Burning.
Scorched earth and singeing air ripped apart by flying bullets, shrapnel tearing through skin and smouldering bodies as smoke coated his lungs.
Everything was burning, a signal for the end. The end of him.
Even the blood weeping from his side, each inhale a new form of agony, trailed down in dark red streaks of magma that deformed the flesh beneath.
He was dying. He knew that. He welcomed it.
"Someone get a medic!"
No. He needed to die. They all did—for everything they'd done. For what they were about to do.
Hard pressure tried to shove the life pouring from him back into the lesions that marked his entire left side.
Let me die.
He thought he said the words aloud, but hot sand choked his throat. The pressure didn't stop. Something blocked out the sun, halted the blaze that branded his eyes, but he still couldn't see.
"Stay with me, soldier."
He wasn't a soldier—not after—
"Lazarus, come on—"
They couldn't even use his real name. But, then again, he couldn't remember if he'd even told anyone what the real one was.
After the smells came the screams. They were the wails of the dead, echoing up from Hades as they were beckoned below, their souls descending with their spilled blood draining down through the dry earth. Erebos would be their prison walls. They'd burn, their souls ignite and boil and bubble, skin peel and drip like warm wax. They'd earned it—punishment without an end.
He knew they deserved to feel that. Everyone who'd done what they had.
And still, he didn't die.
He became a twisted emissary, a wraith meant to live a half-life—to send everyone with a soul as black as his down into the depths, settle the call for retribution until he could join them in one last act of atonement.
He was a ghost. They all were.
Burning down what was rotten so that new life could grow, replace and envelop the poison, cleanse the ranks that he had become a part of, Jason Todd would set the world on fire.
Not wanting to be rude, he didn't bother knocking. After all, visiting at 12:19 am for an impromptu housecall would just be impertinent.
Couldn't have that, could we?
"Breach," Red Hood ordered.
Normally, he was one to work alone. Things tended to play out better that way—fewer chances of a colossal fuck-up causing a chain-reaction he couldn't control—but there were times when he needed the assistance of others, and he saw no better manner to use the miscreants he recruited from rival gangs. Unruly though they might be, all they needed were a few weeks of Red Hood's brand of militaristic discipline to get into shape. And they followed orders like a dream.
Oh, Sarge would be proud.
The front door of Black Mask's stash house smacked into the wall, wood splintering and cracking into chunks around the handle. They filed in, AR-15's raised and shot the first dipshits in view as they rose from their seats, scrambling for their handguns—two even went for machetes.
Their opponents outmatched and outgunned, his men cleared the first floor quickly. Rapid bursts of fire—the sound barely muffled by the suppressors on the ends of the barrels—bodies dropping and men shouting was all he heard for the three minutes it took to sweep the second floor and basement. His men split off into two groups, silent and their leader's orders in their heads. These were no longer the unorganized and impulsive gangbangers scrounging around Crime Alley like Jason Todd had once been as a teen. Red Hood had trained himself a small paramilitary group, and he almost smiled as he watched them in action.
A few more shots went off before things in the house went quiet. "Upstairs clear!" Sean Flannery shouted from the top of the stairs. Red Hood stood just enough in view to wave a hand in acknowledgement.
"What's our haul lookin' like?" he asked.
"Three cases of RPGs, HE and HEAT warheads, and custom-made automatic rifles, and some boxes with—with biohazard symbols on it."
He laughed, catching Sean off guard. "Think he was a despot ruling a military state," he said, more to himself than anyone else.
Even for a house in the Narrows, Black Mask's stash house was a piece of work. Mei Tzu gave it up easily after she joined ranks—he knew to expect drugs, but the rest were added bonuses. Red Hood was still surprised the house hadn't fallen over years ago. Walls stained, an ugly floral-patterned couch—and he was certain that its original colour had not been brown—the floors covered in mud, dust, and rat shit were almost comical next to the plasma screen TV with stacks of heroin acting as its stand. Bodies on the ground and blood running between the grooves of the floorboards, Red Hood stepped over them as he took stock of his new inventory, tallying what exactly he'd keep and what he'd burn.
