Chapter Text
A slant of light comes through the window, hitting Jason square in the face from his spot on the floor. The sheets are tangled around his legs, leaving his body exposed. He must’ve kicked them down in his sleep.
The silver chain around his neck glints in the sunlight. Jason fingers the ring dangling at the end of it, a small thing with a topaz stone. Not fancy enough to be a wedding ring, but valuable nonetheless. Very much so. Jason closes his fingers around it, feeling the heat of the band digging into his palm, almost like an imprint, then lets it fall back to his chest as he stands up.
His apartment is hardly an apartment. Well, it is, but he’s using it as somewhere to sleep, not as somewhere to live. There’s no lamp, no bed, no TV, no nothing. He’s been sleeping on the floor for the past two weeks and, quite frankly, he likes it. This is how he spent his nights when he was on the streets, and Wayne Manor offered a little too much luxury with those beds that felt more like glorified clouds. He prefers the floor.
The wood creaks underfoot as he goes to where his clothes sit, on the one piece of furniture he owns: a significantly broken-in table and a single wobbly chair. The place came with a fridge but no microwave, but it wouldn’t have mattered either way because Jason isn’t necessarily shelling out for electricity. Or rent, for that matter.
Here’s the thing about being a street urchin: You never come back from it. There have been spare rooms in this place ever since Jason was little. This is where the kids came to hide away from the cops or whoever they may have stolen from. Or even to just have a roof overhead for once. On a whim, he decided to check it out, and sure enough there was an empty room for him.
He can tell it was a good-looking place, but those days are long gone. To be fair, it could be much worse. He just needed somewhere to hide away, somewhere that wouldn’t lead to being followed and also somewhere to put his new suit. It’s the one thing he owns anymore and although Jason doesn’t see himself as someone very materialistic, the thought of losing or parting with it makes his stomach curl into knots. That suit is the last piece of his identity he owns, something tangible and physical. Without it, Jason isn’t so sure he hasn’t just been wiped off the planet.
Gotham sure as hell wants him gone; he won’t give in.
He’s even limited in clothing, having to lift it from some department store. It was too easy. The rich are far too comfortable at the top, they don’t care what gets stolen, they have the finances to just fill that hole back up. It barely hurts them, but Jason likes to make his jabs where he can. He stole this black t-shirt and these jeans—they have rips at the knees and they’re acid-washed in spots, not something he would’ve considered his style, but he likes them—and then a black pair of sneakers that are a little too small, but work well enough. He lifted them all from that store over the course of a couple days, and it’s all he has to wear beside the uniform, which is to say it’s the only thing he has to wear.
There’s a journal he lifted, too, where he keeps his targets and their info written out with a pencil that has shrunk down to less than half the size of his longest finger. He’ll need to find a new one soon, easy enough.
Once he got back to Gotham, he set about making a list of all the crime lords he could think of, which ended up numbering to many, not surprising him at all. Not just those he’d personally dealt with, but all of them. A sort of attempt to clean up Gotham and keep the innocent from falling victim to all these bastards anymore. His mission—to even think of it that way makes him cringe; it’s more just his job—is to not stop until all of them are gone, big or small. No matter how long it takes, no matter how strung out he gets—Jason won’t stop. He spent the first half of his life running, only to be left behind when he tripped and fell to the dirt. No more. If he won’t do it, who will?
There’s a small criminal on the rise he’s had his sights set on, working for the Black Mask: Tattoo is his name. It’s not the most original Jason has come across, but that doesn’t really matter to him. What matters is Sionis pumping power into these evil losers and letting them loose on the city, wreaking havoc and hurting whoever stands in the way. As soon as others are hurt, that’s when Jason stops caring: Either submit or die, and it’s usually the latter.
And Sionis isn’t the only one; there’s hundreds, maybe even thousands, Jason has wondered the farther he digs into this. The rich and powerful stay rich and powerful by crushing heads and forming superficial bonds with the other rich and powerful. Terrible people supporting terrible people. He’s fucking sick of it.
Jason slips out of the apartment via the fire escape, journal in hand.
