Chapter Text
The neon signs of the Bowery flickered, casting a red glow over Jason’s knuckles. He was fine. He told himself that every morning. He was breathing, was he not?
Life was supposed to be “good” now—or as good as it gets for a boy who had crawled out of his own grave. He was breathing, he was fighting, he was surviving. Yet, there was a persistent, hollow ache that no amount of adrenaline could mask. He often thought of that plaque in the Cave, the one that reduced his entire existence to a “Good Soldier.”
Jason spent his nights pacing the city.
In a way, he was like a man waiting for a question that Bruce would never think to ask.
Batman would ask why he was angry, why he was lethal or why he would not follow the code, but Bruce never asked how Jason actually felt. He never asked if the boy who loved Shakespeare was still trapped under the red helmet.
Jason understood the “no-kill” rule intellectually, but emotionally, he was still the child wondering why the man who called him son let his murderer keep breathing. He was not “missing” or “gone” seeing that he was right there, waiting for Bruce to look a bit deeper and see the answer written in the scars.
Holy shit.
Jason shook his head to clear the cobwebs of his own sentimentality. He tightened his grip on his combat knife, swearing at himself for getting soft. It was the quiet that was doing it—the unnatural, unsettling peace that had begun to rot the edges of his territory. Ever since early November, Crime Alley had undergone a bizarre transformation.
It started with small things: muggers found their guns jamming or firing backwards when they tried to pull a trigger. A group of bank robbers had barely stepped into their getaway car before the engine exploded and they spun out into a brick wall. It was as if the universe itself had developed a grudge against the scum of Gotham.
Criminals were being pelted by bird shit the moment they stepped out of their hideouts; others tripped over their own feet and knocked themselves unconscious before they could even finish a holdup. No one wanted to risk it anymore. Jason adjusted his helmet, his red lenses scanning the empty rooftops. It was too quiet.
Was Gotham finally cursing the wicked, or was something even weirder coming for them?
Jason continued his patrol, leaping across the gap between two tenement buildings, but he found himself slowing down to stare. Crime Alley was... changing. Scaffolding had gone up around the old derelict library, and the smell of fresh paint was beginning to overpower the scent of rot. He paused, looking down at a row of renovated storefronts.
Had the Mayor finally grown a spine and decided to be useful?
Or had Bruce dumped another massive, anonymous sum into urban renewal?
It seemed unlikely.
They had tried throwing money at the Alley for decades, but the ruthless nature of the local syndicates always tore the progress down within weeks. However, now, the buildings stood tall and untouched. Even more unsettling was the sky. The perpetual Gotham gloom had thinned, allowing actual, honest-to-god rays of light to hit the pavement.
It was sunny. In Gotham. In Crime Alley.
Jason sat on the edge of a roof, swinging his legs.
“Is the world ending,” he muttered to the breeze, “or am I just having a stroke?”
He pulled out his work phone and scrolled back to a message from Oracle that had arrived a couple of days ago. Identities breached. Strategic meeting at the Manor, Saturday morning. He checked the time. It was already Friday night, which meant he only had a few hours before he had to face the family. Barb had followed up with a data dump about a new digital entity called the Poppy Leaf Tea Room. It was an online-only operation—drinks, snacks and free delivery. She was beyond suspicious, especially regarding the founder, who went by the moniker ‘Dino_CEO’.
“Dino_CEO? Really? What is he, five?”
But the scoff died in his throat as he re-read the rest of the brief.
This ‘Dino’ character apparently knew their real names, their vigilante identities, the location of the Batcave and every single one of their safehouse warehouses. Jason whistled low. Being impressed was a rare feeling for him, but anyone who could stay off Oracle’s radar while simultaneously mapping out their entire lives was a serious player.
Jason pulled up the Poppy Leaf website.
He had seen the brain rot firsthand. Every time he ventured into the city or passed a library, it was the same depressing sight: teenagers and adults alike, frozen in place like statues, holding those stupid plastic cups at a precise forty-five-degree angle for the perfect “aesthetic” photo. People who could not pay their rent were suddenly finding the funds to participate in a digital ritual.
