gone after Scarecrow on his own

"Right away, sir," Alfred's calm voice responded, though there was a hint of concern beneath it.

Batman climbed into the Batmobile, the reinforced door sealing shut with a heavy thud. Inside, the faint hum of the engine filled the silence as the dashboard came to life in a glow of blue lights. His fingers tapped impatiently against the console.

Robin thought he was being clever, sneaking out unnoticed, but what he didn't know was that Batman had installed a micro-tracker inside the belt of his costume since before the day he handed it to him.

Experience had taught him to prepare for moments exactly like this.

"Got it, sir," Alfred's voice came again after a moment's pause.

"Good. Send me the coordinates—and forward them to Nightwing too. Tell him to rendezvous there." Batman's tone left no room for question.

He knew his son. Damian's pride and impulsiveness were a dangerous combination, especially when mixed with the need to prove himself. Going after Scarecrow solo wasn't just reckless—it was a suicide run.

The engine growled as he gripped the steering wheel, his expression hardening under the cowl. The city lights reflected faintly off the car's surface as he accelerated through the narrow alleyway, leaving behind a blur of neon and rain-slick asphalt.

He couldn't shake the feeling gnawing at the back of his mind. Damian wouldn't just wander off—he must have discovered something, a lead too important to ignore. And if that was true, then Scarecrow was likely closer to being cornered than they'd thought.

A small beep drew his attention back to the console. Alfred had sent the coordinates. A digital map appeared on the screen, a blinking red dot marking Robin's location.

Batman's eyes narrowed behind the mask. He had a bad feeling about this one.

He pressed a button on the console, opening a direct comm line. "Nightwing, I believe you've received Robin's coordinates. He's gone solo on Scarecrow. Get there fast—I'll be right behind you."

"Got it," came Dick's quick reply.

The Batmobile raved to life as Batman slammed his foot on the accelerator, the tires screeching against wet pavement. The skyline blurred past him. Every second mattered.

He just hoped—for both their sakes—that he wasn't too late.

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

The deeper they ventured into the sewers, the more the walls changed—brick turned to reinforced concrete, the faint drip of water echoing off metal instead of stone.

The air was colder here, still, carrying the faint stench of rot and chemicals. Robin's flashlight beam sore through the dark, catching a faint gleam of something metallic up ahead.

They stopped.

Red Hood's hand came up instinctively, signaling Robin to stay quiet. Ahead, the tunnel widened into a larger chamber, and there it was—an old maintenance section of the sewer, crudely converted into what looked like a bunker. The walls were layered with rusted pipes, patched wiring, and makeshift vents that hissed out faint wisps of steam.

Two guards stood watch at the entrance, dressed in all black tactical gear with gas masks hanging loose around their necks. They looked half-alert, probably thinking no one would ever find this place.

"I guess you were right," Red Hood muttered, his voice low and edged with reluctant approval. "Looks like the good doctor decided to set up shop down here."
"You led us through the sewer even though you had your doubts?" Robin asked, raising a brow under his mask.

"No doubt, little demon," Red Hood replied casually, checking the ammo in his pistol before sliding it back into place. "I just gave you the benefit of the doubt. Now we confirm the birthday boy's home and give him his present."

Robin frowned under his mask, not even wanting to process the phrasing. His father would want Scarecrow brought in alive, but Jason's methods rarely involved mercy.

Both of them moved in silence, shadows blending into the damp walls as they crept closer. With quick and precise attacks, Robin swept one guard's legs from beneath him, while Red Hood struck the other across the neck with the hilt of his pistol. Both men hit the ground before they could make a sound.

Red Hood pressed a gloved hand to the cold steel door, leaning in slightly to listen. A familiar voice came from the other side, hollow and deliberate, with that eerie calm that would make anyone skin crawl.

"I see I have guests," Scarecrow's voice echoed through the bunker. "Batman couldn't come to visit himself? I'm disappointed." Jason exchanged a look with Robin, though his expression was hidden behind the helmet. "Cute," he muttered. He reached for a compact laser cutter from his belt and began tracing over the heavy locks. Sparks hissed softly against the metal.

