A/N:
As you all must have noticed by now, this is a slow paced fic.
As most of us might know, there is a five year period time skip between Jason Todd's death and his metamorphosis into becoming Red Hood.
There is vaguely little to nothing on how he exactly spent those years, or how he developed his skills to the point where he is well known for his fighting prowess.
Among recent comics, Red Hood's new title proves he is better than anyone in the Bat-Family at one thing which caused Damian to acknowledge Red Hood as the superior tracker among the BatFamily, dubbing him with the title:—"Hunter."
Join me as we explore Jason's journey and his character development through those five years, and up to his return to Gotham City.
F.Y.I:— This isn't your DC 'classic' kind of narrative. It's an engaging slow paced fic with deeper insights into characters.
"Well, here we go," he muttered, resigned to the inevitable pull toward whatever awaited him.
The voice in his head chuckled again, low and bitter. "That's the spirit, partner. Let's start at the beginning. Walk yourself through it all—the choices, the mistakes, the moments you ignored every warning sign. Let's see if you can finally peel back those scales you've been so desperate to keep over your eyes."
Jason drew in a deep breath—or what passed for one in the strange, liminal space he now occupied—and focused on the distant light. As his thoughts narrowed in on the glow, the nothingness around him began to tremble, its emptiness folding and reshaping itself.
Faint colors bled into the blackness, slowly taking form, as if the universe itself was drawing a picture. The shadows sharpened, becoming familiar streets. Gotham. The past.
It was the Gotham he knew well, the one he had spent years fighting to survive in. The cracked pavement, the crooked alleyways, the constant hum of distant sirens—all the sights and sounds were there. The city hadn't changed. But Jason had.
And there, standing in front of the Batmobile, was a much younger version of himself—skinny, scrappy, and furious. His face was twisted with defiance as he glared up at the towering figure of Batman, whose silhouette was shrouded in the darkness of Gotham's alleyways. Jason's hands were covered in grease, the tires of the Batmobile already stripped away.
"Oh, great," Jason muttered to himself, his voice laced with irritation. He rolled his eyes. "This is where we're starting?"
"Where else?" the voice retorted, dripping with disdain. "This is where your story with Bruce begins. The moment he decided to 'save' you. The moment everything started going to shit."
Jason couldn't argue with that. The memory felt fresh, as vivid as if it had just happened yesterday. His younger self had been full of anger, frustration, and the reckless confidence of a street rat who thought he could outsmart the legendary Batman.
He remembered the desperation that had driven him to risk his life, to steal from the one person in the city who could ruin him with a single word.
The memory unfolded like a slow-motion movie, a younger Jason staring defiantly at Batman, daring him to make a move. He had felt untouchable, so confident like he was invincible back then. He was hungry for power, for respect, for something—anything—that could give his life meaning.
"Look at you," the voice jeered, its tone thick with mockery. "A scrappy little street rat, thinking you could outsmart the goddamn Batman. And what did he do? Instead of throwing you in a cell, he decided to make you his little project.
Congratulations, Jason. You got adopted by Gotham's most emotionally constipated billionaire."
Jason scowled at the voice, but couldn't shake the bitter sting of truth in its words. He had been a mess, no doubt about it. And Bruce—Bruce had taken him in, given him a chance. Or so it seemed at the time. Jason's mind raced, but before he could form a response, the memory shifted.
The streets of Gotham faded, replaced by the crisp, sterile atmosphere of the Batcave. Jason watched as the scene morphed into his early days as Robin.
The sparring sessions. The long nights spent training with Bruce. The adrenaline of their joint missions, side by side. There had been pride back then. Pride in proving he was worthy of the mantle. A strange sense of family too. A bond that felt unbreakable.
But the voice was relentless.
"And there it is," it taunted, its tone dripping with disdain. "The honeymoon phase. The part where you actually thought you mattered to him. But tell me, Jason—how long did that feeling last? A year? Two? Before you started to realize you were just another cog in his endless crusade?"