After the incident with Batman on the docks almost a week prior, Black Mask was running out of places to store his goods, and Red Hood finally had found something that couldn't be replaced—not easily. When "Lazarus" had had missions overseas toppling governments in countries they had no business being in, there was a formula for coup d'etat that they had hammered in his brain. The US Military may not have meant for their tactics to be used on their home soil, but it would work in Gotham all the same.
They never expected their ghosts to come back to haunt them, did they?
The first step was undercutting the head of state, convincing their supporters that they were on the wrong side: Get them to turn and half the battle was won. Cutting off resources, controlling both the people and the flow of information were vital. Ingraining the belief that he would win was paramount. Red Hood's ascension to power wouldn't be quiet—it would be bloody and violent—but he'd make it quick. Black Mask would be dead and he'd be there to fill the void, circumvent the power vacuum and crush anyone who tried otherwise.
"Sir."
Red Hood turned to find Tommy Quelling, his lieutenant and by far the most competent amongst his group, standing in the filthy kitchen. Filled to the brim with unwashed dishes and opened cans whose contents had long been consumed, the basement door open beside her.
Tommy was the good cop to Red Hood's bad. She'd done some shady shit in her life, but nothing Red Hood hadn't done once himself. He didn't have 'proper' soldiers under his command, but he had made do. From the furrowed brows and grim line of her mouth, Tommy had found something unexpected. His stomach knotted and twisted, but he forced himself forward.
"Report."
"Think it's best you see for yourself," Tommy said, shifting her weight and gripping her rifle tight. With the only light streaming in weakly through the filthy windows, Tommy's eyes seemed to float above the red line of her bandana as her black skin blended with the dark.
"Don't like the sound of that." His words were a truthful articulation of what he felt and a warning. Tommy didn't blink, but Red Hood watched her throat dip as she swallowed.
Descending slowly, he kept one hand by his hip, ready to draw his pistol. It wasn't that he didn't trust his own people, but he really didn't trust his own people.
Trusting anyone is the first nail in the coffin.
When he reached the bottom of the stairs, the blood drained from his face, hands dropping down and his body freezing in place.
What the actual shit—
"Sir? Intel didn't say anything about this."
Red Hood held up a hand, signalling the man to shut his ever-loving mouth as he kicked his brain back into gear.
Black Mask had taken the term "stash house" all too literally. The basement had nine people in it—young women, girls, and a couple of boys. They looked tired, beyond exhausted, some doped up—probably on the shit upstairs—and hungry. Red Hood knew what their eyes were telling him. He'd seen it every day on the streets after he ran away from his last foster home, when he had done anything— anything —to make sure he didn't go back, that he didn't starve to death. The memories made him feel physically ill, like the world had spun off its axis.
Don't think about it. You don't get the fucking luxury of that.
The youngest girl looked no more than eight-years-old. They were all visibly terrified; no doubt they'd heard the gunfire. His stomach gave another twist.
"Go upstairs."
"Wha—are you sure, sir?" one of his men asked, looking from Red Hood to the group of people cowering further together in the corner.
"Take your asses upstairs and the guns with you. Prepare the secondary vehicle—don't load any of the haul in there. Make it fit in the moving van or it stays to burn."
The modulator once again made his voice deeper, more threatening, but that meant that the terror the people on the floor already felt amplified and focused on him, on his words. His men didn't question him again, running back up the stairs to carry out orders.
God-fucking-damnit.
Once he was sure they were gone, he reached up to remove his faceguard and pulled back his hood. The domino mask was still in place, but they could see his face, know that he was human. His small white streak of hair might be enough for them to pick him out of a line-up, but he'd take the risk.
The basement was in worse shape than the rest of what he'd seen of the house, the air filled with stale sweat and fear, and he dropped down into a crouch. "How long have you been here?" He made sure his voice stayed soft, made no moves for his weapons and shifted his jacket to at least keep them from view. When no one answered, he rubbed a gloved hand through his hair and tried again. "I'm not gonna hurt you. No one here will."
The women were the first to relax their shoulders, but the kids still saw a devil, and he couldn't blame them—it took years for him to learn that not all people were monsters, but he knew to recognize them when he had been nine years old.
He kept his voice level, even as his heart hammered against his chest. "I just need to know where to take you—if you've been here for a while, I'll take you to a hospital. Otherwise, I'm taking you to get help, a shelter that'll make sure you're safe."
