Author's Note: So, I recently went to a summer Comicon and met some amazing comic creators, artists, and writers. Most notably, I talked for awhile with Kyle Higgins, who is currently writing DC's Nightwing series and is now moving over to the Batman Beyond comic. Since I was cosplaying as Red Hood (yes, I am that much of a dork) I was required to joke that, if DC asked that Jason make his way into the Batman Beyond comic, for Higgins to please, please not screw Jason up. This led to Higgins explaining that, despite earlier blurring (having Hush and other non-animated-universe DC characters, plus non DCAU plots/details, etc. make their way into the Batman Beyond comic), DC had decided that they "screwed up" (that is a direct quote, ha) and that Batman Beyond should solidly be in the DCAU universe only. So, Higgins explained, no Jason in the comic. Which means my fanfic will be slightly less directly contradicted... but that actually saddens me a bit because (1) I liked the blurring of the universes that DC had been doing and (2) further discussion with Higgins showed that he totally sees Jason similarly to the way I do/more the way Winick wrote him in Under the Hood. So, too bad—I would have liked to see what he did with him. Either way, though, I'm excited to see what Higgins does with the Beyond universe!

Anyway, just thought folks here would like to know. Now, on to the story! ~ Tsuki

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I don't own any characters mentioned in this story. The rights belong to DC comics, Bob Kane, etc.

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Darkness Cannot Drive, Part 20/? (Beyond Broken: Chapter Two)

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Charlie "Big Time" Bigelow closes his eyes and breathes out a lung-full of warm smoke. This gig wasn't so bad. Sure, the Chinese language grated on his nerves and the jerk the Order assigned as his translator seemed like he might be fucking with him occasionally, but a few pointed threats made sure that any jokes at Big Time's expense were made cautiously. And, hell, he had unlimited access to Korean trip-hop albums and, even more enjoyably, packs upon packs of Blues.

Blues had saturated the Asian drug market last year—a mild opiate in cigarette form, it gave a pleasant and floating buzz. Whenever the Order didn't need him to pound in a few skulls, Charlie could be found lounging in his room, puffing on Blues and listening to some pretty tranq music. As he shifted his massive arms, Big Time couldn't help but think about how different this feeling was from his downtime back as a "kid" back home. His time in Gotham was all about moving faster—boosting the fastest cars possible, taking stimulants to stay up late dancing, listening to music which pulsed and throbbed at a break-neck speed. It was all about risk and adrenaline and rushing toward something, as if there was a real possibility that if he and his friends ran fast enough then their dreams would be just around the corner.

But Charlie is Big Time now—he's already met up with his dreams, grabbed them by the throat and made them his. He is one of the most feared men in China now (heck, maybe even all of Asia...) and the main enforcer for The Order, the Chinese mob made up of a Chinese yakuza branch mixed with lingering members of what was once the Triad. No small potatoes in this bunch, and Big Time knows he is one of the most powerful and feared members.

Not bad at all, he thinks as he takes another deep breath of smoke, feeling his limbs tingle and feel lighter, more distant. He closes his eyes and listens to the whirring, rhythmic beat of the music. After a moment, he frowns, cracking open one eye in confusion. There is a high pitch sound that doesn't fit with the song—like distant yelling and thumping. He waits for the song to make sense again, to right itself and return to mellow beats and layers. But instead the thumps are getting louder and Big Time realizes that they're not coming from the music player at all. Cursing to himself, he switches off the stereo.

There, he hears it now. Chaos—some sort of fight. A big one from the sounds of it. There's a scream which morphs into a strangles gurgling sound, someone choking on their own blood.

Big Time snuffs out his Blue, and waits. He's not going to rush out there—he has no loyalty to the Order for anything but what he is paid for. Better to wait until the situation benefits him in some way or until he absolutely can't avoid addressing the situation any longer.

There's the muffled sound of an explosion. More yelling now. Another scream and gurgle. Charlie can't help but smirk as he listens—the chaos sounds like a lot of fun. He cracks his neck and his knuckles, waiting.

A few minutes later, the locked door to his room blasts open, blown off of its hinges by a series of small explosive chargers. Big Time is on his feet, watching the smoke intently as he waits to see who would seriously be stupid enough to try and take him on.

The attack comes before the haziness clears and Charlie curses quietly as he blocks a kick moving sharply toward his side, the Blue causing his reaction time to be just a fraction of a second slower than usual. The Blue must also affect his recognition, Big Time realizes, because it takes him a moment to process who it is attacking him. When he does realize it, he can't help but laugh, the sound of his deep chuckle filling the small room.

