Chapter Twenty-Four:
"Little Jay"
Jason Todd was never one to apologize, but he had to make an exception in this case. He had had told the others to rest while he took point, but soon after the rugrats had dozed off—despite Damian's protest—Jason then fell asleep himself. He never thought he was tried, but after everything recent, he couldn't blame his body for succumbing to human nature.
As he awakened, he yawned heavily but silently.
His helmet was off, but his face mask was on. He had put it on soon after he'd dealt with the four lovely half-nude maidens. Jon actually took out the photo-kinetic beauties, but as their light pixels dissipated, he felt his own energy drain from him, four fold.
Oh, what he wouldn't have done to have a romp in the hey with any one of them for just an hour. It would have relieved so much tension. But he told himself he would just have to think good thoughts and deal with those high-strung issues later.
With eyes wide shut, or so he thought, he stretched his arms to loose the knots in his muscles. Instead, he found his movement restricted. Not by binds, but by dimension of space. His eyes were open and he found himself in complete darkness.
Feeling around, he was trapped. And by the dimensions of the container he was encased in, it had all the feel of a coffin.
He banged on the inside top, and though he didn't want to admit it, panic began to set in a little, as he was thrust back to that moment when he found himself trapped inside that coffin buried alive years ago. He didn't know how he got there until later. He remembered he had to dig himself out, his nails cut and ripped, his hands bruised and bloody, and once out, he then travelled miles along a dirt road in a daze, until he eventually collapsed due to overwhelming exhaustion. Later taken to a hospital where he was saved from death.
After that, he was kidnapped and taken to Switzerland and thrown into the Lazarus Pit by Talia al Ghual, Ra's daughter. The Lazarus Pit regenerated his body, repaired his cells, and restored his memories, whereas after he got out, he went a little crazy after everything he had been through flooded back in painful detail.
Later, he lived on the streets of Gotham where he fended for himself, trying to make sense of it all. He was still confused. When he learned Bruce Wayne had not lifted a finger to see to Joker's punishment properly—as if Jason was just a casualty of war—he supposed he went a little more insane, trained, and became a street criminal, something he had fought against when he was Robin.
Long story short, present day, though history derailed his sense of justice like Batman, he became the Red Hood, a name he stole from the Joker, once upon a time, when Joker was first starting out as a criminal to hide his identity. Or, so he thought. But the timeline had a funny way of rearranging one's memories. Some things he remembered one way before he died, but then other things, he took as pure imagination—like how he died: blown up with one of Joker's bombs after beating him senseless with a crowbar. But if that were true, how did he suddenly find himself alive in that coffin?
He knew Barry Allen, the Flash, had something to do with that. Some sort of flashpoint time divergence. People, including Jason, remembered certain events differently. It was funny how the brain remembered things, like deja vu, or something like that.
Suffice it to say, through the years, he and Bruce had their conflicts, and most recently, after he nearly murdered the Oswald Copperpot. Arsenal managed to help him back to the Safe House where he spent days recovering after Bruce's beatdown.
But that was neither here nor there.
Right now, he felt he had gone back through time and had been thrown back to that moment he found himself in the coffin.
And he didn't like it!
He breathed heavy and felt claustrophobic. He wanted out. He supposed, secretly, that was why he didn't like enclosed spaces. But he had never told anyone that. Funny, he wore a helmet that enclosed his head, but he was fine with that. This was different.
He banged on the coffin, but something else didn't it feel right. As if the situation wasn't bizarre enough. He couldn't see his hands, but when he felt the knuckles of his left hand, they felt…different. But as his right hand was proportionate to his left, he just shook off the confusion and just kept banging on the inside of the coffin with both hands.
He hoped it wasn't deja-vu and he wouldn't have to also dig through six feet of soil to get to the surface like the last time.
