Chapter Text
It didn’t take long for Jason to take over Crime Alley.
Batman had never patrolled it well enough (how else could a twelve-year-old hijack the Batmobile’s wheels here?). Jason had managed to eliminate, intimidate, or consolidate all the petty dealers and criminals in a few block radius of the East End before the Bat even noticed.
Then, even when the Bat finally did show his face, he vanished again. They only had a few run-ins before B suddenly withdrew from the area almost entirely. Jason had made some taunting remarks, calling the hypocrite out on his shit, his failures, his hypocrisy, he’d even called him by his name. Then the Bat completely stopped patrolling Red Hood’s growing territory, though Jason did catch the familiar cowled silhouette glaring down at him from across the unspoken border. Instead, the Bat seems to have been cracking down even harder on everyone else—at least when he bothered to patrol at all. He’d called in Nightwing apparently because the big bird was the one everyone’s been talking about lately and had been seen frequently patrolling Gotham for the last few weeks.
Jason wasn’t stupid enough to think Bruce’s absence was due to fear—the old man was probably hunched up in the Batcave theorizing. Not that he’d be able to put it together. Some might call him the world’s greatest detective, but even Bruce couldn’t possibly suspect the ghost of the boy he’d left unavenged was haunting the streets where he'd found him. Bruce wouldn’t see it coming until Jason unmasked himself—an event that Jason was going to put a lot of effort into perfecting once he’d taken the city.
But first things first, he had more to conquer. And today, that involved a ‘negotiation’ with a Bowery-based drug dealer named Brett.
It was a negotiation as far as Brett was aware—Jason was simply taking the meeting as an opportunity to decide if Brett will make a reasonable underling or if he’ll need to be made an example of. (He was currently leaning towards example. Having a minion named “Brett” really didn’t suit the image he was trying to build. This is going to be a criminal empire, not a fraternity.)
It didn’t help that Brett really gave off Frat Boy energy with his bleached blond hair, diamond-encrusted watch, and Ralph Lauren polo as he guided the Red Hood through his center of operations and bragged about the high-quality shit he shipped.
“I only deal in the best.” Brett boasted chest puffed out as he strutted through his warehouse, goons bustling as they moved crates and unloaded. Jason wasn't impressed but followed along amiably enough, making note of the stock and infrastructure Brett controlled.
“You aren’t worried about the Bat swooping in on this?” Jason prompted, gauging what level of security and manpower he had under him, but Brett only scoffed.
“I don’t have to worry about the Bat. Since he and Nightwing have been stirring things up, I got the top security money can buy.” He smirked, holding his chin up proudly as if outsourcing security would impress the Red Hood. Jason rolled his eyes behind his mask the older man boasted. “I hired the best of the best!”
Jason snorted. “The best don’t take jobs in Gotham.”
Then a deep baritone Jason hadn’t heard in years rumbled. “With the right incentives.” Jason’s vision was tinting green before he even turned to see the hulking mercenary looming in a darkened corner. A familiar insidious vision of black-and-orange emerged from the shadows, breezing past Brett and the Red Hood to lean casually against the entranceway they'd passed through.
Brett proudly introduced the mercenary, waving his arms and attempting to banter with him. Jason couldn't hear what he was saying. All he felt was green.
Jason had only met the merc once in his Robin days, and he’d been heavily concussed at the time. He got nothing but bad vibes from the man and his ambiguous relationship with his big brother Nightwing. He had been ready to call in Bruce immediately to shut down whatever the fuck was going there, but Dick had managed to talk him down from going fully nuclear.
To talk him off the ledge of tattling, Dick had let Jason in on the secret week: that the mercenary had kidnapped him to train him as an apprentice. Just some mind games and sparring, nothing to worry about. Jason still thought it sounded sketch as fuck and his big brother Dick was definitely downplaying the reality of whatever happened. But Dick had ruffled Jason’s hair and promised everything was fine and in turn made the 13-year-old promise not to immediately run off and challenge Deathstroke or tattle to Bruce.
