AN: Oh, the electricity mooks, with the sticks. MOTHERFUCKER, did they give me grief. We're not gonna talk about that.

She got me killed.

YOU SHUT YOUR MOUTH.

It hurt.

I have weak hands.

Yeah, well, I was the one dying on a dirty warehouse floor, so.

I said sorry.

I remember you shouting that the game was a fucking-

SHHHHH.

McStaken-They never learn. Well. Some of 'em learn. Most of 'em just get cocky. Sucks to be them. Free therapy for me, though! That's not healthy. I don't have ears on my head. It's fine. Fair enough.

AndAnotherOneBitesTheDust-There's two types'a people here: fuckin' morons, and smart ones that go supervillain. That's it. And it's not my fault they're blind. I don't have a cape, what more do they want? A neon sign? That's ridiculous.

Okay, this looks bad.

It could look worse-anyone up for hearing his tragic life's story?-but yeah, it looks bad. And it hurts. Not like this is his first time lying on his back on a dumpster, but still. Doesn't help that there's a banana peel sticking to his helmet. He peels it off and scrubs half-heartedly for a minute before letting his arm fall back to its trash bag cradle.

He blames the Joker, because the Joker apparently gave him a thing about sticks with burn-y things on the end (who'd have thought?) and his default reaction to what turned out to be a cattle prod was SHIT BACK UP. He hadn't backed up quite fast enough, and he'd ended up with electricity to the stomach and a nasty fall off the roof. Dumpsters, it turns out, are not soft landing places.

He groans and hauls himself upright. Nothing feels broken-but fuck is he gonna be stiff tomorrow-but the asshole with the cattle prod is going down. The hell, man? Uncalled for.

Hopefully this one lucky hit isn't gonna encourage the rest of 'em to get prods…that came out wrong. Or did it? His head's rattled. This helmet is a double-edged sword. Great protection from explosions and things, hurts to smack against.

Owww.

He climbs out of the dumpster, brushing old coffee grounds and he-doesn't-wanna-know off his clothes, and vows that if his gun jams from this little side trip, somebody is going to apologize. Profusely. And he might take up taxidermy, as a warning: 'Ye Who Ruin Red Hood's Guns Beware'. Maybe strap the guy to a stop sign…no, no, Bruce would freak out and he's been so good at avoiding him lately.

Okay. His vision's good, nothing feels like it will shatter or impale an organ or anything awful upon movement, and no way they've gotten far. He grapples back up and spots a little cluster booking it not far off. Bingo. He'll just…intercept them. Show them the error of their ways. Shove that cattle prod where the sun don't shine, maybe.

He's never been enamored with rooftop jumping, not like Dick is, but that doesn't mean he won't do it. Makes for impressive entrances. Makes it easy to scare the shit out of people, too.

Like now. He drops down in front of them and points a gun at the cattle prod-wielding asshole.

"I'll get to you in a minute."

"Oh, shit-"

"Told you not to do it, man! I fucking told you!"

The other one is ready to turn traitor and abandon his friend to his fate. Smart kid. Just makes grappling his ankle and faceplanting him that much funnier.

"What was that for?" he demands, reeling in the would-be traitor like the world's most awkward fish. "How old are you brats, anyway?"

He's not expecting an answer, and he doesn't get one. He gets refusal to make eye contact (or somethin' close to it, with the helmet) and a frantic, "I'm sorry I'm sorry please don't kill me-"

Christ. He's bettin'…his age? Maybe? Idiots.

He wishes the mask didn't impede his ability to rub the bridge of his nose. Oh, the price one pays…

"What were you thinking?" he asks, jerking on the line still attached to the would-be traitor's ankle. He's tempted to dislocate it, take the line back, but he restrains himself. For now.

Cattle prod-wielding asshole tries to pull his head away and Jason cocks the gun.

"Just doin' a job, man, I swear, it's nothin' personal!"

"You sure? 'Cuz it seemed pretty personal to me." He gives the line another jerk. "Who hired you?" No answer. You know what, enough. He's sick of this, he wants fucking answers, yesterday.

He presses the gun against the kid's chin, feeling a little bit guilty (at least until he remembers the jolting pain of electricity) and hisses, "Answers. Now. Or I paint the alley with your goddamn brain matter."