"Really, Red Hood? You didn't think your last ass kicking was enough, you had to come back to me for more?"

Big Time remembers his last battle with Red Hood—the helmeted man had been yapping up a storm, always quick with a comeback or a cruel joke. This time, though, the masked man is silent. He charges forward, steel toed boots trying to connect with Big Time's rock-hard flesh. Charlie chuckles and barely bothers blocking.

"Hey, that tickles. Is that all you came to do, Red? Give me a little massage?"

The man known as Red Hood stays eerily silent as he drops into a crouch and pulls a long, sharp samurai sword from a sheath on his back. Big Time raises an eyebrow; huh, no one had ever attacked him with a sword before. This should be interesting...

The Hood swipes and slashes quickly, almost faster than Big Time is able to process. He manages to block most of the blows with his massive arms, a sharp clanking sound ringing out, rock-like arms against metal. The sword stings a bit, but Charlie chuckles when he realizes that even the sword can't cut his hard, mutated flesh.

"Oh god damn it," the Hood hisses finally. He grabs a long, twisted knife from his belt and looks like he's going to try and attack with that next, but the sword stings are irritating, cutting through Big Time's happy haze, so the behemoth just growls and grabs the vigilante by the helmet. Before the Red Hood has time to act, Big Time has smashed him against the ground, head-first.

The sound of shattering acrylic and snapping wires is almost deafening, as is the pained groan of the Hood as tries to sit up and brush away the sharp shards of his helmet.

Huh. Interesting. Charlie had never really wondered or cared what the Red Hood looked like under his helmet. He was just one of many thugs, players, mercenaries, and vigilantes he had to tangle with in his work with various mobs and the Order. Some passing information about how long Red Hood had been around led Big Time to think that maybe he was middle aged. Or that maybe he wore the helmet because he was horribly deformed or disfigured.

But no—from the look of it, even with a deep and bleeding laceration on his face now from the shattered helmet, the man under the Red Hood was actually pretty attractive. Right in the wheel-house of Charlie's type, actually. Thin face, bright eyes, dark hair. Not bad at all. Well that just made this fight a little more fun...

Big Time drives in for a punch, something to really knock the wind out of the Hood and maybe break a rib or two, but the Hood quickly rolls out of the way and vaults up onto Big Time's arm. He's suddenly gripped hard on his back now, one hard looped around Charlie's neck, the other holding the twisted knife right up against Charlie's eye.

Oh. Huh. Yeah, he's pretty sure his eyes aren't invulnerable like his skin. Charlie would almost applaud the Red Hood for his quick thinking, if he wasn't mildly worried about losing his eyesight to that sharp, gnarled knife.

"Now..." unmuffled by his helmet, the Red Hood's voice is as dark and sharp as his weapon "...I need some information."

Charlie snorts, projecting a bravado he doesn't fully feel at this moment. "Oh yeah? You think that little knife can do any damage to me, Hood?"

"I think I'm about to find out." The man starts to jab the knife forward, giving Big Time the perfect opportunity to block with one hand as he grabs the Hood by his hair. Yeah—he's not used to his hair being grabbable, Charlie chuckles to himself, listening to the Red Hood's gasp as Charlie pulls, throws the man to the ground by the fist-full of hair. Some of it comes off in Big Time's hand, blood at the roots. Before the Hood has time to finish groaning at the pain, Charlie has his hand around his throat... and he presses down.

In his new form, Charlie has found that it doesn't take much effort at all to strangle someone to death. It's actually one of his favorite ways to kill someone and he knows the steps by heart. First they claw at his impenetrable hand, then their eyes widen and go bloodshot, their mouths gaping like fish as they try to draw in any small hint of air. Then they look at Big Time pleadingly, silently asking for mercy as their mouths go wider, their whole body stiffening and flailing. That pleading look is always the real thrill. Charlie can't get enough of it, the power he feels when someone acknowledges that he literally holds their life in his hand.

He wants to see that look on the Hood's face. The sarcastic killer who was such an annoyance in Hong Kong last year—he wants to see him silently beg, to surrender that power to Charlie's control. So he presses down harder on the Hood's throat.

But he doesn't see it. Not a bit. Instead, the man known as the Red Hood is staring at him defiantly, teeth gritted in pain. He doesn't even try to struggle for breath, as if even that would be a surrender to Big Time. He pounds and pries at the hands around his throat, but the struggle is targeted and practical rather than desperate. Every angry glare in the man's look screams, "Fuck you—you can take my life but I'm not giving it to you."

