Author's note: Hi guys, so this is my first time posting a story on here, so please bear with me! I'd really appreciate any advice you can give me, as long as it's helpful advice. Any idiot can post an anonymous comment saying "It sucks", but that doesn't contain an ounce of constructive criticism, does it?
Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters.
They say that the most dangerous men are those who have nothing to lose. So, what do you call a man who has lost his family, his friends, and his life? Damn near invincible. You know, I never wrote "be a wanted criminal" as my dream career when I was a kid. I never dreamed I'd be out on the streets murdering thugs and taking names. Then again, I never thought I'd be beaten with a crowbar within an inch of my life, blown up, and brought back to life- only to dig myself out of my own grave.
When I was still young, all I thought about was getting through the day- survival. About a decade later, I guess everything has come full cycle since survival is what pumps adrenaline through my veins at night; it's what keeps me going when I lose sight of who I am. I am Jason Peter Todd, dubbed by the GCPD as a dangerous mass murderer, self-dubbed as Gotham's saving grace. Some say I'm a heartless, cold blooded killer; I say I'm cleaning up Gotham the only way possible- by throwing out the trash, permanently.
My adopted father-now-turned-adversary is part of the group that believes I need to be brought to "justice." I'm sure someone out there is laughing at the bitter irony of the situation; the real murderer is off prancing around blowing up innocent people, while the victim is the one that needs to be locked up- fucking logical, right? No, I didn't think so. Am I pissed? You bet your ass I am- in fact, I've made it point to try and kill said hypocrite every time I see him. I'm sure the feeling's mutual, as proven by the scar running down my neck, courtesy of Gotham's very own Batman.
Now given this scenario, you might be thinking, "What the hell is he doing knocking on Bruce's door instead of kicking it down like our relationship?" That's exactly what I'm thinking even as I shove a picture of our "family" of bats and birds-minus the costumes-towards Bruce, demanding what the fuck is happening. Oh, I guess I forgot to mention the joker card and bloody crowbar it's attached to. Because Jesus fucking Christ, the only person I hate more than Bruce is the Joker. And, there is no way in hell that I'll admit I may have trembled a little when Bruce silently held up three more identical souvenirs and stepped aside to let me in.
At that moment, it was easy to tell that the shit has hit the fan, especially when goddamn Bruce is inviting me into his home without another word. No way is this good, no fucking way. My only thought as I step through the doors I once called home after ten years and hundreds of fights? Fuck.