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Barbara’s forehead wrinkled as she scowled. She wasn’t there to be his gun for hire and yet she had felt like she was not only rented muscle, but part babysitter as well.  She didn’t appreciate being either. “You know, if you just needed someone to watch your ass, I’m sure you could have gotten anyone else.” She chided, snatching the weapon with expert grace. “If you tell anyone I used a gun, I will hunt you down.”

Standing sentry, she cradled the gun with two hands, eyes only periodically looking down at his progress. The girls clambered out of the cells and Barbara motioned for them to be quiet as she helped guide a few stragglers toward the exit.  As the last of the prisoners filed out, Barbara caught up to the Red Hood, keeping a few paces behind him, eyes methodically scanning their surroundings.

Out of the corner of her eye, Barbara spotted her. Clinging to the shadows, segregated from the rest of the holding area, a young woman covered in filth. She appeared to be injured.  Barbara began motioning toward Hood, but he was already too far ahead. “We missed one.” She whispered into her comm as she silently stalked over to the wired door. Frowning, she smashed the rusted lock with relative ease, kicking in the gate.

“Are you ok?” The girl flinched but didn’t respond. With a gloved index finger, she touched the symbol on her chest. “I’m here to help.” Curling bloodied legs up towards her chest, the girl tucked herself farther into the corner. “I don’t think she understands me, Darth.”

“Может вы ходьбы?” Grimacing, she began nervously tapping her boot against the ground. “Ok, I either asked her if she could walk or if she liked pickles. I don’t know Russian.”

His wound was long forgotten, and he danced through the Russians like a deadly ballet, sword flashing in the light. Limbs hit the ground like rain, blood covering the floor as he carved through the guards. 

He finished with a mighty swing that severed two heads before spinning to find the room empty, save for Batgirl. She was on edge, tense and staring. She nodded at a corner, and he followed her eyeline to see a grungy woman, clearly petrified. 

Batgirl’s Russian was clearly from a book, and her accent was atrocious. Sweeping her aside, he knelt down in front of the girl.

“Я Красная шапочка. Я здесь, чтобы спасти вас. Вы можете прийти со мной, пожалуйста? Я хочу взять тебя в безопасное место. Меня не волнует, что вы сделали; Я просто хочу, чтобы вы были свободны. Вы можете доверять мне, честное слово, как русский.”

She nodded, slowly and unsure. Scooping her up in his arms, he turned to Batgirl.

“We gotta go. Cops will be here soon. She’s coming with us. Can you make sure the other girls get out? I don’t think this one is gonna go with anyone but me.”

As if on cue, the girl curled into Jason’s chest, her head finding the space between helmet and shoulder.

Swiveling back to Batgirl, h sealed his helmet, closing the girl from his words. 

“She needs a doctor, now. She’s got at least three broken ribs, and what looks like internal bleeding around her stomach. Who do you use? Batcave, Gotham General, Mercy?" 

The sound of sirens did not give him much hope. 

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With an exaggerated cant of her head, Barbara stared at him. “I don’t feel sorry for you at all.” She looked down to the floor below as reality hit her again; with Hood all but incapacitated, there was no way she was getting these girls out of there. With her eyes, Barbara mapped the narrow pathway between cells to the end where a pack of guards huddled together, guns slung haphazardly over shoulders and around hips.

What was that?

Barbara leaned over the railing, glancing across from the occupied cells. Rows and rows of additional holding areas sat completely empty. Frowning, she gripped the railing, puzzled. At the opposite area of the basement, the section nearest to them, a piece of ripped paper was taped to the crumbling sheetrock. From this distance she couldn’t tell what it was, but it must have held importance for someone to go to the trouble.

Turning her attention back to the bleeding man, she pursed her lips in distaste. “Maybe next time, don’t be so cocky.” Pushing herself up, she chewed on her bottom lip. Pointing with a gloved index finger, she indicated to the staircase and the paper hanging to the wall. “Stay here, and make yourself useful – see if you can spot your friend’s kid. I’m going to grab that and see what it is.”

