Hello! So you have have read a bit about my DCU_Bang fiction, and this is it! As you can read by the tags, it's a Jason/Roy. Mostly I just really wanted a third season of Young Justice, introducing a resurrected Jason, that plotline with Darkseid, and etc. XD So, yes. It'll be lots of fun, and you'll get to read the whole thing at once! By the way, the underage relationship is Jason/Roy. They're 17/15 at first sexual contact, and 17/16 at first actual sex.

I've also got art, done by the fantastic 'Biuebeetie'! It's for chapter 3, so there's a link on my profile to it. It's for chapter 3, so I'll put reminders about it at the top and bottom of that chapter, in case you want to wait and match it up to the scene it goes to.

No warnings for this chapter, except maybe casual assassination? I don't know. Hope you enjoy!

June 23rd, 16:23.

It still feels strange to knock at a door instead of kicking it down. Even worse, my right arm still twitches up to do the knocking before I remember to keep it firmly tucked inside the pocket of my sweatshirt.

Not a good thing to start a panic by showing off a robotic arm, even if this is kind of a shithole place and the residents — heavy fucking air quotes there — probably wouldn't do more than stare. Maybe wonder if they were high. Nobody in here has got the brains to connect me to the name Arsenal, and even if they did nobody's got the connections to do anything with it.

But I don't like the staring. I don't like people staring at me and my replacement limb, and nearly feeling the pity or, worse, the jealousy in their gaze. I hate it. I've had enough of Oliver hovering over my shoulder and trying to play the dad now that it's way too fucking late. I've definitely had enough of Nightwing's stupid team looking at me like I'm one step away from snapping, or like I'm fragile. I'm in control, no matter what any of them think.

Yeah, I got their invitation to join the team again. I don't really blame Nightwing for kicking me off it, not really, but I'm sure as hell not going to just sign back up like some kind of loyal lap dog. They don't like my methods, and I don't like their rules, so that works out great. I'd rather go solo anyway; I don't need a team watching my every move. All it means is that I've gotta set up everything to do this job myself, which means I'm going to need a base to crash at that isn't under the watchful eye of Oliver's security systems.

I knock again, a little more insistently, and then glare at the door when it doesn't immediately open. The flex of my suit against my skin, as I shift my weight, calms me down a little bit. I shove out a hard breath, staring at the small glass circle of the peephole.

It takes a few more seconds, but finally there's the flick of a lock and the knob turns. The door pulls inward, and a pair of blue eyes the exact same shade as mine flick their gaze down my frame and up again. I'm sure he knows that I've got my suit on under the street clothes, but he doesn't comment. The Clone steps back, opening the door wide enough I can get in and tilting his head to the side in invitation.

"Come on in."

I take the invitation, moving past him and glancing around his hideout. I got the address from Oliver, after some prying, but I was expecting something a little better than this place. It does look lived in, and I can see traces of the clone and his wife, Cheshire, scattered around the place. None of that hides the fact that it's kind of a dump, even if it's mostly clean.

The Clone closes the door, locking it again. "I'd appreciate it if you were quiet," he says plainly, as I watch him. "Lian's asleep. Drink?"

"And trust the water in this place? No thanks." He shrugs, leaning back against the wall beside the door and crossing his arms.

It is good to know that I'm going to get taller, and bigger. I like how I am now — lean means fast, and I'll take fast over brute strength any day — but that doesn't mean I can't look forward to at least four more inches and some wider shoulders. It could be useful, and the knowledge that he's what I'll turn into means I can plan for it. He did alright, for a clone. I can do better.

"What can I do for you?" His tone is wary, like the look in his eyes.

No judgment there; we pretty much haven't really talked since I woke up in the hospital with him and Oliver at my bedside. I really don't blame him for any of the shit that happened, even if I'm still bitter that he got to live my life for the eight years I was frozen. He never stopped looking for me, and he damn well never asked to be created in the first place. He wasn't even around when Cadmus froze me, and he spent five of his eight years of existence hunting for me. I can be bitter, but I can't really hate him. He didn't do anything wrong.

Oliver, on the other hand, and Luthor…

"I need a safe house," I say, with no beating around the bush. I appreciate people being blunt, so will he. Sometimes it's fun to predict your own reactions to things. At the least it makes things a hell of a lot easier. "I'm not going back to the Team, and I'm really done suffering Oliver behaving like I'm rabid one second and broken the next. I don't know how to make a safe house, clearly you do. Make me one."

