RING!!!
"Accept," Jason muttered, and the line clicked as the call connected to the small earpiece tucked inside his helmet. "When I gave you this number, I was really hoping you'd never use it," he said dryly, his tone carried that familiar blend of irritation and sarcasm he'd honed to an art over the years.
[Damian: Then why give it to me in the first place?]
"For emergencies, obviously." Jason replied, leaning slightly as he slipped through a narrow space between two cars.
The night's drizzle had slicked the streets, and the neon lights from billboards and diners stretched across the wet asphalt like long, bleeding streaks of color. His bike hummed beneath him, its low growl echoing faintly off the alley walls as he neared his stop.
[But this is an emergency.]
Jason let out a slow sigh through his nose.
"If it's about Scarecrow, you're wasting your breath, kid. Your old man and that 'Mr. Mouthrunner' can handle it. I'm out on a date tonight—with a few bottles—so… see ya."
He was about to end the call when
Damian's voice cut through again, sounding more urgent.
[Wait!]
Jason slowed the bike to a crawl before pulling up beside a flickering streetlight. The engine rumbled softly as he planted one boot on the wet pavement. "What?" he said flatly, though the impatience in his tone was impossible to miss.
[Father forbids me from engaging in anything Scarecrow-related.]
Jason huffed, a low amused sound that came out more like a scoff. "Of course he would. Imagine that headline—'Batman's little killing machine dosed with fear gas, goes on a rampage.' Yeah, real great PR." He leaned back on the seat, shifting his weight as he glanced across the street.
The pink glow from a half-dead diner sign flickered against his helmet visor, casting shifting reflections over the black and red finish. He scanned the surroundings of the bar opposite the street, but Li's car was nowhere in sight. Figures. "So what's that got to do with me?"
[There have been multiple incidents of Scarecrow releasing his fear toxin in populated areas within the past hour.]
Jason's jaw tightened slightly. "Yeah, I heard—three places hit already," he said, rubbing the back of his neck through the thick collar of his jacket. His patience was thinning by the second. "So what's your angle here, kid?"
[Those were the earliest. Two more have been hit since then. Both Father and Dick are stretched too thin.]
Jason's gloved fingers drummed lightly against the handlebar, the faint sound mixing with the quiet hiss of drizzling rain hitting metal.
"Alright… so what do you want from me, little demon?" he finally asked, though he already had a good guess where this was headed.
[He might've forbidden me from dealing with Scarecrow directly, but he didn't forbid me from going with a guardian. Preferably someone with real field experience.]
Jason's lips curled into a smirk beneath the helmet. "No way, kid. But I'll give you credit for trying to bend the rules." He shook his head, leaning forward slightly.
"Not my circus, not my clowns. I'm not getting dragged into another one of Bruce's messes tonight. I've got my own set of clowns to deal with."
[I know Father will be furious, but I can't just sit around. I learn best in the field. How else am I supposed to get better?]
Jason chuckled quietly, though it sounded more like a groan layered with disbelief.
"You're right—it'd definitely piss him off." He paused for a beat, the thought lingering as a faint grin crept across his face.
"Alright, kid. Meet me at the clock tower in fifteen minutes."
There was a brief silence before Damian's voice came back, calm but tinged with satisfaction.
[See you there.]
The line clicked off, leaving only the soft hum of the rain and the idle purr of Jason's bike. He stayed there for a moment, watching the street glisten under the amber glow of the lights, before sighing quietly. "Guess my night just went downhill," he muttered.
He twisted the throttle, the bike's engine growling to life again. The vibration buzzed through his leg—a dull ache still pulsing where the muscle hadn't fully healed. It was getting better though, faster than it should have.
Faster than normal.
He frowned beneath the helmet, wondering if that was something he should be worried about—or if it was just another reminder that he wasn't exactly the same man who died years ago. Maybe he'd come back different. Maybe something changed him at the highland of Lian Yu.
He shook the thought off, focusing back on the road ahead. The city stretched out before him, all wet, grim, and ever restless. The rain picked up, soft but steady, tapping against his visor with a quiet rhythm.
With a low rumble, Jason shifted gears and shot off down the street as the roar of his bike echoed through the empty block. Neon lights and lamp posts bled into streaks of red and orange as he sped off into the Gotham night, heading home to gear up for whatever mess his kid brother was getting him into on this little side quest.
- - -
In less than fifteen minutes, Red Hood had made his way to Robin, who sat on the edge of a rooftop ledge overlooking the chaos below. The city stretched endlessly before him—its skyline broken by pillars of smoke rising into a cloudy, orange-stained sky. From up there, Gotham looked like it was bleeding—alive, restless with both police sirens and that of ambulances, and with terrified civilians.
Down on the streets, victims of Scarecrow's fear toxin screamed, ran, and attacked each other as if possessed by demons.
The hallucination induced by the toxin was horrifying—those infected saw a world overrun by nightmare creatures, twisted things crawling out from the depths of hell itself. Every person became a monster to the other, and no amount of pleading or logic could break the illusion.
The worst part? The toxin hijacked the body. It kept their adrenaline spiked so high they couldn't pass out from the sheer terror. They fought until their arms went numb, until their sanity shredded itself into pieces. In their panic, they grabbed anything—pipes, bottles, even broken glass—to fend off their imagined attackers.
But in reality, those "monsters" were friends, family, or strangers trying to help.