Barbara bounded down the rickety iron staircase with ease and stealth. She triple checked her line of sight before emerging from the shadows, approaching the wall, slowly, dumbfounded with what she saw. Snatching the paper, she made her way back to the main floor. “It’s a postcard. But,” she moved the damaged paper towards him. “For one thing, the picture on the front is a movie poster for an infamous lost film, which is completely random. And for another, it looks like there are geographic coordinates handwritten on the back.” Flipping the postcard over, she displayed the scrawled numbers, and shrugged.

His poorly swathed wound caught her eye, and she shook her head. “I think you’re done for the night, Darth. You should get out of here before you pass out from blood loss.”

Batgirl did not, as it turned out, have a plan.

Instead, she was spitting insults at him and leaving, off to grab a fucking postcard that one of the girls probably left as a cry for help.

Jason took advantage of the time, rewrapping and dressing the wound best he could. He confirmed that it hadn’t done more than skim muscle, which was optimal. No organs were hit, and he was damn lucky for that. The clotting factor had started working, and the bleeding was slowing down. A quick spray of alcohol, a gauze pad, and more tape. Better than nothing. Henri would have to take a look at it when he was home. If he made it home.

He peered through the cells, looking for any identifying factor he could distinguish. Nothing. Just hair color and rough height, which wouldn’t be useful for much longer if they didn’t get the girls to safety soon.

She was back now, and damn proud of her postcard. She showed it off, a confused frown tugging at her lips. Jason rolled his shoulders in a dismissive way, not sharing her intrigue.

“Stash it. We have work to do.” At her meaningful glance towards the bandage, he flashed her a grin. “I’ve had worse and done more. Come on. I think I’ll be able to work the locks off. There’s what, twelve cells that are full? Not too hard to shatter twelve locks. All I need you to do is lay down some cover fire.” She stared at him. He sighed.

“I’m gonna go free some ladies. When you see guards, start shooting near them. Hopefully they’ll stay down.” He tossed her the pistol in his left hand, the one he’d taken from Tyson earlier. “There’s a few other clips back there. It’s small caliber, 9mm. Just aim low. You don’t want to kill any of them, I don’t think.” Standing, he donned his hood, wincing as it slid on. Tapping his temple, he spoke through the vents. “I’m on frequency 371.R, if you don’t mind.”

He clambered down the stairs, slipping noiselessly into the holding area. He lobbed a smoke bomb into the guards area, not stopping to wait for the explosion. Using the butt of the revolver, he smashed the first three locks, all of which had six or more girls inside.

“Go. Outside. GCPD should be waiting.” He pointed at the exit, not waiting to escort them off. Drawing his sword, he sliced through the next nine, only stopping to remove one of the guard’s heads. The last three locks got a .357 slug, the gates swinging open uselessly.

Looking up to Batgirl, he gave her a nod before charging the guards again-this time with cover. 

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Truthfully, she hadn’t even noticed his hair. In fact, she was trying desperately not to look at his face at all. Her eyes had darted everywhere but. Now, she couldn’t help but stare. Barbara hadn’t known a lot of men that dyed their hair, let alone highlighted it, but to each their own. Shoulders shrugged up as she focused on the more important feature of his frame: a bleeding wound.

Kneeling back down, lines creased on her forehead, more than likely invisible through the cowl, as she stared blankly at the gash. However, her tight, pursed lips were plainly visible, unable to hide her obvious concern.  She was going to have to work on her poker face. Green eyes flicked up to him as he gave her his best nonchalant look, but she didn’t buy it for a second. This had to hurt. There was no way he was immune to pain.

“Yeah, cute was exactly what I was going for.” Barbara stood up, holding out the gun she had confiscated towards him. She swallowed hard, looking from the Hood to the only conscious guard.  This situation kept getting worse and she was completely over her head. She could feel her heart beat pounding in her ears, a thrumming echo as her breathing increased. Trying desperately to keep herself calm, she looked at the floor, her boots, her hands, anywhere else.  Never in a million years would she have even remotely thought she would be working with the Red Hood and never in a million years would she have thought she would be facing down death and dismemberment so quickly after it had just begun.