"Keep your head on a swivel, kid." The last lock snapped loose. Red Hood reached for the handle—

And the door exploded inward.

A massive steel slab slammed into his chest like a truck, launching him across the tunnel. He crashed into the opposite wall with a dull thud, bits of concrete scattering as he dropped to one knee, catching his breath through the ringing in his ears.

A low, guttural growl rumbled through the chamber.

ROAR!

A towering figure stepped through the doorway, its massive shoulders scraping the frame. The creature's thick, scaled skin was riddled with scars and patches of rough hide. Water dripped from its claws as it leaned forward, nostrils flaring, yellow reptilian eyes locking onto the intruders.
"Killer Croc," Red Hood grunted, rising to his feet and rolling his shoulders. "You see, kid? This is why you don't flush your pets down the drain."

Behind Croc, Scarecrow was already moving—his long coat trailing behind him as he gathered up a crate filled with toxin canisters. His movements were hurried, frantic, like a man who knew his time was running out.

Jason caught a glimpse of him disappearing deeper into the bunker.

"Don't go in there, kid," he warned with a sharp voice. He knew that tone of defiance Robin got before doing something stupid—he'd worn it himself once upon a time.

ROAR!!

Killer Croc charged, the ground trembling under his massive weight. Jason fired two rounds center mass—metallic clinks rang out as the bullets flattened uselessly against the reptilian hide. "Of course," Jason muttered, rolling to the side as a thick tail whooshed through the air, slamming into a rusted pipe and showering sparks everywhere.

Croc came at him again, faster this time. Jason didn't retreat. Instead, he leapt upward, boots hitting a rusted pipe for leverage before launching himself forward with packed momentum. His crowbar came down hard across Croc's jaw, a sharp crack echoing through the damp tunnel.

The impact was enough to stagger the beast, though not stop him. Croc reeled back with a guttural growl, his jagged teeth bared, saliva and blood mixing at the corner of his mouth.

Jason hit the ground and rolled, his knees screaming from the impact. He forced himself upright, chest heaving, his injured leg burning from the constant strain—but adrenaline refused to let him stop. Croc's shadow loomed again, still standing, still hungry.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jason caught movement—Robin darting toward the open bunker like a stubborn flash of yellow and black. "Dammit," Jason hissed. He hurled a throwing star that zipped past Robin's cheek, embedding itself deep into the concrete wall beside him. "I said don't go in there!" he barked.

He barely got the words out before Croc's clawed hand came crashing toward him. Jason raised his sword just in time, metal clashing against scale with a jarring screech. Sparks burst from the contact, scattering into the tunnel's humid air.

Robin hesitated for only a heartbeat before ignoring the warning completely. He spun on his heel and sprinted into the bunker, eyes locked on the silhouette of Scarecrow slipping deeper into the corridor.

"Stop right there, Crow!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the narrow space.
Scarecrow turned, that crooked smile twisting beneath his mask. "Such enthusiasm," he mocked, his voice like dry paper tearing. With a sinister chuckle, he dropped a small canister at his feet.

The metal cylinder hissed, releasing a dense greenish fog that spread fast—rolling and curling through the air like a living thing. The chemical stench hit hard even from a distance.

Robin reacted fast, snapping his rebreather into place and sealing it tight before plunging straight into the thickening haze after him. His boots echoed down the tunnel until they faded completely beneath the sound of Scarecrow's laughter, distorted by the gas and the walls.

Behind them, chaos still ruled. The sounds of snarls, gunfire, and twisting metal filled the sewer as Red Hood fought for his life against the monster in the dark.

Jason's leg was still bad—he could feel the sharp pull every time he moved or kicked. His movements were sluggish by League standards, and every dodge ached. He blocked and parried as best as he could, barely avoiding Croc's sweeping tail and raking claws.

"Babysitting really isn't my strongest suit," he muttered under his breath, shoving his crowbar between Croc's jaws just as the beast lunged for a bite. His arms trembled under the pressure, metal grinding against jagged teeth.

Then, from inside the bunker, came the reverberating clang of metal on metal. The sound froze Jason for a split second. It wasn't just the noise—it was what it triggered. The echo tore through his head like a flashbang, dragging him back to that warehouse, to Joker's laughter, to the crowbar smashing down again and again until everything went black.

