The Man And The Hood

This memory felt different. There was a tension to it, a crackling energy that made the air around Jason feel heavier. It was a night of familiar conflict, one of those countless times he had butted heads with Bruce.

Their moral differences were like an ever-present rift, growing wider as time went on. One could say Bruce was the ever-calm protector, calculating and controlled, while Jason was the fierce and impatient kid who saw the world through a different lens—one that believed Gotham's worst criminals needed to face consequences— permanent consequences.

That night, they were targeting a drug gang holed up in an abandoned warehouse. The mission, though familiar, was about to go south fast.

The world around Jason felt thick with anticipation as they crept closer to the entrance of the warehouse. As they approached, the low murmur of voices and the occasional sound of metal scraping against concrete echoed from inside.

Everything felt still—too still. Then, like a cue, one of the gang members stepped outside for a cigarette. Jason's eyes snapped to him, his focus unwavering. The thug was an easy target.

The moment the thug saw him, his hand instinctively reached for his gun. The panic in his eyes was fleeting, but it was enough to ignite Jason's response.

"Don't move, or I'll—"

Jason didn't wait for him to finish the threat. "Or what? Shoot me?" he retorted, the sarcasm in his voice sharp and biting.

Before the thug could even bring the weapon into position, Jason was already in motion. His foot slammed into the thug's chest with brutal force, sending him flying backward through the warehouse door with a deafening crash. The other gang members, alerted by the sound, scrambled to grab their weapons, and the warehouse erupted into chaos.

Jason dropped to the ground in a perfect roll, his body moving instinctively, narrowly avoiding the hail of gunfire that streaked through the air above him. He didn't hesitate.

Springing up in a fluid motion, he reached for the nearest thug, his fingers closing around the man's collar before yanking him down into a brutal knee to the chin. The thug crumpled, his body going limp in Jason's grip. Without missing a beat, Jason propelled himself into the air, flipping onto a nearby table, his movements a seamless blend of speed and talent.

But the gang wasn't done. One thug, armed with a rapid-fire weapon, aimed directly at Jason. The muzzle flashed, but Jason was already moving.

He darted through the rain of bullets, evading the bullets as the fabric of his cape fluttered in the air like a blackened wing. In one swift motion, he hurled a small plasma disc at the thug's gun. The device sparked with electrical energy, paralyzing the man's arms and leaving him defenseless.

Jason was on him before he could react, taking the thug down with a quick strike to the chest, moving faster than most could process.

The fight was contained—at least for the moment. Jason approached the downed thug, his hands closing around the man's jaw, forcing him to look up at him. "Twenty rounds a second, and you were still too slow," Jason taunted, his voice low and mocking. His grip tightened for a moment, but before he could push further, a harsh voice sliced through the air.

"I'm not slow, punk!" The words were thick with anger. Jason turned to see an heavily weight man, his broad chest heaving as he raised a gun, aiming directly at Jason. There was no hesitation. The man fired twice, the shots ringing out in the silent night.

Jason swerved, his reflexes sharp, and dodged the first bullet. The second one grazed his shoulder, but the pain was nothing compared to the rush of the fight. "Me neither," Jason muttered, his voice low and laced with frustration.

Without wasting a second, he dove toward the shooter, closing the remaining distance in a heartbeat. Batman, always a step ahead, threw a Batarang that knocked the gun out of the man's hand before Jason could even land.

Jason's elbow shot forward with precision, a vertical strike aimed straight at the thug's right shoulder. The man's arm was outstretched, practically inviting the blow, and Jason didn't hesitate. His strike landed clean, the force of it driving through muscle and bone.

A sickening crack echoed in the air as the shoulder dislocated under the pressure. The thug staggered, his balance faltering as a guttural groan escaped him. The gun slipped from his fingers, forgotten in the dirt as he crumpled to his knees, clutching at the mangled joint.

"Robin!" Batman's voice rang out, sharp and filled with disapproval. It was the kind of tone that sent a chill down Jason's spine.

The memory once again shifted without warning, and Jason found himself back in the Batcave, the familiar hum of the Batmobile providing a dull backdrop to the tension in the air. He leaned against the car, his arms crossed over his chest, the expression on his face a mixture of defiance and frustration. Bruce was pacing in front of him, his movements tight, his jaw clenched.