Nodding her affirmation, Barbara spun around and jogged out of the room in the direction the guard had pointed, hoping to find the helmet as quickly as possible. They needed to pick up their pace if they had any hope of making it out before the remainder of the guards were alerted. Focus switched, though, as soon the sound of gunfire resonated through the stuffy warehouse air. Stopping dead in her tracks, her jaw slacked, mouth agape.

She should have known.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

With growing rage, Barbara threw open the utility closet and grabbed the red helmet, slamming the door shut so hard she almost took the door off its hinges. There was that famous Gordon temper.

Reentering the room, Barbara’s mouth was a taut, harsh line across her face. She didn’t bother looking at the guards, she already knew their fate. Instead, her vision narrowed on the Hood as she forced the helmet into his abdomen, just centimeters from the open wound. Huffing out a lungful of air, she twirled around, heading for the exit. “We have some girls to free. Push your guts back in and come help me or get the hell out of the building.”

He’d already reloaded and reholstered the revolver by the time she returned. The spent casings went into a belt pouch, and the gun went back in the holster at the small of his back. 

He was leaning against the wall, grimacing and poking a finger into the wound when she slammed the helmet into him, grinding his glove into muscle fibers and driving the wind out of him. 

Ouch. Maybe she’s not as into guns as I thought. That’s fine, we’ve got a long fight ahead of us.

“Right.”

No quip, no snark. Maybe it was the blood loss, but she was gone before he had a comeback prepared. 

He took a moment to stuff a quick clot bag into the bullet hole-fuck, that hurts like a motherfucker-and held it for a few moments. Then, he was out the same way she went.

She was leaning on the second floor railing, peering down to the basement level of cells and guards. Kneeling next to her, he set his helmet down in front of him. At her inquisitive look, he shrugged.

“Face hurts too bad. Don’t wanna have it on any longer than I have to. Tight fit, and all.”

There were approximately twenty men left, some of which had been sent back to the matrix after being found unconscious of injured. They looked confused, scared; almost like they’d been threatened with death if they failed. 

Not untrue, though. They didn’t deserve the air they breathed. 

“I can’t take them out in a fight, not like this. It’s barely slowed down.” Lifting his hand, he showed her the ugly opening. The muscle was ripped apart, and there was a jagged hole roughly four inches long and two wide. He groaned.

“I think that’s peritoneum at the bottom. That’s good. Means nothing is gonna spill out.” He stuffed the clot bag back inside, wrapping a few passes of electrical tape around himself to hold it in. 

“That’s gonna have to do, I think. Let’s hope it stays there for the fight. Got a plan?”

He had several, but most of them involved more blood loss, and he didn’t feel like dying tonight.

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She was woefully unprepared.

The sight made her stomach churn. Dozens of girls ranging in age but the majority appeared to be teenagers. All the young women were locked away like cattle – like animals ready for the slaughter. Her hand went to her mouth as she sucked in a lungful of air. She crouched down near the seam of where concrete met steel grating, just staring, eyes wide, unbelieving.

There were forty-four guards in total, she had counted twice. There was no way the two of them could take out that many men. The Hood had a reputation but she doubted even he was that good. She sure as hell wasn’t. He was dropping down to the sub-floor before she could protest, but she shot him a nasty look, lips pursed together so tightly she was sure the delicate skin would crack. It wasn’t the time or place for arguments, they needed as much stealth as possible, but it took all her will not to shout a nasty quip his way. Barbara had a feeling cocky and brash were his default setting.

Climbing the bare metal studs and risers, Barbara pulled herself up to the second floor. She had a much better view of the perimeter from here and could see that the bulk of the guards were centered in the holding area under the grating. Double edged sword; they wouldn’t have to worry about a second wave, but Hood was about to be swarmed.