"Black Mask! Black Mask, he said he'd give us fiddy grand if we took you out please don't kill mee-"

Fifty thousand? That's it? Cheapass. He's worth a hundred, easy. Oh, well…hire amateurs, job doesn't get done.

"And where is he now?"

"I dunno, man, we were on Skype! I swear!"

The runner is trying surreptitiously to undo the line and y'know what, Jason's just done. He's been zapped, fallen off a roof, had his life deemed worth a measly fifty grand…this is not his day.

He gives it a quick, hard, jerk and hears the joint pop. A second later, there's screaming. The other one backs against the wall, rambling again.

"When did you talk last?"

"Like half an hour ago!"

"Where."

"Coffee shop, two blocks over, the crappy one that has cobwebs I'm sorry-"

"I believe ya." He clicks the safety back on and lowers the gun. "I'm nice like that. Which is why you're gonna tell your boss that Red Hood says hi."

"Thank you I swear I'll never do this again I swear-"

Jason refuses to feel bad for clocking him in the head with the butt of the gun.

He's not outwardly injured, so he actually uses the door to his apartment. This…may not have been the best idea.

He's just getting his key into the lock when the door across the hall creaks ominously.

"Bit late, isn't it?"

He fixes his best 'I am the picture of health' smile on and turns around. "Hey, Mz. Melinda May."

He can barely see her between the darkness of the hall and her apartment-just eyes. It's…creepy.

The eyes narrow and a crooked, witchy finger pokes out of the crack in the door.

"You unharmed?"

"Ah, a couple of bruises." It's not a complete lie-that's suicide. "I'm fine."

The finger jabs at him.

"I expect you to eat a vegetable today." she rasps. "Without ranch on it. That clear?"

He nods-ow-and scrambles for his doorknob.

"I will."

And just like that, she retreats, door shutting with a soft click. Jason lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding and ducks inside before she can come back.

Once the door's locked up and the alarm reset, he slumps against it and sighs. Ow. It's been a long day, man, a long fuckin' day. Night. Whatever.

He plops his helmet on the table-he'll scrub it up in a bit-and clicks on the light.

"Hello, apartment."

The day the apartment says hi back is the day he goes back to Arkham and says, 'please, check me in'. That is not this day, however, and he shuffles towards the bathroom, shedding weapons on the way.

Now for the fun part-body armor removal. Getting it on's not so bad, but getting it off…oh, well. It's either bitch about the removal or die. Dying's never been appealing.

Well. Lately. He'll admit to wishing for it in Arkham. But that's different.

He shakes his head before the laughing can start and turns on the overly-bright bathroom light. Ahh. Sterile white with a touch of calming blue.

Okay. He can do this, maybe this time without losing his balance and falling into the shower and pissing off every neighbor he has.

(That had been…awkward.)

He is…mostly successful. He does teeter a bit trying to go the lazy route and skip a couple'a straps, but he manages to redirect to his fall against the sink rather than into the shower. He counts that as a win.

Ow. The prod didn't leave a mark, but his crash into the dumpster did-there's a neat pattern of blossoming bruises climbing up his back and curving gently around his ribcage and arms. That's gonna be black in the morning, he can just tell.

He's tempted to go find the assholes and pay this back in full, he really is.

Well, at least he doesn't appear to be in any immediate danger of bleeding out or otherwise suffering some horrendous and sudden death. It's the little things, y'know…wow, that might be an imprint of his spine. Cool. Ow, but cool.

He drops his gear in a pile on the tiles-he'll get to it in a minute-and does some more twisting to see what all he'll have to avoid knocking against counter edges. Uh…everything. Literally everything. Maybe he'll invest in a suit of bubble wrap…no, no, his self-control is dismal. He'd pop it all before getting out the door.

Damn.

On the bright side, the only thing that really doesn't wanna come off his armor is the obscene amount of coffee grounds. They've gotten into every tiny little crevice they can find and by the time he gets them all out, his fingers feel stained.

Black Mask…he's surprised the asshole hasn't sent swarms of people after him. That's more his style, to release a never-ending stream of people to wear him down and then show up to finish him off himself. This is…weird. Almost subtle.

Heh. He's probably too scared to take risks.

Well, he should've taken them anyway. All he's done now is picked a fight he can't win. Y'know, Jason's always wondered if his face is really…er…stuck like that. Now's as good a time as any to find out.