When he finally broke through the top of the coffin, he thanked his maker that this time it would be different when he saw light. Breaking through further, ripping pieces of the coffin off in chucks, he vowed that whoever had put him in this thing was going to pay. Be it psychological—and he knew Harvey Two-Face probably had a huge hand in this knowing his past history. But it could have also been Jake Handles, the man was very smart and knew the Batfamily histories, because he knew all about Dick Grayson, Agent 37. Either one of them, or both—the architect of this trap was going to feel the full hammer of his fury.
Bashing the lid, the nails began to yawn from their places where it was hammered shut, he then used his used his knees and then feet to kick it completely off. Suddenly, blinded by a bright light, he shielded his eyes. Sitting up, with eyes still working to focus in the new light, he looked around. He was on a sandy beach, and a calm tide washed ashore next to the coffin. It was like someone had put him in the coffin and just dumped him here, hoping the tide would wash him out to sea. Was this the other side of the island?
He jumped out of the coffin, but then suddenly gasped when he saw his hands, then quickly looked the rest of his body over. No wonder his hands felt different, because they were—they were miniaturized.
He rushed to the water and gazed at the surface. It wasn't just his hands that had been miniaturized, it was all of him. He looked like did when he was twelve years ago, when he roamed the streets of Gotham in his troubled youth, and just before be became Robin. Even his clothes and armour had shrunk to his new kid size. What the hell is going on? Am I dreaming?
"Jason Todd!" came a firm, yet gruff sounding voice from behind and in the distance.
Jason whipped his gaze around to see Harvey Two-Face with a gun in one hand and his coin in the other. "Okay, Harvey, what the hell did you do to me? Is this some sort of trick by Handles and his photo-kinetic crap?"
Harvey shook his head. "Nothing like that." He smirked. "But I did play a small part in suggesting it, when I learned yet another wonderful weapon Spyral had acquainted from one their enemies had been stored here on the island. I'm told it's some sort miniaturizing ray, but the real name eludes me at the moment—some sophisticated name I can't remember like a Japanese kanji. Truthfully, from what I was told, it was invented by a Japanese scientist who originally designed it to shrink cancerous tumours, but then it was stolen and weaponized by others. Spyral was sent in to get it before the terrorists did any real damage with it."
—Tt— Jason snorted, sounding much like Damian at the moment. "Figures. Another benefit to humankind perverted into a WMD. Sometimes this world is going to a hell in a hand basket! So, you used it on me and turned me into Dr. Evil's little troll?"
"For lack of a better phrase: yes. Now your body fits your small mindedness."
Jason's eyes widened, then he made the universal sign for Time Out. "Just wait a moment, gotta check something out," he said. He turned around, reached down and unzipped his fly. Then he fiddled around down there-and screamed!
"Nooo! Sweet Jesus to all that is holy in this god-forsaken world! The boys! Jagger! Oh, the humanity!" He turned his head back to Harvey Two-Face and sneered, zipping up, clenching his fists in anger. "You can take my guns away, you relieve me of my gadgets, you can even abuse and mock me, but no one—AND I MEAN NO ONE!—messes with the Rolling Stones and Jagger! They've been Mini-Me'd!"
Harvey Two-Fave was awestruck for a moment with a sense of bewilderment. Then: "Only someone like you would name his—" He shook his head. "This is beyond ludicrous!"
"Not to me! Who in their right mind would use such a device on a grown adult to do this? I mean, c'mon! This is perverse in so many ways, just like taking Damian down to that tropical underground paradise and subjected to the whims of those four sexy maidens. He's just thirteen, what did you think would happen? He's on the cusp of manhood. He was too happy when I found him."
"Talk to Handles, it was his idea." Harvey shrugged. Then: "When you were found asleep in the elevator corridor after not being where you should've been near your boat after the gun explosives went off, I was told to chloroform you so you wouldn't awaken, and then instructed to put in that box, after using the miniature ray on you. I knew the irony of it when he suggested it."
Jason looked at the coffin. "Yeah, a real riot. You know my history with Death. I don't like Him and He doesn't like me. The Grim Reaper and I have an understanding, I keep sending him victims and he doesn't mess with me again. Tell me, where are the kids?"