Splitting up been the wrong strategy and if she got out of this alive she was never letting him hear the end of it. Peering from around a decaying column she saw everything in fragments and she swore her heart momentarily stopped. Glints of red metal, his hands over his head and assault rifles. She was up and running before she could see the rest play out. “Goddamn it.” Her voice barely above a whisper but she knew he could hear it over the comm.

“Batgirl, get out! Get out while you can!”

She shook him off, obviously he didn’t know how determined she was. Her father had always said she was too stubborn for her own good. There was no way in hell she was leaving him behind. Leaving him behind was a death sentence and the Russian mob didn’t take prisoners.

He had already taken out a good thirteen or so of the guards and she had removed six earlier. She could easily take out twenty five armed men, right? Her resolve was beginning to falter but the adrenaline was already pumping and before she knew it was she was heading straight into the fire without an extinguisher. Really stupid, Gordon.

Barbara had already put in a call to the GCPD, backup would be here soon, but that was too long for the Red Hood. He had minutes, maybe, and that was only if he could manage to bite his tongue long enough to not piss of the men more than she was sure he already had.

With little effort, Barbara took down the first wave of guards and the next group had been the victims of a combination of smoke pellets, gauntlets, and her taser. The remainder were at the opposite end of the complex and her attack had proved surreptitious enough to prevent any additional attention. Pressing her ear to the door, Barbara could hear the men holding Hood speak a combination of broken English and Russian. She cursed herself internally for taking Latin in college. Four years of a dead language had proved incredibly useless.

Riding a wave of temporary bravery, she kicked open the door, immediately dropping down to the floor and kicking out her leg, side sweeping the first of the men, grabbing his riffle and hitting him in the nose with the butt of the gun. The next man took an elbow to the clavicle and a right hook to the jaw, just enough to incapacitate him and allow her to snatch his pistol. Barbara turned on heel just in time to see the third and final guard squeeze a round off at Hood. Her fist was in his face before he could take another shot, slamming him against the wall. Slumping to the ground, the man laughed, spitting blood in her direction. With one hand on the trigger, the other cradling the base of the the gun, she aimed.

“You’re not going to shoot me, you’re with the Batman.” There was sarcasm laced in every syllable, like he was taunting her. “You don’t even know how to shoot a gun.”

“Funny story,” Barbara’s tone was relaxed and casual, not betraying how truly frightened she was. “My dad taught me how to shoot a gun after the captain of the football team asked me to prom. So, I know how to use this. Although…” Her words trailed off as she lowered the weapon towards the man’s groin. “It has been years since I’ve used one of these things, my aim could be way off.”

She could see realization flash in the man’s features and he dropped his own gun, kicking it across the room towards her. Smirking, Barbara scooped up the weapon before rushing over to the Red Hood, trying to not look at his exposed face. She pulled a knife out of her belt and cut the ligatures restraining his hands. Wincing, she stared at his wound. “Can you walk?”

“Remember, Jason. Interrogation is about the manipulation of fear and power. If you do not fear your captor, you cannot be intimidated. You will hold the power, not him.”

Ra’s’ words bounced around his head like a mantra, giving him a target to focus on while the Russian did his best Tyson impression. Sure, Jason had been worked over a few times in his life, but getting an orbital blowout wasn’t on his list of things to accomplish. So he did his best to take the blows on his chin and forehead, much to the fury of his torturer. 

His teeth rattled in his jaw; this guy had some serious stopping power. The domino did little to protect his face, but he supposed it was better than nothing.

Ten or twelve punches later and the room was starting to spin. Red haze was creeping in around the edges of his vision. He steeled himself against the encroaching blackout, rapidly exhaling to psyche himself up for the next blow.

It never came.

A navy and silver figure danced through the splintered door, taking out the first of the three men that had been tormenting Jason. The second dropped almost as fast, and the third was-

Fuck.

Wrenching his entire body weight to the right, he toppled the chair on its side, attempting to take the bullet that had been fired at his head in his pectoral armor. It struck with a hammer’s blow, knocking the chair back almost a foot.

Fuck, that hurt.

