The Man And The Hood

[Jason Todd's POV]

From the void, the voice came again without its physical manifestation in my image. It didn't speak—it tore its way into my mind, a jagged intrusion that demanded to be heard.

It writhed and clawed, its presence so heavy and consuming it felt like it could split me apart.

"Here's a glimpse of what might have happened if, by some twist of fate, you had survived that explosion," it hissed. The words weren't just spoken; they were carved into my skull, each syllable a cruel twist of the knife.

The oppressive darkness surrounding me unraveled like smoke, giving way to something sharper, something painfully vivid. I wasn't floating anymore. I was alive—or something close enough.

The first thing that hit me was the smell: antiseptic, bleach, and something faintly metallic. It was sterile, suffocating, a stark contrast to the faint ache radiating through my body.

I was lying in my bed. The sheets were stiff, the air cold, and the room so quiet that the steady beep of the monitors felt deafening. Sunlight filtered through a crack in the curtains, but it was muted, weak, casting faint streaks of gold across sterile white walls.

It should have been calming. It wasn't.

I blinked against the light, disoriented, my throat dry and raw as if it had been scraped clean. "Am I… alive?" The words escaped me in a hoarse rasp, unfamiliar and fragile.

No answer. Not at first.

Then, Bruce stepped into view, He stood at the foot of the bed, silent, looming like a gargoyle. His face wore an expression of relief.

Beside him, Barbara appeared. Her expression was fragile, teetering on the edge of breaking.

She reached out, hesitant, her fingers brushing my arm as if I might shatter beneath her touch. "Yeah, Jason," she said softly, her voice thick with emotion. "You're alive. Somehow… you're alive."

On the other side of the bed, Dick leaned forward. His grin was crooked, forced, his usual confidence replaced by something brittle.

"That's quite a lot of stitches, Jay," he said, trying for humor but failing. "It kinda feels like you intend to beat my record. But hey… you're here. That's all that matters."

Further back, Alfred stood behind everyone, his hands clasped neatly in front of him. His calm demeanor was a stark contrast to the tension in the room, but even he couldn't hide the faint warmth in his gaze.

"Indeed, Master Jason," he said quietly, his voice steady and reassuring. "You have given us quite the fright. But it seems you are far more resilient than we dared hope."

"How long?" I rasped, forcing the words out past the rawness in my throat. My gaze locked onto Bruce, his face had on an expressing I have never see on him before, one of worry. "How long have I been out?"

The faint glimmer of relief in his expression disappeared, replaced by one of regret. "Seventy-two days," he said flatly.

Seventy-two days.

I tried to sit up, but pain exploded through my body, sharp and unrelenting. My ribs felt like they were on fire, and the tight pull of stitches across my chest forced me back down.

My hands instinctively went to my face, tracing the gauze that wrapped my head. Beneath the bandages, I could feel the sting of healing wounds, each one a grotesque reminder of how close I'd come to dying.

"Don't push yourself, Jay," Dick said quickly, his voice strained with worry. "You're still weak. Just… give it time."

Time. The word hung in the air as it resounded in my head, meaningless and hollow. Time wouldn't fix this.

Their faces blurred, their voices fading into static. I was covered in stitches, skin grafts, scar tissues. Seventy-two days bedridden.

The outside was healing, sure, but inside? Inside, it was a different story. It was like something had been stripped away, some veil that had shielded me from the ugliness of it all. It was as if something clicked inside of me, shattering the lies I tell myself.

It felt like I could finally see through the walls—not literal walls, but the lies, the facades, the pitying smiles they wore to hide their fear.

That's what they felt—fear. And pity. They pitied me.

To them, I was a victim. A failure. A reminder of what could happen to them. And you know what? They weren't wrong.

But the truth? The truth cut deeper than the pain from Joker's crowbar, hurt more than the twenty-seven shattered bones he left me with.

The truth was staring me in the face now, raw and undeniable: they're the real victims. Victims of Bruce Wayne.

My fists clenched, the sheets twisting under my grip as the anger burned hotter, spreading like wildfire.

Dick? A broken, abducted child, clinging to Bruce because of his mummy and daddy issues. Barbara? A bright and fearless woman crippled by a maniac of his creation.

And Bruce? What kind of damaged man mentors children to fight his war? How deranged does a person have to be that they would see a kid struggling to survive on the streets and decide to throw him into the line of fire?

I was doing fine before Bruce dragged me into his world. I was alive before I met this "family." Alone, sure. But alive. And now? Now I was just another casualty of their dysfunction. Another unfortunate victim of Bruce's endless crusade.

Never again.

No more family.

If by some miracle I got a second chance—if I somehow clawed my way out of this abyssal void—I'd do things differently. No more playing by Bruce's rules. No more bending to his hypocritical, self-imposed leash. I'd become exactly what they feared.

I'd take the fear Bruce uses to scare criminals and turn it into a weapon for me to utilize as I see fit.

****

[Deep within the mountains where the League of Assassin's base]

The cave pulsed with an unnatural, otherworldly glow, its light casting jagged shadows across the damp, uneven walls.

Deep beneath the earth, the silence was broken only by the rhythmic drip of water, each drop echoing through the cavern like the heartbeat of something ancient and alive. Shadows clung to every corner, thick and restless, as if they were watching.

Around a steaming, bubbling pool of luminescent green, figures cloaked in deep crimson cloaks, stood in a solemn circle.

Their hoods were drawn low, shrouding their faces in darkness, their collective stillness almost inhuman. Not one shifted, not one breathed loudly, as though the very air in the cavern belonged to the ritual they were witnessing.