The scene flickered once more, fast-forwarding through the months of training, the missions, the escalating tension between them. Jason remembered it all—the way Bruce had kept him at arm's length, the unspoken distance that had grown between them.
The arguments had started small, but they soon became an undercurrent to everything they did. Jason had wanted more. He had wanted to be seen. To be valued.
Jason's fists clenched involuntarily. He wasn't sure if he was angry at the voice, at Bruce, or at himself for not recognizing the truth sooner. "I get it, alright?" he snapped, frustration building in his chest. "Things weren't perfect. But Bruce tried. He—"
"Tried?" the voice cut him off, its mocking tone sharp enough to make Jason flinch. "He failed, Jason. Over and over again, he failed you. And deep down, you know it."
With that the memory dissolved again, flashing forward, and suddenly Jason was standing in that warehouse as he was forced to recall the memory where he saw himself tied to the chair drenched in his blood as the dim light casted a long shadows on the walls.
The echoes of the Joker's cruel laughter filled his ears, cold and mocking, as the infamous crowbar gleamed in the dim glow. Jason could almost feel the weight of it, hear the sickening crack as it descended on him. His chest tightened, and his stomach lurched.
Jason turned away, his breath coming in shallow gasps, unwilling to watch the scene unfold once more. "I don't need to see this again," he muttered, his voice thick with anger and pain.
"Oh, but you do," the voice insisted, its tone cold and unrelenting. "You need to remember how it felt. How Bruce wasn't there. If only he had gone after Joker with you.
He knew you wouldn't be able to sit still when Joker was not too far from you in Bosnia, and would inevitably go after the mad clown. Yet he left you in pursuit of Ra's al Ghul, you died alone, "
The words hit him like a physical blow, and he felt a wave of nausea rise up in him. He wanted to scream, to lash out, but all he could do was stand there, helpless, as the memory played out once more.
The light dimmed around him, the scene fading into the darkness, leaving Jason alone once more in the void. His heart—or whatever remained of it—ached.
His hands were clenched into fists, his body trembling with the raw weight of the emotions crashing over him. He was silent for a long time, seething with frustration, guilt, and loss.
"We're just getting started, partner," the voice said as it broke the silence, its tone dripping with mockery. "Plenty more to unpack. Brace yourself."
The words hung in the air like a challenge, the weight of them pressing down on Jason's chest. He couldn't deny it. He didn't have a choice. This was where he was. And for better or worse, he was going to have to face what came next.
The void around Jason dissolved once again, but this time he wasn't drifting aimlessly. Instead, he was yanked back into a memory so vivid that it felt like it had just happened yesterday.
He could almost taste the adrenaline in the air, that heady rush of excitement that had pulsed through him like electricity. It was his first night in the Robin suit, and the world seemed to stretch out before him like an endless horizon.
He was invincible then. With the cape draped around his shoulders, and the mask on his face, he truly believed he could take down anyone, anything, that Gotham could throw his way.
That night, the target was The Riddler.
The memory was sharp, its details clear as crystal. Jason stood just outside the Gotham City Museum, the night air crisp and biting. A faint chill nipped at his exposed skin, but the cold did nothing to dampen the warmth in his chest.
His heart raced, not out of fear, but anticipation. Inside, he could hear the clinking of glass breaking and muffled voices—Riddler's goons had already started their work, ransacking the museum for priceless artifacts.
Jason's gaze flicked over to Bruce, standing in the shadows just a few steps away, as silent and imposing as ever.
With a simple, curt nod, Bruce signaled that it was time.
Inside, chaos unfolded in front of him. The Riddler and his crew moved through the museum like they owned it, dragging valuable paintings and priceless relics across the floor.
The golden frame of a large portrait shimmered under the low lighting, an eerie contrast to the thuggish activity unfolding around it.
Jason's pulse quickened. He could barely contain the excitement coursing through him. With a barely audible grunt, he leaped into action. From a nearby chandelier, he swung down with the grace of a predator, landing with a resounding thud on the floor in front of one of Riddler's henchmen.