She was cutting his zipties now, helping him up. Asking if he was okay, if he could walk. Staring at him in abject horror.

“Yeah, the hair, I know. Where’s my helmet?”

She shook her head, pointing at his hip. Finally looking down, he found that the bullet had clipped the side of one plate of armor, ricocheted, and dug itself into his abdomen, shredding the polykevlar that his suit was made from. 

It was a large wound, to say the least. Not very deep, but wide, and probably all the way through the muscle wall. Taking a deep breath, he shook Batgirl off.

“I’ve had worse. Good job, by the way. I didn’t think you had it in you, picking up a gun. Cute story, with prom and all.” He stooped, ignoring the screams of protest from his wounded oblique as he drew his revolver.

The men would all have to die, he decided. The first two weren’t going to go anywhere soon; both were unconscious. The third man-Tyson, as he’d been dubbed by Jason-was sliding backwards in fear as a visibly bloody Red Hood knelt down, black and white hair inches from a scarred and ruddy face.

“Now, you’re going to tell me where my helmet is. If I think you’re lying, I’m going to have Batgirl here shoot your dick off. Got it?”

The man urinated on himself, pointing with a shaking hand at the adjacent utility room. 

Standing back up, he smiled widely at Batgirl.

“See, Batsie? All you gotta do is ask nicely. This is starting to hurt, so grab the Hood, would ya?" 

As soon as she went through the doorframe, his revolver was out and he was plugging shots into the men, one in each forehead. Tyson was last, slumping backwards against the wall as a pink cloud exploded out of the back of his skull.

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Back against the railing, Barbara slid down until she was seated on the roof. Chin in the palm of her hand, she looked at the Red Hood, curious expression plastered across her face. It was infuriating how difficult to read this guy was. The kind of frustration that got on your skin like a rash, a rash you couldn’t stop scratching.  It wasn’t just the fact that he wore a helmet that completely covered his face. She was good, damn good, at reading body language, voice intonations, everything. But he was better at alluding her.  It was maddening.

He was a puzzle, the kind that had no obvious resolution. She detested that more than anything. Her scientific, over calculating mind could figure out damn near anything. His reputation and actions were in direct conflict with each other. When she expected him to weave, he bobbed.  When she expected him to be just another faceless killer in the Gotham night, he was rescuing a restaurateur’s daughter. He was unpredictable – and erratic wasn’t good, not when you needed to trust someone to have your back.

And now he wanted help with what she could only assume was preventing a girl from being sold into an underground sex trafficking ring.

Barbara rubbed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose as she took in a deep breath.  She couldn’t say no, declining his offer would mean someone would suffer and she wasn’t prepared to use an innocent as a pawn.  Both gloved palms splayed out on the concrete roof, fingers idly playing with a rock.

“I’m not saying yes because I want you to owe me a favor. I’m saying yes because I can’t say no.” Hoisting herself back into a standing position, she turned on heel back towards him, eyes following the dark horizon. “Do you have anymore intel, because that’s not a lot to go on.”

Jason did, in fact, have more intel. The problem was proving it. The Dimitrov family was notoriously insular, and the only contact he had with them was a man who had also escaped the Gulag with Jason, all those years ago. Not a problem, usually, but Maxim Dominina was not most men. After returning to Russia, he had defected to the United States, joining a counterspy operation with the CIA. To involve him was to invite the government into Red Hood business, something Jason hoped to avoid.

“I know a little. Just enough to pinpoint their warehouse. It’ll take observation and surveillance to get anywhere real. Stakeout, like. You up for it?” The ‘imnottakinganyofyourshit’ look she gave him didn’t make him feel good about the operation, but he supposed that reluctant help was better than going it alone. 

“All I ask is that you back me on this play. Can you manage that, Little Red?” With another shrug, he held his hands up, miming innocence. Couldn’t hurt, right?

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With pursed lips and a scrunched up nose, she looked at him with feigned disgust. “Should we add littering to your no doubt long list of criminal acts?” Bending down, Barbara picked up the spent cigarette and strolled over to the helmeted man. Yanking out his hand, she placed the the trash in his palm. “You should be more careful next time, Darth. Wouldn’t want your DNA getting into the wrong hands.”