Apart from them stood Ra's al Ghul, the new immortal leader of the League of Assassins, loomed tall and imperious. His sharp, angular face bore the lines of wisdom from the times of old, the glow of the Lazarus Pit casting stark shadows across his cheekbones.

At his side stood his daughter, Talia, a picture of poised elegance betrayed only by the tension in her stance.

Her sharp eyes were fixed on the churning waters, their usual calculating gleam softened by something rare: apprehension.

"It's not working, Father," Talia said, her voice a quiet whisper, but there was no mistaking the frustration laced within it.

Her fingers tightened at her sides, betraying her inner turmoil, worried her lover might loose one of his sons for good.

"The waters… he's not responding." Her gaze flickered to Ra's, searching his face for some sign of doubt, but his expression remained as unreadable as stone.

Ra's didn't look at her. His eyes stayed locked on the Lazarus Pit, its surface now rippling faintly, as though disturbed by an unknown force.

"Patience, my daughter," he said, his tone even, calm—a true man of patience who is accustomed to waiting centuries for his plans to come to fruition if need be.

"The Pit works in its own time." He added.

The hooded figures shifted imperceptibly at his words, their heads bowing slightly in reverence—or fear. Ra's crossed his arms behind his back, a faint glimmer of anticipation sparking in his eyes. The air seemed to grow thicker, the heat emanating from the bubbling pool more oppressive.

Seconds stretched into eternities. Talia's nails dug into her palms, her patience fraying. She opened her mouth to speak again, but the words froze on her tongue as the water erupted.

A violent burst of motion sent the green liquid scattering across the cave walls. Steam hissed upward in twisting, serpentine coils, and the once-faint ripples transformed into a boiling, chaotic frenzy.

"Father!" Talia's voice rose, her composure breaking as she gripped his arm. "The waters—they're reacting!" Her wide eyes reflected the pit's glow, her usual confidence replaced by awe and dread.

The cloaked figures leaned forward, their hidden faces catching the eerie light for fleeting moments. Some wore expressions of reverence, others fear, and a few curiosity—but all were transfixed by the spectacle before them.

The pit churned violently, its glow intensifying until it seemed to fill the entire cavern. The mist rising from its depths thickened, coiling around the pool like living tendrils.

Talia's voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible over the chaos. "Do you think he'll come back… whole?"

Ra's raised a hand, silencing her. "The Pit is not known for mercy," he said, his tone heavy with grim certainty. "It restores what it will, how it will. Whatever returns to us will bear the mark of the Lazarus."

As if on cue, the water surged violently, and a piercing scream tore through the cavern. It was a sound that seemed to come from beyond the grave, raw and guttural, scraping against the ears of all who heard it.

From the center of the pool, a figure erupted, breaking the surface in a violent, gasping convulsion. Steam clung to his form, curling around him like a shroud as he thrashed, his movements wild and uncoordinated.

Talia's breath caught. "Jason Todd…" she whispered, her voice trembling with both awe and dread. She took a step closer, her gaze fixed on the man now clawing at the air, his body wracked with pain.

Jason's eyes, once dull and lifeless, now burned with an unnatural green light. They darted around the cavern, wild and unseeing, as if he were trapped between two worlds.

His gasps turned to choked retches, his body convulsing as he struggled to purge the remnants of the Lazarus Pit from his lungs. His movements were erratic, animalistic, every muscle in his body taut with pain and confusion.

Ra's watched him intently, his expression unreadable, though his eyes betrayed a glimmer of fascination.

He stepped closer, his voice calm, almost gentle. "He is strong," he murmured, half to himself. "Stronger than most who have emerged from the Pit. But the madness… it lingers."

Jason staggered, his body trembling as he tried to make sense of his surroundings. His gaze locked onto the crimson-cloaked figures, then onto Talia and Ra's, and something primal flared in his eyes. Panic turned to fury.

Two figures stepped forward to restrain him, but Jason moved with a speed and ferocity that defied his weakened state. His fist collided with one man's jaw, the sickening crack of bone echoing through the cavern as the assassin crumpled to the ground.

The second man barely had time to react before Jason drove his thumbs into his eyes, a guttural snarl escaping his lips as the man screamed in agony.

"Enough!" Talia shouted, drawing out a gun in one fluid motion. She leveled it at Jason, her hands steady, though her eyes betrayed her hesitation.

Ra's placed a hand on her arm and pushed it down just as she pulled the trigger.

Jason's gaze snapped to them, his chest heaving as he fought for control. His eyes flickered with recognition, but it was fleeting, swallowed by the storm raging within him.

Without another word, he turned and bolted, toward the edge of the cavern, his movements erratic but fueled by sheer will.

Jason sprinted through the upper levels, his breath ragged but his resolve unshaken. Ahead, a large window loomed, its fractured surface catching the faint moonlight.

Without breaking stride, he launched himself through it, the crash of shattering glass echoing like thunder in the still air.

For a fleeting second, he hung suspended, weightless against the vast night sky. Then gravity seized him, pulling him into a freefall.

His scream tore through the air, raw and defiant, as he plummeted from the dizzying height of the mountain. The jagged valleys below rushed up to meet him, their rocky surfaces cloaked in shadow.

Ra's al Ghul arrived at the broken window moments later, his long cloak billowing behind him. He leaned forward, scanning the darkness below, his eyes sharp and searching.

The echo of the boy's scream still lingered, bouncing off the cliffs like a phantom haunting the mountainside.

But there was nothing. No sign of Jason. No trace of his descent. Just silence and the cold, unyielding night.

Ra's straightened, his expression unreadable. Whatever had just unfolded, it wasn't over—not by a long shot.

********

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