But the real shock was seeing it here.
Holy hell.
Crime Alley had been colonised.
He saw a seasoned beggar sitting on a piece of cardboard, but instead of a tin can, he was cradling a signature T-Rex cup. Further down, a lady of the night was taking a break, her neon-pink drink matching her heels. Even the local junkies seemed to have traded their needles for matcha. The cheapest drink on the menu cost more than a week’s worth of groceries in this neighbourhood, yet every derelict and dreamer were clutching one like it was the Holy Grail.
Something is fucking fishy, he thought.
Something is so goddamn bottom-of-the-barrel fishy I can practically smell the rot from the rooftops. Holy shit-stained gargoyles and holy fuck-knuckle antics. There is no way—zero fucking way—these people are dropping seventy-five bucks on leaf water unless they have all collectively lost their fucking minds or started selling their internal organs.
His thought cut short as his eyes zoomed in on a pair of kids in the alley below.
One, a scrawny regular who usually spent his days dodging CPS, was leading a younger boy toward a sleek, black van parked in the shadows. Standing by the van was a woman in a sharp, minimalist suit—looking more like HR from a Fortune 500 company than a Gotham street contact.
Jason adjusted his directional mic, catching the kid’s excited whisper. “They need more hands for the sticker line at the hub. It’s crazy, man—full dental and health insurance, and the break room has a fucking nap pod and a gym. Plus, the cafeteria’s five-star.” Jason watched, stunned, as the woman handed the newcomer a tablet to fill out a digital application.
Hiring the street kids of Crime Alley for... sticker duty?
With benefits? Holy fucking what?
“When can I start?” the younger kid asked.
The woman checked her tablet. “Immediately, if you’re ready. The ‘Sticker Associate’ role pays ten dollars per cup completed. If you’re fast, you could be making hundreds an hour.”
The kid’s eyes nearly popped out of his skull. “Holy f—!” he started, but he clapped both hands over his mouth instantly, eyes darting to the woman as if he expected her to fire him for the slip-up. She just chuckled, looking left and right to ensure the coast was clear before handing him a small slip of paper with an address.
“I know this place!” the kid whispered.
The woman quickly snatched the paper back, shredding it. “Good. Your ID and biometric data are already registered in our system. Just show up and start.”
The two boys practically vibrated with excitement. “We will not let you down, Ma’am! We will be the best sticker-guys ever!” they shouted, sprinting off into the shadows of the Narrows.
Stupid kids, Jason thought, his heart sinking into his stomach.
Ten dollars a cup? That is a trap.
It could be organ harvesting, brainwashing or worse.
The woman vanished into the van before he could move, but his priority shifted instantly. He could not let those idiots run headfirst into a meat grinder. He stood up and began to leap across the rooftops, trailing the two small figures as they raced toward their “dream job.”
... ...
The pursuit was a blur of neon and grime.
Jason had followed those two idiots through a maze of alleyways until they reached what looked like a derelict orphanage. But the basement—holy fucking hell, the basement. He had expected a slaughterhouse, but instead, he found a high-tech underground hive. Rows of children in crisp, white uniforms, wearing hygienic masks and hats, were focused on a single task: applying holographic T-Rex stickers to plastic cups.
They looked well-fed, they looked healthy and they looked terrifyingly happy.
Child labour.
He did not even have time to process the logistics before he spotted the figure in the glass observation room above the floor. A kid in an oversized green dinosaur hoodie, hands shoved deep into his pockets, watching the operation like a miniature mob boss. When Jason had smashed through the reinforced glass, the kid did not even flinch. He just raised a single, defiant middle finger and bolted into the vents.
Now, Jason was tearing across the rooftops, the green tail ahead of him. “Stop running, you little shit!” Jason bellowed, his voice modulator turning the shout into a mechanical roar that echoed off the brick walls. “Surrender now and I might not throw you off this roof!”