He had one in mind—it was one of the few places left in Gotham with any sort of funding independent from the city council. It meant they wouldn't report them to get shipped off to Arkham or ICE. Calling the police didn't enter his mind: He already began planning a very different sort of justice for the men who did this. One that wouldn't end with any of the bastards being left alive. Gotham might've changed in the last two years with Dent and Mayor Garcia and then again after the Siege and Mayor Hill, but it wasn't enough.
It won't ever be enough.
"Will you let me help you?" he asked after they didn't reply. Some seemed apprehensive, and he knew the type of distrust, the kind that moulds misanthropy into your soul. Even though he knew it like the air he breathed, he didn't know how to break through it, how to show that he wasn't the same.
"Why should we believe you?" one of the women asked. She looked marginally older than the rest—still no more than twenty-five—and he saw the fire of hate when he looked at her.
Good. Means she's strong.
He also knew words meant nothing, only actions did. Pulling out the Colt Mustang from his boot, he spun it around so the barrel faced his chest and stretched out for her to take it.
"You don't have to but, if you think you need to, you can shoot me—or any other bastard up there—in the head. You don't have anything to fear from me." Never breaking eye contact, she grabbed the handle, knuckles quickly going white. "Safety's off. Just be careful where you're pointing it, alright?"
When she nodded, he rose slowly, making sure to keep his hands far away from the remaining guns on his person, and backed up toward the stairs. They followed suit, standing while staying huddled together as a group.
"I'm gonna tell them you're coming and to back off. There'll be a van you can get into. You're gonna keep the gun on the driver until they drop you off—you'll be long gone, the assholes keeping you here are dead upstairs, and I'll make damn sure no one follows." Still as slow as before, he put the facemask back in place before pulling up his hood. "That sound like a good plan to you?"
Several of them nodded and let the woman with the gun take the lead.
"We're coming up. Keep your guns down," he called up the stairs, taking two at a time to make sure none of the idiots suddenly lost more of the few brain cells they had left while his back was turned.
Tommy still stood in the kitchen, her rifle slung across her back, and her fingers twisting a dreadlock between them as her eyebrows screwed together.
"You're taking them to Saint Mary's Shelter. Make sure you're not followed and leave the car with them. Call in your location and we'll pick you up at 0300." Motioning for her guns, Tommy picked up the cue and began handing them over, but he didn't miss the stare she gave to the woman holding his Colt. "She's keeping the gun."
Being that most of his face was covered and he was wearing a mask, he couldn't communicate that she didn't have anything to worry about, but Tommy had followed orders without incident before and was still alive to talk about it. He liked to think that counted for something.
"Got it, sir," she replied, nodding in deference.
He watched them file out, his remaining men looking on with either indifference or barely suppressed incredulity. Red Hood had given the spiel once, but it still seemed to shock most of them that he followed through with his rules—had deigned to expose a vulnerability—while unrelentingly punishing to the infractors, euthanizing the mad dogs that Black Mask employed and any other bastard running wild in the streets.
Dispersing the rest of his band of merry men with a tilt of his head, he gave one last look at the stash house, at its stained walls and dirty furniture, the bodies left behind. There was no point in cleaning up after themselves; cutting the oven's gas line open to leak into the air, Red Hood kicked over a jerry can and watched it mingle with the blood on the floor, giving it time to spread out before he lit a match and dropped it. Not bothering to watch the whole house go up in flame, he joined the rest of his men outside.
Just as he ducked into the cab of the moving truck, the main floor windows on the house burst out, and the inferno turned in on itself and curled upwards, lapping at the second floor despite the heavy rain. All it made Red Hood want was a cigarette.
"Move out, boys. We got ourselves a long night ahead." The sound of the modulator still visibly disturbed them, it was incongruous with what they would see him do on any given night, and the unpredictability only worked in his favour. They jumped when it interrupted their trance as they watched the fire rise. Red Hood smirked. "You know what to do."
His remaining men hopped into the back of the moving van, dropping the door and bolting it shut. Rolling up the window, his third, Elliot Li, climbed into the driver's seat and sped off, passing three cop cars and two fire trucks by the time they were eight blocks away. They weren't thinking to look at a U-Haul going the speed limit, and they passed without incident.
Oh, if only they knew what was in the back.
