Part Four: Fame Is A Fickle Thing, But Notoriety Lasts Longer (Jason Todd)

Death has an elegant way of reshuffling a man's priorities. Some might say that, given a second chance, they would focus on the little things, the bits of life that they somehow neglected; they're wrong. You focus on the biggest thing, that great hulking lump of an elephant in the room, and think about it very carefully. Then you find the son-of-a-bitch that did that biggest thing to you and shove a crowbar so far up his arse that he screams for mercy. God forbid that anyone who even has the same nose as him will get in your way. It would be the only thing that drove you on.

Snap. A sickening crunch as The Red Hood's boot connected with a mugger's head, hurling him bodily through a derelict alley wall. The chalk-board whine of metal-on-metal as a bullet grazed his helmet, fired off in a panicked frenzy by the criminal's friend. Jason Todd spun round, repaying the man in kind. Who said that crime-fighting had to be clean? Two repeat offenders reduced to corpses and a Gotham alleyway full of debris; a Bat Signal in the sky. He'd know who'd done it, although it was likely that The Batman would be too busy tonight to follow it up anytime soon. The one good thing about playing the Judas card was that you kept your ear to the ground. A shitstorm was brewing, not that he particularly cared. Bruce would catch up with him eventually. He swung his leg over the bike, gunning it; it was time to get the Hell out of dodge.

Riding hard, he wove through the Old Gotham traffic and not caring who or what he hit as he sped to his latest haven. He arrived at a condemned apartment block within ten minutes; the shithole that he grew up in. If he closed his eyes, he could still smell the burnt suppers which he had lived on when his mother was too busy shooting up, or hear her scream whilst his dead-beat dad dished out yet another beating. That was before a chance bit of attempted robbery had turned his life upside down before introducing him to the business end of a pasty-faced psycho's crowbar. Not that he was hung up on it, or anything. He dragged himself over to the bathroom, attempting to scrub the blood from his skin; this had been a messy business even before he became the Hood. He removed the helmet slowly, the emerging bruises throbbing painfully, and swore when he noticed the damage that the shrapnel had caused the paintwork. He'd have to fix that later, when he could be in any way bothered. Looking up into the remaining shard of mirror that rested above the sink, he realised that his head was bleeding. His fingers recoiled when they brushed the wound; it hurt.

'Fuck! Jesus, Jase…'

He couldn't deny that he got a kick out of doing this stuff, and the blood-loss was nothing but a mild headache. Well, that and the fact that nothing he did now could top a Lazarus Pit, because that Really Fucking Hurt. Batman put sticking plasters on the wounds of Gotham, but Jason knew that would never solve anything. If you want to save the city, then you have to let it bleed out. Start playing dirty before it kills you (again) and shove a gun down its throat. So yeah, he was ultimately going to ignore the blood.

A piece of paper lay in the sink, the ink blurred by water from the leaky tap. An invitation. He hadn't been surprised that it had found him – you can't hide from The Batman, he just chooses to ignore you – although he was shocked that he had received it. Thanks to his knowing the mind of an obsessive vigilante, it was either a not-so-subtle attempt at reconciliation or another elaborate ploy to sling him in Arkham for the rest of his days. Fortunately for Bruce, Jason had been in a weirdly good mood yesterday evening. So, the stolen tux had been yanked on and then replaced with his leathers. He had showed up like a good little not-dead ward; the main premise being that he would ignore all of his "family" and then leave after having had his way with some rich bint in the Batmobile. Neither of those things had happened. He had come close with a blonde heiress, but then Grayson had barged in like some kind of white knight who stank of tequila. Things were said, all of which Jason meant and some of which that the self-righteous prick probably didn't. The word "murderer" had been flung around a few times, Grayson had discovered a spare Batarang in a pot-plant, and Jason had found himself on a two-storey drop into the fountain.

Giving Grayson the two-fingered salute and saying 'Hi' to a mortified Alfred, he'd ran before he could find out why Bruce had invited him to the poncy manor party in the first place. He would be practically Arkham-bound now anyway, so there wasn't much point in thinking about the pretexts, and Dickie Grayson would barely get a slap on the wrist. Because Jason could never live up to the oh-so-perfect original, even if said original could barely walk in a straight line. Nightwing had once again moved up one more point on The Red Hood's hit list; the sanctimonious arsehole!

In the total absence of free sex, Jason had taken out his frustration on the small-fry scum of the city. He had felt better after the first ten, but it wasn't the same kind of high. Coming back here was only a pit stop. He just needed to pick up a few more clips and a power bar, and then he could go hunt down a couple of arms dealers. Maybe he could find a floozy to rescue from them for a small reward? Normal women couldn't risk going with a guy like him, but he was willing to scrape the bottom of the barrel so long as it was free. At least Jason wasn't driven by his prick like some ex-Robins he could mention. He grabbed some clips from the medicine cabinet, along with a couple of paracetamol; back to the trigger-happy money hounds. It must have been about 4am and the cover of darkness wasn't on his side. No one ever was.

He was on the bike when the radio he had lifted from Commissioner Gordon squealed into life; old habits died hard. The GCPD thought that they had caught the infiltrator months ago; after a while they started turning up at crime scenes and blaming the murder of the perps on the dead perps themselves. This city had a warped sense of justice. Yet he still had his radio and, right now, the thing he'd heard so much about seemed to be going down.

"Code 13, 77; Charlie, Alpha, Papa, Echo, Seirra. South of the river. Request backup for immediate civilian evac." Code 13 meant "Major Disaster Activation". Code 77; C.A.P.E.S. In Gotham, this was an obvious one.

"Request S.W.A.T. on location near Iceberg Casino. That's 10-20, Iceberg Casino. Nightwing spotted on site." Interesting. Jason hoped that he choked.

"….We've lost Arkham! Major firefight has broken out in the Asylum!"

"….some kind of device on the freeway. It looks like a huge box; it's opening! Suggest evac andheh bomb hehehe squad – HAHAHAHAHA!"

An idiot could put two and two together. A fool would miss this opportunity. The psycho at the top of Jason's list had escaped from the Asylum; the gun runners would have to wait for his attention. The tyres screamed as he shot out of the estate and headed for the freeway. He'd dig his way through the criminal underbelly, leaving a mound of corpses if he had to. Tonight, he'd do the one thing that Batman never could. The Red Hood would kill the Joker.

So that's my take on Jason Todd. Opinions are loved and con-crit is welcome. :) MC. xx