The Man And The Hood

"Well, here we go," he muttered, resigned to the inevitable pull toward whatever awaited him.

The voice in his head chuckled again, low and bitter. "That's the spirit, partner. Let's start at the beginning. Walk yourself through it all—the choices, the mistakes, the moments you ignored every warning sign. Let's see if you can finally peel back those scales you've been so desperate to keep over your eyes."

Jason drew in a deep breath—or what passed for one in the strange, liminal space he now occupied—and focused on the distant light. As his thoughts narrowed in on the glow, the nothingness around him began to tremble, its emptiness folding and reshaping itself.

Faint colors bled into the blackness, slowly taking form, as if the universe itself was drawing a picture. The shadows sharpened, becoming familiar streets. Gotham. The past.

It was the Gotham he knew well, the one he had spent years fighting to survive in. The cracked pavement, the crooked alleyways, the constant hum of distant sirens—all the sights and sounds were there. The city hadn't changed. But Jason had.

And there, standing in front of the Batmobile, was a much younger version of himself—skinny, scrappy, and furious. His face was twisted with defiance as he glared up at the towering figure of Batman, whose silhouette was shrouded in the darkness of Gotham's alleyways. Jason's hands were covered in grease, the tires of the Batmobile already stripped away.

"Oh, great," Jason muttered to himself, his voice laced with irritation. He rolled his eyes. "This is where we're starting?"

"Where else?" the voice retorted, dripping with disdain. "This is where your story with Bruce begins. The moment he decided to 'save' you. The moment everything started going to shit."

Jason couldn't argue with that. The memory felt fresh, as vivid as if it had just happened yesterday. His younger self had been full of anger, frustration, and the reckless confidence of a street rat who thought he could outsmart the legendary Batman.

He remembered the desperation that had driven him to risk his life, to steal from the one person in the city who could ruin him with a single word.

The memory unfolded like a slow-motion movie, a younger Jason staring defiantly at Batman, daring him to make a move. He had felt untouchable, so confident like he was invincible back then. He was hungry for power, for respect, for something—anything—that could give his life meaning.

"Look at you," the voice jeered, its tone thick with mockery. "A scrappy little street rat, thinking you could outsmart the goddamn Batman. And what did he do? Instead of throwing you in a cell, he decided to make you his little project.

Congratulations, Jason. You got adopted by Gotham's most emotionally constipated billionaire."

Jason scowled at the voice, but couldn't shake the bitter sting of truth in its words. He had been a mess, no doubt about it. And Bruce—Bruce had taken him in, given him a chance. Or so it seemed at the time. Jason's mind raced, but before he could form a response, the memory shifted.

The streets of Gotham faded, replaced by the crisp, sterile atmosphere of the Batcave. Jason watched as the scene morphed into his early days as Robin.

The sparring sessions. The long nights spent training with Bruce. The adrenaline of their joint missions, side by side. There had been pride back then. Pride in proving he was worthy of the mantle. A strange sense of family too. A bond that felt unbreakable.

But the voice was relentless.

"And there it is," it taunted, its tone dripping with disdain. "The honeymoon phase. The part where you actually thought you mattered to him. But tell me, Jason—how long did that feeling last? A year? Two? Before you started to realize you were just another cog in his endless crusade?"

The scene flickered once more, fast-forwarding through the months of training, the missions, the escalating tension between them. Jason remembered it all—the way Bruce had kept him at arm's length, the unspoken distance that had grown between them.

The arguments had started small, but they soon became an undercurrent to everything they did. Jason had wanted more. He had wanted to be seen. To be valued.

Jason's fists clenched involuntarily. He wasn't sure if he was angry at the voice, at Bruce, or at himself for not recognizing the truth sooner. "I get it, alright?" he snapped, frustration building in his chest. "Things weren't perfect. But Bruce tried. He—"

"Tried?" the voice cut him off, its mocking tone sharp enough to make Jason flinch. "He failed, Jason. Over and over again, he failed you. And deep down, you know it."

With that the memory dissolved again, flashing forward, and suddenly Jason was standing in that warehouse as he was forced to recall the memory where he saw himself tied to the chair drenched in his blood as the dim light casted a long shadows on the walls.

The echoes of the Joker's cruel laughter filled his ears, cold and mocking, as the infamous crowbar gleamed in the dim glow. Jason could almost feel the weight of it, hear the sickening crack as it descended on him. His chest tightened, and his stomach lurched.

Jason turned away, his breath coming in shallow gasps, unwilling to watch the scene unfold once more. "I don't need to see this again," he muttered, his voice thick with anger and pain.

"Oh, but you do," the voice insisted, its tone cold and unrelenting. "You need to remember how it felt. How Bruce wasn't there. If only he had gone after Joker with you.

He knew you wouldn't be able to sit still when Joker was not too far from you in Bosnia, and would inevitably go after the mad clown. Yet he left you in pursuit of Ra's al Ghul, you died alone, "

The words hit him like a physical blow, and he felt a wave of nausea rise up in him. He wanted to scream, to lash out, but all he could do was stand there, helpless, as the memory played out once more.

The light dimmed around him, the scene fading into the darkness, leaving Jason alone once more in the void. His heart—or whatever remained of it—ached.

His hands were clenched into fists, his body trembling with the raw weight of the emotions crashing over him. He was silent for a long time, seething with frustration, guilt, and loss.