They'd have more than the GCPD coming after their asses when Black Mask found out, but that was part of the fucking point.
"Take us back to base," Red Hood said, pulling out an old flip phone from his pocket and dialling. Only seeing Elliot's nod in the corner of his eye, he listened to the line ring.
"Hello?" a woman said, sounding bored.
Brenda Sheppard.
Red Hood had left no stone unturned with these fuckers, which they were gonna find out the hard way, but it was best they found that out later.
"Put your boss on the line."
The unnatural pitch of his voice was enough. It wasn't your everyday whack-job that sounded like a Darth Vader rip-off. The woman asked no questions, gave no gasps of surprise and her voice was calm. "One minute."
Listening to the Muzak as Elliot left the Narrows for Crime Alley, Red Hood's own territory, they headed for one of his many safe houses, the street lights dim and puddles deep as the rain tried its hardest to drown them with the downpour.
"Yeah?" came the voice of a man.
Roman Sionis.
It was late, but Red Hood knew Roman had been putting in a lot of long nights at Janus Cosmetics. The police hadn't busted him yet—probably hadn't even identified him—but they were also hesitant to torture the mid-level pieces of shit they arrested. Red Hood had no such qualms. He knew Black Mask didn't either.
"Hello." He sounded friendly, borderline chipper, and maybe he was. The blood humming in his veins told a different story than one of calm. It only got worse when he thought of the scared faces of the kids in the basement. The smell of terror. "Do you prefer I call you Black Mask?... Mr. Mask?… Blackie? No, wait—that sounds racist, scratch that one."
There was sighing on the other end of the line, and Red Hood was sure there were rolling eyes to accompany it. "Just talk. I'm listening. But when I say 'I'm listening,' that also means I'm thinking about killing you."
He grinned, draping an arm over the back of the middle seat and pushing his hood back to brush a gloved hand through his hair. "That's not really a great way to begin our relationship," he said, keeping the glib tone.
"You'd be buying me dinner and taking me out somewhere nice before trying to fuck me blind if that's what you were after."
Despite his words, Black Mask didn't sound particularly angry or even frustrated. Red Hood's smile grew, but it was all bared teeth.
This fucker wants to dance.
"How you'd get this number anyway?" Black Mask asked. Instead of waiting for the answer, more pertinent questions seemed to jump to mind. "Did you fry my shipment?"
He couldn't blame Black Mask's line of thinking. He had set most of his other shipments on fire. Outside Black Mask's clubs, blowing up his operations like he had at the Gotham Docks, and now in his own damn stash houses. But that depended on the shipment Black Mask was referring to.
"Some, yeah. Some of it walked away."
If Red Hood could have made a wish right at that moment, it would've been to peel Black Mask's face off with a damned spoon.
"I take it you took something."
For his first time talking to the man on the phone, Red Hood had really expected Black Mask to have more… fire. Vigour. Some goddamn emotion. Hatred, annoyance, vehemence—anything in the goddamn dictionary under royally-pissed-right-the-fuck-off, but he sounded like he was negotiating a laundry bill.
"I did. I think it's the top-shelf items."
"Which crate?"
"I don't have the manifest, but…" Now Red Hood just felt like being coy. It could be more fun that way, and he needed some of that. "It's the one filled with those canisters with the chimera viruses—you know, the biohazardous stuff. Oh, and the full shipment of RPGs."
He didn't believe Black Mask was stupid enough to bomb and plague his own city—he wanted territory and people to rule over, after all—but the buyers he had overseas sure as fuck would want what he was selling.
"Yeah… I'm gonna need that."
"Oh, I bet you do. Be hard to maintain that little site of yours without it."
A beat of silence passed.
"I suppose there's just no persuading you to give it back?" Black Mask inquired, voice still all calm and cool and fucking collected.
He scoffed. "Your definition of persuasion being what?"
Black Mask chuckled, and he could hear shifting—a chair creaking—on the other end. "For one, I don't kill you. For two, I don't kill you."
And I thought my role in all this was the smartass.
"How generous of you."
"Three, you can have a job. Come work for me."
Before Red Hood could even laugh, he was beaten to the punch. The woman—Brenda—sounded outraged and apparently didn't have any hesitations of showing it. "Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me—"
"For the love of Christ, woman—would you shut up—"
Did I just… step onto Family Feud or something? Wait… would that make me Steve Harvey? Jesus fuck.