A scoff escaped her lips, eyebrows drawn and arched in disbelief. “The great and powerful Red Hood needs my help? Are you concussed? You don’t seem like the type to ask for assistance, let alone from an ally of the bat.”

He raised his hands up and she sensed he was being sincere. Which was an incredibly odd feeling and one she was certain she couldn’t one hundred percent trust. Barbara dropped the sarcastic tone, switching to something a bit more serious. Leaning against one of the railings, she looked over the skyline, taking a moment to consider his request, still stunned he was asking for aid. “How do I know you are being honest? How do I know you aren’t lying to me?”

Barbara didn’t trust him farther than she could throw him – which considering his height and bulk was probably not far at all. But she probably owed him a favor, he had sort of gotten her out of a jam. A really stupid jam, but a jam none the less. She could at least humor his request.  

He couldn’t help himself. He smiled when he saw her pick up his scattered bad habit, a genuine smile too. Good thing she’d never know. He accepted the handful of butts, crushing them in his fist before depositing them into a jacket pocket. “Nice to see you again, Padme. Good to see you’re still trying to earn that anti-littering merit badge.” She scoffed. 

Despite her accusations of nefarious deeds, crimes, and various other skullduggery, he actually needed her help. Wanted it, too. So he endured her cautious looks, the dripping sarcasm in her voice. Finally, when she finished talking, he spoke.

“You don’t know I’m not lying to you. That’s where trust comes in, Batsie. Just hear me out, okay?” He put his hands in front of him, signalling for her to just let him explain. 

“A contact of mine, Boris Ilyinykh, called me this morning. His daughter, Ylena, has been missing since yesterday afternoon. Shit out of luck normally, but Boris tells me she’d been seeing one of the Dimitrov leader’s kid. Some asshole named Anatoly. They’re sex traffickers, primarily.” He stopped, sighing. “I need reliable help, here. Someone I can trust to not storm in there and tip the Russians off. That’s why I’m not using the others here. Too volatile. The Dimitrovs have a warehouse in Randall, and that’s where I want to start.”

He knew she couldn’t see his eyes, but he still bored his into hers. “I need someone here, Batsie. Plus, I’ll owe you one.”

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It was like a scene from a noir film: streaky clouds and smog surrounding dark structures rising up into the night. The new temples of man – high-rise buildings and billboards – stretching so far it looked like they would impale the stars in the sky.  Batgirl stood sentry on the roof of one such building, observing the city as it citizens drifted towards slumber.

Barbara was exhausted. She had been working the ‘sex bugs’ case, as Dinah had so eloquently dubbed it, for the last two weeks. Every spare moment that she wasn’t on patrol or at work she was researching; sifting and gathering intel in attempt to piece everything together. Somehow she had even managed to fit in an undercover mission to the thinly veiled ball over the weekend to get additional information. Her feet were still aching from the five-inch heels Dinah had forced her to wear.

Eyes darted back and forth over the Gotham horizon, legs dangling over the side of the superstructure. The comm lines were quiet tonight and Barbara was thankful for the reprieve, no matter how temporary or slight. Out of the corner of tired, emerald eyes she spotted the light – an entirely new signal gracing the Gotham skies. Lips pressed together into a tight smirk, she pushed herself up with the aide of the safety railing and took a running leap off the building.

Within ten minutes, Batgirl was standing near the source of her amusement and she couldn’t hide the smile on her face. “You know,” Barbara declared into the shadows. “I would say that it’s a crime to deface police property.” Hands went to rest on her hips. “I would say that, if it weren’t so funny.” 

“There may be angry Bats and police commissioners arriving soon.  Might want to douse the light. Unless your intention was to bring more attention to yourself, then by all means, keep it on.” Crossing her arms over her chest, hip jutting to one side, Barbara stood with cheeky demeanor. 