The thug barely had time to register his presence before Jason's boot slammed into his chest, sending him crashing to the ground with a satisfying thump.
"Are you guys having a party?" Jason quipped, his voice laced with feigned innocence, though his grin was anything but. The henchman groaned beneath him, but Jason wasn't slowing down.
He sprang to his feet, darting toward the next goon with lightning speed. With an elbow to the gut and a twist of his body, the thug crumpled to the ground, defeated.
The Riddler, standing at the center of the chaos, turned in shock at the sudden interruption. His eyes widened as he took in the sight of Jason, decked out in the Robin suit, sleek and shining under the museum lights.
"What the—?" The Riddler's words caught in his throat as he took a step back, not sure whether to retreat or fight.
"Guess our invite got lost in the mail," Jason shot back with a smirk, wiping his gloved hands together as if he'd simply been brushing off some dust after a long day.
The energy in his movements was boundless, every action filled with youthful enthusiasm and a sense of invincibility.
But then came the unmistakable presence of Batman. The air seemed to thicken as Bruce's dark silhouette descended from the rafters, landing with a soundless thud beside Jason.
Without a word, he dispatched another henchman with a single punch, sending him hurtling into a nearby display case with a crash.
"It's over, Riddler," Bruce's voice was low, commanding, the sound of authority that made the room fall into an almost unnatural quiet. The Riddler scowled, his eyes flashing with annoyance and determination.
"Over? Not even close!" he sneered, before making a swift dash for the nearest exit, his goons scattering in all directions.
Jason was already on the move before Riddler had finished speaking. His instincts kicked in, overriding everything else. He was out the door in an instant, shouting, "I'll get him!" as he propelled himself forward.
Using the shoulders of two stunned henchmen as a makeshift springboard, he launched himself toward the retreating villain, his body moving before his brain could catch up.
The crack of a whip split the air, aiming for his legs. Without breaking stride, Jason twisted and leaped, his nimble body moving in a blur of skilled precision.
The whip coiled around his ankles for a split second, but with a quick flick of his batarang, he severed it, watching it fall uselessly to the ground.
"Nice try," Jason muttered, his lips curling into a grin as he landed smoothly, unscathed. The Riddler was no longer in his sights, but Jason didn't have to chase far. The villain wasn't nearly as fast or agile as Jason was.
It didn't take long before he was standing in front of Riddler, his stance confident and relaxed, blocking the escape route.
"Riddle me this," Jason said, his voice dripping with cocky confidence. He raised an eyebrow, watching Riddler carefully. "What's green and purple but about to be covered in red and yellow?"
Riddler's eyes narrowed, his grip tightening around his signature question-mark cane. Before he could retaliate, the cane swung toward Jason's head with a swift, calculated arc. Jason blocked the blow effortlessly with his batarang, spinning into a half-cartwheel to evade the next attack.
He landed gracefully behind Riddler, delivering a solid kick to his groin. The sound that escaped Riddler's lips was almost comical as he crumpled in pain.
"Wrong answer," Jason smirked, his chest swelling with the rush of victory as Riddler tried to creep away from him. He followed the Riddler down a small staircase, effortlessly landing atop him with a satisfying thud.
"You," Jason answered his own riddle, grinning. "When I land on your sorry butt." He remarked as he laughed at his own joke.
But as quickly as the victory felt real, the scene around him warped once more. The bright lights of the museum dissolved, and Jason was thrust into another memory. But there was something different this time around, this one felt different.
This memory felt different. There was a tension to it, a crackling energy that made the air around Jason feel heavier. It was a night of familiar conflict, one of those countless times he had butted heads with Bruce.
Their moral differences were like an ever-present rift, growing wider as time went on. One could say Bruce was the ever-calm protector, calculating and controlled, while Jason was the fierce and impatient kid who saw the world through a different lens—one that believed Gotham's worst criminals needed to face consequences— permanent consequences.
That night, they were targeting a drug gang holed up in an abandoned warehouse. The mission, though familiar, was about to go south fast.