The smog in Gotham has always been overwhelming and choking, but when he got back he swore it looked worse. Perhaps he got too used to the clean African air. But it seems as if every passing minute, Gotham continues dying. The longer you’re here, the less you notice it. You just get used to the stink of death.
It’s been strange to be back in Gotham and for it not to recognize him. For the first time, he doesn’t feel like Gotham’s bastard son, but something apart from the city, something wholly other. Maybe trauma has that effect on some people, he wouldn’t know.
It’s hard to walk through this part of the city and not remember back to his broken childhood, scrabbling for a scrap to eat or somewhere to shelter from the rain. He recalls that pitying loneliness as if it hasn’t ever left him, and after meeting Bruce he would’ve denied that boy was ever him, but Jason sees now that he’ll never not be that street rat. The only difference is now he’s big enough and old enough to not run to the shadows when the light flashes on.
The juxtaposing images of two very different Jasons: a little boy with dirty hair and eyes with a mischievous glint in them, but still so small and skinny that the others would throw him in the street, kick him, rough him up until he was near tears, arms clasped around his head as he curled up, only having words to fight back with; and this Jason, tall and broad-shouldered, built like a fucking quarterback, who’s eyes are now cruel but his hair is still dirty, with a five-o’clock shadow and stubble who wears a mask at night and runs across the rooftops of Gotham like they’re a playground, far from the street below where he’d get beaten. He sees that image of his younger self and where it once used to bring him shame at his weakness, he sees now that he was a fucking kid. And he won’t allow any other kid to get treated the way he did, just because powerful men like to stay that way. No fucking way.
Jason’s feet carry him to where he intended: a small hideout, formerly a storage warehouse, at the edge of Gotham, the near-black water of the shipping port stretching on for miles. If he squints, he can see the towering skyscrapers of Metropolis where they meet the clouds. They might as well; it couldn’t be more different from Gotham over there. Metropolis has gods, Gotham has the rest. Sodom and Heaven.
Word has it Tattoo has a meeting here a couple hours from now. With who, Jason didn’t catch, but he’ll figure it out when the time comes, see what to do next. The journal is his grasp at sanity. He’s often eavesdropped on meetings of one person, then they mention someone else and when he goes to witness that someone else, they drop the name of a third person, and soon enough Jason has spent the week on a giant goose chase trying to make sense of who knows who and who works for who and who that who is partnered with—
It’s fucking ridiculous. This journal helps him detangle the spiderweb, but only barely. There’s so much Jason doesn’t know, yet he’s in the thick of it. Christ, there’s moments like this where clarity checks into the hotel and Jason has to stop himself from dropping it all and running back to Bruce like a child.
No. He’s angry, and that anger is all that’s propelling him forward anymore. Without that, who is he? And the prospect of answering that question scares him more than any of this crime business ever will.
Jason shakes it out of his head and cases out the warehouse. There’s nobody around, no workers. He hadn’t done research, but with how ancient the place feels, he’s willing to bet it’s been out of business for quite some time. There are hundreds of abandoned warehouses throughout Gotham; this is just one of many meetup spots. Jason’s been to almost all of them, since he got back and from when he was still working for Bruce.
It’s not hard to find a spot to curl up in the eaves. He doesn’t even break a sweat as he climbs up, squeezes himself between two beams in the darkest corner of the warehouse, and waits.
As Jason flips through the journal, sparing a half-second’s glance to each page and his chicken-scratch writing, he realizes: Sure, he’d like to take down all these men, but the true enemy is apparent on every page, who all of them lead back to, who they have all, at one time, worked for. Jason’s hasn’t made a page for him yet because, frankly, he’s too elusive, but he’s out there, somewhere. If Gotham were broken down into a man, it would be him.
He turns his sight away, back to business. Sionis is quite the man to start on, but that’s just it: he’s only a man. Every man has weakness, and Jason is here to find it.