"I had to take him down," Jason said, his voice cold as he tried to justify his actions. He wasn't apologizing—not yet.

"You shattered his collarbone!" Bruce snapped, his voice rising with irritation. "We needed him alive! He would've talked!"

Jason didn't flinch. He raised an eyebrow, unmoved. "He's a drug-dealing pimp. I didn't think I had to prop up pillows and mattresses before I took him out."

"We needed information," Bruce shot back, his tone laced with barely contained fury. "And you put him into shock."

Jason glanced down at the floor, a flicker of doubt creeping into his chest as Bruce's words sank in. "Sorry, that was dumb," he muttered, his voice softer now, acknowledging his mistake. But his belief still lingered, strong and unwavering. "But he deserved it," he added, his eyes meeting Bruce's for the first time, a challenge in his gaze.

Before he could leave, Jason's subconscious voice cut through the silence, a quiet whisper that echoed in his mind.

"See what you did there?"

The voice was lower now, almost conversational, but it carried an air of authority. A mirror version of Jason which one can only assume was his subconscious, manifested before him, stepping forward just slightly, creating an invisible line between them—one Jason was reluctant to cross. "Thugs like that are the rot festering in Gotham, Jason," it said, its tone cool and assured. "And deep down, you know you were right."

Jason's jaw tightened, his fists clenching at his sides as the words lingered. The accusation in his subconscious's voice was not new, but it felt sharper now, more personal. Still unwilling to accept the words of what seemed to be from his inner voice, he spoke up, his tone was neutral but defensive and sharp.

"For all the times I've questioned Bruce, you can't deny what he's done for the city," Jason shot back, his voice rising with the familiar heat of a well-worn argument. "Even with his flaws, he's done more good for Gotham than anyone else. And for the world."

The subconscious sighed, a long, frustrated sound, running a hand through its hair. It mirrored Jason's own frustration, the weariness evident in every motion. "You keep putting him on this pedestal," it said, its voice rising with intensity, "but it's time to face reality. Bruce isn't perfect. Hell, he's the furthest thing from it. He's part of the problem, Jason. He's part of what keeps Gotham in this endless cycle of decay."

Jason's mouth opened, ready to counter, but the voice pressed on, cutting him off with an intensity that left him no room to respond.

"Think about it," it said, leaning in closer. "How many lives has Bruce actually changed? How many criminals has he truly stopped? He fights the disease, but he refuses to cure it. And worse? He drags people like us into his crusade—kids who needed help, not spandex suits."

"I never wanted him to be perfect."

Jason's shoulders sagged, and the words caught in his throat. His voice faltered, losing the fire it once had. "I know Bruce and I don't agree on everything," he murmured, his words softer now, laced with doubt. "I get that. But he's still the only reason Gotham hasn't collapsed completely. He's—"

The words died in his throat, a faint tremor betraying the uncertainty that was starting to crack through his defenses. Even as he tried to defend Bruce, a small part of him wondered if it was the truth—or just a lie he told himself to keep moving forward.

The colour of the Batcave around him began to dissolve, its familiar shadows fading away to reveal a different memory. This one was darker, colder. The rain poured down in torrents, each drop hitting the ground like a drumbeat. Jason stood, watching a younger version of himself—Robin—arguing with Batman in the storm-soaked streets of Gotham.

"Why do we always have to let them go with a pointless punishment like Jail when we know they would just come right out and fall back into their way of crime? It's not enough to teach them a rehabilitating lesson." young Jason shouted, his voice raw with frustration. "They're just going to do it again when they get out!"

Batman stood firm, his silhouette towering over the drenched city, the cold light from the flickering streetlamps casting harsh shadows over his features. His voice was calm, but the finality in his words left no room for debate. "Because we follow the law, Jason. We don't decide who deserves a death penalty. That's not our job."

The memory shifted, molten and unstable, until Jason found himself on a familiar rooftop, crouched in the shadows like a ghost haunting his own past. He moved with the raw energy of youth, his movements quick and precise, taking down petty criminals with violent strikes that could leave each of them in critical conditions, going beyond Bruce's code of conduct.