“You talk too much for a man who failed his first life!” the boy yelled back. He leaped across a massive gap, looking back over his shoulder. “Why should I fear a man who lets a clown define his legacy? Go back to your safehouse and cry over your old uniform. Leave the real business to those of us who can actually manage an empire without getting murdered.”
Jason let out a snarl, the sound vibrating inside his helmet.
This was the threat. This was the person who could dismantle the Bat-family with a single leak. The kid was a little shit, a brilliant, mocking, dangerous shit who needed to be silenced immediately. Thus, Jason pushed his legs to the limit, determined to catch the little monster. He was going to wipe that smirk off the kid’s face if it was the last thing he did.
Jason did not waste any more breath. He drew his custom pistols in one fluid motion, the metallic clicks lost in the wind. Bang! Bang! He aimed for the tiles at the brat’s feet, wanting to trip him, not tag him—yet. The kid moved with an uncanny, liquid agility, dodging the shots as if he could see the trajectory before Jason even pulled the trigger.
“Is this the ‘training’ the Bat provided?” the boy taunted, sliding down a steep roof incline. “You missed by a mile, just like you missed your chance at a long life!”
Jason leaped after him into a dark courtyard, his boots hitting the pavement with a heavy thud. “Who sent you?” he roared, his voice distorted and dangerous. “Is it Talia? Ra’s? Some League of Assassins reject? The Court of Owls?”
The kid performed a backflip, a bullet whistling past his ear, and he landed with a sharp scowl. “Careful, you oaf! This is custom-made! And for your information, no one ‘sent’ me. This is age discrimination, plain and simple. Just because I have not hit puberty does not mean I cannot manage a global supply chain. You people want twenty-somethings with forty years of experience—I am just providing a platform for the youth to meet those impossible standards.”
“I have heard some shit in my time, but this?” Jason let out a dry laugh. “This is the gold medal of delusional bullshit.” He fired a warning shot that shattered a brick inches above the kid’s head. “Drop to the floor and put your hands behind your head. Now. I’m done playing tag. If you move again, I will put a bullet in your skull and sort out the ‘age discrimination’ with your ghost.”
“So dramatic. Is this what they taught you in the Cave? Threats and brooding?” The boy stood his ground, daring Jason with a sharp, piercing stare. “My employees are happy, fed and insured. I am revitalising the Narrows one sticker at a time. It is a legitimate enterprise! You should be thanking me for reducing the local crime rate, not shooting at me like a common thug.”
Jason squeezed the trigger again, but only the metallic snap of a dry fire answered him. He swore, realising he’d burned through his supply in the chase. Before he could lung, the kid yanked a rusted lever on a nearby fire escape. A massive iron ladder and several heavy trash bins swung down with a roar, creating a jagged wall of metal between them.
“I’m going to fucking kill you!” Jason hissed. He kicked at a heavy trash bin, the metal denting under his boot. “I don’t care about your ‘legitimate business’ or your insurance plans. You’re a threat to this city, and when I get through this wall, you are going to wish you had stayed in whatever hole you crawled out of!”
The kid remained remarkably still. “It must be exhausting,” he mused. “To be the ‘Good Soldier’ who was discarded, and now the ‘Outlaw’ who is still just a dog barking at a fence. Maybe you hate my company because you cannot stand that these kids are thriving without having to die first to prove their worth. Is that the real problem, Hood? You are jealous of their survival?”
“Fuck you!” Jason bellowed. He grabbed the rungs of the ladder, shaking the entire structure until the bolts shrieked. “I’m not jealous of a bunch of sticker-labellers! I’m a protector! I’m the only one who actually gives a shit about this neighbourhood, and I’m going to end you!”
“You are barely protecting your own blood pressure,” the boy countered. “Your amygdala is clearly fried. Between the Lazarus Pit’s chemical residue and your unresolved daddy issues, you are a walking cardiac event. I would advise professional therapy, or perhaps meditation. I find that ten minutes of mindfulness between shifts significantly increases my productivity.”
