waywardacrobat:

“Alright, Sherlock. Tone down the Dark Knight detective stuff, will ya?” He scoffed, turning his hand over and seeing what Red Hood saw. So many things could be gleaned from a person’s appearance. As an avid people watcher, Dick knew that better than anyone. A split lip was a bad relationship. Disheveled clothes in the early morning meant a late night away from home. A nose in the air spoke of perceived superiority. A slight bump near the breast pocket of a well-dressed suit meant they were packing, stay far away. 

"What an ass,” he muttered to himself, referring to Bruce and dropping his hand to his side, fiddling with the edges of his shorts. Years away from the man and he still felt a bit wounded. There wasn’t anything he could do about it though. Showing his face to the man again would result in nothing but hurt feelings and bruises. He wasn’t eager to break out the foundation—stuff in his skintone was so hard to find. 

When he noticed that his time was ticking away and that Red Hood was (almost certainly) staring at him, waiting for him to say more than snark, he straightened, matching the vigilante’s posture. Well, he might as well get to the point— “I need to kill someone.”

The kid’s muttered words caught his attention, and Jay cocked his head slightly at the outburst. Obviously, other things were on his mind than just the Red Hood.

Not much he could really do here, given the kid wasn’t guilty of much more than mischief and destruction of property. The kid wanted to see him, wanted an audience. Took major balls for that, and Jay was gonna allow him time to get his words together. Even if there was afire two blocks away, a robbery six away, and a domestic abuse call just two miles up the river.

He finally coughed out his reason for calling Jason here, which was fascinating in its own right. Murder? Excellent, if motivated by the correct reasons. And if the implications were what Jason thought they were…this could be the best use of his night possible.

“You’re not fuckin’ around, are ya kid? Good on you. So, what’s this hit, if I can ask? Something you want taken care of? You wanna get into position to do it yourself? There’s a certain logistical side to take into consideration too.”

He stopped, leaning forward slightly.

“Not to mention motive. Spill.”

waywardacrobat:

It was a dark night with the moon being just a sliver in the sky. While it was cold, there wasn’t a wind to carry the frost through chilled skin and bones. Gotham was melting the last of the winter snows away, warming her people up with stagnant air and the occasional hiss of steam from out of the grates of underground subway lines. 

The sounds of sirens in the distance and of fighting down below became white noise as the minutes went by. Eventually, the homeless mob broke apart and each of them shuffled in opposite directions. The entertainment was gone, a saddening thought. Sighing, the kid swung his legs back and forth, leaned back to look for the stars, and almost fell off the ledge when he saw crimson in place of black smog. 

It was nearing four AM. His stomach growled in hunger. 

“You’re here,” he managed to say without too much surprise coloring his voice. He scrambled to stand up, If his guesses were correct, this would be a test of wills. Red Hood was stubborn so he needed to be that way too. One of the paint cans toppled over as he stood and clattered as it rolled to a stop a few feet away. 

He stared at it to give him something to do because just like that, all his words had gone away. Everything important he felt he needed to say disappeared, leaving a sticky feeling in his mouth. 

“Uh,” he breathed and realized that this was probably just as awkward as he felt it was. He was a confident kid, always had been, but these were deep, unknown waters he was treading into and Dick wasn’t exactly sure he wouldn’t be shot in the head for it all. As if by some miracle, he remembered his manners and hastily swiped his hand on his pant leg, offering it out to Red Hood. “Hi." 

The boy nearly jumped out of his skin when Jason spoke; he was nervous, scared. Unsure. Stumbling around a greeting, he about tripped off the roof. He arched an eyebrow, knowing that the boy couldn’t see. 

"Hi, Kid.”

He took the proffered hand, pumping it twice in a handshake before turning it palm up, examining the scars and calluses that covered the skin. Satisfied, he let it drop back to his side.

“You’ve lived a rough life. Calluses, plus your body type, mean gymnast, or trapeze artist. Scars suggest a hard-earned education in knives and blades. Add in the trouble you’ve made for me, and I’d guess you ran away from the circus. That, or you’ve made a damn fine habit of treating the city like your playground.” 

He swiveled his head, nodding at the dozens of red bats littering the walls.

"Impressive stuff. I don’t suppose you used a rig, which means either free climbing or a rope. Either way, it’s ballsy, just to get my attention.”

He straightened, bringing himself to his full height now.

“What do you want? Here’s your chance, Kid.”

waywardacrobat:

Nearly all of the heroes in this city were chalked up to “just stories.” People used to tell their kids that The Batman would come and get them if they were bad. Dick remembered when his mother did the exact same thing and it worked, too, because he always ended up in bed on time. Nowadays, everyone knew Batman was real. Batman had saved the day. Batman had sacrificed himself and given up his legacy to his little ineffective underlings.

The lesser known vigilantes were the ones stuck in legends and folktales, either struggling hard to find recognition or trying their damnedest to stay in the shadows. Hardly anyone knew about the Black Canary or the Spoiler or Manhunter. It was a bat that shined in the sky when the GCPD was having trouble, not an arrow or a fancy “S.” The Red Hood (and his Outlaws, to a lesser degree) was an enigma to most people. The rumors about him had spread like wildfire after The Occupation, but the general populace didn’t believe in his existence. Dick knew that he had gone underground right after the terrorist cells were rounded up and shipped off to some prison in Louisiana. Only those who had seen him in action knew that he was real— knew who he was, what he did and how he did it. He was merciless and successful in his brutality. He knew what he was doing and exactly how to do it. Dick desperately needed that.