Robin watched the madness unfold, jaw clenched beneath his mask. The wind tugged at his cape, carrying the distant echo of sirens and terrified screams.
"He said he'd be here by now. I hate being kept waiting," he muttered to himself, scanning the area behind him. "Especially not in this kind of emergency."
He sighed and crossed his arms, eyes darting around the rooftop. "I may be the one who asked for his help, but has he no respect for other people's time?" His voice came out with more attitude than intended, portraying his frustration.
He was composed as always, but the restless energy in his movements gave him away—Damian Wayne was eager for a fight, even if he wouldn't admit it out loud.
Then, out of nowhere, a modulated voice drifted from behind him. "I hear people who talk to themselves have a high chance of losing their minds."
Damian's eyes widened instantly. His body stiffened. For a split second, he imagined the cold bite of a blade pressing against his throat—that's how sudden the voice was, with enough time to slit his throat. Red Hood had appeared out of nowhere, and that alone was enough to set off Damian's instincts.
He swallowed his surprise and forced his expression back into its usual calm, though his voice gave away a hint of curiosity. "Even among the League, not many could sneak up on me." His eyes lowered briefly to Red Hood's boots, wondering how someone wearing heavy combat gear could move so silently.
"Even Father gives off a shift in the air when he's close, but you… you vanish completely. Almost like you're evading even the wind."
Jason chuckled beneath his helmet.
"Where's Robin? And what have you done with that annoying brat?" he asked, peeling off his headgear and revealing the faint smirk that always seemed half-serious, half-sarcastic.
"How did you do it?" Damian pressed, ignoring the teasing. He wasn't about to let the topic slip.
"Just one of my many talents. Call it a skill if you want." Jason's tone was casual, but his eyes—half-tired, half-amused—studied Damian's expression. The kid looked like he'd actually consider cutting the answer out of him if he didn't talk fast enough. "So," Jason continued, "what's the situation with Scarecrow?"
"Let's get going. I'll fill you in on the way. Five incidents in total has been reported—he's causing quite the ruckus."
"Before that," Jason interrupted, raising a hand, "you're not expecting me to fight Scarecrow alongside Batman, right? Because that's more Nightwing's department."
Damian shook his head. "No, not at all. Even as we speak, I'm disobeying his orders to stay put in the Batcave."
Jason gave a low chuckle. "I never saw myself as a fail-safe babysitter for you, little demon." His voice carried that trademark mix of mockery and brotherly fondness.
Damian just shrugged as they both fired grapple hooks and descended from the rooftop.
At the bottom, Jason tossed him a helmet.
"Here, just for you."
Damian caught it, already knowing what came next. "Hold on tight," Jason said, kicking the bike to life.
For once, Damian didn't argue. He wrapped his arms around Jason's torso as the Red Hood revved the engine, and the bike tore off into the night, slicing through the smoky air.
The roar of the engine mixed with the chaos echoing through Gotham—the perfect soundtrack to their uneasy alliance.
"I can see the damage Scarecrow's caused, but I don't understand why Father forbids me from tracking and engaging him," Damian said over the wind. "All I'd need is a gas mask."
Jason's voice came through, steady and slightly muffled by his helmet. "Take it from someone whose boots you're literally filling right now—Scarecrow isn't your average villain. If he wanted to, he could turn this city inside out in less than a day."
"What do you mean?" Damian asked, intrigued despite himself.
Jason made a sharp swerve past a red light. "Think about it—what happens when the rest of Gotham's psychos realize Scarecrow's got Batman struggling to keep up? You think they'll sit tight? No. They'll see it as open season. The city would spiral."
"Take a left," Damian said quickly, then added, "and that's true. The criminals would thrive on the chaos. The GCPD would be overwhelmed, and Batman would be spread too thin to manage it."
"Exactly," Jason replied. "And now, remind me—where exactly are we going?"
"A building near the coast, just before the bridge," Damian said.
Jason raised an eyebrow beneath his helmet. "How do you even know about that place, and what are we walking into?"
"Initially, I tried to trace Scarecrow's broadcast signal but failed. Right before it cut off, I got three pinged locations—probably relays he used to mask the main source. I sent two of them to Father and Nightwing, but kept the last one out. It's farther out anyway, and they're busy dealing with the chaos in mid-Gotham."
Jason groaned. "So you've basically got me running Batman's errands. Great. And here I thought I took this gig just to piss him off. Should've remembered my leg's still half-busted."
"Hope you're not too injured to fight," Damian said dryly. "I didn't call for a crippled Red Hood."
Jason smirked. "Relax. I've got twin pistols. I won't be doing much fighting."
As they neared the docks, the city noise faded into the distant crash of waves.
The streets were emptier here, darkness stretching long under the flickering streetlights. The faint chemical smell in the air mixed with the salt of the sea.
Suddenly, Damian's comm crackled.
[Damian!!]
"Father," he replied. Jason shot him a side glance but said nothing.
[Alfred said you snuck out. Where are you?]
"Don't worry, Father. I'm handling something. No need to be alarmed."
[Don—]
Damian ended the call before the order could finish. He wasn't in the mood for another lecture.
Jason parked the bike beside an abandoned factory, the engine growling one last time before dying out.
He looked around the area—dim lights, broken cranes, and the low hum of the waters. "We're here," he said finally, his voice quiet but steady as they looked around, eyes fixed at a building up ahead.