Author's Note: There will be more of this. Prior to New 52 reboot. Set after events of Batman and Robin issue 25 in which The Red Hood escapes Gotham with Scarlet. Jason returns to Gotham, disrupting Bruce's operations. There will be angst in later instalments, if there isn't enough already present in this offering. Enjoy

Forge

Jason

I'll never go back to Gotham. Never. I told Scarlet that. I promised her I would never set foot in that city ever again. Because I am bigger than Gotham now. Because I'm bigger than Batman. Because I'm the Red Hood and anyone who's worth knowing on this whole planet knows who I am and, more importantly, what I'm about. I could be an international terrorist/ vigilante on any continent. I keep telling myself that, keep reminding myself it is a fact, not a fantasy. But something inside of me refuses to accept it, keeps telling me to go back to the city, insists I go finish things up with him. It's not any part of me I want to keep; it's that stupid kid I used to be, his second-rate Robin. It still demands his death, his suffering and torment. But I don't need that anymore to be happy. That kid died with the crowbar and the warehouse. It took a lot of time and a hell of a lot more beat downs for me to realise that, but it finally sunk in: Jason Todd is not about revenge, but justice. That's why I can forget about Gotham and its guardian, Mr Perfect, and focus on the scumbags who need putting down. So why the fuck am I on all-fours in an alleyway getting my ass kicked by Meta-humans? Because I just had to go back one more time. I just had to try and shake Gotham up one more freaking time. It was supposed to be funny. As I cough up way more claret than is acceptable, I catch on and accept this is not funny; this is going to be fatal in about thirty seconds.

As they smash blow after kick into my tenderised flesh, I feel trying to boss around the new batch of super-criminals in this hell-hole was more than a little immature of me. I didn't have a surplus of ammunition or gadgets at my disposal, just the basics. The Kevlar-weave survival suit I'm sporting is not blunting the hits enough to save me; the same deal applies to my helmet. And while this indifferent end is playing out, what am I thinking in my final moments? On your feet soldier, it's not over yet. Yeah, I got that ridiculous hypocrite's encouragement swirling round my head like a mantra. Every time I was down, every time I was out, those words were all I needed to get back up again. They made me fight to the bitter end. They forced me up in the warehouse, in training and everything between. I think I even heard them in my grave. On your feet soldier, it's not over yet. Except this time Bruce, it is over. Turns out you were right about me all along. I am a lost cause. I am.

What happens next is not pleasant, especially for me. Exactly one minute after I assumed I would be lying dead in a rat-infested sewer, I have been unceremoniously rescued with absolutely zero fanfare…by The Batman. Oh God, how embarrassing can my night get? A twenty-three-year-old super-criminal/ costumed vigilante needs his arch-enemy, a forty-year-old asshole dressed as a giant bat, to save his ass. It has to be the real Bat, not Dick; only Bruce can disable eight Meta-humans using only his fists. Dick needs at least a small arsenal and his girlfriend to deal with that kind of crisis. As he approaches me, I turn my head away. I really don't want to see the condescension on his face right now, or the ever-present disappointment at my general presence. Thankfully, he is not in a preaching mood.

"Can you stand?" The dark, empty tone inquires. Got to give him credit; he's as cold inside as ever when it comes to his wayward 'son'.

"No."

"Hhnn. I see." Before I can voice an objection of any sort, he's picked me up and got me across his shoulders in a fireman's carry. My two-hundred-and-twenty-pound weight does not even get a quiet groan out of his body; he handles me like I'm a seven-year-old and just as helpless.

"I don't want your—"

"Be quiet." And just like that, I shut my mouth. He walks with me at first. Then he begins to run. The scenery goes by at an alarming speed and minutes later we're at the car. I hate how amazing he is, still. Guy's not even out of breath. He lowers me into the passenger seat with the same ease as lifting me up, and then gets in himself.