His chest tightened. His fault. His recklessness had landed him in that nightmare, and now Robin was charging down the same path—charging headfirst into danger after another psychotic freak.

He needed to stop it. Which meant ending this. Either get Croc off his back or put him down for good.

But that one heartbeat of distraction was all it took. Croc's tail lashed upward from below, coiling around Jason's waist before he could react.

The thick, scaled appendage lifted him into the air and squeezed, the pressure crushing the breath from his lungs. Jason struggled, his leg flaring with pain. Croc's roar hit him like a wall of sound, hot and wet with rage.
The monster's claws tensed, ready to tear through his torso with bear-like strength—but Jason's arms were still free.

Despite Croc's natural armor—thick scales tough enough to stop knives and low-caliber rounds—Jason drew his blade once more in a blur of motion. With a vicious swing, he slashed across Croc's forearm, the edge biting through the hide deep enough to draw blood.

The beast howled, staggering back in fury. In the same motion, he hurled Jason as hard as he could. The world blurred as Jason flew backward, twisting midair to regain control.
He slammed boots-first into the wall, using it to break his fall. The impact rattled his bones, but he bent his knees, absorbed the shock, and preped to push off again it looked like he was transmuting the momentum to carry him forward like a coiled spring released.

And that was when Nightwing arrived.
He froze at the sight before him—Jason, alive and now the Red Hood whom he had been hoping to meet since he found out and at least talk.

The brother he had buried. The kid he thought was gone forever. The one he'd mourned alone, blaming himself for not being there.

Now he was here, real and now very dangerous, the Red Hood standing where Robin once had. The helmet, the body armor, the fluid brutality—it all felt foreign. Nothing of the boy remained in that posture.

'What the hell is he doing here?' was the only thought that pressed through the others in Nightwing's head as he watched Jason twist back into the fight, relentless, efficient, and utterly unrecognizable.

As Nightwing tried to process what he was seeing, Red Hood didn't waste a second. He reached into his belt and pulled out a pair of reinforced brass knuckles, sliding them smoothly over his gloved hand.

His leg still throbbed from the earlier hit, a sharp pulse of pain that made him wince beneath the helmet, but he ignored it. Using the wall behind him for leverage, he pushed off hard—every muscle in his body straining as he lunged forward, carrying the same momentum from being thrown seconds ago.
He clenched his fist tight, channeling the force into his arm, and swung with bone-breaking brute force.

The hit landed clean across Killer Croc's jaw, the metallic knuckles cracking against scale and bone with a deafening impact. The shockwave from the punch echoed through the tunnel, followed by a wet snarl as Croc was lifted off both feet.

The creature's massive frame crashed to the ground, sliding across the damp concrete until he stopped right at Nightwing's feet. Bits of rusted debris clattered to the floor beside him, the stench of rot and sewer water hanging thick in the air.

"I'm leaving him to you," Red Hood said, voice steady but strained through his modulator. It wasn't directed at anyone in particular—more of a passing statement as he broke into a sprint toward the bunker's entrance. His boots splashed through shallow puddles, echoing against the tight walls as he disappeared into the shadows after Robin.

"Wait—!" Nightwing started, but he didn't even finish the word. Croc roared, sweeping his claws in a wide, furious arc that forced him to dive back. The air whistled as the claws sliced through it, missing his head by inches and shredding part of his sleeve instead.

Nightwing barely rolled to his feet in time. His mind was full of questions—Scarecrow, Robin, Red Hood, and that insane strength. All of it was hitting him at once, pressing on him like a weight he couldn't shake off. But none of that mattered right now.

If he didn't focus, he was dead. Croc was already pushing himself back up, his massive chest heaving, blood dripping from the fresh gash Jason had carved into his arm and looking like his regenerative factor had kicked in.

The sewer around them trembled with each step the creature took. Broken pipes hissed out steam, casting faint white clouds into the greenish gloom. The flicker of dying lights above them painted the walls in uneven strokes, bouncing shadows around the corridor like a scene from a monster nightmare.

