No, it’s okay bartender. Just give me the bottle. Yeah, the big one. Why am I drinking? Well, you see, I died a while back. Got my skull crushed in by a maniac with a crowbar. Today is the big one-five, the crystal anniversary. Nah, I’m okay. Just let me take Jack here and we’ll have a nice long talk in private.
Nestled in a back booth at Finnegan’s, a hole in the wall financial district bar, Jason sipped his third-fourth?-highball of Gentleman’s Jack, not even bothering to look up at the commotion a few tables over. Henri hadn’t wanted to come gloom and doom with him, and…well, there wasn’t much of anyone else left. Isabel had been some sorta spy, Batgirl wasn’t speaking to him, and Roy was dead. Kory was furious that he’d almost died fighting Batman in a stupid pissing contest. Dick…Dick didn’t care.
He was startled out of his thoughts when a tall brunette man in an eggplant trenchcoat fell backwards into the empty bench seat across the table from him, catching himself on an extended hand. Looking up, Jason saw a man in a suit, white powder and blood traced on his nose. His face was red, veins and tendons bulging out of his perfectly tailored shirt. He was yelling, but the words weren’t registering in his ears yet. Looking back at the fallen man, he saw no emotion but thinly veiled annoyance, and he immediately decided to back the man. Standing, he drew himself up to his full height, clearing his throat to get the Wall Street asshole’s attention.
His eyes widened as Jason loomed above him, the color and confidence draining as two hundred and forty pounds of denim and leather stepped towards him, putting a massive hand on his shoulder. Leaning down, Jason peered into the man’s huge pupils, looking for the fear past the dilation.
“Come on, Shitstain. That’s no way to act. Get the fuck outta my booth.” He squeezed tight on his clavicle, feeling the bone strain under his thumb. The man winced, then attempted to squirm away as the pain increased. Finally, Jason let go, chuckling darkly as the man practically sprinted away, clutching his shoulder. Sitting back down, he swept a hand through his hair, glad he’d dyed the streak. He hated attracting attention when it was showing, and this was exactly why. The fewer identifying marks, the better. He’d even taken to wearing contacts, but tonight, he had chosen to let his pale aquamarine eyes go natural. The bartender had his name, but that was all. Nothing would come of the search, anyway. The League had erased his identity over a decade ago, not like it was difficult. All that had been under his name was a birth certificate, and even that had been erroneous. HIs parents hadn’t ever actually gotten married, but a common law marriage had been been applied the year after Jason was born. In any case, his birth name had been Jason Peter Winick, with his mother’s maiden name given to him. After her death, he’d adopted his father’s surname, not wanting to bring any attention to the only legacy Catherine had left him.
"Financial guys can be real assholes.” He was addressing the fallen man now, watching as he readjusted that purple coat. He was…unique looking, to say the least. Wideset eyes, a huge chin, and cheekbones that looked so out of place Jason wondered if he’d had them implanted. “Name’s Jay. What’d you do to piss him off, anyway? You try to rent his favorite hooker?” He laughed, tossing back the last bit of his glass. “I’ve seen him knock a waitress out for getting his martini wrong before.”
and all of this will never be the same again 