The Clone blinks; I recognize the expression on his face as slight confusion. "It's not really a safe house if someone knows where it is," he points out, pushing off the wall and heading around the counter and into the tiny kitchen.

"Going to turn me in to Dad?"

He won't.

I wouldn't, and he's not different enough from me to actually take me back to Oliver and tell the bastard I was looking to get out from under him. Maybe he's got different experiences, and the last eight years made us different people, but I know that neither of us can stand not being free. Even if that's something as basic as having our own space, or as complicated as not letting anyone else order us around. Freedom is everything, and I know my own personal screwed up parts made it way more important than he probably thinks it is, but I felt this way back before any of this. Before Cadmus. I've always been more of a solo act.

So he'll be the same.

"Not unless you do something that makes me." He takes a jug of water from inside the refrigerator and fills a glass that comes from one of the higher cabinets. "What kind of safe house? Place to crash? Weapons storage? Tactical base? All of the above?"

"That a yes?"

"It's a maybe." He tilts the glass up and takes a drink, watching me over the rim. "You're going solo?"

"Yeah, I'm pretty done with the Team. You know what that feels like, right?" The Clone snorts; glances to the side for a second.

"Guess that's just in the blood," he answers. "So, what are you looking for? Bolt holes are easiest; simple places to crash. Real bases are the hardest; need to have a few easy escape routes as well as a hard one, and be soundproofed, unless you're willing to watch what you say." Another swallow from the cup of water. "Let me guess, you want a real base."

I raise the shoulder of my real arm in a one-sided shrug. He shakes his head with a quiet huff of a sigh.

"Yeah, thought so. Alright, well, it'll take me a bit. Gotta find a place, outfit it. You want to be around while I do it so you know how next time?" His gaze is steady; it's an honest offer. He probably just doesn't want to have to do this again; I know I wouldn't want to do a favor like this more than once. He's still got his guilt over taking my life, so he's easy to get favors out of. I take advantage, probably more than I should if I was going to even pretend to be nice.

"Just send me a sheet with the details. You've got my contact info, don't you?" I don't want to spend that much time around The Clone. He's decent enough, but I don't like being around the reminder of the arm I'm never going to have, and the life that was stolen from me. I could have been the one with the wife and the kid — and the arm — instead of the life I barely fit into anymore.

Life is all kinds of great fun when you look sixteen, but your birth certificate and all forms of ID say you're twenty-three. I've gotten the cops called on me two times already. On the plus side, legally I can buy alcohol and no one can stop me. Not even Oliver, as much as he hates the idea of me abusing that privilege.

"Yeah," The Clone answers, "I've got it. I'll put together a step-by-step and send it your way." He sets the glass down on the counter separating us. "Need anything else? Fake identification, papers, gear? Anything I don't have, I could probably get Jade to pick up for me." His eyes narrow just a little bit, as he leans forward onto the counter. "You know, like all of that lethal weaponry that you really shouldn't have."

I raise an eyebrow, pulling my hand out of the sweatshirt's pocket to pointedly cross my arms. "Lethal weaponry is part of me," I point out, "and last I checked arrows had metal tips. Plus, I'm done letting people tell me what I should be doing. That's kind of the point of going solo."

The Clone makes a bit of a face, something like a grimace, and then shrugs as he straightens up. "Fair enough. Just keep my name out of this, alright? Got enough trouble on my plate without Oliver coming after me for helping you get away from him."

"You don't sell me out, I won't sell you out," is what I offer. "Sounds fair, do—"

The click of a lock makes both of us turn to the door. The clone tenses, hand dropping beneath the counter, and I twist to hide my metal arm behind the frame of my body. I try not to give my advantage away that fast. We stay in silence for the second it takes the door to open, and someone I don't recognize shoulders his way past it.

"Hey, Roy, so you said you'd be around and—" The stranger stops, the door falling shut behind him as he stares at me.

He looks young, my age or a little older. He's a few inches taller than me, musculature hidden by a sweatshirt not that different from mine, though red to my black. Black hair cut a little above his ears with a shock of white over his left temple, blue-green eyes that are narrowed and obviously studying, and a key that's halfway back to his pocket. He lights up instincts in me that scream he's dangerous, even if he doesn't look like much more than some average teenager.

An average teenager wouldn't have a key to my clone's apartment, or walk in without an invitation or a warning. In fact, if he walks in here that casually he's gotta know who my clone is. Which means he knows them well, or he'd never walk into a house with a vigilante, an assassin, and their daughter. That would be suicidal, or at least begging for a crippling injury from just their reflexes. Unless of course he's a vigilante himself, or something similar.

