Chapter Text
Jason comes back to Gotham with a plan, a grudge and a newfound urge to kill. Not necessarily in that order.
After the Pit, killing’s easy enough. Talia helps him through the worst of the effects. Teaches him how opening someone’s throat can curb the throbbing in his ears and the voice urging him to go even further. He figures that she learnt from watching her father recover each time, but Jason’s no Ra’s al Ghul. He’s not going to kill just anyone.
In the year and a half between coming back from the dead and returning to Gotham, he makes an effort to end the worst of the worst. A serial rapist in Hong Kong. A kid killer in Berlin. His proudest achievement is overhauling a human trafficking ring that stretches across nearly all of Eastern Europe, one that ends with Jason shooting the kneecaps out of the three brothers that run it and leaving them at the mercy of their former ‘produce’.
Point is, by the time Jason comes back to Gotham, he’s gotten pretty good at doing what he does. And he’s spent a great deal of time studying his old city in preparation. Re-learning how it ticks and what’s changed since he’s died.
It’s how Jason knows that Batman never killed the Joker after he died. How he’s been replaced by not one, but two new Robins since. And how he knows that there’s a new player on the board.
But really, Jason doesn’t think all that much of Timothy Drake in the months leading up to his return.
The kid’s name (because he’s only 19, holy fuck) pops up once or twice in intelligence reports Jason steals from an overseas ARGUS facility and a few more times in the local newspapers. As far as he can tell, the guy’s a former rich kid turned information broker, someone who seems clever enough to have his ear to the ground and keep ahead of both the law and the Bats. But has never done anything big enough to warrant focus.
Jason’s got more important targets. Namely, the Penguin and Black Mask, who are in the thick of a gang war that involves most of Old Gotham. It’s where Jason’s going to strike first, how he plans to begin his one-man war on crime and slowly take over Gotham’s criminal underbelly. It’ll be how he shows Bruce that his methods are wrong, and that pieces of shit like Cobblepot and Sionis deserve to die.
Like the Joker, too.
Except that his intel on the current state of the city must be out of date at best, because by the time he returns to Gotham, Timothy Drake owns at least a third of it.
It doesn’t become apparent at first. Jason mainly sticks to Old Gotham, where he knows Sionis and Cobblepot are biding their time and recouping their forces after weeks of gang fights and shoot-outs. It’s also convenient in that it’s the furthest out from Wayne Manor and the Batcave. Far away from Bruce and Dick, instead near the main patrol root of the new Batgirl.
To be fair, she’s good, but Jason’s better. So he doesn’t have much problem dodging this new blonde iteration at night as he sets about putting his plan in motion.
Taking out a group of Black Mask’s top enforcers is easy enough, in the end. Jason interrupts one of their ‘secret’ meetings after tailing one of them, and then open fires and kills them all in under a minute.
After that, he knows there’ll be extra attention from the Bats on Old Gotham, especially after the prior period of inactivity.
So Jason hightails it up to Somerset, which as far as he knows is relatively unclaimed, with the exception of Poison Ivy holding out in Robinson Park. It makes the rest of the area prime targets for the more batshit rogues whenever they escape from Arkham. But more importantly, it gives Jason free territory to claim a vantage point to assess Batman in action with the new Robin.
The newest Robin, who’s a total brat by the looks of things. It’s clearly Damian Wayne, the recently discovered biological son of Bruce (there’d been a hell of a conversation with Talia when Jason had found out from a newspaper about him). Again, the kid’s skilled, Jason can already tell. But he lacks any sort of restraint and clearly has no respect for the chain of command.
It irks Jason, if he’s being honest. Blondie Robin-turned-Batgirl, he could maybe have gotten to terms with as his first replacement. But this entitled, loudmouth brat that’s only where he is because he’s Bruce’s blood?
Jason’s never wanted to beat someone to a pulp so badly.
So he does.
To be fair, the brat attacks him first. But Jason also doesn’t hold back at incapacitating him.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he’s aware it’s the head of a twelve-year-old that he bashes into the side of a wall, but that’s buried under all the red he’s seeing and the blood pounding in his ears.
He leaves the new Robin broken and unconscious for Daddy to find, and when Jason returns to his safehouse, he pretends that he can’t see the green shimmering in the reflection of his eyes.