Big Time finds himself mildly disappointed. Then there's that subtle itch, that curiosity.

Information, Red Hood had said. It was pretty clear that the Hood hadn't come here to attack the Order—he had come here specifically to see Big Time. What information could Charlie possibly know that the other Order member's didn't?

Charlie loosens his grip and the pressure on the Hood's throat. The man gulps up a giant, half-coughing gasp of air, the defiance in his eyes still not wavering.

"What information?" Big Time asks. For a moment, the Hood just looks at him questioningly, his brow furrowed in confusion. "Color me curious," Charlie chuckles in response.

The Hood coughs one more time. "There's a kid in Gotham. He's gone missing. Kidnapped. Think you know him. Name's Terry McGinnis."

The rage that flows through Big Time is quick and ferocious. He wants to grab the Hood by the hair again and smash his head in. How dare him! No one knows who he is. No one! Big Time, as far as the Order and everyone else knows, has always been Big Time. He was never some half-skinny punk named Charlie Bigelow. Charlie had made sure of that. All the players in Gotham who knew anything at all about him were dead. Well, everyone except Terry...

Big Time let out a ferocious growl. "What. Do. You. Know?"

The Hood allows himself a small smirk. "I know your name is Charles Bigelow. That you grew up in the reconstructs of Gotham. I did some digging and I know you and Terry were arrested on the same day. That you were nothing but a punk eighteen year old kid. And I know when you got out of prison,you wanted to make it big. But you botched that job at Wayne Chemical and—"

The Hood doesn't get any further because Charlie has slammed his hand back into the Red Hood's windpipe, determined in his rage to finish him off. But there's a soft whistling sound, followed by a sharp pain in the back of Big Time's leg. Cursing, he turns to look and sees a hidden knife sticking out of the Hood's boots, half-stabbed into Charlie's calf.

The distraction is all the time Red Hood needs. He pushes Big Time back and flips sideways, putting some distance between himself and the hulking giant of an enforcer. He drops into a defensive fighting stance, green-blue eyes on guard, watching Big Time.

"I know you... you went after Terry before," Red Hood gasps, his voice strained from his bruised throat. "Did you try again, Charlie? Were you trying to tie up loose ends?"

"Terry, huh..." Big Time scratches his chin thoughtfully. "On a first name basis, Hood? What's your stake in this? Can't imagine a small time punk like McGinnis would be on your international radar. What gives?"

The Hood clearly hesitates, his shoulders tensing. "...I was once a small time punk from Gotham too, Big Time. Let's just say this is personal."

"Oh? And what about all those other small time Gotham punks who are shot down in gang fights or end up in prison? You cry them a river too, Hood? What's so special about little Terry?" Charlie watches carefully as the Hood tenses, half-hesitates. "Just how personal is it, hmm Hood?" Charlie finds himself grinning, practically seeing the buttons to push lighting up on the vigilante's strained face. "I mean, Terry was a fine piece of ass. I'm not sure worth going half-way around the world for, but definitely sweet. Good mouth too. You taste any of that, Hood? That what this is ab...?"

The Hood charges forward, eyes flashing in anger. Before Big Time has a chance to pivot, the Hood has rolled to the ground and grabbed the discarded samurai sword from the floor. He gets one stinging slash in before Charlie angrily grabs the blade in mid-swing. He presses, crushes, ignoring the pain in his hand as he hears the sword crack and shatter.

The Red Hood glances down, a flash of dismay on his face as he takes in the ruin of the broken sword. Then he steels his expression and just glares at Big Time determinedly. "So, do you know where Terry is or don't you, you son of a bitch?"

Big Time is shocked into silence for a moment. Then he can't help but laugh. Fully and loudly. "You've got guts, Hood." He shakes his head as he throws the shattered remains of the sword aside. "No, I didn't take Terry. I've got bigger things to worry about. Don't know who did and don't care."

Some brief emotion rushes across Red Hood's face, eyes half-wincing closed like he had been slapped. Charlie sighs, feeling strangely... sympathetic for a moment.

"Look," he grumbles. The Red Hood looks up, questioningly. "Looking for people who have something against Tiny Terry? I'd go for me too. But I don't got him. So that list is pretty exhausted. Now you don't look for who'd have something against the kid—you look for who'd have something against his boss. Bruce Wayne's got an enemy list a lot longer than Ter's. I'd look there, if I was you."

The Red Hood frowns. "Uh... yeah. That was... that was next on the list." Charlie nods, waving his hand dismissively as he starts to turn away. "Wait," the Hood calls back, "are you seriously just letting me go right now? No more fighting? After I killed, well, uh, let's just say 'a bunch' of your guys?"