So he either knows them both, pretty well, or he thinks he can handle whatever they might do out of instinct before recognizing him.

The stranger's gaze flicks to the side for a fraction of a second. Just long enough to find my clone. Then he relaxes, tucking the key away into his pocket and holding both hands up to showcase that they're empty. Of course, he only holds that pose for another brief second, and then drops both hands to his sides.

"Am I interrupting something sensitive?" he asks. His voice is about as deep as my clone's, so a little lower than mine, but a little rough around the edges. It's not like anything I've heard before. He does sound sincere, if a bit guarded. "I can turn around and head back out; call you in a few?" He directs that last bit at my clone, who seems partially frozen behind the counter.

"We were done," I answer, before the Clone can come up with something to say. "Who are you?"

"This is—" my clone starts, and the stranger gives a small grin.

"Jason," the stranger answers, smoothly cutting the clone off. He takes a single step forward and offers his right hand. "You must be the original Roy; heard a lot about you over the years. You go by 'Arsenal,' right?"

In a split second decision I turn myself, bringing forward my metal arm to shake his hand. His gaze flicks down to it, and I can see the studying edge to his eyes, but he doesn't comment. "Yes, on both counts." I probably grip harder than I should, but if it hurts he doesn't give any sign of it. "And you?"

"Red Hood," he says, grin flicking to a smirk for a moment. "You probably haven't heard of me. I'm fairly new to the name, and I've been staying mostly underneath the radar." He lets go of my hand, and turns his head to my clone. "Roy, I've got an asshole of a crime boss and he's a little more well guarded than I thought he was going to be. You in?"

The Clone hesitates, glancing between the two of us. His jaw sets, and then he gives a shallow sigh. "I can't leave Lian here alone, and after what happened to the Team… Jade's busy. I can't."

Jason rests both hands on his hips, but doesn't look even mildly disappointed, or irritated. "Alright, no problem. I'll handle it myself." He nods to me, seemingly carefree. "Nice to meet you, Roy. See you around sometime."

I'm not entirely sure what makes me say anything, maybe it's just some feeling I get off of him, but before he can turn around I open my mouth. "This crimelord. Taking him down, or putting him in a prison?"

"Putting a bullet in his head, if things work out how they should." Jason pauses, eyes narrowing a touch. "That a problem for you?"

Huh. So, not totally a hero. That could make him a lot more bearable to be around than any of the Team, or even my clone. I could use a distraction.

I step forward, towards him, and watch how the tiniest hint of tension stiffens his neck, before it loosens back up. "Sounds like a good time," I counter. "I'll come with. I could use a workout." I swear I hear a small, strangled noise from my clone, as Jason's eyes light with interest. Then his mouth flicks into a smirk.

"You any good, Arsenal?"

His challenge makes a whole lot of me wake up and pay real attention. I close the distance between us with two steps, bringing us right up next to each other and invading his space. I lean in enough that I can spit, "Try me, Jason," right into his face.

He doesn't back down, or even look wary, and there's definitely a part of me that respects him for that. It takes some guts to go toe to toe with me, knowing who I am and at least some of what I can do. It takes more to actively challenge me like he just did, even if he was expecting me to back down. If he knows my clone, then he knew damn well I wouldn't back down. Consequently, he's gotta think he can handle me even if I do get violent, or be really sure that I'm not going to.

I watch his smirk flick into a small grin, blue-green eyes narrowed just enough that it feels dangerous more than friendly. "Alright, Original," he says quietly. "If you think you can keep up, you can come along."

"I don't remember asking for your permission." I match his volume, but my tone is more of a snarl and definitely not like his sharp-edged teasing one.

"You couldn't catch me if you didn't have it," he answers instantly. "I've seen what you can do, Arsenal. It's good, considering what happened to you, but not good enough to handle me. Not by a long shot." The last remnants of his grin wipes off his face, and he shifts his weight forward, bringing us a fraction closer together. "You can fight me over not needing permission, or just come along. I definitely don't need you, and if you're going to be a stubborn ass about it I'm going to leave you in the dust. I have work to do."

"Got a pretty high opinion of yourself, don't you?" I flex the hand of my metal arm, considering activating one of the weapon systems. "You want to test that, Jason?"