"We're just getting started, partner," the voice said as it broke the silence, its tone dripping with mockery. "Plenty more to unpack. Brace yourself."

The words hung in the air like a challenge, the weight of them pressing down on Jason's chest. He couldn't deny it. He didn't have a choice. This was where he was. And for better or worse, he was going to have to face what came next.

***

The void around Jason dissolved once again, but this time he wasn't drifting aimlessly. Instead, he was yanked back into a memory so vivid that it felt like it had just happened yesterday.

He could almost taste the adrenaline in the air, that heady rush of excitement that had pulsed through him like electricity. It was his first night in the Robin suit, and the world seemed to stretch out before him like an endless horizon.

He was invincible then. With the cape draped around his shoulders, and the mask on his face, he truly believed he could take down anyone, anything, that Gotham could throw his way.

That night, the target was The Riddler.

The memory was sharp, its details clear as crystal. Jason stood just outside the Gotham City Museum, the night air crisp and biting. A faint chill nipped at his exposed skin, but the cold did nothing to dampen the warmth in his chest.

His heart raced, not out of fear, but anticipation. Inside, he could hear the clinking of glass breaking and muffled voices—Riddler's goons had already started their work, ransacking the museum for priceless artifacts.

Jason's gaze flicked over to Bruce, standing in the shadows just a few steps away, as silent and imposing as ever.

With a simple, curt nod, Bruce signaled that it was time.

Inside, chaos unfolded in front of him. The Riddler and his crew moved through the museum like they owned it, dragging valuable paintings and priceless relics across the floor.

The golden frame of a large portrait shimmered under the low lighting, an eerie contrast to the thuggish activity unfolding around it.

Jason's pulse quickened. He could barely contain the excitement coursing through him. With a barely audible grunt, he leaped into action. From a nearby chandelier, he swung down with the grace of a predator, landing with a resounding thud on the floor in front of one of Riddler's henchmen.

The thug barely had time to register his presence before Jason's boot slammed into his chest, sending him crashing to the ground with a satisfying thump.

"Are you guys having a party?" Jason quipped, his voice laced with feigned innocence, though his grin was anything but. The henchman groaned beneath him, but Jason wasn't slowing down.

He sprang to his feet, darting toward the next goon with lightning speed. With an elbow to the gut and a twist of his body, the thug crumpled to the ground, defeated.

The Riddler, standing at the center of the chaos, turned in shock at the sudden interruption. His eyes widened as he took in the sight of Jason, decked out in the Robin suit, sleek and shining under the museum lights.

"What the—?" The Riddler's words caught in his throat as he took a step back, not sure whether to retreat or fight.

"Guess our invite got lost in the mail," Jason shot back with a smirk, wiping his gloved hands together as if he'd simply been brushing off some dust after a long day.

The energy in his movements was boundless, every action filled with youthful enthusiasm and a sense of invincibility.

But then came the unmistakable presence of Batman. The air seemed to thicken as Bruce's dark silhouette descended from the rafters, landing with a soundless thud beside Jason.

Without a word, he dispatched another henchman with a single punch, sending him hurtling into a nearby display case with a crash.

"It's over, Riddler," Bruce's voice was low, commanding, the sound of authority that made the room fall into an almost unnatural quiet. The Riddler scowled, his eyes flashing with annoyance and determination.

"Over? Not even close!" he sneered, before making a swift dash for the nearest exit, his goons scattering in all directions.

Jason was already on the move before Riddler had finished speaking. His instincts kicked in, overriding everything else. He was out the door in an instant, shouting, "I'll get him!" as he propelled himself forward.

Using the shoulders of two stunned henchmen as a makeshift springboard, he launched himself toward the retreating villain, his body moving before his brain could catch up.

The crack of a whip split the air, aiming for his legs. Without breaking stride, Jason twisted and leaped, his nimble body moving in a blur of skilled precision.

The whip coiled around his ankles for a split second, but with a quick flick of his batarang, he severed it, watching it fall uselessly to the ground.

"Nice try," Jason muttered, his lips curling into a grin as he landed smoothly, unscathed. The Riddler was no longer in his sights, but Jason didn't have to chase far. The villain wasn't nearly as fast or agile as Jason was.

It didn't take long before he was standing in front of Riddler, his stance confident and relaxed, blocking the escape route.

"Riddle me this," Jason said, his voice dripping with cocky confidence. He raised an eyebrow, watching Riddler carefully. "What's green and purple but about to be covered in red and yellow?"

Riddler's eyes narrowed, his grip tightening around his signature question-mark cane. Before he could retaliate, the cane swung toward Jason's head with a swift, calculated arc. Jason blocked the blow effortlessly with his batarang, spinning into a half-cartwheel to evade the next attack.

He landed gracefully behind Riddler, delivering a solid kick to his groin. The sound that escaped Riddler's lips was almost comical as he crumpled in pain.

"Wrong answer," Jason smirked, his chest swelling with the rush of victory as Riddler tried to creep away from him. He followed the Riddler down a small staircase, effortlessly landing atop him with a satisfying thud.

"You," Jason answered his own riddle, grinning. "When I land on your sorry butt." He remarked as he laughed at his own joke.

But as quickly as the victory felt real, the scene around him warped once more. The bright lights of the museum dissolved, and Jason was thrust into another memory. But there was something different this time around, this one felt different.

....

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