Even at the time, Jason hadn’t really been pacified so much as he resigned himself to the fact it wasn’t the time for him to act. He told himself he’d wait until he grew a few more inches, and then he’d make sure to do a more thorough investigation of his own.
But that was then. When—when Jason considered them brothers.
Now, of course, they were nothing.
Dick was culpable, just like Bruce. He’d failed to avenge him. He had moved on. And that meant Dick had never really cared – that they had never been brothers.
So why should Jason give a shit about Deathstroke?
He turned away from Deathstroke, facing his body solely towards Brett and forcing himself to pay the merc no mind. The hulking meta was minding his own business too (at least superficially). He appeared to be simply leaning against the wall idly watching the goons scurrying about with their boxes. But Jason had been trained by the Bat, he could see the way Deathstroke kept the Red Hood in his peripheral vision of his good eye, and how every inch of his body was angled to move with deadly force if prompted.
But the Red Hood had no reason to quarrel with Deathstroke.
He had no reason to care—
“I can’t believe Deathstroke is here! I’ve never seen him in person.” The goon's hushed whispers weren’t nearly as quiet as they seemed to think.
“I’m just glad we’re on the side paying for him.”
“But seriously, I thought he didn’t take jobs in Gotham.”
“It’s definitely because Nightwing is here.”
Jason tensed. Brett was still talking as he led the Red Hood over to sit and discuss their potential collaboration, but he couldn’t bring himself to focus on it. Instead, the gossiping goons held his attention.
“What do you mean?”
“Didn’t you hear him? He didn’t say ‘right price’ he said ‘right incentives,’ it wasn’t the money that got him out here. If you know what I mean~”
Brett was—he was saying something about his profit margin. Jason nodded. The edges of his vision—the green—it’s nothing. Nothing. Who gives a shit if the mercenary was in town to see his big brother Dick. That was their fucking business, and Jason didn’t care who Dick choose to associate with. He's a grown-ass man. A grown-ass man who Jason didn't give a shit about.
“I mean, everyone knows Nightwing’s the first Robin. And the Robins are all like, the Bat’s kids—”
“They’re definitely clones.”
“Pete, I swear don’t start with this again—”
“No, they’re definitely clones—”
“NOT the point. Clones, robots, kidnapped, who gives a shit. They’re like his kids.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“And having the Bat as a father figure has to be a one-way ticket to daddy issues.”
“And—?”
“And Deathstroke is a Daddy.”
“Oh god, ew.”
“I mean, he isn’t wrong.”
“All I’m saying, is I’ve seen them fighting in person once. And the banter—it’s charged.”
Jason rose from his seat, the green was beginning to cloud his vision. Brett asked him a question (probably asking what he was doing. What the fuck was he doing? He's supposed to be a crime lord, this is part of his business, working with scum. He just needed to keep it together, shake some hands, make some money, and pull some strings to make things better here. He didn't need to intervene in whoever Dick—a grown-ass man whom Jason didn't care about—choose to associate with) but Jason couldn’t hear anything but the gossiping conversation in the corner.
Jason looked over at Deathstroke—he’d read all the files. He knew the meta had enhanced hearing. He had to be hearing this, but he gave no reaction.
No denials.
If anything he looked—amused.
“I’m serious!” One of the goons leaned into his circle, excited to share his gossip. “I saw them in Blüdhaven. It was hot. We're all trying to take cover, and they're going at it hand-to-hand. Literally the whole time, they kept quipping about how ‘I’m not going back to you’ and ‘you’ve forgotten your training’ and ‘I’m a grown man, I’m not going to call you master anymore –”
Jason drew his weapon at inhuman speed and shot Slade in the face.
Or he tried to.