"I don't want to work for you," Red Hood interrupted. The last thing he wanted at that moment was to listen to their bickering. This call served a purpose, just like everything else.
The squabbling on the other end stopped with a growl that betrayed how Roman was actually feeling about the situation. "What do you want?"
Now we're on track.
"A tremendous amount of money."
Another beat of silence.
"How much?"
Now Red Hood was speaking his language. Money was all that people like Black Mask understood, and he didn't realize that what he thought was his greatest strength would be what undid him.
"Fifty million dollars."
"Fifty? What, are you trying to budget a movie?" Black Mask asked, sounding more and more riled up. That's just what Red Hood wanted, too—harder to be rational when all you can think about is murder.
"Fifty?! Is he insane? Are you?!" Brenda interrupted again.
The sounds on the other end of the line muffled for a moment, but it didn't cover up the heated barbs thrown between Brenda and Black Mask. As entertaining as all this was for Red Hood, he grew tired.
"Oh my—look, pal. Believe it or not, I don't have that kind of cash just lying about."
"Do an e-transfer."
The man on the other end growled. "That kind of traffic will send too many red flags. I can do four million cash today and you get a transfer of another ten."
"I'm sure I can get buyers to meet my price."
Red Hood didn't want the money—he had no use for it. Sure, it could buy him a few more guns, maybe an armoured vehicle or two, but that missed the point. Men like Black Mask couldn't see beyond the profit line and the power he thought it bought them. Red Hood wasn't playing to just take Black Mask's king, he wanted to dominate the whole board.
"I'm sure there're hippos who can paint houses, but I sure as fuck ain't seen one."
Pretending to consider for a moment, he said, "Deal. I'll call in an hour with a location."
Not waiting for an answer, he clapped the phone shut as Elliot picked up speed. They were close. Once the cargo was unloaded, it would be time to engage. Red Hood would be able to start his tally again, ticking off how many pieces of shit offset the innocent he was avenging. Black Mask wouldn't know what hit him.
But he will soon.
Roman Sionis sat, cell phone still in hand, and tried very hard not to throw the nearest person out the goddamn window.
Hood really wants to start a war, huh?
He finally had enough. His empire had a short reign in comparison to the older crime families, but his expansion into every criminal industry was unprecedented. He couldn't find enough money launderers in the city to wash his cash fast enough, so he could let the first few incidents slide. Missing a couple of shipments, a few hench-idiots killed here and there, chump change pilfered every once in a while—that was manageable.
Now the bastard had upgraded from rat status to a wild dog, and it was time to give the moron what he was asking for.
"I need you to run an errand."
A grunt answered him, and Black Mask made himself remain calm. His very real anger was threatening to spill over, but he'd vent his frustrations later. He'd make someone hurt. It wasn't likely he'd get to do anything to Red Hood tonight—but using proxies worked just fine.
"I don't 'run errands' for you," Two-Face said, staring at The Gotham Times and not even looking Roman's way. He still didn't miss the snarl and the way Two-Face's body stiffened.
Workin' with a bunch of fuckin' children. Christ on high.
"I know. I was being sarcastic, won't make that mistake again," he said dryly. Brenda sat at the opposite end of the room, glaring daggers at him. He ignored her. "I'd really like you to go kill this guy and get me my shit back. Can you swing that?"
Two-Face put the paper aside and stared at Roman, deliberating. He'd hired Two-Face as an advisor, an inside man, but he was more sensible than the vast majority of the men in his employ. He'd been radiating pent-up violence for days now, and Roman saw no reason not to let him get it out of his system.
Two-Face seemed to agree.
"I can swing that."
"Bless." Roman stood and faced the window to stare out at Gotham, stretching his spine and rubbing at the thick five o'clock shadow he desperately needed to shave. "What a day. I woke up in such a great mood, too. Fucking punk-ass little bastards, running around…" he muttered, trailing off as he stared at his reflection.
"Careful, Roman. You sound like an old man," Brenda said from across the room. She was pouting, but she'd get over it. She might be small, but the woman was a goddamn firecracker. The methods she wanted to use to eradicate their Red Hood problem surprised him, but he didn't want to entertain it until it was a last resort.
