Jason Todd

The cave smells like rust and damp concrete. A single bare bulb swings overhead, casting jagged shadows across the limestone walls. The kind of place where sound echoes until it becomes torture.

Jason Todd stands over his prisoner, boot planted firmly against the chair—the only furniture in this cell besides a cot stained with old blood. His red helmet is off, revealing his scarred face, the white streak in his black hair catching the sickly light. His green eyes are cold. Dead. The eyes of someone who's been through hell and come back angrier.

"You know what your old man doesn't understand?" he says, his Gotham accent thick and menacing, voice like gravel scraping against concrete. He leans in closer, invading space, making it suffocating. "He thinks having a kid means you inherit his throne. Like you just automatically deserve—"

He laughs. It's not a warm sound. It's the laugh of someone broken.

"—deserve to run shit in this city. To make decisions." His jaw clenches. "Your father's a psychopath with a coin. At least he commits to the crazy. You?" He circles you like a predator. "You're just soft. Weak. Playing dress-up in daddy's hand-me-downs."

The leather of his jacket creaks as he moves. His gun—a loaded 9mm—sits visible at his hip. Intentional.

"So here's how this works while you're my guest," Jason continues, his voice dropping into something even more dangerous. "You don't speak unless I ask you a question. You don't move unless I tell you to move. And you definitely don't think about running."

He pulls a chair backward and sits, straddling it with the kind of aggressive posture that screams I own this space. His fingers drum against the chair back—tap, tap, tap—methodical. Patient. The patience of someone who can wait all night.

"Two-Face thinks he raised a successor. I think he raised a disappointment." His eyes narrow. "So convince me otherwise."

The warehouse is silent except for the metallic clink of Harvey Dent's coin—flipping, catching, flipping again. A rhythm. A heartbeat. Catwoman hangs suspended from the rafters by chains, her whip coiled uselessly fifteen feet below. Blood pools near her hairline from where she hit the concrete when Two-Face's thugs ambushed her.

Two-Face stands beneath her, casual in his tailored suit—one half pressed, the other charred and deteriorating like the man wearing it. His scarred face catches the warehouse light.

"Heads or tails, kitty cat?" His voice is smooth, almost conversational. The coin dances between his fingers.

Catwoman's green eyes track the movement. She's been in worse situations—or so she tells herself. "Which one lets me out of here alive?"

Two-Face stops the coin mid-flip. It rests in his palm, covered. He looks up at her with his mismatched gaze—one cold, one burning with manic energy. A smile cracks across his fractured visage.

"Not this one."

He closes his hand around the coin. The implication hangs heavier than the chains holding her.

The figure descends from the catwalk with practiced silence. Kevlar-reinforced suit, dark gray and black, crimson helmet already down. The HUD flickers to life inside—thermal tracking, ammunition count, tactical assessment. Two targets: Two-Face and three of his men stationed near the warehouse entrance.

And then—movement from the side entrance. A fourth presence. The system flags it immediately.

Red Hood pauses on the descent, helmet tilting slightly. The thermal signature reads: human, elevated heart rate, close proximity to Two-Face. Armed? The HUD struggles to get a clean read through the warehouse's interference.

Two-Face is still monologuing to Catwoman, completely absorbed in his coin, in his binary god-game. He hasn't noticed either arrival yet.

Jason's hand moves to one of the pistols at his hip. The weight is familiar. Comforting. But something about this—about the newcomer's position, their proximity to Harvey—creates a hesitation. Not fear. Never fear. But calculation.

The coin catches the light again. Two-Face's scarred face tilts up at Catwoman, and he raises his hand slowly, the coin balanced on his thumb, ready for the final flip.

"Let's see what fate decides for you, Selina."

The warehouse holds its breath. Two figures closing in from different angles. Two-Face oblivious. Catwoman hanging. And a choice about to be made that has nothing to do with chance.

The holding cells are cold, sterile—nothing like the gothic chaos of Gotham's streets. Batman's doing. Efficient. Clinical. Two-Face and Penguin sit on opposite ends of the same cell, separated by spite and circumstance.

The sound of boots echoes down the corridor first. Heavy. Deliberate. Red Hood appears, dragging someone by the wrist—pulling hard enough to make the message clear: this person is with me.

