#Now Red Hood territory is Crime Alley and the Library | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

greytoiletpaper · 3 years

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Out on Allen Street, it’s 7 in the Morning

Set in the Street Siblings au by @a-sketchy-character | @streetsiblings without which I may not have had the motivation to write this much.

Drizzle | Deluge | Squall | AO3

Chapter 4: susurration

The world is dark.

Somehow, she knows how many marks and cuts criss-cross her body; how many bruises decorate her like a canvas. But she can’t feel them, not even one.

Instead, all she can do is listen, tuning in to the rain as it pours, as red droplets fall in time off of Mad Dog’s blade. If she really listens to the sound, it almost sounds like a different boy’s laughter.

She focuses on the noise and it alone, her body so perfectly still.

Mad Dog thrusts his blade to her chest, and Cassandra’s eyes open.

They’ve only been in Gotham for a week, yet, it feels like he never left. At least for Park Row, the “Crime Alley”, the city has never changed. Slowly, the Red Hood and Ravager make the area their own. He does everything to make sure that the Bat never catches a whiff of what he’s doing. He knows it is pointless; even if Bruce knew, he would be too much of a coward to venture into the evil heart of the city.

It infuriates him, the remnants of the old argument. If Batman was ever truly needed. It would be - no, should be - here. In the black, beating heart of Gotham, where crime and cruelty channel through its citizens as if it were in their own blood. Yet for all he prattles about his crusade of justice, Bruce will never set foot into Crime Alley; too hung up on the ghosts of his past to banish the ones that haunt others.

It’s why he’s wearing the original persona of the man who murdered him. Jason had lived these streets, born and raised and died because of them. Deep down, Jason understands what Bruce simply refuses to believe. Some people simply want to watch the world burn, and they can never be stopped, only carefully controlled, managed or otherwise taken out. He never wants what happened to him to be inflicted on someone else. Not if he can help it.

Now, Red Hood is here, slinking through the darkened hallways of Arkham. Past every guard and camera until he arrives at one particular cell. He knocks on the door, and a mop of neon green flips upwards.

The madman beams; his eyes are whirlpools of chaotic energy.

“What’s this? Birdy clipped his wings!” The Joker begins, guffawing like a howling hyena. “I was wondering when you’d come back to see me, little Jay.”

To his credit, Jason doesn’t react. The pneumatic seals of the helmet hiss as it comes off. The Joker never takes his eyes off his face.

“There you are, my boy. Just like your uncle Jay” The lunatic says without tone, feral grin seeming plastered. “Say, you seen Cass anywhere?”

That makes him shift uneasily on his feet. The Joker leans in close, almost conspiratorially.

“You think the Bat ran her out? That he…” Something morbid flashes in the eyes of his monster. “Killed her just like I did you?”

Jason wants to drive his fists into the man’s back. Stamp on his legs until the bones shatter. Bludgeon him over and over with whatever is on hand until the madman’s flesh is nothing but paste. Instead, he stands frozen as the cackling echoes around the room and in his ears.

“I’m not doing this for you,” Is what he says. “And I’m not doing this for me either.”

His hand lifts the pistol from its holster.

“I’m doing this because someone has to do what Batman can’t.”

The Joker takes the words in stride, nodding to himself. To Jason, it’s the calmest he has ever seen him.

“Not a fan of the whole motorcycle fetish style, but to each his own,” The madman’s eyes, still rotting in their own insanity, meet his. Something about the gaze seems so clear despite the instability. “You’re going to be wonderful for the Red Hood name.”

He sighs.

“When you do it, boy, make sure you get as much of the colour out of me.”

Jason nods and presses the barrel into Joker’s forehead, closes his eyes, and everything is silent.

He presses his hand to the glass, the rain sliding down the pane on the other side, its streams the same lengths as the rivers that flow from his red crown.

Fact One, a statement: Roman Sionis is the Black Mask, one of Gotham's most powerful crime lords with connections running deeply in the underground drugs and weapons trade.

Fact Two, an amendment: Roman Sionis is the Black Mask, arguably one of Gotham's most powerful crime lords with sizeable connections in the weapons trade.

Fact Three, a truth: He is absolutely livid with the Red Hood and the Ravager.

Roman stares at the text on the notepad; he picks it up and throws it across the room.

