The apartment was completely flooded with light, showing the early morning without a clock. Jason squinted and grunted groggily, lifting his head off the couch. His arm was still flung over the back cushions where Barbara's head wasn't anymore. A voice somewhere in his head was whispering that Barbara must've gone to work, but it took a few seconds to register. Scents of warm food wafted through the living room, and despite his exhaustion, Jason dragged himself off the couch in search of its source.

The wood floor was cold against his feet, and the morning air crisp against his bare torso. As he neared the kitchen, the smell of eggs and bacon grew stronger in his lungs. He saw the pan and the spatula, casually laying on the stove. They were still warm, indicating that either Barbara had been late to work, or it was far too early for Jason to be awake.

He noticed a small scribbled note on the counter, and picked it up to investigate it as he attempted to rub the sleep from his eyes.

Jay –

I made breakfast this morning, and in the hopes that you weren't as dead as you seemed, I saved you some. If, by some act of God, you are notin fact dead, then I saved you a plate. It's in the microwave. And, if you're alive and well and reading this, I'll be home tonight, with dinner. If you're not here I'm eating yours.

Babs

A small smile formed on his lips, growing as he reached for the microwave and pulled out a plate stuffed with not only bacon and eggs, but also hashed browns and sausage links. Sending a brief prayer towards whatever was watching over him to bless him with a roommate like Barbara, he stuffed an entire strip of bacon into his mouth and walked towards the living room once more to watch the morning news. He was glad she left him so much food, because he'd told her that he started work today, and he fully intended to.

*********LINE BREAKER**********

Weights clinked together loudly, moving quickly up and down through the air, accompanied by the sounds of heavy breathing and loud rock music, as well as the occasional counting. Jason heavily placed the barbell on the rack and sat up, wiping the sweat from his brow. His laptop dinged at him, drawing his attention away from the weights and towards the glowing screen.

Convenient, really. He needed a drink of water.

As he chugged what seemed like the greatest gulp of water of his entire life, he read the pop up on his computer. After various background checks and cross references (as well as some incredible insight from Jerry), he finally found his suspect.

Luis Ramos. Mid-level gang member. Jason had worked his way up the chain of scum bags until he found Luis. His men were selling drugs to children, and selling military grade weapons to drug lords. The last thing Gotham needed was more drug lords with machine guns running around killing innocent people. Luis was most likely not the root of the problem, but Jason was determined to ride this scum bag train all the way to the top, and Luis was – at the very least – in charge of this particular wave of crime.

Or so his computer told him.

Water bottle now empty, Jason dialed a number on his phone and fell to the floor. Long beeps rang out through the speaker, signaling that it was ringing while he did his push-ups.

"Hello?" answered a gruff, groggy voice.

Jason pushed himself up, forcing a breath out of his lungs. "Hey, Donny. Guess who," he said, clenching his teeth. His pushups were fast paced, and his breathing was labored while he struggled to control it.

The man on the other end of the line sighed. "What do you need, Red?" His voice was pushing forth energy that it didn't have. Donny must just be getting out of bed. But he'd learned long ago that his discomfort was better than ignoring the call of the Red Hood. His missing fingers could attest to that.

"I need some information, Donny. Some real easy information to get." Sweat dripped off his brows once again, pooling on the floor beneath his moving body.

He could hear Donny laughing through the phone. It was easy to just imagine that Donny was laying in bed, rubbing his eyes with a sleepy smile on his face. "If it's so easy why don't you do it yourself?" The phone crackled a bit, as if he was trying to get dressed. It was noon after all, Donny should most definitely be awake for the day.

"Don't get all snippy on me, Donny," Jason said. His arms were shaking now, as was his voice. "I have you to find these things out for me."

Donny snorted, paused a moment, and then sighed again. Despite the Red Hood's anger and violent tendencies, Donny and the vigilante had formed a successful relationship over the years. When they'd met, Donny owed a lot of money to a lot of people that you don't want to owe money to. "Don't I know it," he said. "What do you need, boss?"

Jason collapsed on the floor, next to his phone. He had lost count of his labor somewhere around 70, and decided he needed a break before he started all over again. "There's a guy named Luis Ramos. You know of him?"

"Yeah," Donny said. "Not really dangerous enough to be your type though, or so I thought." Jason could hear him clicking away at a keyboard, searching for whatever information that the Red Hood needed of him. "Do you want to know who's at his weekly book club?"

A small smile crept onto Jason's face. "Not this time," he said. "I need to know where he's going to be tonight."

"Okay, give me a second."

More typing could be heard through the other end of the phone, and a moment passed while Donny searched through his files and information. While he waited, Jason began his push-ups again. A beam of sunlight coming in from the window seemed to bear down on his bare back, heating him up faster than he would've liked. While in reality, he was only waiting for a brief moment, it felt like a whole separate eternity.