"No fighting in my damn house," my clone snarls, from behind the counter, "or so help me I will drag you both out by the backs of your necks. Wake my daughter up and I will set Jade — who's been looking for someone to vent her stress at — on both of you, got it?"

Jason glances to the side, breaking our face off. "I wouldn't start anything in your home, Roy." He looks back at me, eyes narrowing a little further. "Even if Original here is a stubborn, aggressive, little bastard."

"Arrogant, condescending, jackass," I counter.

"Out of my house," my clone commands, with a tone of voice that sounds like he wants it to be louder, but can't make it that way because Lian is still just a room over and asleep. "Get out of my building. In fact, don't you dare start a fight anywhere in my whole neighborhood, and be discreet if you two idiots are going to fight. Don't get any League attention."

Jason tilts his head in something like acceptance, stepping back and putting space between us. "I never catch the League's attention," he says with a snort. "That's what I'm good at, remember?" He turns, only sparing me a last glance before opening the door. He slips out, and a pointed, narrow-eyed glance from the Clone makes me follow him.

I barely remember to tuck my metal hand back inside my pocket before stepping into the outside hallway. Jason's standing outside, partially turned back towards me. I close the door and face him, as he studies me without even an attempt at hiding that that's what he's doing. After a few moments there's the click of a lock — my clone locking the door behind us — and Jason gives a tiny, exasperated shake of his head.

"You still interested in coming?" he asks, plainly.

"Haven't got anything else to do for right now." He might be kind of a dick, but if he's something like the Clone's friend he can't be that bad. Plus, unless some giant invasion happens, my choices of doing things are pretty limited. Patrol, and hope someone's stupid enough to be doing something back in Star, or head back to Oliver's house and try to avoid his attempts at family 'bonding.' Neither sounds like fun.

"You could just say 'yes.' Alright, you geared or need to stop somewhere first?"

"Decently, but not as much as I'd like. This time sensitive?" I can fight just fine with what I've got on me, especially if I can pilfer weapons from the guards, but I prefer going into jobs with a full stock, not just what I can hide under civilian clothes.

"Not really. I need to drop by one of my safe houses anyway." He reaches low, into one of the pockets of his cargo pockets, and comes out with a pen and a pad of plain white sticky notes. He scribbles something on one, tears it off, and tucks both tools away again. "Here." He steps close enough to hold out the sticky note to me, and I take it with a raised eyebrow. "That's the address we're headed to. Meet me on the roof in about two hours?"

I scan the address, not even vaguely recognizing it apart from knowing that it's still inside the state. That, only because it's got 'Washington D.C.' scrawled at the bottom. "Why so long?" I ask, tucking the note away inside the left hand pocket of my sweatshirt.

He shrugs, gives a small grin for just a second. "Giving you some leeway. I'm in no rush; guy works late so he'll still be there." He turns on one heel, and tosses over his shoulder, "See you then, Original."

"See you then." The response is automatic, and he doesn't acknowledge it with anything more than another flash of that small grin. I watch the way he moves as he heads down the hallway, or I try to. In the loose clothing it's hard to get a read on how he shifts his weight, or how whatever muscle he has flows. That's almost definitely the point of it.

I really don't want to go into this quite so unprepared. I want some kind of information about what Jason's capable of before I go off on a mission with him. In case I need to guard against him, or to give me some kind of hint about how I'll need to fight to work next to him. Which means I need to turn right back around and talk to my clone again. Or, better idea, just call him and talk while I head to my closest stash of weaponry. A hijacked section of one of Oliver's stashes, but that's good enough for now. Once my clone makes me that safe house I won't need Oliver's drop off points anymore.

I wait long enough that I'm pretty sure that Jason's out of the building before following the same path. It's the only way out of the apartment building without using fire escapes or something, and it's not great to do that when I'm trying to look like a normal civilian. So, stairs it is.

I pull my phone out as I move, dialing the Clone and waiting. He picks up after about half a ring, which makes me think he either knew I was going to call, or lunged for the phone to keep it from ringing any more than once. Maybe a mix of the two.

"Alright," I start, without waiting for any kind of a greeting, "so tell me who he is."

"The Red Hood, like he said. Who 'Jason' is, is his business. He's right, you won't find much about him in a normal search; he stays pretty far underneath casual circles. Powerful enemies. Mostly, he's a vigilante. Partly, he's a mercenary."

"A mercenary?" I repeat, narrowing my eyes at nothing. "How does that work with being a vigilante? Notice you didn't say hero, by the way."