The world around Jason felt thick with anticipation as they crept closer to the entrance of the warehouse. As they approached, the low murmur of voices and the occasional sound of metal scraping against concrete echoed from inside.
Everything felt still—too still. Then, like a cue, one of the gang members stepped outside for a cigarette. Jason's eyes snapped to him, his focus unwavering. The thug was an easy target.
The moment the thug saw him, his hand instinctively reached for his gun. The panic in his eyes was fleeting, but it was enough to ignite Jason's response.
"Don't move, or I'll—"
Jason didn't wait for him to finish the threat. "Or what? Shoot me?" he retorted, the sarcasm in his voice sharp and biting.
Before the thug could even bring the weapon into position, Jason was already in motion. His foot slammed into the thug's chest with brutal force, sending him flying backward through the warehouse door with a deafening crash. The other gang members, alerted by the sound, scrambled to grab their weapons, and the warehouse erupted into chaos.
Jason dropped to the ground in a perfect roll, his body moving instinctively, narrowly avoiding the hail of gunfire that streaked through the air above him. He didn't hesitate.
Springing up in a fluid motion, he reached for the nearest thug, his fingers closing around the man's collar before yanking him down into a brutal knee to the chin. The thug crumpled, his body going limp in Jason's grip. Without missing a beat, Jason propelled himself into the air, flipping onto a nearby table, his movements a seamless blend of speed and talent.
But the gang wasn't done. One thug, armed with a rapid-fire weapon, aimed directly at Jason. The muzzle flashed, but Jason was already moving.
He darted through the rain of bullets, evading the bullets as the fabric of his cape fluttered in the air like a blackened wing. In one swift motion, he hurled a small plasma disc at the thug's gun. The device sparked with electrical energy, paralyzing the man's arms and leaving him defenseless.
Jason was on him before he could react, taking the thug down with a quick strike to the chest, moving faster than most could process.
The fight was contained—at least for the moment. Jason approached the downed thug, his hands closing around the man's jaw, forcing him to look up at him. "Twenty rounds a second, and you were still too slow," Jason taunted, his voice low and mocking. His grip tightened for a moment, but before he could push further, a harsh voice sliced through the air.
"I'm not slow, punk!" The words were thick with anger. Jason turned to see an heavily weight man, his broad chest heaving as he raised a gun, aiming directly at Jason. There was no hesitation. The man fired twice, the shots ringing out in the silent night.
Jason swerved, his reflexes sharp, and dodged the first bullet. The second one grazed his shoulder, but the pain was nothing compared to the rush of the fight. "Me neither," Jason muttered, his voice low and laced with frustration.
Without wasting a second, he dove toward the shooter, closing the remaining distance in a heartbeat. Batman, always a step ahead, threw a Batarang that knocked the gun out of the man's hand before Jason could even land.
Jason's elbow shot forward with precision, a vertical strike aimed straight at the thug's right shoulder. The man's arm was outstretched, practically inviting the blow, and Jason didn't hesitate. His strike landed clean, the force of it driving through muscle and bone.
A sickening crack echoed in the air as the shoulder dislocated under the pressure. The thug staggered, his balance faltering as a guttural groan escaped him. The gun slipped from his fingers, forgotten in the dirt as he crumpled to his knees, clutching at the mangled joint.
"Robin!" Batman's voice rang out, sharp and filled with disapproval. It was the kind of tone that sent a chill down Jason's spine.
The memory once again shifted without warning, and Jason found himself back in the Batcave, the familiar hum of the Batmobile providing a dull backdrop to the tension in the air. He leaned against the car, his arms crossed over his chest, the expression on his face a mixture of defiance and frustration. Bruce was pacing in front of him, his movements tight, his jaw clenched.
"I had to take him down," Jason said, his voice cold as he tried to justify his actions. He wasn't apologizing—not yet.
"You shattered his collarbone!" Bruce snapped, his voice rising with irritation. "We needed him alive! He would've talked!"