There was finally a pause in the click before a sigh of relief. "I almost had nothing for you," Donny said. Jason could hear the panic leaving his body through his voice. "So I don't know where Luis is going to be tonight," Jason grit his teeth in frustration. "But I know that a gang is supposed to receive a huge shipment of weapons at 5:30 from Luis' partner." More tapping, before a loud click, probably from a laptop closing. "It's a safe bet that is Luis isn't there, someone will."

Jason smiled through his pushups, taking yet another break and picking the phone up. "Great. I'll be by in about an hour to get the details. Meet me at our usual place."

Without waiting for a goodbye from Donny, he hung up the phone. He had an hour to shower, eat, and get to the alley. His workout was going to have to be cut short, but something told him he'd make up for it later.

**********LINE BREAKER!**********

Jason stood on a rooftop, completely in awe. Not only had this been exactly what he was looking for, it was more than that. Dozens of men walked into this building, Latino gang members and Italian gang members. But then there was a handful – maybe four or five – Russians, and with them they brought a huge crate. With infrared he could see that there were either multiple heat signatures huddles together, or one huge, lumpy warm mass within this crate.

Regardless, Jason was excessively outnumbered.

Briefly, he contemplated calling for help. Batman would be the smartest move, being that he's closer and has fought these odds on multiple occasions before. But if Jason only wanted moderately wounded pride, he would call Roy, who helped Jason out of far worse jams than the one he was currently in.

But, Jason chose to keep his pride – and his life – in tact. This would be simple recon, gaining intelligence before calling in the necessary recruitments.

Which, he guess, if he needed to, he would consider calling Bruce in for help.

But he shouldn't need help. Not against some low life scum bags with machine guns.

Once everyone appeared to be inside, he made his way over to the vent system and climbed in. He'd gotten here early, to map out the ventilation system. Always know your way out, that's what Bruce always said. The best view of the main room in the warehouse (the only one big enough for that crate) was two rights from where the drop landed. If he moved quickly, he'd get to hear all the fun stuff.

Because either they needed a lot of weapons, or there was something else in that crate. Jason's money was on the latter.

He had already removed the grating from the vent, so that nothing would be impeding his vision. As well as hidden mics around the entire room. Whatever happened down there, Jason would be prepared for it.

Down below him, each group was together, gathered in a circle. Every member was facing themselves, toward the center of this strange, three-part circle that they've formed. Based on appearance and demeanor, Jason could tell which group was which. The Italians – likely the Briscolinos, who Donny had warned him about – were toward the west wall, huddled together closely and defensive toward the outside. The Latinos – the Ramos' – were toward the east wall, in similar stance, obviously ready to pounce. In fact, the only relaxed group here seemed to be the Russians, who were unidentified but, best guess, they were with the Ramos'.

"As you can see, they still need some work." The voice was Russian, but Jason couldn't make out which Russian was speaking. Most likely the one toward the front of the group, closest with Luis' partner. "But the progress we've made is remarkable and undeniable. Soon, they will be the ultimate machines."

A couple of men looked back and forth amongst each other, but no one said anything. A long pause was all that came through Jason's mic, and for a moment he wondered whether it might be broken.

But then the Luis' partner spoke up. "Right now, they aren't on the table, just the regular weapons as usual." The man's voice wasn't heavily tainted by his accent. It could only be heard when he spoke certain syllables, suggesting that Spanish was his second language rather than his first. "But our projections have this particular group of subject ready within the month."

The leader of the Briscolinos seemed to be irritated by this news. "We were told it'd be ready today, Rolo," his voice was venomous, biting with anger. "How much more time and patience do you expect from him?"

Rolo put his hands up in defense. "Easy there, pal." He took a step back to signify he was not prepared to fight. "We have a bit more training to do. A couple adjustments to the serum to try out."

One of the Russian leaders stepped forward and Jason could see his mouth open to speak, but rather than hearing his voice, he heard a loud, obnoxious tune. It rang and echoed throughout the warehouse, bouncing off the rafters and through the vent in which Jason was concealed. For a few agonizing moments, Jason squinted his eyes shut and prayed they wouldn't be able to pinpoint the location of the tune.

"I thought you said this warehouse was empty!" Cried the Briscolino leader. He and his men were scrambling, gathering their weapons and preparing to fight or leave. The Russians had already begun pushing the crate toward the door.

Whatever was in it, Jason knew he didn't want them to have it.

Sighing and realizing that he had no choice but to take them on before they escaped, he pulled one gun free from its holster and leapt down below. As he fell, his free hand reached up to turn off the ringing of his Bluetooth before he grabbed the other gun and began open fire towards his opponents. Before he'd even hit the ground, four thugs had fallen to the floor, dead or close to it.