"Well he's not exactly a hero. He's picky about the hits he takes; less picky about what information or goods he steals for buyers. He uses lethal force on the people he thinks deserve it, but he's also pretty picky about who those people are unless it's self defense and they pose a real threat. He's a decent guy, despite his methods, and he does good work. Being a mercenary keeps him in more than enough money to keep outfitted."

"And his skills? How much of that was show?"

My clone sighs. "None of it. Jason's as good as he says he is, better than me in everything but ranged and probably better than you too. He's had some seriously talented teachers, and some pretty nasty ones, but if you don't start a fight he won't turn on you. He's trustworthy, and he'll watch your back if you do the same for him. You'll get a handle on his basic skills within a few minutes; he doesn't hold back much, and he's definitely not going to slow down any for you. He's not going to leave you behind, but he's also going to flat out say it if he thinks you're holding him back."

"What kind of teachers?"

"The League of Assassins, to start with. Look, just be careful alright? Not of him, but just in general."

I push out of the stairwell door, into the downstairs lobby. "Yeah, sure."

June 23rd, 19:05.

I tap my metal fingers against my knee, taking another glance around the empty rooftop. The address Jason gave me was an apartment building, fifteen stories, in a fairly residential neighborhood. There are a few large hotels nearby, but they're closer to the edge of the obviously residential section and are probably better labeled as part of the skyscraper-laden business sector that starts nearly immediately at the edge of the homes. I can see where it transfers from here — about fifteen to seventeen blocks ahead of where I'm standing — but I'm too far away to hear the rush of the city, even though I can see it. It's only a little past seven, and that's practically prime time in anywhere with a real nightlife. The hotels, at the least, are still doing lots of business.

My back is pressed to the wall of the apartment's concrete stairwell that lets out up here. How else would people come up to smoke? And they definitely do. There are at least a couple dozen cigarette butts scattered across the gravel-strewn rooftop, and that's just what I can see without actually looking for them.

It's officially half an hour past when Jason said to meet him here, and that irritates me a bit. The Clone said he was trustworthy, and to me that means he probably isn't enough of a dick to give me a random address. Or give me the right one and then just never show up. Even if this doesn't feel like the right building.

It's not a terrible apartment building, but it's not a great one either. Most crime bosses — and that is what Jason said he was after — live in nicer places than this, and Jason said work anyway. Getting sent to a random residential building makes me feel like this is some kind of trick. But he also said the target was more well guarded than he expected, and I doubt he'd send me to the rooftop of the actual building that we were raiding. That seems like a pretty rookie mistake for someone my clone respects as much as he does. In fact, meeting on a rooftop at all probably means he wouldn't give me a place to meet that's anywhere near the actual target.

Can't risk getting spotted, and I doubt that he would have bothered asking for backup if the roof wasn't even guarded.

"Hey."

I whirl, grabbing the gun from the sheath on my left thigh and spinning to point it up at the location of the voice. I catch a flash of movement, shadowed red and brown, before the gun's knocked out of my hand by a kick. There's a moment of pause, just long enough to recognize the flash of movement as a person, crouched at the top of the stairwell, before they're leaping over me, hands bracing on my shoulders for balance in the flip. I turn to follow, whirling with my metal arm outstretched.

The person ducks under with ease, and then transfers weight forward and slams into my low chest. I hit the wall hard, and hands find my right shoulder and left elbow and press in. The relative lack of strength in the pin, unlike the hard blow of his weight to my chest, keys off my instincts.

Keeps me from retaliating long enough for him to say, "Easy, it's just me, Original."

Jason.

He's got a dark red helmet on — that has to be what's causing the voice modulation and what stopped me from immediately recognizing him — and a light brown leather jacket. There's dark armor beneath it, black, that ends halfway up his throat. Black gloves with visible metal sewn in over the knuckles, black combat boots, a sheathed knife on his right thigh and a holstered gun on his left. Undoubtedly more weaponry beneath his jacket, and stored in the dark grey cargo pants.

I raise my metal arm, shoving him away by the center of his chest. It's not hard, and he doesn't fight it. "You're late," I point out, with irritation.

"I said 'about' two hours," he counters, and his right hand flicks out to point about ten feet to my left. "Gun's over there." I confirm that the dark shape on the rooftop is my gun with a glance, then head over to pick it up. "I was scouting ahead. No offense, but I don't know much about your ability to do stealth jobs. The goal here is not to get the police called, or the League."

"You got enemies on the League?" I ask, as I holster my gun and turn back to him.