Meanwhile, Red Hood sprinted deeper into the makeshift bunker, the echo of his boots overlapping with the distant sounds of combat. The tunnels ahead were narrow, lit only by the flickering red emergency bulbs fixed into the concrete walls. The air smelled of chemicals and rust, thick and suffocating, each breath would have tastied like dust and decay if not for his head piece.

Somewhere deeper inside, he could already hear the fight—metal clashing, the sharp pop of gunfire, and the dull thuds of impact. Robin was definitely in the middle of it, probably facing off against Scarecrow's cult.
Jason tightened his grip on his gun and pushed forward, disappearing into the dark.

The sound of Croc's growls and Nightwing's grunts faded behind him, replaced by the rising noise of a different battle—the one he knew he couldn't let Robin fight alone.

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

Robin was fighting to hold his own against the Scarecrow's cult, but it was clear he was being dragged into something deeper than just a brawl. Scarecrow was still ahead—never too far, never truly fleeing.

He moved with an eerie calm, glancing back every so often as if measuring the distance between them, not with fear, but with amusement. It wasn't a chase for him, bit more like a game. And Robin was the mouse he wanted caught in the maze since he didn't get Batman.

Scarecrow knew full well he didn't stand a chance against the kid if he fought him head-on. Any rational man would have bolted, disappeared into the dark to save his own skin. But logic had long abandoned him.

The idea of watching Robin unravel under the effects of his toxin was too enticing. The anticipation of seeing that disciplined, sharp little mind fracture and crumble under fear—it was almost intoxicating.
Robin's sword cut through the air in clean, practiced motions.

The first henchman went down with a gash across the shoulder, another fell with a slice to the leg. He fought with his usual grace, a true testament to his brutal training and cold focus, but it wasn't enough.

They just kept coming. Every cult member lunged with erratic speed, their movements were jerky and uncoordinated, yet frighteningly persistent—like puppets yanked on invisible strings.

He tried to avoid killing blows, aiming for pressure points and muscles instead, trying to incapacitate them. But they didn't flinch, didn't even grunt when bones cracked or his blades cut deep into flesh. They just kept swinging, eyes glassy and unfocused, like rabid animals stripped of pain and reason.
Then, from behind, gunfire cracked and metal rang out. Red Hood had arrived.

"Wait right there, little demon. Don't chase him any further," Jason's voice called out through the chaos, rough and commanding as he slammed his crowbar into the ribs of one henchman, the sound of snapping bones echoing in the tunnel.

"Oh, there's two of you," Scarecrow's voice floated from the shadows, sinister and mocking. "But that doesn't matter. You won't reach me in time. These men have been chemically enhanced, dosed with drugs that target the brain's neuromatrix."

"Trying not to kill them is becoming a real pain in the ass," Robin muttered, slashing through another attacker's thigh and sidestepping a wild punch.

"Shssh, language, kid," Red Hood teased, smashing his crowbar across another man's knees and following it up with a precise strike to the elbow. The wet crunch of bones filled the air as bodies dropped, twitching and groaning.

Scarecrow kept talking, his voice almost gleeful, echoing through the damp corridor like a teacher proud of his own madness.
"It's fascinating, isn't it? The neuromatrix network handles all aspects of pain—sensory, emotional, cognitive. The human mind is a cage, and pain is its jailer."

The goons twitched on the floor, joints bending back into place with audible pops before they rose again, still swinging. Their faces were slack, their eyes distant, they appeared as puppets reanimated by chemistry and cruelty.

"I got the idea while I was at Arkham," Scarecrow continued, his tone dripping with pride. "Met an old acquaintance of mine. I despise him, but I admire his art. Joker."

The name struck Jason. For the first time that night, his attention snapped away from the fight and Robin. His grip on the crowbar tightened until the metal creaked, and even through the helmet, the shift in his body language screamed danger.

Scarecrow went on, delighted by his own voice. "Imagine it—a serum that silences the body's natural limits, shuts off fear, pain, doubt and hesitation. It'd turn a man into a weapon that never stops moving until he drops dead."

"For someone who's supposedly making an escape, you sure talk a lot," Red Hood cut in, his voice came in modulated as he ducked a punch and rammed his crowbar into a man's throat, then extended his pistol as he shot another.