Jason didn't flinch. He raised an eyebrow, unmoved. "He's a drug-dealing pimp. I didn't think I had to prop up pillows and mattresses before I took him out."
"We needed information," Bruce shot back, his tone laced with barely contained fury. "And you put him into shock."
Jason glanced down at the floor, a flicker of doubt creeping into his chest as Bruce's words sank in. "Sorry, that was dumb," he muttered, his voice softer now, acknowledging his mistake. But his belief still lingered, strong and unwavering. "But he deserved it," he added, his eyes meeting Bruce's for the first time, a challenge in his gaze.
Before he could leave, Jason's subconscious voice cut through the silence, a quiet whisper that echoed in his mind.
"See what you did there?"
The voice was lower now, almost conversational, but it carried an air of authority. A mirror version of Jason which one can only assume was his subconscious, manifested before him, stepping forward just slightly, creating an invisible line between them—one Jason was reluctant to cross. "Thugs like that are the rot festering in Gotham, Jason," it said, its tone cool and assured. "And deep down, you know you were right."
Jason's jaw tightened, his fists clenching at his sides as the words lingered. The accusation in his subconscious's voice was not new, but it felt sharper now, more personal. Still unwilling to accept the words of what seemed to be from his inner voice, he spoke up, his tone was neutral but defensive and sharp.
"For all the times I've questioned Bruce, you can't deny what he's done for the city," Jason shot back, his voice rising with the familiar heat of a well-worn argument. "Even with his flaws, he's done more good for Gotham than anyone else. And for the world."
The subconscious sighed, a long, frustrated sound, running a hand through its hair. It mirrored Jason's own frustration, the weariness evident in every motion. "You keep putting him on this pedestal," it said, its voice rising with intensity, "but it's time to face reality. Bruce isn't perfect. Hell, he's the furthest thing from it. He's part of the problem, Jason. He's part of what keeps Gotham in this endless cycle of decay."
Jason's mouth opened, ready to counter, but the voice pressed on, cutting him off with an intensity that left him no room to respond.
"Think about it," it said, leaning in closer. "How many lives has Bruce actually changed? How many criminals has he truly stopped? He fights the disease, but he refuses to cure it. And worse? He drags people like us into his crusade—kids who needed help, not spandex suits."
"I never wanted him to be perfect."
Jason's shoulders sagged, and the words caught in his throat. His voice faltered, losing the fire it once had. "I know Bruce and I don't agree on everything," he murmured, his words softer now, laced with doubt. "I get that. But he's still the only reason Gotham hasn't collapsed completely. He's—"
The words died in his throat, a faint tremor betraying the uncertainty that was starting to crack through his defenses. Even as he tried to defend Bruce, a small part of him wondered if it was the truth—or just a lie he told himself to keep moving forward.
The colour of the Batcave around him began to dissolve, its familiar shadows fading away to reveal a different memory. This one was darker, colder. The rain poured down in torrents, each drop hitting the ground like a drumbeat. Jason stood, watching a younger version of himself—Robin—arguing with Batman in the storm-soaked streets of Gotham.
"Why do we always have to let them go with a pointless punishment like Jail when we know they would just come right out and fall back into their way of crime? It's not enough to teach them a rehabilitating lesson." young Jason shouted, his voice raw with frustration. "They're just going to do it again when they get out!"
Batman stood firm, his silhouette towering over the drenched city, the cold light from the flickering streetlamps casting harsh shadows over his features. His voice was calm, but the finality in his words left no room for debate. "Because we follow the law, Jason. We don't decide who deserves a death penalty. That's not our job."
The memory shifted, molten and unstable, until Jason found himself on a familiar rooftop, crouched in the shadows like a ghost haunting his own past. He moved with the raw energy of youth, his movements quick and precise, taking down petty criminals with violent strikes that could leave each of them in critical conditions, going beyond Bruce's code of conduct.
"You always wanted to do more than just stop them," the voice of his subconscious rang out, cutting through the moment. "You wanted them to pay. You wanted them to suffer the consequence of their crime."