"Hello? Jay?"

Fuck.

He continued shooting, not having the time to pause his assault. If he relented his attacks even for a second, he'd be over run. "Hey, Barbie, what's up?" His voice could almost pull off a casual tone, but not quite. It mostly sounded anxious and preoccupied.

During the brief pause between her response, he fired off six bullets. Bodies were dropping left and right. Among the dozens of thugs and gangsters, about half were running and the other half were attacking. The Russians had escaped, and it didn't look possible for Jason to go after them with all the angry men between him and the disappearing crate. He was crouched behind a large box which absorbed the bullets aimed at him.

"It's so loud," she said. He hadn't thought about the fact that she might be able to hear the gunshots. "Where are you?"

His mind scrambled, searching for an excuse. "Ummm," he said. "I'm at work. Target practice." His excuse was faulty and he knew it. While he spoke, he jumped up from behind the crate and fired at two more goons, not stopping to watch their bodies hit the ground before he ducked for cover once more. "I'm kinda busy, what do you need?"

"Lucky," she said. He could hear some banging and creaking of wheels. "I'm at work and it's not exciting at all."

Her words were drowned out as Jason flung his body over the crate, running towards the remaining – maybe seven – goons. His guns were blazing and with every step another body fell. "I wish I was having less excitement," he said through gritted teeth. "My supervisor is giving me the look, Babs, I gotta go."

A lucky bullet found its way into Jason's bicep. It went completely through his leather jacket and the light armor there, through his flesh, and out the other side.

"Ah! Son of a bitch!" he cried. It was a fierce burning sensation throughout his entire right side, even the small movement his fingers made to pull the trigger of his gun sent jolts of pain all the way through him. It was difficult to figure out which thug exactly got lucky, so he'd just have to kill them all.

"What?!" Barbara shouted, panic suddenly flooding her voice. "Are you okay? What happened?"

Fuck. "I'm falling behind, I really gotta go." Again, his excuse was extremely flimsy. But talking to Barbara about her work struggles was not number one on his priority list right now.

He heard her take a breath of relief. "Good, I thought you got shot or something." She was laughing, and he forced a tense sounding laugh as well. "Well, before you go, I'm grabbing some takeout on my way home. Did you want anything?"

Jason rolled his eyes. Something trivial like this compromised his position and caused him to lose sight of what he came here for. But Barbara didn't know. It's not like he could yell at her for causing him to lose a bunch of weapons, or drugs, or something. Finally, the last goon had fallen, a large splatter of blood and brain matter on the ground behind him. He was successfully the victor of this fight.

He holstered his weapons and took off his jacket, trying to get a better look at the wound on his arm. "Depends where you're going, I guess."

The armor around the wound was torn and frayed, not clean cut. Blood was eagerly seeping out of the open skin, soaking into his costume and filling his nostrils with the smell of death. He was a bit taken aback by the amount of blood he was losing, but he still wagered it was nothing more than a flesh wound. If he could make it back to his vigilante apartment without passing out, he'd be just fine.

"I was kinda craving tacos, or pasta. Dealer's choice really," she mused absentmindedly. He wondered how she'd react if she discovered that her long-time friend, new roommate was an undead vigilante, and that she was actually on the phone with him while he got shot.

Probably not well.

He felt his head starting to feel fuzzy, and he knew his time was limited. His apartment that housed the medical supplies he needed was 20 minutes away. If that's how long it took him to pass out, he'd be genuinely surprised. "Yeah, I could go for some fajitas or something." He put his jacket back on and grappled up into the vent through which he'd entered the warehouse. "It's your city, Babs. I'll eat what you get me."

The other line was silent for a moment, and Jason wondered briefly if she was mentally deconstructing all his excuses. "Alright. I'll bring home some tacos and other various Mexican foods."

Despite the pain and the bloodloss and the frustration at having lost the crate, he actually laughed. "Okay, Babs. I'll be home in an hour or two, okay?"

He could hear her smile. "Okay, stay safe. See you at home." And the line went dead.

Back on the roof now, he looked around on the off chance he'd see the Russians. It couldn't be easy to hide a crate that big, or whatever machines-in-training it housed. Odds were that it was in a warehouse somewhere around here. But Jason hadn't bothered to look to see where everyone had come from, and he didn't have time right now for a wild goose chase.

Grunting in both pain and frustration, he took off towards his safe house. You don't train machines. Maybe they were some kind of animals? That would explain the heat signatures. But what sort of animals could you keep – or use – in a huge city like Gotham? Joker had made reasonable use of his hyenas, but no one else was crazy enough to tame a hyena, let alone several. Hyenas were loud, after all. And whatever was in the crate was almost completely silent.

There were too many questions left in his mind, and he sensed he was running out of time to get the answers.