Here's some action for you guys, finally, and hopefully my creative juices will decide to stick around to write the next chapter sooner rather than later. Enjoy!

Jason

When Jason was a boy he had never dared open up to anyone, never dared give anyone access to the soft and sensitive parts of him, because he knew that it would only lead to more pain in the end. So, a few months after he moved into the manor with Bruce and Alfred, he surprised even himself when the words began to tumble out of his mouth.

He was sitting on the counter in the laundry room, swinging his legs back and forth as he watched Alfred iron and then fold one article of clothing after another. Jason himself was swathed in a rather large knit sweater that had been Dick's. Usually he wouldn't touch the older boy's things but it came straight from the dryer and it was chilly in the laundry room.

Alfred and Jason kept up a comfortable silence throughout their days, the boy following the elder around like a lost puppy through the manor. But this day was different, this day Jason had opened a door that's been locked shut for years. Suddenly, bits and pieces of his life before he came to the manor began to spill out of his mouth one by one. Alfred was a perfect listener and offered no judgement. But when the young boy offered up the story of when he had beaten and stolen from a young man on the street, the butler had said something to comfort him..

"Sometimes people do bad things when they are trying to survive. The important part is that you survived it."

The words had meant comfort then, but now he's not so sure.

As Jason prys his eyes open to make sense of the jostling of his body and cold metal surface he seems to be bound to, he can't help but ask himself if he is really meant to be grateful that he had survived any of it?

Jason shivers despite the warm balmy air and tries to figure out if he can even move. Whatever painkillers they had given him in the hospital are starting to wear off and Jason is vaguely aware of the world of hurt he'll be in for when his nerves wake up.

This much he knows: He's laying on his back, his left arm is still in it's fancy hospital grade sling and his hands are tied with a zip tie, one over the other, on his stomach. The way he's moving around, paired with the smell of old carpet, motor oil, gasoline, and the squeal of metal on rusted metal, tells him he's laying on the floor in the back of a van. His eyes are covered by a cloth, but judging from what little light he can see, and the sound of morning rush hour, he hasn't been unconscious for long.

Whoever's driving takes the off ramp too quickly and Jason has to stifle a groan as his body instinctively fights against the centrifugal force. Whatever happens he doesn't want his captors to know he's awake, no need giving them more time to interrogate him.

Then the question raises in his mind: who in the literal fuck are these goons, and why on earth do they want an out of commission Red Hood so bad that they came all the way to Florida to collect him?

"Okay, I think we're finally in the clear." Says a rough voice from where Jason guesses to be the driver's seat.

"Whew." Says another, their voice slightly squeakier.

"I gotta say man, you handled that like a champ. I mean I thought my heart was gonna burst, but you looked so fuckin' calm. How the hell do you do that?!" Asks the driver. The accent tells Jason they're from Gotham and he sighs eternally.

"Calm? Are you kiddin' me? I thought I was gonna shit myself, I was so nervous!"

The two of them have a good laugh as Jason makes a list in his head of everyone who would really want him dead. Like -track him down and then go all the way to Florida to get him- dead.

The length of the list depresses him.

Of course, at the top of said list, it's the guy who's maiming landed him in the hospital in the first place. And all though Jason knows him to be alive, he still shouldn't be out of the hospital yet. At least Jason doesn't think so, he's lost track of how much time has passed, hell he was unconscious for the first two weeks or so. His ever persistent headache rears its head at his confusion. And he squeezes his eyes shut in an attempt to ward it off.

Right next to Penguin is every other major player in Gotham: Black Mask, Two Face, Mr. Fries, any one of them would want to wipe him off the map. His money is on Penguin, rightfully so, but if this was about killing him wouldn't they have done it already? So, what is this little road trip really about?

"How much farther until the air strip? My ass is sore from all of this sitting." Asks the squeaky voiced passenger.

The driver groans in annoyance, "Just a few more minutes. Seriously man, how have you lasted this long? Your attention span is like seven seconds."

"Get off my dick, Frank."

The car settles back into silence and Jason releases a breath he didn't know he was holding. But as his mind begins to formulate his plan for escape, that dark little voice that dwells in the back of his mind whispers something.

This could be your chance. Just give in, let it end, soon it will all be over.

And before his ego could bite back with a list of what it would be like to be defeated by a Gotham low-life, the van slams to a stop. The motion throws Jason forward and he has to bite down hard on his bottom lip to keep from screaming out. His brain turns to static as his waking nerves light up inside him, igniting his darkened vision with flashes of color and snatching the air from his lungs.

Jason can hear the men up front getting out of the car, they'll be around to collect him in a matter of seconds. This is his chance to relent to them or to somehow escape with his total of one working arm and one working leg. If only he could get his lungs to fill with air.

He can hear the boot treads stomping closer to the side door of the van. He struggles to gather a breath, as his vision is still alive with a fantastic light show of pain and his bound hands twitch uselessly atop his stomach. If his left shoulder wasn't- for lack of a better word- shattered and immobile, he'd be out of this damn zip tie already. And as the door slides open and Jason has made no headway in freeing himself or even catching a decent breath, the decision of whether to escape or not is decided for him.

"Ah look who's awake!" Says the rougher sounding man with a laugh. Jason feels hands grab onto his bound wrists when the other goon stops him.