In the space of two nights, the new duo had taken over his entire drug operation and cut off every tie Roman had to Crime Alley. Internally, he thinks ‘cut off’ is still too lacking a description. Half of his thugs breathing through tubes for days. Pimps found castrated and dangling from lampposts. Drug dealers with their mouths frothing as they dissociated. If the rumour mill among villains is anything to go by, Red Hood had killed the Joker in his own damn cell. Roman shudders. He’d seen the images from the crime.

The pair are definitely a threat, and Roman needs him gone as soon as possible. Hiring the Joker would have been one of the best choices: effective, relatively cheap and definitely motivated to take on whoever dares don his previous mantle. Alas, reality disagrees.

Black Mask picks up the phone, ready to dial the more expensive alternative. He sighs and hopes they don’t call Deathstroke the ‘Terminator’ for nothing.

Cassandra dives away at the last second, adrenaline flushing through her body and lifting the fog from her mind. Her opponent’s blade impacts with the ground, firmly planting itself the whole way. Mad Dog, clearly thrown off, becomes an easy target with her renewed energy.

She does not hold back, unleashing a flurry of blows to the assassin’s chest, even as he tries to hold his defence together. With renewed focus, she redirects every strike he makes and strikes him back thrice as hard.

It is not long until Mad Dog is at Cassandra’s mercy, nearly a bloody pulp under her hand.

“Finish it,” Shiva calls suddenly, and she almost complies. But, with her hazy vision, the images of Faizul and the assassin blend together. The vertigo Cassandra is feeling becomes sharper, and she’s drowning in it.

In her hesitation, Shiva tuts and stabs her own blade into Mad Dog’s heart, crimson fluid spraying in all directions.

Cass doubles over, desperately heaving, and liquid green purges from her body.

Bruce stares up at the readout on the Batcomputer. There are new players in Gotham, but there’s something that makes them stand out from the others. They make headway faster than he’s ever seen it, clearing out and claiming Park Row as their own territory in a week.

Twenty-seven confirmed kills and thirty-four hospitalisations. He would have stopped with his investigation then and there. Yet, the detective in him tugs the back of his mind. He checks through the names again and finds that each one is attached to a laundry list of crimes that become more appalling the further he reads.

Then Red Hood killed the Joker; and for the first time since the madman’s debut, Gotham is quiet.

Bruce rubs his face in his hands and turns to the screens entirely dedicated to monitoring his daughter Cassandra. (The memorial makes itself known in his peripheral vision.) Her work in Hong Kong as Black Bat had been phenomenal so far. Every story he can find of her weaves the same story: Black Bat, hero of the Forgotten. Of the waylaid and the oppressed.

What would they think? Bruce finally turns to the statue, mouthing the words on the plaque to himself.

“Can you promise something for me, Bruce? Just one thing?”

“Anything for you, Jaylad.”

He tears his eyes away.

Damian becomes cagey whenever either of the three vigilantes come up in conversation. It is suspicious, but he has had the lesson very solidly ironed in his mind how unconducive to understanding he can be. So, he gives his son his space.

Despite the child's refined nature, little pieces of him remind him of Jason, far beyond the boy's temper, pride, or even his cursing. Bruce had seen Damian in the library once, his fingers tracing the spine of a newer copy of Huckleberry Finn.

Red and orange flash by his primary monitor, and Bruce pulls himself from his thoughts.

Batman rises, ready to confront whatever ghosts will taunt him in the shadows.

The world roars in her ears, and no matter how hard she tries, Cassandra can’t stop the erratic sequence of deep breaths that claw out her throat. For once she’s glad she’s not wearing her old costume. The mask reminded her too much of smoke inhalation and chains and-.

“Why?” She rasps in a throaty, breathless voice that has not escaped her for years. “Why would you do this?”

“Can’t a mother test the progress of her daughter?” Shiva replies coolly. Her stance gives off nothing, so Cassandra does not deign her a response.

“He went looking for me, you should know.”

Her head snaps up.

“He was curious. A unique girl who can read the body as if it were a book and a unique woman who can do the very same? An unlikely coincidence,” Shiva turns her head away, ducked down as if she had already admitted too much. “He asked me, if it was my choice to leave you with your father.”

“It wasn’t.”

Sandra nods.

“He told me that was, and I quote, ‘a load of shit’.”

“Sounds like Jason,” Cass mutters under her breath. A hush falls between them, not comfortable but not unwelcome either.

“It is not me you came here for,” Sandra says with such conviction that Cass can’t help but gape in her disbelief. Of course, she did. Shiva gave birth to her.

Before she can voice her thoughts, Sandra grasps her shoulder and wraps her arms around Cass.

“You’ll find your brother soon. I can promise you that.”