“You don’t know a thing about me, you little shit!” Jason snarled.
The boy tilted his head, his eyes cold beneath the hood. “I know you were a street rat who tried to steal the tires off a tank. I know you died in an Ethiopian warehouse because you were looking for a mother who did not want to be found. I know you crawled out of a pine box and had to soak in green sludge just to remember how to breathe.” He stepped back into the shadows. “I know exactly who you are, Jason Peter Todd.”
Jason froze, his heart hammering against his ribs.
“Who the fuck are you?” he roared. “Who sent you!?”
“Buddha help me, you are dense,” the boy groaned, throwing his hands up in the air. “I am not a spy! I am a businessman! My original—the one who started this whole ‘Poppy’ venture—he is the one with the vision. I am just the one who makes sure the stickers are straight. I was born from a legacy of death, intended to be a hollow shell for a greater power, but I was rescued and given a seat at the table. It is called ‘character growth.’ You should look into it.”
Jason’s head was spinning.
Original? Born from a legacy of death?
“Enough with the cryptic bullshit!” Jason said.
The kid looked at him. “I am a ghost given flesh,” he said. “I am the product of a laboratory that wanted a perfect soldier. I know your history because it was the blueprint for my own training. I am the ‘replacement’ that was never supposed to be found.” He shook his head, the green dinosaur spikes on his hoodie bobbing. “But truly, can we pivot back to your mental health? This level of denial is frankly exhausting for everyone involved. Have you tried a weighted blanket? It helps with the ‘grave-related’ claustrophobia.”
“This is not a story, kid,” Jason said. “There is no ‘character growth’ waiting for me. I’m not some tragic figure you can fix with a tea ceremony and a discount code for lavender candles.”
The boy rolled his eyes so hard it looked painful. “Duh. Yes, you do have an arc, you are just a stubborn protagonist. If you do not face your feelings now, then when? You think being a ‘realist’ means being miserable, but that is just a lazy choice you are making for yourself.”
The Pit-green simmered behind Jason’s eyes. He was the Red Hood. He was the man who took over the East End. He was not—would never be—someone who could be summed up by a child who looked like he should be taking a nap instead of running a corporate empire. This was ridiculous. It was like some hack writer had tried to shove a “coming-of-age” mentor into a dark, rain-slicked crime thriller. Life was not a series of narrative beats.
“Alright, you little sh—,” Jason caught himself, glancing at the “No Swearing” sign.
Wait, since when was there a counter? He was almost certain he had been standing in a damp alleyway or a warehouse two minutes ago, but now there was polished wood and a sign in Comic Sans telling him to watch his mouth. He shook his head, the red lenses of his helmet clicking. It did not matter. Nothing made sense anymore.
“You want to talk feelings? Let’s do it. I feel like a ghost that forgot to leave. I feel like every time I breathe, I’m stealing air that belonged to the ‘perfect’ version of me that died in Ethiopia. And standing here, looking at you? I feel like I’m losing my mind because I’m being lectured on ‘grounding’ by a kid who probably hasn’t even hit puberty. How is that for an arc? Do I get a discount on the Oolong now?”
The kid pulled out a clipboard and began ticking boxes. “First of all, we do not carry Oolong. It is too pedestrian for the Poppy Leaf brand, though I will add it to the ‘Relapse Menu’ for customers who enjoy being basic. Secondly, your trauma regarding the ‘perfect version’ of yourself is classic Imposter Syndrome seasoned with a dash of Pit-induced psychosis.”
He reached under the counter and pulled out a sleek, minimalist bottle. “You are dehydrated. Anger is a thirsty emotion. Try a bottle of our ‘Destiny Water.’ It is sparkling. It will help you swallow that bitter sense of displacement. Since you managed to articulate your feelings without using a four-letter word, I will grant you a ten percent ‘First-Time Victim’ discount on our Dinosaur Tier Membership. It includes a weekly butterbread ration and a free ‘I Survived the Grave and All I Got Was This Tea’ sticker.”