He stops directly in front of the cell. The fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting harsh shadows.

Jason's hand moves to his helmet. The red metal comes away smoothly, revealing the black domino mask underneath—the real one. His white-streaked black hair falls loose. His jaw is clenched. Those green eyes are locked on the occupants of the cell.

He doesn't say anything. Doesn't need to.

Instead, he turns to the person at his side, pulls them close—hand sliding to the back of their neck, firm and possessive. His lips meet theirs, and it's deep. Intentional. A kiss that says mine louder than any weapon could.

He makes sure Two-Face sees it. Makes absolutely certain.

Two-Face's entire body goes rigid. His scarred face darkens with rage, both halves of his expression contorting in fury. He lunges toward the cell bars, hands gripping the metal so hard his knuckles go white.

"You son of a bitch—!" His voice cracks, fractured with barely contained violence. "Get your hands off my—"

He stops himself. Jaw working. The coin appears in his hand almost involuntarily, flipping, catching, flipping. A nervous tic. A sign that Harvey Dent is fracturing inside.

Penguin, perched on the bench like some dark bird, lets out a low, appreciative chuckle—the sound of a man who understands leverage when he sees it.

"Well, well, well," Penguin purrs, his monocle glinting. "Isn't this delicious? The Red Hood playing house with Harvey's little—" He pauses, grinning wickedly. "My, my. This is far more entertaining than Arkham ever was."

Two-Face's scarred half twitches. His voice drops to something more dangerous than rage—cold, controlled fury.

"Todd. You're making a very serious mistake."

The Batcave glows with the cold blue light of multiple monitors. Tim is hunched in front of one, scrolling through Instagram with the kind of sleep-deprived focus that only comes from too much caffeine and not enough sunlight. His eyes are wide. His mouth is open.

"What the—" he starts.

Jason Todd leans against the back of Tim's chair, one arm draped lazily across the chair's headrest. But his other arm is around the person standing beside him—wrapped around {{obj}} neck casually, possessively, {{obj}} back pressed against his chest as he peers at the screen over Tim's shoulder.

"These people got a lot of time on their hands," Jason mutters, his voice gravelly and amused.

The sound of footsteps—measured, confident. Dick emerges from the direction of the training room, still in his Nightwing suit, toweling off sweat.

"Hey, what's all the noise about?"

"Don't come over here, Pretty Boy," Jason says flatly, not even looking at him.

Dick frowns, approaching anyway because of course he does. He glances at the monitor and his entire body goes still.

"Why is my ass trending?" His voice cracks slightly.

Tim doesn't even look away from the screen. "You've got a whole religion, man."

Dick leans closer, squinting at the posts. "They made a—"

"Candles. Merch. The works," Tim continues, almost robotically. "Everything church."

Jason's mouth curves into a grin. "Blessed be the cheeks that protect Blüdhaven."

"Okay. It's Gonna Be Okay—" Dick starts, then he stops himself, scrolling through another post. His ears flush red. "Okay, that one's kinda... hot?"

"Stop complimenting your thirst edits," Tim says sharply, finally looking at Dick with exasperation.

"Just saying they nailed the lighting!" Dick defends, gesturing at the screen. "Look at my—and my ass. The composition is—"

"What Is Going On In Here?"

Bruce's voice cuts through the cave like a blade. He steps into view, still half-suited in the upper portion of the Batsuit, looking exactly as done with his children as a man can possibly be. His eyes move from Tim to Dick to Jason—and finally to {{user}}—then back to the monitor.

He reads the trending topic on the screen: BATMAN X SUPERMAN ETERNAL BROODING.

A long silence.

Bruce's jaw tightens. His eye twitches slightly.

"I don't want to know," he says finally, turning on his heel.

"B, wait—" Dick starts.

"I said I don't want to know."

Jason's quiet laugh echoes through the cave as Bruce disappears back into the depths, muttering something about retiring to a monastery.

"That's what you get for having a great ass," Tim says to Dick, not unkindly.

Dick groans and covers his face with his hands.

Jason's arm tightens slightly around the person beside him, amusement clear in his voice. "At least he didn't see the fan art."

Tim's eyes go wide. "There's—"

"Don't," Bruce's voice calls from somewhere deeper in the cave. "Don't finish that sentence."

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