Gotham rumbles, her shock snaking through the crown of her scalp. She knows that tonight is the night; when events will pass and tear the whole city asunder. For better or for worse, she cannot tell.

But she is eager to find out for herself.

“Think that’s a wrap for tonight?” Jason asks quietly, almost inaudible over the Gotham rain. It’s the only coherent sentence he’s made in days, so Rose takes what she can get.

“Probably, you’re not shanghaiing me into grabbing groceries, right?”

“Maybe,” He chuckles, but even though his voice is filtered by their comms, she can tell it’s forced. “Anyone ever tell you how similar some of our problems are?”

“Really? You realised this just now?” Rose rolls her eyes because, honestly. “I mean, at least your dad isn’t some psycho assassin supervillain.”

“Aww, Rosie, making your old man sad. Truly, I’m hurt,” Hues from orange and blue armour melt from the shadows as Deathstroke emerges, eyeing her. “You don’t wear the uniform like Grant did.”

“It’s not meant to and either way, I barely knew him or Joey.” She draws her blades, trying to hide how much her arms are shaking. It doesn’t help. “No thanks to you.”

“Is that Slade?” Jason’s voice is like music to her ears, relaxing her muscles in the ways she needs.

“I made your brothers stronger,” There’s an edge to Slade’s voice, sharp as the glistening blade he brandishes. Ready to pounce at a moment’s notice. “I suggest you come with me so you can be the same.”

“What, dead because of problems you caused?” She laughs shakily, grimacing under her mask. “I suggest you fuck off.”

“I’m coming, Rose.”

“No can do. There’s a hit on the two of you, and its fait accompli,” Deathstroke makes a ‘what-can-you-do?’ gesture and Rose darts forward, her tears faster than the raindrops that dance on her skin.

Batman has followed the Red Hood for hours now, and he has no idea what to think. He expected someone wielding the Joker’s former identity to be as insane as the Clown Prince himself. Yet, the red helmet only bobs up and down as if it were in conversation rather than rotating listlessly.

Despite how antithetical the new face in Gotham is to his beliefs, some actions catch him off guard about the man.

While he has seen no deaths on this patrol, with every bone the criminal breaks, the same hands offer food to street children and escort working girls to their homes. Bruce is thrown, viscerally, into a memory of the bird that flew beside him to do the very same.

The Dark Knight watches him stalk through Park Row, freeze and then take off in another direction.

It is time.

He pursues the criminal, sprinting across the rooftops of Gotham, gliding above catwalks and fire escapes. Within minutes, he overtakes and blocks the path ahead of Red Hood, who curses and vaults over his body.

Or at least, he tries to as Batman grips the man’s ankle and slams him back into the pavement. Hood never misses a second, drawing a knife and swiping at his limbs. He lets go; the man faces him again, twirling the knife round and round.

“B,” A modulated voice hangs in the air, but there is a quality to it that tickles his conscious, like an old ghost whispering in his ears.

“Red Hood, I suggest you surrender peacefully, or I –.”

“Cut the act, alright? You think that just because you’re Batman, nobody can be above you,” Red Hood laughs. Through the modulator of his helmet, it comes off as hollow. “The truth with a saying like that –.” The knife is stowed away. “– It just means nobody is beneath you either.”

The criminal grapples him; kick, jab, punch, kick again in a rapid dance of attacks that Bruce can barely keep up with. Some of the criminal’s movements are achingly familiar yet so foreign that the composite form nauseates him. Red hood strikes over and over until he actually has him, the Dark Knight, pinned.

“And some of us can’t wait to drag you all the way down.”

Jason had always had a gift for speaking. His sister’s hands may be knives, but his words were bullets.

Breaking out of the Red Hood’s hold, that is what Bruce muses in his mind.

They’ve been at a game of cat and mouse for so long now. Locked in a chase of diving and darting around a maze of alleyways and rooftops. Jason drops on one of them and turns to face his pursuer, who draws short away from him.

“What, can’t work it out?” He triggers the seals on his helmet as he lifts it off. Without the lenses he can see, even in the rain, the second Bruce recognises him. “You really didn’t care enough to remember my name or something?”

“Jason,” Bruce’s tone gives off nothing and everything. “W-Why are you doing this? How are you –.”

“I’m doing this because you refuse to do what needs to be done.” Jason snarls, venom laced in every word. “You want to rule them by fear, but you never go any further with the ones who aren’t afraid.”

“Jason, I don’t under-.”