The Hood operated almost exclusively within a twenty mile radius of the Narrows. Dick hadn’t managed to catalogue any sighting of the vigilante anywhere else and he had stationed himself around all parts of the city over the last few weeks. He had been tracking Hood’s movements for one purpose—to meet. After watching the Outlaws protect their little patch of territory during Bane’s war, Dick knew that he had found someone to help him and do for him what Bruce, in all his self-righteousness, wouldn’t even think about.

At fourteen, he wasn’t much of a vandal. What possessions he had were kept clean and utterly safe, so destroying property was a new thing for him. It was the only way to get Hood’s attention, however—short of tracking the guy for months upon months to see if he had a pattern to intercept. It was easier to get Hood to come to him. 

After smashing in three storefront windows, hijacking a motorcycle and crashing it into a shady mafia-owned restaurant, causing three alley fires, and starting a mad brawl between about six or seven smelly vagrants all within three successive nights, Dick made his way up to the top of his usual building to wait, perching himself on the edge of the roof so he could watch the fight he started play out. He had made sure to leave evidence of himself along with a ‘calling card’—a crudely spray-painted red bat—wherever he could. The brick building he was at had the same bat painted on its side and the teenager had made sure to come here every night, just in case.

If he were lucky, Red Hood would show up. (If he were very unlucky, Batman would show up instead, but Dick liked to think that the universe couldn’t possibly hate him that much.) If he never showed, he’d keep at it until he landed himself in prison, until he got what he wanted, until it killed him. He had already acquired a few bruises and some glass shards in his arm. Neither of the injuries hurt too badly, but it wasn’t exactly what he would call fun.

Still, he hoped this wouldn’t take too much longer. He had plans and this was only the beginning of everything.

Spring had hit Gotham in full force. The sunshine, along with rising temperatures, had woken the city from the long winter, and the crime rate had followed suit. Murder rate was back up, and there were actual cops patrolling-however poorly-his territory. Drug dealers were back out on corners that had long been abandoned; so far, there had been over a dozen overdoses just on Narrows Island. There was a new drug going around, one called not-so-affectionately “thumper”, for the way it spiked your heart rate. It’s (significant) side effect was a one in ten cardiac episode, and one that had claimed thousands of lives in Dubai before making a home in Gotham.

To top it all off, somebody had been causing trouble around Park Street, just north of the Narrows Bridge. Not unusual in it’s own right, but the fact that the culprit had been tagging a bat everywhere he went was a problem. More specifically, it was a red bat, a copy of the one that Jason wore on his chest. 

That symbol had been a source of much consternation in Gotham, when it had first been picked up by an enterprising reporter. “RED BAT STOPS GANG RAPE”, the papers had said. And Jason had; he’d plugged eight men gathered around a nude fifty-eight year old woman with a fake leg. Gang bangers were the scum of the earth. The woman had sold her story to the tabloids, and suddenly, stories of the monstrous Red Bat were everywhere. He’d had to track down the editor, break into her apartment, scare her shitless, and score an interview to fix that moniker.

So he’d explained, in a one off publicity stunt, that he wore the crimson bat to prove that the symbol Batman used could mean something lasting, something other than failure. She’d not understood, and so he’d very patiently expanded upon that. “You see, Miss Vale, vigilantes are supposed to stop crime, to change their city. They aren’t meant as a sign of hope, as some urban legend to frighten the weak minded. They’re meant as a warning, as a sign of what undoubtedly will come to those who continue to cross that line in the sand." After that interview, the name Red Hood was on everyone’s lips, as the Gazette sold out a record nine printings. 

So to see his symbol used as a signature for some new gang, or whomever this merry mischief maker was, was unacceptable. Already he’d started a mafia beef, by sending a bike colored in a rival family’s colors into the boss’s restaurant. The fires were less damaging, as most of the alleyways were stone and cement, but it still left scorched earth behind, with the offending symbol. It was the brawl that finally got Jason to interfere. The men-drugged, drunk, homeless, ignorant-had raised enough clamor to warrant no less than seven calls to 911, four of which Henri managed to reroute to Jason. Finally, he had an active event with which to track this new prey.

The men were winding down, fatigue and lack of muscle tone breaking their fight far sooner than normal men would have given up. Taking a vantage point up high, he watched as they wandered their separate ways, with a few still halfheartedly throwing punches underneath yet another red symbol. Actually, now that Jason looked closer, there were several dozen symbols on this particular building. A quick scan with his helmet showed a lone occupant, seated on the roof. Zooming in, he spotted the red cans of paint next to this…boy?, as well as several gas cans. Odd, but Gotham had seen weirder.

A grapple took him to the far side of the condemned building, and slow, purposeful footsteps took him within twenty feet of the boy. He was small, but not skinny; he had muscle tone, and a decent wideness of the shoulders. A swimmer maybe, or a gymnast. Neither of which explained why this teenager was tearing Park Street apart. Speaking through the vents of the helmet, he called out.

"Nice work, Kid. I’m not dumb enough to think this wasn’t intentional. You have my attention. Use it wisely.” Hooking his thumbs in his belt, just inside his holsters, he leaned back on his heels and waited for an explanation.