"Woah woah woah, if this is supposed to be the Red Hood I'd be more careful, Frank."

"What's he gonna do, kill me with half his body all messed up? Gimme a break, Ernie." Says Frank heartily.

At his words, a sizzling green rage ignites in Jason's blood and a low growl rises in his stomach. He doesn't know how just yet, but that dumbass will pay for his arrogance with blood. So, as Frank grabs his bound wrists Jason grabs his forearm with his unhindered right hand with all of his strength and with one swift motion pulls Frank's hand so it's pinned between his right forearm and left hand, then twists as hard as he can. He feels the joint splinter under the strain.

Frank pulls away sharply howling in pain, and although the movement causes Jason's shoulder to scream out, he's pleased. Ernie is laughing beside him, a high pitched wheeze interrupted by the occasional gasp for air.

"Didn't I tell ya?" Ernie manages between laughs, "Didn't I fuckin' tell ya?"

"Get him in the fuckin' plane you prick!" Screams Frank, the tears obvious in his voice.

"Oh I'm not touching him." Insists Ernie, "Let's let the other guys take him in."

As Jason waits to be collected, he tries to understand what leverage he may have against these idiots. If they want to get some sort of info or tangible object that he knows the location of, then he's golden. But, if their goal is to kill him then he's shit out of luck, unless he can think of something they would want from him. He sighs tiredly at the thought of the interrogation, he may dislike pain, but she's been around so long he's sure he can handle a little more.

Foreign hands reach down and clamp onto Jason's ankles, his shoulders. They ignore the wrappings that encase his joints and violently hoist him upwards. He coughs from the effort it takes to hold in his groan of discomfort and he feels a stitch tear in his abdomen.

Good. He thinks. The sooner I bleed out, the better.

Jason is wheeled up a ramp onto a small private aircraft, the wheelchair strapped down to a spot where a plush widow seat used to be. A small, and calloused pair of hands takes his bound wrists and snaps the tie holding them together. His right hand is forced against the arm rest and tied down harshly, then his sling is removed and the hands try to force his left arm into the same position. His still healing collarbone and shoulder object loudly and he instinctively locks the limb against himself to protect it. The hands jerk the arm from his hold and Jason has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from shouting out.

Next, the hands remove the boot from Jason's nearly healed right ankle, and the brace from the right knee. His ankle and foot are tied to the footrest on the wheelchair, and he takes the opportunity to get in a good kick to the person's chest before they could start on his left leg. The goon goes flying back and he can hear the effort it takes for them to regain their breath.

Ernie begins laughing again from Jason's right and the one he kicked gets up and punches him hard in the stomach. Several more of his stitches tear on contact and his lungs eject any air they might have had a hold of. Jason groans as he tries to fill his chest with oxygen and his vision flashes white with pain. He can feel blood beginning to seep from his now partially open incision and trickle down to pool on the seat. The attacker finishes his bindings and steps forward, ripping off his blindfold and spitting a string of curses at him that he doesn't quite catch.

The dim light in the plane cabin is too much for Jason's eyes and he squints at the bulky young woman in front of him. Her dark, short hair has been styled so it stands up on her head in spikes, and she wears cargo pants and a slight tank top that shows off how muscular she is. Jason eyes her up and down, and decides to call her Spiky if the occasion to mouth off were to arise. She scowls at him and he has the feeling that if they had met when he was still on the streets, he would steer clear of her.

With his legs tied down, he's suddenly very aware of how little clothing he has on. Besides his thin hospital gown, which has been ripped open and offers little coverage, the only thing he's wearing are his boxers and his bandages; The latter beginning to soak through with blood.

Jason looks up with his eyes to catch Spiky's glare. They stand off for a moment, neither of them blinking before Ernie comes up beside her and puts a meaty arm around her broad shoulders. Ernie looks at Jason for a moment before shuddering comically.

"Geez, would you look at this guy? Holy fuckin' smokes!" Ernie says loudly. Spiky shrugs him off roughly and makes her way to her seat at the front of the plane.

Ernie sits across from Jason and looks at him with a certain amount of admiration. The man is short and stocky, and while he might not be more than 5 and a half feet tall, each of his hands are about the size of a catchers mitt. As Ernie clasps his giant hands together in boyish glee, Jason can't help thinking that the man reminds him of a bulldog.

"I just gotta say Red Hood, I was a huge fan when you were in your murdering phase. Great work, really." Ernie says with a smile.

Frank sits down next to him, his arm held close to his chest and his bright red face still shining with sweat.

"Don't talk to him Ernie. Ya putz." Frank spits, not taking his glare off of Jason.

Jason glaces down to Franks busted wrist and can't help the tiny grin that plays out on his face. "How's the arm?" Jason says sweetly.

Ernie busts out laughing again as Franks rises quickly and hits Jason hard on the side of his head with the heel of his hand. Jason's ear rings, and his ever persistent headache roars to life. Nausea rolls and his stomach as he closes his eyes and lets his head fall slightly. He can feel the concussion, and as he's spent the last few weeks moving in and out of the ICU in the neuro wing of the hospital, he's not the least surprised when he opens his eyes and standing before him is Artemis Grace.

Well, let me know what you think! I have lots of ideas floating around in my head for how this whole thing will wrap up, but there is still a long way to go.

Until next time, MS