"Not exactly. Just people I'd rather not run into; they don't tend to appreciate my kind of methods and I'm not looking for a fight I might not win or escape from." He waits for me to walk up to him — probably studying my choice of weaponry; I didn't bring my bigger pieces this time — before turning and tilting his head sideways. "See the biggest hotel, and the skyscraper next to it? The thirty-three story one to the right?"

"I see it."

"Target's in there, on the thirty-second floor. Only elevator in requires a passcode and retinal identification; stair exit only opens from the inside of the floor. Windows are too tough for anything that wouldn't get way too much attention. Roof's guarded, just three guards but they keep the angles of approach covered. Stairs and elevator are also guarded, and if we're spotted, and they get off a warning, I'm almost positive he'll escape too quickly for us to follow him without attracting major attention." I think he's looking at me, reading my reaction to the security measures, but with that helmet on I can't tell for sure.

"Three options," he continues. "Try for a rooftop entrance; see if we can take down all three guards before they get off a warning and go in through the stairwell. Blow the door to the floor, fight through the guards inside — my intel says twenty, give or take — and take him down. Two; go in through the floor level, hope we get lucky and can grab someone with a passcode and an accepted retinal scan to get us in. Three; shoot out a window in a lower level, blow a hole in the ceiling, and get into the floor that way. That takes the gamble that the floor hasn't been modified to withstand explosions, which it probably has. Might work anyway."

There's a moment of silence, and I raise an eyebrow. "Are you waiting for my opinion?" I ask, dryly. "Thought I was just here to try and keep up."

He gives a sharp laugh. "Fair enough. You good enough with a sniper rifle to take out at least two of the roof guards, before they've got time to take cover, if we're on a neighboring, higher building?"

"Yeah, absolutely. Depending on the grouping, and how much they're moving, I might be able to do all three. Have you got a sniper rifle?" I've got one, but it's big and I opted not to bring the larger things that might hamper my movement. The way my clone talked about Jason, I got the impression that he valued speed more than brute force. Rocket launchers and sniper rifles make movement a little harder, and they weigh me down.

"Course I do," he answers with a snort. "Already set up. Just needed to know if you thought you could do it. Route's designed to keep us out of their eyesight, all you've gotta do is follow my steps, Arsenal."

"I thought you were picky about who you killed; I didn't think that random guards qualified." I've killed before — aliens, to be fair, and they were definitely trying to kill me too — but killing without a good reason, from the dark like this? He might be an assassin, but I'm not. I don't totally like the idea of killing two guards before they even know what's happening.

He pauses, and I swear I read appraisal off of him, even though all he actually does is tilt his head a bit. "Yeah, that's right. This crime boss' guards are all veterans of the business; years and years of experience and about the nastiest you can get without hiring private security. If they're his personal guards, which is all we'll run into, then it's guaranteed they've murdered dozens of people. Probably tortured too, along with whatever else their business deals needed done. These aren't just normal thugs or hired goons. They're killers."

He shrugs, head turning as he — I think — glances towards the building. "Good job for them. Hell of a pay raise, and all they've gotta do is defend one person. I do my research, Arsenal. Whatever else I lie about, I don't joke around about killing. You can call Red Arrow if you want to confirm my morals, but I guarantee every guard in there deserves it."

I consider him for a second, then dip my head in a nod. "Lead the way, Red Hood. Wouldn't want to risk waking his kid up." I smirk. "Not that your guarantee means much, not from a guy who thinks a helmet is a hood."

He snorts again, stepping back and settling into an easy lope of movement. I match it, moving just a little faster to keep up with his longer stride. "You looked me up, didn't you? I'm just using the name, I didn't make it up."

He pulls a grapnel from within his jacket, and I prep the one built into my metal arm. I have to raise my voice a bit to compensate for the rush of air as he leaps across the gap between our building and the next, and ducks into a roll. "Yeah, it was a Gotham villain, wasn't it? Interesting choice."

"A bunch of them. Kind of a catch all for anyone who just wanted a bit of extra fame and a mask to hide behind. Throw on a red ski mask and you could call yourself the Red Hood, lots of thugs did." He glances back briefly. "Let's call the choice a message I haven't gotten around to delivering yet."

I follow him around the side of a building on a swing of cable, down onto the roof of a house and then down into a gap between the fences of two houses. "Clone said you had powerful enemies. Trained with the League of Assassins?"