"Superboy is hold up and safely secured in Handles' main lair suffering from an acute bout of weakness due to a synthetic Kyptonian stone taken from one of Lex Luther's hideouts when he tangled with Spyral. Yet another interesting find found on Treasure Island when we took it over. The cashcow on this island is inspiring! There are numerous weapons here to rule the world, including that device Handles has been working on that uses sub-harmonic technology. And he's almost perfected it."
So, Jon Kent was right. The resurrection of Operation Coral Castle was in full swing. Handles had to be stopped, Jason thought. But he needed to get to the kids first. He knew where Jon Kent was, but there was no news on Damian. "Where's Nightwing Junior? Oh, to hell with it! You know who I am, so you know who he is. Where's Damian Wayne?"
"I'm glad you asked…"
Harvey smirked, then gestured a little farther down the beach. Jason followed where Two Face indicated. There was a humid haze delivering heatwaves masking something that was approaching from afar. When the figure was fully materialized, Damian Wayne emerged in full Nightwing Junior regina, wearing two new escrima sticks crisscrossed on his back. And there was some sort of metallic neck collar around his throat that appeared to be a control device, like a dog's leash.
Damian came to stand next to Harvey like partners in crime.
Jason was defenceless. His leg holsters were empty and when he felt around, despite his armour intact, and his brown jacket on, all his hidden pockets that housed secret items were empty. He had been completely cleaned out.
His eyes narrowed with incredulity at the situation. "How?"
"How is Wayne's son now under our control? Simple: mind control. It was easy after that little escapade in the tropical paradise. The young man was monitored fully down there with secret hidden cameras. I'll leave all the technical details to Handles, but I'm told it has to do with stimulating the part of the brain through neuropathy that releases pleasure endorphins, but in reverse. A trick of the brain like pleasure and pain. The more he resists, the more he becomes our willing servant. Handles is a genius!"
"That's perverse!" Jason protested.
"Perversity has its methodology. It all comes down to mental state. If you stimulate the brain with positive reinforcement, the person is rewarded, much like a small animal in a cage that hits the correct lever to get a pellet of food. If the animal presses the wrong lever it gives it a shock. So, eventually the animal remembers, and only presses the correct lever. The analogy is crude, I know. But every time Damian Wayne tries to resist, he's rewarded, and it makes him feel good. So, the mind control reinforces those good feelings about a thousand fold, and he continues with it."
"He's only thirteen, his brain is still developing. You'll screw up his mind. Well, more than it already is…"
"I think that ship has already sailed the moment he joined the ranks of crimefighters. Just think about it. A man who raises…how many is it now…six separate children to fight crime along aside him, only to continuously put them in harms way, eventually getting one of his kids murdered by a psychopath." —Harvey gestured to Jason— "Case in point, eh? Bruce Wayne/Batman is one of the worse father-figures imaginable. He should be put in jail for six counts of child abuse."
"Granted, he isn't much of a father, but he does care…" Jason rolled his eyes. "Okay, not even I believe that crap! Okay, he's a bad dad. But the child-support isn't bad. I did ask for him for $250,000 once for some information and he gave it to me. It helped me buy a few weapons to add to my every growing assortment." Jason sighed. "Yup, that was a bad example."
"He's guilty of multiple offences including advocating to commit egregious bodily harm against others, using accomplishes to commit said acts, even encouraging minors to do so, and acting as judge and jury without giving the accused a fair trial, and that's just for starters. If I had my legal book of terms with me, I could also accuse him with nearly a hundred other offences. Vigilantism is illegal, and yet law enforcement agencies allow Batman a wide berth. Batman should be the one locked up for life!"
Jason put a hand to his mouth when he began to chuckle, but then he burst out laughing. "And I thought Joker made bad jokes." He quickly became serious. "Anyway, let's get this party started. Hey Damian! Do you really want to fight me? I say, bring it on, kid! I've had to take a lot of crap from you over time, I think this is the perfect moment to get my payback. If I have to beat the crap out of you, then hey" —he slammed a fist into a hand— "Happy Birthday to me!"
To be continued...