"Don't you touch me." I warn him despite being on the verge of blacking-out. He doesn't even bother looking at me when he replies.

"You will lose consciousness in less than fifteen seconds. Save your 'boundary issues' for then."

Did he just make a joke? Jeez, travelling through time messed him up more than I thought. That's the last thing I remember before the world fades to black.

I wake up, waiting to feel the restraints or the smell of a totally sealed environment. There are no restraints and the only smell in the air is must and a hint of lavender. I open my eyes slowly, but find the lights in the room are off so I don't need to be gentle. I go to raise my head only to find it's already slightly elevated against the pillow. When I smell again, the thick aroma of antiseptic and fresh gauze clogs my nostrils; Al has been treating me. I spot Bruce's looming shadow against the surrounding darkness; he is totally motionless, but absolutely watching me without any distraction. The night vision is still adjusting, but I know he's in civilian clothes and has no doubt had a shower so he hasn't been here all the time.

"Alfred has informed me your injuries are minor in relation to what injuries you might have sustained. He estimates a recovery period of between ten days and three weeks, dependent on your progress in the next forty-eight hours. If you would rather recuperate elsewhere, you must make your own travel arrangements. My advice is to sleep for now and explain yourself tomorrow." He rounds off this very practiced and professional speech by walking straight past me and out the room. I think about calling after him, but nothing clever comes to mind. I listen to him descend the staircase and then cross the parlour before his footsteps get muffled by carpet. He's heading for the cave; I wonder what time it is and how little my presence back in this house affects him or his routine.

Scarlet is probably freaking out right now; I told her I'd be a couple of hours. Trying to get up gives me seriously sharp, grinding pains in my ribcage and a total lack of cooperation from my lifeless arms. It has to be at least three broken ribs and a sizeable loss of blood from my arms. I bet my face isn't too hot either right now. Never mind, Jay-Jay; you can always escape tomorrow.

Bruce

I am alone. Dick required a vacation from duties as Batman. Damian required a break from this endless cycle of death and combat we call a life. Tim wanted to help me ease the burden. I made the decision to send them all to Disneyland Florida for two weeks. The location and attractions are for Damian's benefit; the boy is still only ten and needs to learn what that entails. The distance from Gotham and her problems is for Dick's benefit; he needs to relax desperately. I do not want him turning into what I made myself become in the pursuit of my approval. Tim likes Disneyland. He has always been ready to sacrifice anything he wants for the mission…they all have. It is unfair of me to expect them to part with any future happiness for the sake of a crusade I intended to fight alone. I hope they have fun in one another's company. I… love my boys…so very much. At present I am patrolling the cityscape.

I have missed Gotham these past few months. During my time globe-trotting for Batman Incorporated, I naturally had several opportunities to exercise my skills as The Batman in different countries on different continents. They are not the same. Other cities are alien to me, the crimes foreign in nature. No here demands my attentions more than Gotham. This city, a place referred to as Hell-on-Earth even by the criminals that populate it, is the only challenge I could never quite surmount. Other cities and their problems seem insignificant compared to the phoenix-like properties of Gotham's criminal element. They continually reinvent themselves to try and usurp my iron grip; the one Dick is constantly under siege to protect. My stranglehold on this city's degenerates may loosen and waver from time to time, but it never goes away completely. No matter who may believe they are in charge, I am forever in control whether I tell them or not. This is my city. She will not sink into her own filth when I am here. I will not allow it.

It is almost two a.m. I am stood in the immediate vicinity of Park Row, conducting normal surveillance of a new group trying to take over Gotham's underworld contingent. The Consortium is composed of eight members, all of whom possess Meta-human abilities ranging from Bane-like super-strength to Flash-like speed and running a sizeable gamut in-between. Due to their decision to always wear costumes and a lack of D.N.A traces to analyse, I have yet to ascertain their civilian identities, if indeed they ever had them. This group are smart and highly organized; in the past six weeks they have managed to overwhelm several districts of South Gotham and assume control. Their takeover of The Narrows was a particularly impressive feat considering the level of scum they had to contend with. They now have controlling interests in narcotics, prostitution, racketeering and human trafficking with plans for further expansion.