Time passes like molasses. Jason taps a rhythm on his stomach as he stares at the dusty, cobwebbed ceiling mere inches overhead, hums a tune, some rock song from the seventies he can’t recall the name of, thinks of where he’ll go after this, where he’ll find food. If he wants to stay in fighting shape, he needs to find adequate food, but it’s been impossible without money. Not for the first time, Jason debates finding a part-time job just so he can have some chump change, but his manic-obsessed focus on finding these men...Having a job would get in the way of that. How could he attend meetups like this one if he has to get to work by eight? A lot to consider, but not off the table.
As if on cue, his stomach growls. The betrayal. Yeah, yeah, we’ll get to that in a bit, he thinks, annoyed at his humanness.
Jason is fading in and out when he hears the echo of a car door shutting. He looks through the slats in the warehouse’s roof, the sun staining his face with light: about eleven o’clock. They’re early, maybe checking for traps. Jason’s been through this countless times. He folds his hands over his stomach and waits, readjusting his ankles as they cramp up. He should’ve come by a little later. His back is really starting to ache.
“Looks clear,” he hears from outside. The warehouse is so worn down that he can occasionally catch glimpses through the walls of the black suits of the men outside as they walk around the property. Haven’t checked inside yet, moron. There’s a voice responding back, but too faint to make out words.
The warehouse doors open. In walks a man of average height, wearing a white mask. It covers only his face, a shock of long blond hair exposed at the back. He’s in a jean jacket and black pants. Not the most stylish, but Jason isn’t really one to judge in his own outfit that is weeks old and reeks like it. This isn’t Tattoo, which means this is the man he’s meeting. Again, Jason didn’t catch a name when he overheard the meeting being planned, but he’s intrigued to find out.
“Nice digs,” says the blond, and one of his henchmen chuckles, calling out: “Certainly.”
Jason rolls his eyes. Christ, it’s one of those bosses that has a yes-man at his side, kissing his ass at whatever he says.
“When they comin’, boss?”
“Meeting’s due for noon,” says the blond, “but if they’re smart, they’ll be here any minute. To case out the joint just like we did.”
“We gonna wait around ‘til then?” says the yes-man, almost pouting.
About ten others fan out through the warehouse, checking corners with guns laid slack by their sides. The blond’s laugh echoes musically. “Have you no patience, Mikey?” He has an accent, almost like New York, maybe even Jersey. Jason isn’t the best with accents.
“N-not at all, sir, I—”
“Don’t worry, kid,” says the blond. Kid. Despite the mask, Jason can guess his age at lower than thirty. Typical petty criminal, wanting to sound older than he is. “I’m an impatient man myself, but that’s just parta the gig.” Definitely Jersey. This is how the guys in Dick’s stories about Blüdhaven sounded when he imitated them.
“All clear, boss,” calls one of the gun-toting men. Jason has to resist the urge to snort: Not a single one of them thought to look up. Figures that the dumbest people are the ones that cause the most destruction.
“Good.”
Perfect timing, because just then a car pulls up. Two of them, actually, Jason notices as he cranes his neck to peer through a broken slat in the wall. The blonds’ men look about, startled, but the blond recovers quicker. “No worries, folks. Isn’t this what we came for?”
Tattoo’s men came early to scope out the place, just as the blond and Jason knew they would, but they’re the more likely to be thorough, dot their i’s and cross their t’s. Jason slinks deeper into the eaves, wondering for the first time if maybe he should’ve brought his helmet.
The blond stays inside, a small powerplay: You come to me.
A couple long minutes later, in comes Tattoo. Jason might have given him too much credit. You come into a closed-in structure with someone you’ve never met before, before patting down their men, checking the corners for yourself? The arbitrary nuggets Bruce fed to Jason throughout their years together seem to have stuck with him more than he thought they would’ve. Whatever, two rookie crime bosses? This’ll be a piece of cake when the time comes.
“McArthur, you’re early.”
“Punctual. I have a pet peeve for time management.”
“As do I,” says Tattoo. He doesn’t extend a hand for a shake, merely clasps them behind his back. He’s taller than the blond—McArthur, apparently—but not by much. His mask is all black save for white branches along the top of the skull, like a lightning strike, and there are purple bursts around the eyeholes. It isn’t lost on Jason that he basically took Black Mask’s design and...well, made it a little less black.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Tattoo says, “especially under these circumstances.”