His helmet was in his hand, and a cigarette was dangling from his lips as he scanned the skyline. The signal was blazing in the air, a brilliant amethyst bat in the heavens. The weather wasn’t cold enough to seep through his armor, but the wind was brisk, biting at his face. It had been a good thirty minutes since the light went up. A small pile of black butts littered the ground at his feet, a sign of his impatience. 

A light sound of footsteps on the far side of the light caught his attention, and he tugged the helmet over his head as he stepped around the buzzing spotlight. He blinked twice as the HUD powered up, changing his visual field from the naked skyline of Gotham to a pulsing stream of information. Batgirl was standing across the roof, looking annoyed. Good. He flicked the butt of his cigarette at her, watching as the coal spun crazily in the night wind. It landed without striking her, rolling into the toe of her left boot.

She spoke. 

With a deft hand, he pulled the handle of the light downward, cutting the power off. The buzzing stopped, and the MCU rooftop plunged into what seemed to be pitch darkness, without the brilliant symbol illuminating their surroundings. He allowed a few seconds for her vision to adjust, then spoke.

"No one is even going to notice, Batsie. There’s a multiple alarm fire on Sandy Hook, plus a hostage situation the new Bat is dealing with up on South Channel Island. No one’s here; certainly no one who’s going to meddle in our affairs.” She looked good. Tired, maybe, but good. Vibrant red hair, sharp eyes. Legs that, had Jason allowed himself to dwell on, would have thrown his concentration fully. He closed his eyes for a brief second, then, in a softer voice, spoke again.

“I need your help, Batsie. I’ve got a kidnapping case I’m working on, and I need someone softer to back me up. Domestic cases aren’t my forte, but this is a favor for a friend. I need someone victims will trust, someone they’ll talk to.” He raised his hands in mock surrender, his tone taking on a sarcastic tone. “No tricks, no trap. This is the Big Bad Wolf asking Little Red for help.”

Jason hated domestic crimes. 

There was the inherent deplorableness of them, men hurting those weaker than themselves. There were the memories of Willis Todd tossing his son across the room when he stepped in front of his mother, at age three. He’d broken his arm then. Catherine had cried over his crumpled body until Willis left, off to get shitfaced before returning to pass out in a heap against the deadbolted front door.

He wasn’t good at handling hysterical women and children, and even in the cases where they were semi-calm, they were loathe to trust him immediately after Jason had put a stop to the man (or men) who had hurt them. He was just too big, too rough around the edges. He lacked a polish, an inherent trustworthiness that connected him with victims.

It was with that mindset that the Red Hood was standing above the Batsignal on the Major Crimes building, watching as the light cut through fog and smog, casting a purple light onto a low flying cloud. Purple, because he wasn’t looking for the lesser Batman tonight. A five eighths thick sheet of plum colored plexiglass was clamped onto the spotlight, and the result was a distinctly different type of call for help. 

If everything worked according to plan, Batgirl would show up.

Eighteen hours earlier, Jason had received a call from Ilya Katsalapov, the CEO of Redstone Security, and one of Jason’s oldest and closest friends. His brother-in-law, Boris Ilyinykh, had a daughter who hadn’t been heard from in three days. In Gotham, that meant you were dead. However, the girl had been involved with some Russian mobsters lately, some kid she’d been seeing. Boris didn’t know his name, just that his father had been big in the Dimitrov family. They were a nasty group, making their bones on human trafficking and the sex trade. Foul play was always suspected when they were involved.

Normally, Jason would have asked one of the Outlaws to back him up, but Kory wasn’t exactly patient when it came to human traffickers. If it were up to her, she’d go in guns-hands, really-blazing, and level their hideout in Uptown. Roy would do whatever she said. Besides, they were new at the vigilante game, and Jason had been itching to see Batgirl again. Their last meeting had ended a little darker than he’d intended, and he’d been trying without avail to run into her in the seven or so weeks following that.

So, with a basic lead about where the Dimitrovs kept their slaves, the Red Hood waited in the shadow of the Bat, hand on his revolver at the small of his back. Ready, watching, waiting.