He vaults over one of the fences, I follow, and he answers as we cross the backyard of the home. "The two aren't connected, luckily. Yeah, I did some training with Ra's al Ghul and his lackeys. That's where I met Cheshire." Another fence, and then sideways across an unlit street and up to the top of another apartment building. He moves like he's been doing this his whole life, like the art of rooftop runs is second nature to him and totally automatic. "And yeah, I've got enemies. Happens when you make a living off of killing crime bosses. The people I actually worry about don't have me on their radar yet; I try and keep it that way."

He picks up the pace a little, obviously testing how well I keep up, and I drop the questions to focus on his patterns. Good flexibility, really good control over his own body, and some decent power to back it up. Now that he's out of the baggy sweatshirt, I can tell he's got a fair amount of muscle. Hard to tell specifics, with the armor and jacket in the way, but the width of his shoulders and his chest implies enough. He must have been doing this a while if he's this good, and this good means he started pretty young. That, or he's got a hell of a lot of natural talent. Maybe both, honestly.

He doesn't really feel like an assassin, and it's hard to imagine that any of the League of Assassin's minions would ever turn and become an anti-hero vigilante. That makes me think he apprenticed under someone with a pretty impressive name. Why else would Ra's al Ghul ever agree to train someone that wasn't going to work for him? Had to be a favor, or some kind of a deal.

So who did he used to work for? Or does he still work for someone, and this just happens to be in line with whatever they want?

I doubt I'm going to get those answers out of him.

Finally we get to the top of the skyscraper across from the target's building, and Jason motions for me to keep low. I follow his crouched movement up to the ledge, and the assembled rifle carefully tucked beneath it. I glance down at the rooftop, as he snags another device that I recognize as a more heavy duty grapnel and checks it.

"So are you from Gotham then?" I ask, only slightly out of breath from the run. I check the rifle as he checks his device.

"Oh, getting personal are we? Point out the one you're least likely to be able to take down." I scan the three of them through the rifle's scope, and then flick my hand towards the left-most one. He's partially behind an electrical box from this angle. "Great, I'll deal with him. Follow the line across when you've taken your shots. The cameras are disabled for now, but there's no telling how long it'll take for them to notice the loop. We'll get warned if the system is rebooting; still best to move fast."

"You usually snap orders off like that?" I set up the first shot as he gives a snort.

"Thought you were just here to try and keep up? Might not be much of a team player, but I know how to lead one if I need to. Ready?" He turns as he speaks, firing one end of the cable into our roof and then flipping the device in his hands.

I finish setting up my shot, breathing out as I still my hands and ease myself down to the almost zen like space my best shots come from. "Ready," I breathe, my crosshairs hovering over the skull of the guard to the right.

"Three. Two. One." I can hear him shift to standing, and then the distinctive sound as he fires the other side of the cable. "Go!"

I take my first shot, and immediately swing to the second target, breathe out for a fraction of a second, and squeeze the trigger a second time. When I turn to the third target he's staggering backwards, clutching at a wound in his throat that looks like it was made from something very sharp. I take half a second to make sure my two shots hit — they did — before setting the rifle down behind the ledge and rolling to get up and leap off the building after Jason. I hook my metal arm over the cable, letting it grate and spark as my weight pulls me down along the line.

He's moving towards his guard as I roll to dispel the momentum of the fall, and I miss the moment he finishes things. When I straighten back up he's doing the same, sheathing his knife again. The guard is still, and clearly dead.

Jason heads for the stairwell exit, flashing an identification card on a lanyard at me, clearly pulled from the guard he killed. I follow him, edging up next to him as he swipes the card across an access panel. It blinks green, and he turns the handle to it and pulls it open. Only enough to slip in, but he's thicker than me so the gap is an easy one for me to take advantage of. I make sure the door closes quietly, as he leans over the edge of the stairwell to look down.

"No one guarding the door below us," he says quietly, drawing back. "I'll set the explosive. Stay on the twenty-third stairwell, but be ready to move." He doesn't wait for my acknowledgement, hooking one hand on the railing and vaulting over, dropping down.

I take the easier way, moving down the stairs. He's heading back up when I still in front of the door for the twenty-third floor, and he motions me down a bit further. I meet him halfway, and draw my gun into my left hand. My right arm doesn't really need a weapon to be deadly; I just have to not hold back as much. He's holding a detonator in his left hand, and he draws the sheathed knife into his right. He glances at me for just a moment, then hits the button.