Big Time shrugs and collapses back into his favorite chair. "Not my guys. I just work for 'em. But yeah—seems like you've got things to do, don't you? Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, Hood. Now get out of here before I change my mind."

The Hood hesitates just a moment, then picks up his twisted knife and turns away, stepping over the shatters of steel from the sword and the smokey remains of Big Time's door.

Charlie sighs and leans back in his chair. How strange the world was, how weirdly interconnected. He finds himself thinking, for just a moment, about the last time he saw "Tiny" Terry. There had been a moment when Charlie had actually thought maybe Terry would join him on this adventure, be the one person he could trust, be his right hand man. Terry had always been fiercely loyal, almost to a fault.

But the rage that Charlie had felt when Terry turned him down—that was something else. Pain worse than the Cerestone mutation. He had wanted to kill him—hell, had tried to. But that anger wasn't there anymore. He hadn't, in fact, thought about Terry for awhile.

He wonders briefly if his needling at Red Hood had been correct, if somehow the vigilante had hooked up with Terry, if the relationship between them was more than vague acquaintances. Well, it'd have to be, he supposed, for the Hood to travel all the way to China to ask about him.

Charlie grumbles to himself and sinks deeper into his chair. Jealousy, that's what he's feeling, mixed with just a hair of resentment. Sure, he has everything here—plenty of money, power, music, and drugs. But he now he can't help but remember the sweet smile Terry used to wear when they were just kids, or the way he'd blush furiously when Charlie said something raunchy to him in public. He doesn't even quite remember the lewd stuff they used to do in Terry's bedroom or the sweeping thrill of breaking into houses—instead it's the small things that he mostly remembers, the quiet moments when he felt... human.

Big Time shakes his head as if to clear it. He should probably tell the higher ups in the Order that there are some bodies to clear up. Well, he'd do that eventually... for now, Charlie "Big Time" Bigelow just leans back and lites up another Blue.

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Jason sits on a rooftop about a mile away from the Order's compound and winces. Okay, besides the side-wound and the gash on his arm that had yet to heal, he now has a grand tally of a bruised throat, bleeding scalp, a fairly deep cut on his brow, and what could be a mild concussion. Fan. Freaking. Tastic.

He grits his teeth and forces himself to stand up. No time for a pity party, Todd. There's work to do.

Jason makes his way carefully to a small, hidden safe-house that he had set up last time he was in the area. It isn't as expansive as some of his others, but it has a back-up gun and charger, one spare set of armor and helmet (yeah, he's definitely going to need that one), and a disposable international cell-phone.

Bruce picks up on the first ring. [[Any luck?]]

"No," Jason admits, his voice still strained from Big Time's attempted strangling. "Dead end. You?"

[[Actually, yes. I've analyzed the samples from the scene were the suit was left. The blood is all Terry's.]] Jason tried not to let panic well up in him at that detail. [[But there was also a sample of soil left. A very particular compound of mineral and water crystallization. The most likely place a sample like this could have been picked up is in the Himalayas.]]

Jason frowns. "Terry, Superman, and I were there not too long ago. Could it have been from Terry's shoe?"

[[You tell me. Did Terry bring a change of shoes, as far as you remember?]]

There's a harshness to Bruce's tone that Jason doesn't want to analyze right now. "Umm... no. He put clothes over the suit, but his boots were on the whole time. If he wasn't wearing that Bat-Suit when he got picked up, that soil shouldn't have been from him."

[[Okay. Then who else do we know who was in the Himalayas recently?]]

Jason growls low in his throat, fists clenching. "Luthor. Where can I find her?"

[[You're in luck. She's slated for a meeting at Lex Co. International tomorrow... in Tokyo.]]

"Nice. Get me a ticket?"

[[Already started the process,]] Wayne replies. [[But you'll have to be more... diplomatic, Jason. Reports are already starting to come in about an attack on the Order. A bit more than was necessary. Luthor is a powerful woman—the last thing we need to deal with is her full arsenal gunning for you while we're trying to locate Terry.]]

"Fine," Jason bites out. "I'll keep the kid-gloves on. But just so you know, if I find out that something serious has happened to Terry, your rules are out the window. Got it?"

Bruce doesn't respond. There is silence for a moment before he finally says, [[Your flight is leaving in two hours. Good luck.]]

"Thanks," Jason states flatly as he hangs up the phone. As his head and abdomen both throb sharply in pain, the man known as the Red Hood suddenly realizes that he could probably use all the luck he can get.

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TO BE CONTINUED...