"That's because this is a live experiment,"
Scarecrow replied, laughter bubbling up like static.

"You think you found me by chance? Oh no, I wanted this. I was waiting. This was supposed to be for Batman. I wanted to see how his precious no-kill rule would fare against my creations. What a pity he didn't show up tonight... but you two will do just fine."

The realization hit Robin instantly. His eyes widened behind the mask—he'd walked right into a setup meant for his father.

Scarecrow gave a mocking wave with his syringe-tipped glove, the glint of metal catching the flickering red lights. "You've both been quite helpful. I've gathered enough data. Until next time." Then, with a theatrical bow, he turned and began to retreat down the corridor, his laughter echoing like the hiss of escaping gas.

"Don't chase him!" Jason barked as he crushed another henchman's wrist with a single strike. He already knew how this story went—he had been that reckless, headstrong kid once. And he knew Damian wouldn't listen.

Robin, fueled by pride, impatience, and the need to prove his competence, struck several of the attackers in their paralytic nerves. Their bodies seized up mid-motion, buying him just enough time to dash after Scarecrow.

Jason cursed under his breath, surrounded by still-advancing men who refused to die or stay down. His patience burned away. He didn't have the luxury to restrain himself and aim for their paralytic nerves like Damian. Not his style. He drew his sword, slashing through limbs—arms, legs, anything that could move. Blood sprayed across the concrete, thick and dark under the dim red lights.

Meanwhile, up ahead, Scarecrow neared the end of the corridor where a ladder of corroded metal bars stretched upward toward the surface. He slowed a bit, moving with deliberate slowness, as if daring Robin to catch up.

The kid was fast, his steps light and agile, the tunnel echoing with the rhythm of his pursuit. His eyes stayed locked on Scarecrow's back—too locked. His focus narrowed so tightly that he didn't see what he was running into.

His boot caught a thin wire across the floor—so faint it blended perfectly into the darkness. It snapped taut.

Robin froze instantly, instinct taking over. He crouched low, scanning the space around him, eyes darting from floor to wall, searching for what kind of trap he had just triggered. In that second, the air in the tunnel suddenly felt heavier, tense and waiting for what came next. He could feel the danger pressing down, seconds away from springing.

Somewhere up ahead, Scarecrow's laughter echoed again—soft, distant, and cruel.

Darts came at him fast, hissing through the air from multiple directions. The first few, Robin managed to deflect with his blade, but there were too many. His movements, which were composed and calculated at first, faltered for a moment as realization hit him.

The pattern of the shots—it was a trap, and Scarecrow had set it perfectly. Jason's earlier warning echoed in his mind like a cold slap across the face. He wasn't going to get them all. One mistake and he'd be hit with whatever nightmare cocktail Scarecrow had laced those darts with.

"Get down!" Red Hood's voice boomed through the tunnel.

Before Robin could even turn, Jason slammed into him from behind, shoving him flat against the ground as he took position above him. His body twisted with the fluid precision of muscle memory, his crowbar and and sword deflecting a hail of darts that came from several angles.

The metallic clinks filled the corridor like angry rain. He ignored some of the ones aimed higher—his Kevlar underarmor could handle those—but the sound alone was enough to make the air feel alive with tension.

When the last of the darts clattered to the ground, Jason finally lowered his arm, his breathing harsh through the modulator. "I told you to wait," he said, his tone edged with irritation.

Scarecrow's faint laughter drifted from above as he climbed the ladder, his silhouette disappearing into the darkness overhead.

"Thanks," Robin said, already scrambling back to his feet. "I'll be more careful. I'll keep an eye out for any more traps." He didn't wait for a response—just pushed past Red Hood and sprinted toward the ladder, determined to keep up with Scarecrow.

Jason groaned under his breath. "Yeah, sure, you will." He started to move after him, but stopped mid-step when something felt… off. A subtle sting pulsed behind his thigh.

He looked down.

"Ah, fuck," he muttered, spotting the small dart lodged behind his thigh. It wasn't deep, but it didn't have to be.

He ripped it out and tossed it to the ground, watching the faint wisp of greenish residue trail off its tip.