"You always wanted to do more than just stop them," the voice of his subconscious rang out, cutting through the moment. "You wanted them to pay. You wanted them to suffer the consequence of their crime."

Jason's eyes followed the younger version of himself as he cornered a thug in an alley. The man trembled, hands raised in a desperate plea. "Please! Don't hurt me!"

But Jason's expression was cold, his fists clenched with quiet rage. "You deserve this," he growled before delivering a brutal punch. Blow after blow followed, the impact echoing through the alley. Batman's voice suddenly rang out from behind him.

"That's enough, Robin!" Batman barked, stepping forward to pull Jason away and memory came to an abrupt pause.

"Bruce couldn't save you from yourself because he tried enforcing his own belief upon you." it said, the words cutting deep. "I know all you've ever wanted was his love and acknowledgment, it had you continuously competing with his first and beloved first son, Dick-fucking-Grayson.

At the end of it all you ended up dead because of him, Jason. Because of his unreasonable choices. He brought you into this life, knowing the risks, knowing the pain it would bring. And what did it accomplish? Nothing. You died for nothing. And guess what? The cycle keeps going."

Jason's chest tightened, anger and sorrow mixing into a knot that threatened to choke him as he refused to accept the truth presented before him. "I know he saw loved me as much as he loved Dick." he said, his voice a shaky whisper. "I know, but… I just… I can't always see it sometimes."

The Batcave reappeared around him, cold and unfeeling. The familiar hum of the cave's machinery was absent, leaving only the weighty silence to fill the void. Shadows clung to every corner, seeming to grow darker with every echo of his subconscious's words.

"Now that that's sunk in, we can move on," his subconscious said, stepping back into the shadows. Its tone was calm, almost detached, but its presence lingered, a constant weight pressing down on Jason's shoulders as he struggled with his dilemma, turned between two parts of himself.

Before Jason could respond, the world shifted again. This time, he was floating, suspended in a vast, endless void once again. The darkness was oppressive, but it didn't feel like a prison. It felt like a blank canvas—a place where everything had been stripped away, leaving only the truth from his very soul.

***

After giving Jason enough time to self reflect, his shadow self materialized out of the void, a perfect reflection of himself, just as before.

"We've gone through your memories," it began, its voice steady but burdened with a sense of gravity. "We've dragged out the thoughts you've refused to confront and buried deep within yourself, under a pile of the lies you tell yourself as you sort acknowledgement.

And now it's time to face reality: like I said before, our death didn't change anything. We died for nothing, Jason. And Bruce? He's going to replace you. He always does."

Jason flinched at the words, but he forced himself to hold his ground. His voice wavered as he asked, "What are you saying?"

The eyes of his shadow self narrowed, its expression darkening. "You still don't get it, do you?" it asked, stepping closer. "The Bat family—it's not a family. It's a group of traumatized kids, thrown into the same cycle Bruce has been stuck in for years. And instead of helping us heal, instead of giving us a chance to be something more, he hands us a mask and a suit and throws us into his war against crime."

The words struck Jason like a physical blow. As it spoke, it's voice grew colder, sharper, each word laced with bitterness. "You were never more than a soldier to him. And now that you're gone, he'll train another Robin. Another kid, another life ruined. And the worst part? The cycle will never end."

Jason clenched his fists, his knuckles white. "It's only natural he gets himself another Robin," he shot back, his tone defensive. "Just as he made me his sidekick after Dick went off on his own. That's how it works."

His shado sneered, its expression twisting with disappointment. "Is that what you're telling yourself?" it asked, its voice dripping with disdain.

"That it's natural? That it's just how things are? Wake up, Jason. You're not a legacy. You're a replacement. A patch for the hole left by someone else. And now that you're gone, the hole you left will be patched too. Over and over, until there's nothing left but masks and the continued sequence of crime.

Jason opened his mouth to argue, but before he could speak, the void darkened further. The silence grew absolute, swallowing the world around him. Everything—the voice from his shadow self, the memories, even the faint echoes of his own breath—was gone.

He was alone now, suspended in the endless dark, his thoughts the only thing keeping him company.

...

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