"Good thing no one asked you," he snarked, but it was missing most of its bite. "Set a bounty—two million dead and four million alive. Make it live an hour after the meet, just in case."
"Are you kidding me? How much money do you want to piss away—"
"No one asked you."
He might not have been threatening before, but there was nothing in his voice that gave room to argue. One more word out of her mouth and he was ready to shoot her in the head. Brenda knew it, too. She'd been around long enough to know how hard she could push. Biting her tongue, she sat down again and stared at the wall.
Addressing Two-Face, who had looked on at the exchange with detached interest, Roman said, "Get my shit back and kill him. By any means necessary." He cracked his neck, eager to hear someone scream for a while. He was pretty sure he had a couple of whores no one would miss around somewhere. "Don't let me down."
Looking at Two-Face grin was like watching the dead reanimate, and it was enough to temporarily ease Black Mask's own thirst for carnage when he could just stare at it right in front of him.
"You got it."
Red Hood had never lived anywhere else for long besides Gotham, but he was still endlessly surprised at just how many dank, rat-infested holes the city had. The brick buildings loomed large over him, and not even the street lights were strong enough to break through the thick blanket of black.
"Is… is this the best way to do this?" one man asked. It came from the opening of the alley. Red Hood's muscles tensed, getting ready for the coming fight.
"Shut up," another man replied, coming closer. When he peeked around the corner, he saw the briefcase in the man's hand and counted nine others with him.
"I'm just saying… it's not like we're coming in stealthy, we're kind of exposed."
It was true. They were exposed. Anyone could drive up behind them and shoot them in the back, or drop something from above. Red Hood wasn't planning on doing any of those things, but that was beside the point. Despite the building adrenaline, Red Hood didn't feel afraid. His soldiers were around the corner, guns ready. When it descended into a firefight, Red Hood was going to win.
"Then I guess you might die," the second man said blithely, shrugging and continuing forward.
"They aren't the only ones." Black Mask's men stopped, straining to see as Red Hood walked from around the corner. When he got a look at who was leading them, he whistled low. "Jesus. They weren't kidding when they said you were on the extra-crispy side."
Harvey Dent—or, Two-Face —bristled but said nothing, not taking the bait. His face was already fixed in a permanent sneer because of the gnarled scars, and looking at them was enough to make Red Hood's left side ache.
"We have your money. Give us the shipment and we'll do the transfer," Two-Face said. He seemed calm enough. But the men next to him weren't.
Red Hood laughed, the sound low and menacing. "That's cute. We're all going through the motions. Tell me, is that actually four million? Or is just the top layer cash and the rest is Monopoly money?"
Two-Face smiled and chuckled in return. "It's actually six inches of The Gotham Times."
He noticed that Two-Face was flipping something in his hand—from the sound it made, it was metallic. He tossed it high and caught it. Before Red Hood could come up with a rejoinder, Two-Face pulled out his revolver and fired the first shot.
The alley lit up, screams and falling bodies barely audible over the constant gunfire. Two-Face had dodged into a small alcove for cover, shooting between the pauses of changing magazines. Red Hood's men joined in, taking cover behind the barricades they had set up ahead of time and hitting Black Mask's men one after another.
"Keep shooting until he's dead," Two-Faced yelled. By Red Hood's count, there were only three targets left.
"Sounds like a plan," one of the men replied right before Red Hood shot him in the shoulder.
His smarmy laugh was audible even over the rapid shots. "I have another."
The little blinking red dot was the only warning Two-Face was given. Pulling up the remote control, he hit the kill switch, detonating the claymores they had aimed right at the mouth of the alley. The shrapnel and metal balls shot out, downing the men who hadn't managed to get to the street in time. After the ringing abated, the alley went quiet, the sounds from the street very far away.
The fight was over. Red Hood had won.
Stepping out, he walked towards the men bleeding out on the ground, footfalls slow and deliberate. He didn't enjoy the aftermath—killing was something he was good at, not something he ever liked—but sometimes there wasn't a choice at all.
That's what he had to keep telling himself.
A bitter taste filled his mouth as he walked over the bodies. Some were still alive and others dead where they lay. He ignored all of them. If Two-Face was there, that meant Black Mask had hired him. Giving cursory glances at the bodies, he searched for the half-burned man. Stooping down, he flipped one of them over.