“I died for your cause, and in less than a year you shove some other kid in the uniform so he can die too!” He is raving now. He also doesn’t care. “You let my murderer run wild and slaughter thousands and when someone finally steps up to do what needed to be done, you cut her out?”

“I had to –.”

“Had to what? Isolate her? Run her out of the only family she’s ever known? She was my sister, my whole fucking world; who believed in you and you left her like she means nothing to you! Cass is gone now, and that is your fault!”

“If you would –.”

“Do you even remember? That the only thing I ever made you swear to me, that you vowed on your life, was that you’d never let her down?” For once this night, his voice isn’t angry or vicious. It is a void, detached from any feeling. “Guess I should have known better.”

He knows, almost intrinsically despite the years, that if there is one thing that Jason has said tonight, those are the words that pierce Batman’s defences. It’s why he lets Bruce rush forward like he wants to. Allows the chase to continue. When he jumps, Jason lands in an apartment that carries the same bloodstains that leaked down his mother’s arms a lifetime ago.

Black Bat arrives in Gotham, and superficially, it is empty. She almost hails Barbara when bright flashes shine in her peripheral vision. Lo and behold, Deathstroke and an unknown are locked in a duel below her.

Cassandra drops from above, and at that moment, she kicks Deathstroke into a wall hard enough to knock him unconscious. His opponent, she notices, stops immediately.

Before her is a girl, hair silver under the moonlight, garbed in orange and black.

Then the Batmobile rounds the corner, a small figure rising from the hatch.

"Black Bat," Robin says, "You have not responded to Oracle, she was-."

Damian's eyes bug out once he notices the girl beside Cassandra. She fully expects him to snarl or draw his ridiculously long katana. Instead, uncharacteristically rushes forward and embraces the girl tightly instead.

"Wilson. A-are you finally assisting us in Gotham?" Damian says, even with his head buried in a shoulder. "Drake may be intelligent, but his incompetence with the sword is impossible to rectify."

"Missed you too, D-man," The girl chuckles and ruffles the boy's hair. "I would help, but what’s up with tall, slim and broody over there?"

Cassandra crosses her arms expectantly at Robin, who obviously only just remembered her presence when he unlatches himself immediately. His cheeks may be red, but Damian still raises his chin proudly.

"I found her, Rose," His body language and eyes seem to sing. "I found his ukht."

The girl spins sharply, wolfish eyes drawn wide. “You’re her,” Rose breathes, awe rippling off her body. “You’re Cass.”

She would have flinched, but the body language is so familiar. Cass tilts her head.

“Yes.”

Rose grabs her arm so hastily that she almost rips it back in shock. But something is so honest about her body language that Cass relents, letting the girl lead her where she is needed.

He kneels, tracing the dark stains. Behind him, Batman pauses. Not even he would dare to disturb the sanctity of this room.

“Jaylad, please -.”

“Don’t call me that. That isn’t who I am,” Jason rounds on Bruce. He gestures to the shattered window, the ripped upholstery, and the bloodstained floor. “This is what I grew up being, what I never wanted anyone else to.”

He taps the insignia on Bruce’s chest with his pistol.

“That, right here, was your promise to people like me. People that needed help and protection,” He spits. “And you couldn’t even do it for the ones closest to you.”

"I just want to-."

"Want to what? Parade your antiquated sense of morality to hide, while the rest of the world suffers for what you refuse to do? Or cast out others from taking it in their own hands?"

Tears are building in his eyes, but he wipes them away while Batman stands ramrod straight.

"I don't think you understand. That you've never understood," The man begins, and Jason gapes because what the hell does that mean? "If I let myself cross that line, even for Joker, I won't ever come back."

"You know what I think about that, Bruce?" Jason breathes deeply, feeling the whispers of the Pit roaring with the heavy rain in his ears. "I think that's a huge self-aggrandizing load of bullshit."

He charges forward, knocking Batman's legs from under him and ramming his face into the ground. Batman is down to his knees before either can even blink.

"And I'm so fucking tired of hearing it."

Jason levels the barrel at Bruce’s forehead, torbernite lining the edges of his vision, engulfing him in an absence.

“What’s the use of you learning to do right when it’s troublesome to do right?”

Then, her voice shatters the tension in the air, gripping his heart and silencing the susurrations of the rain that suffocated his ears.

“When it ain’t no trouble to do wrong, and the wages is just the same.”

“Cass?” The boy in the alleyway says. A gun. An apple in his hand. The girl falters in the doorway, her fist tongue clenches, and she nods.

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