The meta reacted at a likewise inhuman speed, avoiding the first bullet and then closing the distance. Jason didn’t see the goons or Brett fleeing in panic, all he saw was the sick fuck who was fucking with his brother. If Jason were conscious beyond the unspeakable rage, maybe he would have been intimidated at the idea of fighting the Terminator--but he hadn't been hesitant to try at 13 and he sure as hell wasn't now. All he knew was that he was going to blow his fucking head off.
Despite his goals, Jason soon found himself disarmed. Each gun he pulled was knocked away by a kick from a steel-tipped boot or a swipe of a katana. He switched to his own blade, the League’s knife, and switched tactics.
He slashed and stabbed. He was going to gut the man. Destroy him. Slice off his hands. Chop off his dick. Leave him to bleed out—
“You’re young.” Jason paused for only a second—a moment of weakness that rewarded him with a sword hilt to the ribs. “A child.” Surprise distracted from his anger for a moment. Since the pit, he’d grown so much. Between his sheer size and physicality, towering over six feet and over 200 lbs of muscle, and the brutal means he utilized to take over and run his small corner of Gotham, no one had questioned him. No one suspected he was still only 17.
“Well trained, but emotional.” Deathstroke continued his one-sided analysis as Jason suddenly found himself struggling to block strike after strike from the mercenary. Every move, was frustratingly effortless—like the mercenary was dealing with that tiny, concussed, thirteen-year-old, not a League-trained crime lord towering over 6 feet tall. A small voice in the back of his head raged—he promised to protect his brother when he got bigger, and he still couldn’t. The green only got deeper as Jason pushed forward, determined to make an opening even if he didn’t see one.
“This is personal for you, and anger has made you—” A sweeping kick sent Jason tumbling to the floor, and suddenly Jason was on his back with a heavy boot on his chest and sword pressed to the junction between the edge of his helmet and the top of his armor. That single eye gazed down at him with an amused condescension that suddenly made Jason feel like a child again. “Weak.”
Some sort of inhuman scream tore its way through Jason’s throat as he lunged forward, entirely disregarding the blade and the likely fatal consequences. Deathstroke however reacted faster, retracting the sword and instead meeting Jason with a grapple. The tussle was brutal, Jason wasn’t thinking of his training, with Bruce or the League, all he saw was green and all he wanted to see was red. Unfortunately for him, Deathstroke was right. He was sloppy in his anger, and soon he was pinned, one arm twisted painfully behind his back, and face ground into the cement floor, with that same heavy boot pressing into his back. “I have to admit, I’m curious.” Deathstroke still sounded amused (though winded, Jason could take some pride in that). “Why?”
Why?
Why did he care? Jason was here to get vengeance for himself because they failed him. If they had been family, they would have done it themselves. They'd never cared, so Jason shouldn't either.
(Drifting to sleep on patrol with Bruce and getting carried to bed. Waking up to a new book on his nightstand from Alfred. Getting swept away for a weekend trip with Dick.) None of it— it didn't matter. They were lies (movie night with Bruce when he was too sick to patrol), if any of it was real (Dick trying, and failing, to teach Jason to ski, both of them ending up laughing in the powder), they would have cared when he died, they would have avenged him. The past meant nothing, they are nothing--
"Not much of a talker are you?" Deathstroke asked, twisting the arm so hard he could feel the joint near popping. "Disappointing. Nightwing—"
“KEEP YOUR FUCKING HANDS OFF MY B—” Jason bit down on his tongue hard enough to draw blood, barely catching the word ‘brother.’
The pressure on his back increased, ribs complained and Jason hissed in pain.
“Your what?” Slade asked, amusement still laced in his voice, and maybe it was the sheer embarrassment that overwhelmed his anger long enough for Jason to regain some basic logic. Pulling a spare knife from the sleeve of his free arm, despite the awkward angle, Jason managed to quickly dig the blade deep into the unarmoured section behind the merc’s knee. When Deathstroke stumbled, momentarily, Red Hood opted for a tactical retreat.
He needed to—
He
He needed to calm down.