He's moving before it even fully goes off. I wince at the bang, but instinct has me following him. It's barely two seconds before he's vaulting over the ruin of the door and rushing into the floor. I stay at his back, catching targets with a first sweep and raising my gun in the next moment. I start at the opposite direction that he runs, squeezing off shots as I move to cover. The guards haven't recovered yet, and I take full advantage of that. When I glance to the side, to make sure Jason doesn't need help, my gaze gets caught for a moment.

His combat style is extremely close, smooth, and efficient. I can recognize some of it from what I've seen Cheshire do — she was one of the few people that would spar with me without treating me like glass or a live bomb after I came back — so that's gotta be the League of Assassins stuff. But the rest… There's something about the parts that fill the in between, about the flair of it, that feels really familiar. I don't have the time to place it before I have to turn back to my own targets, but I file it away in my head to think about when I've got spare attention.

It's not long before we've cleared the initial rush, and Jason is heading deeper into the floor, clearly assuming that I'm going to follow. He's not wrong. He moves in an easy slide of motion, fast paced but nearly silent on bent knees. I try and stay about as quiet as him, but he's clearly got some kind of severe stealth training that I don't. He sweeps rooms efficiently, and I glance in behind him just to make sure he hasn't missed anyone. We go through another, much smaller group of guards without much trouble, and then it clicks in my head.

As he runs and launches off a wall, into a roll that ends in the last guard getting gutted and then ended with a second blow up through the throat, I place where I've seen that particular flair he has in his movements.

"Bats," I blurt, before thinking about it.

His head whips around, expression hidden by that helmet. "You just feel like saying random words or what?" he asks, sharply.

He's moving before I get my answer together, continuing the sweep of the floor. I follow, stepping around the guards. "You move like one of the Bats," I press.

He snorts. "Yeah, no I don't. They don't kill, remember?" We're reaching the end of the floor.

"Changing a move's end to be lethal doesn't change the move," I point out. "You move like Nightwing does, I can see it. It's a pretty distinctive kind of efficient flair, Red. Batman doesn't move like that, but Nightwing, Robin, and Batgirl do. So do you."

"Fine, Original, sure I do." He checks the second to last room, then moves towards the very last one — firmly closed — with new purpose and a shake of his head. "So now that you've invented this connection, what's your point? I learned from a lot of people, most of them the best in their fields. Maybe I learned from some of the same people the Bats did."

He tests the knob — locked — and then steps back to kick it down. It goes easier than I thought it would. What has to be the target is partially behind a large desk, gun up and pointed at the two of us.

"I can pay you!" he shouts, as Jason steps inside and I lean to one side of the doorway to watch. "Anything you want! Double whatever they're paying you. Triple!"

Jason's knife flicks out, propelled by a practiced twist of his wrist. The crime boss cries out, clutching at his arm where the blade's stuck. His fingers spasm around the gun but fall away before they can pull the trigger. "Sorry," Jason says flatly, raising his own gun. "Money's just a nice bonus." The bang of the gunshot cuts off the fear, the boss collapsing off the desk and to the floor. Jason heads forward and around it, yanking his knife out of the body and wiping it off, briefly, before tucking it away.

I watch him store his weapons, and follow the lead to holster my own gun. "Yeah, maybe you did," I concede, picking our conversation back up. "But you said that you had people in the League that you didn't want to run into, not that you didn't want to run into the League. You're avoiding someone specific." Jason heads back around the desk, towards me. "Plus," I continue, "you picked up a name from Gotham, a name that was associated with criminals, to be a mercenary and vigilante. Said it was a message you hadn't delivered yet. Sounds like you're avoiding Batman to me, and if you're a sidekick of his that went rogue it would explain why you could get training from the League of Assassins without Ra's al Ghul killing you for leaving."

He pauses, at the other side of the doorway and clearly watching me. He doesn't look like he's going to pull a weapon on me, so I don't bother reaching for any of mine. I've got my arm anyway, I don't need anything more obvious.

"Should I be calling you Robin?"

He makes a small noise that sounds impressed, then tilts his head through the door. "You come back with me to one of my safe houses, I'll give you answers. Sound like a deal?"

"You trust me in your safe house?" I ask, as he slips through the gap I've left. I push off the doorframe and follow, a step behind and to his left.

"Haven't decided yet," he answers easily, "but if I decide I don't, all I have to do is move. I don't stay anywhere too long anyway, and it's just one of my bolt holes. Deal, Arsenal?"

I don't even have to really think about my answer.

"Deal."