It is a pertinent point to inquire why I have yet to act given their high-public profile and derisive attitude towards me. While I am certain Dick would no doubt have already instigated a fight with this group to show Gotham that The Batman was not afraid of conflict, he would have lost. When dealing with individuals above those common criminals, reconnaissance and a sound plan-of-action are paramount in finding success. I have already learned this group is unsure of my true capabilities, evidenced in their unwillingness to fight me. They always create a distraction to avert my attention while they commit crimes. Their boastfulness is not the sign of an overinflated ego, but fear; they are hiding something. Although still in early stages of development, I have already tailored a strategy to defeat all of them in a single encounter, utilizing nothing but my fists. Testing this strategy is still a week or so further down the line; I have not discovered the limits of their recuperative powers yet and could find myself fatiguing at the worst possible time. I must be completely prepared for any eventuality. I must be patient.

Fortunately, they are still taking Gotham in small, manageable stages, not full-blown areas in single strikes; I have sufficient time to refine my tactics. This evening's surveillance has revealed enough to suggest my endurance and physical stamina is more than required to outlast them in a fight. Now I can go and—

KA-BOOM

The cape takes the brunt of most of the shrapnel. The characteristics of the explosion are familiar to me; I have dealt with them before. When I bring my cape back down and survey the building I was just observing, I find it has been reduced to half its former size and is burning with an intense orange flame. I see the perpetrator first, confirming my suspicions on the explosives; The Red Hood. At present, it is unclear whether or not Jason Todd is underneath the mask. I wait from my vantage point as The Consortium emerges from the rubble and debris unscathed. Their expressions, even from this distance, are readable; they are enraged. The Red Hood says something, provoking the group to launch a full-frontal assault. When he performs a deft acrobatic manoeuvre, producing twin pistols and firing at his targets whilst simultaneously flying through the air, I know it is Jason. I do not need this right now.

The boy's strategy is proving ineffective against them. Although he lasts several minutes, landing significant blows on all eight hostiles, he quickly exhausts his supplies. Eventually, a mere eight minutes after the battle commenced, Jason is formally overpowered by two of the stronger individuals of the group and subjected to a horrific and prolonged beating. At this point, I should intervene. I wait. I wait until the boy is thrown into a quieter alleyway and prepared for a fatal strike. Then I offer my services. My original plan for engaging The Consortium involved an open space; the narrowness of the alleyway and the size of their members mean I have the upper-hand. I drop down under the cover of smoke and red phosphorous, blinding the one member I know has what is essentially internal night vision. It is then simply a case of momentum.

Bringing my entire weight down on their strongest will make scant impact; dropping from a height of ten metres with a speed of over forty-miles-an-hour and thus increasing my weight several times, will have an effect. In this case, it incapacitates two of them, the strongest two. Without their muscle to support them, the remaining six are close to child's play. Speed is dealt with my electrifying the floor; my rubber insulation protecting me from the shock, Night Vision is out from a series of pin-point strikes to crucial parts of the anatomy, Mind Control with a blind hit to the back of the skull, Animal by a severe heel kick to the lower jaw, resulting in a fracture, Metallic Skin by exploitation of the eyes and then own momentum and The Leader by a combination of fear and elbows. All this is achieved within fifty-seven seconds, almost two minutes faster than initially estimated. I am impressed. By utilizing the same basic principles of my original plan I have succeeded ahead of schedule in diffusing their influence in this city. However, I would not have needed to rush my preparations if not for Jason's presence.