McArthur pauses. “Which are?” he ventures, mirroring Tattoo’s hands clasped behind the back. From Jason’s vantage, he can see McArthur twiddling with a thick silver band around his thumb.
“Right, I never really gave the details of our arrangement,” says Tattoo. “Yet you came.” Jason can glean from his voice that he pieced together just what Jason had concerning McArthur: nervous; inexperienced; young; naive. He continues: “I might as well cut right to it, save some time. A certain someone has been keeping an eye on you, and he sent me here to...recruit you.”
McArthur clears his throat. “And who would that certain someone happen to be?” he asks, a touch hopeful.
Tattoo’s smile is loud in his voice. “We both know who I’m talking about.”
“I’d like to be sure.”
“Sionis.”
Sionis recruiting this pipsqueak? When Black Mask recruited Tattoo by his side, it was clear why. He was a burgeoning criminal with a talent for the sadistic, right up Sionis’s alley. But this guy? Jason has been watching McArthur for the past ten minutes and even he can see that this guy won’t last long wearing his weaknesses right on his sleeve.
And recruiting for what?
“R-Roman Sionis?”
“Do you know any other?” snaps Tattoo.
McArthur corrects his shock behind a veneer of nonchalance. “What for?”
“Black Mask is coordinating a...I suppose you could call it a family. Masked men willing to do whatever it takes for power.”
One of McArthur’s henchmen, the yes-man, chuckles. Loud enough for Tattoo’s head to snap in his direction, and for McArthur to hang his head as if he’s already been scolded.
“What’s so funny?” asks Tattoo. “Somethin’ about Black Mask makes you laugh?”
The henchman’s eyes widened. “N-n-not at all, sir—”
“Then why the laugh?” asks a henchman from Tattoo’s side.
The yes-man swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. His mouth moves to form words, no sound coming out. Jason can’t see McArthur’s face, but he assumes his eyes are bugging out of his head as he stares down his man, counting his last seconds on Earth.
“Well, it’s just,” says the yes-man, mouth wobbling, “I was thinking. Well. You said ‘masked men’ wanting power and I thought, ‘Who’s the next recruit, Batman?’”
The silence expands, thick with fear and tension. Jason sits up carefully, an eyebrow cocked. Maybe these guys will tear each other’s throats out themselves, make his job a little easier for him. And what a show it would be.
Abruptly, the sound so sharp and sudden it makes McArthur jump, Tattoo laughs. And then his men follow suit like performing monkeys. Unsure, McArthur eyes them, waiting for the bullets to start flying, but when they don’t he joins in on the laughter. Only his yes-man stands uncertain, still waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Tattoo wipes an imaginary tear from the corner of his eye. “You have a point there, kid. Might as well, huh?”
“S-s-sure—”
“Well, it’s funny you mention that, because the big man is our ultimate goal. No, not to join us, obviously, but to take down. It’s high-time he gets his comeuppance, don’t you think?”
McArthur nods sharply. “Yes. Absolutely.”
“Black Mask is getting as many of us together as he can: anonymous, smart, and lethal. You think you have what it takes, kid?”
“Of course.” The confidence in his voice is so well-rehearsed that Jason has to admit he’s impressed by the act.
“Good. I’ll send one of my men to you by tonight for instructions. And then, Black Mask.”
They give their parting words, discussing when they’ll meet again, and Jason makes a note of it in his head, but he’s also mulling over the revelation. A society run by Sionis consisting of other masked criminals to...take down Bruce? Why does Black Mask need more men when he’s already one of the most powerful men in the city, behind the Sionis name?
He isn’t sure, but suddenly he’s the last one in the warehouse. He waits them out, long after the tires have peeled out, then jumps down from the eaves. He wipes the dust from his clothes, the footprints of his targets in the ground in front of him. They were standing just right there as they planned to take down Bruce, and Jason had only listened.
If life had led Jason astray a fraction further, Jason would’ve jumped down to join them too.