Not him.
Straightening, his body lit up with liquid fire as a loud shot rang out, bouncing off the brick walls. Rolling to the side and just barely getting to cover, Red Hood collapsed. Retaliation shots and yelling filled the alley, but he couldn't hear any of them. His brain struggled to think, to process what instinct was telling him.
He shot me. The bastard shot me.
The bullet had gone clear through the muscle of his right flank, and it was bleeding. Badly.
"Shit —fuck—god- fucking -damnit—"
The sounds couldn't break through, but the flashing blue and red lights did.
Move, soldier— move.
Grunting and gritting his teeth, he made himself stand. He wouldn't die here. He wouldn't get caught. He wouldn't.
"Until next time, kid," Two-Face called out, but Red Hood ignored him.
"Hood—"
Tommy reached him, moving as if to wrap his arm around her shoulders. He pulled away, keeping his breathing in check even if it felt like he couldn't get enough air. The edges of his vision blurred and he gave himself a shake.
Later. Deal with it later.
"Scatter. We'll rendezvous tomorrow. Lay low," he said, sounding stronger than he felt. His hand clamped against his side, feeling how bad it was. From what he could tell, it only went through the muscle, but there was no way in hell he could go to a hospital.
"Sir, you're bleeding, you can't—"
He shoved her towards the others and growled, "Go."
Giving one last look, she listened, running with the rest. Yelling came from the mouth of the alley, and Red Hood half ran, half limped his way to his motorcycle. He needed to make his brain work, even if it was drowning in mud. The closest safehouse was Chinatown, he knew he had medical supplies there, and—
"Freeze!"
Now panic found him. They had their guns raised, and Red Hood let instinct take over.
"On your knees and raise your hands or we will fire on you!"
Fucking hell.
Revving the engine, Red Hood ripped out of the alley and onto the street. The cops were yelling, cars ripped into reverse and tires squealed against the pavement.
He needed to be faster. He could outrun them better on a bike than the van could. His only worry would be if Batman decided to show up—he was in no condition to fight him like this. Ripping into the oncoming lane, he wove in and out of the stream of night traffic. Horns blasted, brakes screeched as the cars swerved to avoid him.
Fuck, fuck, fuck—
He had run away from the police more than once in his life, but he hadn't been shot then. Leaving the road entirely, he sped down the branching alleyways. The squad cars kept going—they'd be looking to pin him in and outflank him.
Not watching to see if there would be any oncoming cars, he sped out of the mouths of the alleys, across the road and narrowly getting nailed in every direction, and raced across the street. The sirens were more distant, but they weren't gone.
Almost there.
Once he was out of view of the street, he turned off the bike and killed the lights. It was agony to push the bike, the muscles screaming at him and the blood loss nearly making him fall, but he made it to the shuttered metal door that led to the safe house.
The sound of sirens was close again, almost on top of him.
C'mon, c'mon—
Getting the door open just high enough to clear the bike, he shoved it inside without caring when it fell on its side and rolled underneath. He closed it just in time—the squad cars raced past, still searching.
"Jesus. Fucking hell."
He shivered with cold and warm blood seeped through his fingers. The hole needed to get patched—even if it was just temporary—and he needed to leave before they started doing a grid search. Having ten dead men in an alley would necessitate a manhunt.
"Shit. You goddamn fucking idiot." Clearly, he needed to recalibrate. This couldn't be how he won the war—either he would die before he finished or he'd be in handcuffs. It was time to stop playing tit-for-tat. "This ain't the time to be fair."
Nothing makes me angrier than a fucking bullet in the side.
He might have won the battle, but that didn't mean he'd win the war. That wasn't a possibility he willingly entertained. Black Mask needed to be the first to fall—he couldn't get the rest unless he was gone. Red Hood wouldn't just take the proverbial gloves off. He'd go scorched earth and bring the fight to them.
They'd know to expect him, but they wouldn't see him coming.
AN: Sorry this is a bit late, but I hope you enjoyed the chapter! The other two parts of the holiday fic A Not So Wonderful Life will be coming out tomorrow and maybe Boxing Day. I've been sleeping so much I haven't been on time for much of anything 😅. I hope you're all having some quiet moments and eating lots of good food! ❤