As I turn my attentions to the boy, I cannot help but wonder how stubborn he really is. Dick told me he had escaped their custody, with his accomplice, never to return to Gotham. Part of me was glad I would no longer be required to deal with his persistent presence in my affairs. However, now, without adequate medical attention, Jason could die here. There is a small aspect in me that says I should allow such a petty end befall him, that he would be better off dead…as would I. However, I know such an avenue of thought is NOT a viable option; I will not let him die again. When I approach, the boy turns away from me. Good, I do not want further difficulty from him.

"Can you stand?" I ask, knowing already such an action is impossible for him to achieve.

"No."

"Hhnn. I see."

After a brief appraisal of his current condition, I deem it safe to move him. As I position him across my shoulders, I fight the urge to drop him. Jason is heavier than I recall, in spite of his suit's weight, roughly around the two-hundred-and-twenty-five pound mark. The load is easy enough to manage. He tries to offer a protest, but I cut him off; I do not need any more difficulties from him at present. It is only an eight-hundred-metre run to the car, a journey I make in less than four minutes. I place him in the passenger seat, mindful of his ribs, an area clearly traumatised with repeated blows due to its unnatural softness. I take a short while to compose myself before entering the car and starting the engine.

He tells me not to touch him. I have no interest in doing so anyway. I inform him he will lose consciousness in less than fifteen seconds and then wait until I am proven correct. When he passes out, I have space to think uninhibited. What is the best course of action to take at this particular juncture? Perhaps it would be prudent to ensure he is incarcerated once more, in a place that is escape-proof…although no such structure exists; he could escape from anywhere…like me. There is always the notion of intense, prolonged rehabilitation…but no psychiatrist would be suitable to tackle his issues. Their safety would also be in jeopardy. I could ask him to…no, a foolish idea; the boy will not listen to me or reason. I spend the remainder of the journey to the cave, creating and dismissing another twelve possible solutions to a problem that is as close to unsolvable as any I have encountered. I am tired of him thwarting my attempts at aid, at rescue from the abyss. He requires a club not an olive branch. When parking the car, I conclude to let him decide his own future. As for his immediate future, I leave that to Alfred.

"Are you sure this is what you want, Sir?" The old man asks me as he begins cutting away Jason's costume to examine the wounds. I shake my head.

"I do not want this, Alfred. But we are obligated to save his life. He can decide his own fate when suitably recovered."

"And what if that fate is incompatible with your mission, Sir?"

"We can quibble semantics later, old friend. For now, do as I ask and treat his injuries." I do not stay any longer, discarding my suit and ancillaries in the armoury and retiring upstairs for a shower. Upon my return to the cave some two hours later, Alfred has completed his treatment. He regards me wistfully.

"Master Jason's injuries are minor in comparison to what might have happened had you not intervened. Based on the fact he clearly possesses the same physical conditioning and fitness standards as both Dick and Tim, I would estimate his wounds will heal within three weeks. I am afraid I cannot carry him to the house; his muscle mass and size makes it impossible." I nod in understanding and appreciation. I draw close to the boy's prone form and scrutinize him briefly. His face holds the same expression it did when I buried him all those years earlier, pained and deeply-troubled. I glance at the memorial case directly behind me, some fifty metres away. The old man can see this.

"What do you wish, Sir?" Alfred inquires, reading my face like others would a book; he knows me too well. I turn back to Jason.

"That he had stayed dead and buried. I've lost count of the number of people he's killed, Alfred; dozens, if not more than one hundred. And how other lives has he affected because of his savage quest for vengeance? He almost killed Damian and Tim during my absence. I trust you remember those incidents well?"

"With unfortunate clarity, yes. Do you feel responsible for his actions?"

"I got him killed. I got him mad. I made him crazy with jealousy and anger. I am wholly responsible for his actions."

"With all due respect, Master Bruce, you did not make him murder people; he arrived at that situation on his own."

"He was my child, Alfred, my son. He went astray and I did not do enough to stop him."

"Do not torture yourself, Sir."

"I'm not, Alfred. I find I no longer care. I only want him gone as soon as possible."