For two years, Ra's al Ghul had fed him every vile concoction imaginable under the guise of herbal tonics and "purification teas." He had built resistance to most known toxins. But Scarecrow's poisons weren't like ordinary venoms—they didn't rot your organs or slow your heart. They attacked something beyond flesh and muscles.

They went for your mind.

He staggered forward, trying to shake off the growing haze creeping into his vision. "It's fine," he muttered to himself, his voice distorted by the modulator. "It's not that strong. I can—"

But the floor tilted. The air thickened, heavy and suffocating. His breathing echoed loud inside the helmet, each inhale too slow, each exhale too fast. A dull ringing started in his ears, building until it drowned out everything else.

Then he heard it.

"Well, well, well… what do we have here?"
Jason froze. Every muscle in his body went rigid. That voice's intonation was all too familiar, too wrong to be real.

"No…" he whispered, the word catching in his throat. Goosebumps crawled across his forearms. He turned his head slowly, almost unwillingly, and his heart dropped into his stomach. The toxin was working causing him to feel fear when normally it would be the opposite.

Standing in the tunnel behind him, bathed in flickering red light, was the one face he had wanted to see for the longest time, so he could bash his fist in.

White skin. Green hair. Red smile carved too wide to be human. The Clown Prince of Crime stood there, grinning like a ghost from his nightmares.

The Joker let out a manic cackle that bounced off the walls, high-pitched.
Jason's mind raced. No way. He's locked up. He's supposed to be in Arkham. His thoughts tripped over themselves. Did he escape? Did he— No. He forced himself to breathe. Think. Scarecrow's toxin. Hallucinations.

But the Joker kept talking, his words were warped and distant, as if underwater as his vision blurred. Jason couldn't tell if it was real sound or something his mind was fabricating.

'What if it's real?' the paranoid voice in his head whispered. 'What if Scarecrow broke him out? What if you're standing here wasting time thinking while he's laughing at you again?'

Jason's pulse thundered in his ears. His fingers twitched toward his gun, but his arm wouldn't move. His body felt heavy, locked in place, joints stiff and unresponsive.

The Joker leaned in, his shadow stretching across the wet concrete, and giggled. "It's really funny because… the universe just delivered a new joke—and guess what? You're the punchline, chum."

The world around him twisted, the tunnel melting at the edges as his vision flickered. The laughter grew louder, surrounding him from every direction until it became one long, endless echo.

His knees buckled. The crowbar slipped from his hand. The last thing he saw before darkness took him was that painted grin, wide and eternal, waiting to welcome him back to hell.

Then everything went black.


- - -

Batman arrived at the scene, tracking Robin's location through the signal on his cowl display. Alfred had already engineered an antidote from the lingering traces of toxin found at the sites of every attack that night.

He'd sent the initial doses to Commissioner Gordon, and the GCPD's forensics unit was already replicating it.

Nightwing's last report had been vague, but the message was clear—something was happening in the sewers. Judging by the erratic movement of the red dot flashing across his tracker, Robin was in pursuit of someone. Probably Scarecrow.

Batman recalculated the path and moved to intercept, heading toward the ocean outfall—a tunnel that flushed Gotham's sewage out to sea. The stench hit before he even reached the hatch.

The thick, chemical tang of waste and rot burned his nostrils, but he didn't hesitate. He lifted the metal grate and went into the darkness without a thought to the grime that would cling to his boots or the stench that would hang on his cape.

The echo of running footsteps came from up ahead. A faint yellow glow cut through the murk as he activated the night vision in his cowl—then, out of the nowhere, Scarecrow ran into him in his attempted escape.

"Scarecrow." Batman's voice echoed off the tunnel walls, low and calm as his brows furrowed beneath his cowl. The criminal froze mid-step, that familiar mix of arrogance and fear flashing in his eyes. He began backing away slowly, skeletal fingers twitching as though calculating an escape.

"Batman," Scarecrow said, spreading his arms in mock delight. "Good seeing you. It's been too long. You didn't even send me flowers after tossing me back in Arkham."

"It's over, Crane," Batman said. "Surrender." He already knew the futility of the command but said it anyway.

"Surrender?" Scarecrow tilted his head, his voice mixed with amusement.