Jason's eyes followed the younger version of himself as he cornered a thug in an alley. The man trembled, hands raised in a desperate plea. "Please! Don't hurt me!"
But Jason's expression was cold, his fists clenched with quiet rage. "You deserve this," he growled before delivering a brutal punch. Blow after blow followed, the impact echoing through the alley. Batman's voice suddenly rang out from behind him.
"That's enough, Robin!" Batman barked, stepping forward to pull Jason away and memory came to an abrupt pause.
"Bruce couldn't save you from yourself because he tried enforcing his own belief upon you." it said, the words cutting deep. "I know all you've ever wanted was his love and acknowledgment, it had you continuously competing with his first and beloved first son, Dick-fucking-Grayson.
At the end of it all you ended up dead because of him, Jason. Because of his unreasonable choices. He brought you into this life, knowing the risks, knowing the pain it would bring. And what did it accomplish? Nothing. You died for nothing. And guess what? The cycle keeps going."
Jason's chest tightened, anger and sorrow mixing into a knot that threatened to choke him as he refused to accept the truth presented before him. "I know he saw loved me as much as he loved Dick." he said, his voice a shaky whisper. "I know, but… I just… I can't always see it sometimes."
The Batcave reappeared around him, cold and unfeeling. The familiar hum of the cave's machinery was absent, leaving only the weighty silence to fill the void. Shadows clung to every corner, seeming to grow darker with every echo of his subconscious's words.
"Now that that's sunk in, we can move on," his subconscious said, stepping back into the shadows. Its tone was calm, almost detached, but its presence lingered, a constant weight pressing down on Jason's shoulders as he struggled with his dilemma, turned between two parts of himself.
Before Jason could respond, the world shifted again. This time, he was floating, suspended in a vast, endless void once again. The darkness was oppressive, but it didn't feel like a prison. It felt like a blank canvas—a place where everything had been stripped away, leaving only the truth from his very soul.
After giving Jason enough time to self reflect, his shadow self materialized out of the void, a perfect reflection of himself, just as before.
"We've gone through your memories," it began, its voice steady but burdened with a sense of gravity. "We've dragged out the thoughts you've refused to confront and buried deep within yourself, under a pile of the lies you tell yourself as you sort acknowledgement.
And now it's time to face reality: like I said before, our death didn't change anything. We died for nothing, Jason. And Bruce? He's going to replace you. He always does."
Jason flinched at the words, but he forced himself to hold his ground. His voice wavered as he asked, "What are you saying?"
The eyes of his shadow self narrowed, its expression darkening. "You still don't get it, do you?" it asked, stepping closer. "The Bat family—it's not a family. It's a group of traumatized kids, thrown into the same cycle Bruce has been stuck in for years. And instead of helping us heal, instead of giving us a chance to be something more, he hands us a mask and a suit and throws us into his war against crime."
The words struck Jason like a physical blow. As it spoke, it's voice grew colder, sharper, each word laced with bitterness. "You were never more than a soldier to him. And now that you're gone, he'll train another Robin. Another kid, another life ruined. And the worst part? The cycle will never end."
Jason clenched his fists, his knuckles white. "It's only natural he gets himself another Robin," he shot back, his tone defensive. "Just as he made me his sidekick after Dick went off on his own. That's how it works."
His shado sneered, its expression twisting with disappointment. "Is that what you're telling yourself?" it asked, its voice dripping with disdain.
"That it's natural? That it's just how things are? Wake up, Jason. You're not a legacy. You're a replacement. A patch for the hole left by someone else. And now that you're gone, the hole you left will be patched too. Over and over, until there's nothing left but masks and the continued sequence of crime.
Jason opened his mouth to argue, but before he could speak, the void darkened further. The silence grew absolute, swallowing the world around him. Everything—the voice from his shadow self, the memories, even the faint echoes of his own breath—was gone.
He was alone now, suspended in the endless dark, his thoughts the only thing keeping him company.
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