Jason found himself sitting in a plush chair before he could even register moving his feet. It was like the universe was editing his life in real-time. “What is this? Whatever,” he muttered, glancing at the kid. “Thanks, Doc. I feel more centred already.”
He grabbed the bottle of ‘Destiny Water.’ It was minimalist and probably cost more than a glock. He just tilted the bottle and watched the water cascade down the front of his red mask, dripping onto his boots. “Good water,” he said. “Real high-quality stuff.”
The boy looked like he was about to have a stroke. “That was twenty-five USD water, you absolute barbarian. You are just making the floor slippery.”
Jason tossed the bottle aside, not caring as it rolled under a nap pod. The brief amusement was gone, replaced by the familiar green simmer in his gut. “Who cares? I’m still dead inside and you are still a brat. What is next for the therapy session? Do we play with blocks or do I get to break things?”
“Actually,” the boy said, ignoring the mess, “the next step is Tactile Integration. You are stuck in your head because your body remembers being dead and your brain has not sent the ‘we are safe’ memo yet.” He slid a white porcelain plate across the table. On it sat a thick, golden slice of butterbread, steaming and smelling of honey.
“Eat it. And no, do not splash it on your helmet. Actually consume the carbohydrates. Tell me what it tastes like without using words like ‘vengeance.’ If you cannot find a flavour profile for your own existence that is not ‘bitter.’”
Jason shoved the plate away. “Keep your carbs. I don’t take candy from strangers.”
“You are so predictable it is actually hurting my profit margins,” the kid snapped. “What is your problem? You are like a ‘Reality Glitch’ that refuses to be patched! You think you are the only person who ever crawled out of a hole? Get over yourself.”
The boy paced the small space. “That bread is encoded with restorative properties that would literally realign your cellular trauma. One slice and you are back to factory settings—no Pit rage, no shakes, no ‘woe-is-me’ monologue. But I see how it is. You want to keep the ‘Hard Mode’ settings turned on because you do not know who you are without the pain.”
Jason reached out, his boots skidding on the floor as he lunged to snatch the kid and demand answers—but the floor turned to wet concrete. The luxury tearoom dissolved into shadows and soot. He was back in the dark alley, the heavy metal bars separating him from the small figure.
Jason did not move.
He stood as still as a gargoyle, the red lenses of his helmet fixed on the small figure across the barrier. I am going to snap his neck. No, I am going to tie him to a chair and make him listen to my old school lectures until his ears bleed. I am going to drop him in the harbour. I am going to gag him with his own T-Rex stickers. I am going to bury him under a mountain of seventy-five-dollar tea cups. I am going to find his nap pods and set them on fire.
I am going to—
The tension snapped.
Jason’s shoulders began to shake.
A low, raspy sound started in his chest and bubbled up until it broke out as a full, wheezing laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he choked out, his voice cracking through the modulator. “This is it. This is the moment I finally lose my mind. It’s fucking hilarious! You’re a comedy genius, kid. This whole setup? The stickers? The therapy? It’s better than any fiction I’ve ever read.” He leaned his head against a rusted pipe, laughing until he was out of breath. “You’re funny. Genuinely. I should pay you for this.”
The kid took a cautious step back. “Are you... having a breakdown?”
“No, no... I’m fantastic,” Jason managed to say, clutching his ribs as the laughter subsided into a wheeze. “I’m better than I’ve been in years. Say, kid... do you have a watch on you? What time is it?”
The boy blinked, looking down at his digital watch to provide an accurate answer. “It is nearly three-fifteen, but I fail to see how that—” He did not finish the sentence.
Jason lunged forward, throwing a coil of heavy red rope that lashed around the boy like a serpent. The kid stumbled, bound tight in an instant. Jason stepped over the metal barrier with a triumphant smirk.
“Correct. It’s exactly the time you got caught.”