From behind him came a smaller, sharper voice. "Batman." Robin. The boy's sudden appearance made the situation worse—he'd clearly chased Scarecrow here, ignoring orders.

Scarecrow grinned wide beneath his mask. "Well, this is awkward. Looks like you've got me cornered. Whatever shall I do?" He raised his hands slowly, feigning surrender. "Come on, kid. Cuff me up. Drag my sorry ass back to Arkham. It's been fun."

Robin moved in with caution, cuffs in hand, but Batman's voice cut through the space in that instant. "Stay back, Robin."
Scarecrow's hands twitched, and before Batman could react, four canisters dropped to the concrete floor, bursting open with a sharp hiss.

Pale yellow gas erupted instantly, filling the tunnel with a thick fog that stung the eyes and throat.

"Rebreather—now," Batman ordered, his cowl filtering the air automatically as Robin's built-in rebreather activated behind his mask.

Through the haze, movement. Scarecrow lunged—not running, but attacking. His hands gleamed with the cruel reflection of metal-tipped syringes, striking straight for Robin.

Batman moved faster. A flick of his wrist and a pair of Batarangs shot forward, slashing across Scarecrow's arm. The claws shattered, scattering across the floor with a metallic ring. Then Batman closed in, one solid punch sending Scarecrow off his feet and straight into the sewage stream with a wet crash.

Scarecrow didn't move.

Batman stayed alert, cape shifting slightly as he approached. "Running off on your own. Disobeying direct orders," he said, his voice steady but edged with disappointment. "You disappoint me, Robin. I thought you'd grown past this."

Robin's jaw tensed. "I..."

Before he could finish, Scarecrow's body twitched. Batman's eyes narrowed. The man jerked upright like a puppet being yanked by invisible strings. His pupils were gone, his eyes a pale, empty white.

"What the hell…" Robin whispered.
Scarecrow's movements were jerky, inhuman. Then, suddenly, he lunged again, faster this time—his strike flailing with strength that didn't belong to a man like him.

"He must've injected himself," Robin said as they dodged his wild swings. "A version of the same stuff he used on his men!"

"Short version," Batman ordered, weaving around a clawed swipe and landing a counter.

Robin spoke between breaths, explaining the bunker, the toxin, and the chemically enhanced men they'd fought.

The two moved in sync, dodging, striking, sidestepping. Their blows connected, but Scarecrow just kept coming, eyes wide and glassy, drool spilling from his mouth as he roared like a feral animal.

"How do you knock out someone who's already unconscious?" Robin shouted, ducking under a swipe.

"Easy." Batman reached into his belt, pulling out a small metal disk. He threw it hard. The device opened midair, deploying a reinforced net that wrapped tightly around Scarecrow's body. The madman went down thrashing, caught like an insect in a web.

"Batman, I—"

"Save it," Batman said. "We'll talk later."
He sent an electric charge through the net until Scarecrow finally went still, his pulse was weak but steady. Batman cuffed him through the mesh, then activated his comms. "Gordon, I've got Scarecrow in custody. Sending coordinates."

He switched channels. "Nightwing, Scarecrow's contained. Report."

Silence.

He tried again. "Nightwing, come in." Nothing. Just static.

"Nightwing's here?" His expression shifted with guilt that always preceded bad news.

Batman's eyes narrowed. "Talk."

"I came here, accompanied by Red Hood."

"What?" Batman's tone hardened. "You did what?"

"I'll explain later! But we need to move."
Robin darted off, and Batman, still carrying Scarecrow over his shoulder, followed quickly through the tunnels.

The air grew thicker, heavier with the stench of burnt flesh as they neared the lower levels. But thanks to their respiratory gadgets, they were saved from the stench. When they arrived, the scene before them was chaos frozen in time.

Killer Croc lay sprawled across the wet concrete, his jaw shattered and his scales blackened as though something had exploded in his mouth. Steam still rose from the wound. It was brutal—and it screamed of Red Hood's handiwork.

But there was no sign of either son.
"Where are they?" Robin asked, scanning the area.

Batman's gaze shifted to a nearby slab of concrete. Resting there, half-soaked in dirty water, were Nightwing's escrima sticks.