It’s a low point for him, one of the lowest. Jason’s anger is with Bruce, not Damian Wayne. He forces himself to refocus back on the growing unrest in the criminal world.
He needs to work on overthrowing the underworld from the inside. Take out the leaders and show Bruce that killing worked.
Except that Jason’s still bubbling with the aftershocks of losing control with Damian, too pent up with energy to sleep even though it’s past 3am.
It’s a problem he usually fixes one of two ways, and after the shit he just pulled with the Bats, Jason knows going back out on patrol is out of the question.
So, option two it is.
The guy he picks up at the gay club down the end of the street is nothing special. They end up fucking in the next alley over, mostly just because Jason’s got guns and combat gear all over his apartment. No way in hell is he letting someone back in there.
Jason has dressed down for the occasion- a ratty pair of ripped jeans and a non-combat ready leather jacket. He bends the guy over the back of a dumpster (classy, he knows, but at least it’s closed and empty) and sets about pounding any residual Lazarus fuckery away.
The sex isn’t good. In fact, it hasn’t been great since Jason’s come back from the dead (not that he had much of a benchmark before that), and he can’t work out why. There’s pleasure, of course, but other than that it just feels… empty.
Fucking has never done as well for calming the Pit as killing does. But even beyond that, Jason feels like he’s missing something.
After he’s finished, he throws the condom away and steps back to pull a cigarette out of his pocket, balancing it between his lips as he lights it. The other guy stumbles to pull up his pants, and as he turns around, Jason properly clocks his dilated pupils for the first time.
… Wonderful.
“You got anything harder?” The guy says, gesturing at Jason’s dart.
Jason’s always hated drugs, ever since he was a kid. But the pit rage has ebbed enough now, so he just rolls his eyes and focuses on not crushing this dude’s head in. “No. Get your own fucking gear.”
“I tried, bro, believe me. Prices are jacked these days now.”
Ignoring the fact that the guy he fucked is clearly high on something still, Jason homes in on the cue and integrates it with what he’s already come to find about recent drug trade.
“Yeah, I’ve been hearing the same. You know the reason why?”
The guy shrugs. “Boss says it’s the new guy in the game. He’s got relations abroad, apparently. Been drying up supply lines and making life shit for everyone.”
Jason doesn’t get much of a chance to ask more after that, because the guy (who’s probably working for Sionis, Cobblepot or some other lowlife) gets bored and wanders off in his drug-addled haze. So Jason just smokes alone, ruminating over what he’s just found out, in addition to the recent shifting of power through the city.
Timothy fucking Drake.
It’s the only answer Jason can come up with. Because after going back over everything he has on the current gangs (and beating the shit out of a few Falcone thugs), no one else lines up. Black Mask doesn’t have the overseas connections, and Cobblepot’s never really been one for drug trading. Falcone and Maroni have already lost too much standing as it is, and from what Jason understands, no one outside of Gotham wants to trade with Two-Face because he’s fucking bonkers half the time.
And after ruling out a few other small-time possibilities (Great White Who?), Jason’s left with the Ivy League-educated, pretty boy prodigy turned information runner. Someone who’s name is always there as an afterthought, but popping up just a little too frequently to be forgotten completely.
It’s only a hunch at first. But after checking back over the ARGUS report (and stealing a few more documents from their Gotham facility), Jason realises that the data on Drake is full of inconsistencies. Gaps in time here, contradictions there.
Shit that you wouldn’t notice unless you’re looking for it. And now that Jason is, he finds himself shaking his head in frustration that he didn’t catch it the first time.
The little shit’s playing them all, he can tell already.
So instead of scouting out the next Black Mask stronghold he was due to bust, Jason spends the next day tailing Drake around town.
The fucker doesn’t even try to stay hidden. He just struts around the streets of the Diamond District in plain daylight, seemingly without a care in the world. All Drake seems to do is meet people, going in and out of different high-rise company buildings all day.
It’s probably how he has so many contacts, Jason realises.
He’s almost curious as to how the guy’s managed to stay off the Bat’s radar all this time. That is, until Drake finishes his day off by marching straight into the main lobby of Wayne Enterprises.
Jason is left half-stunned, half-seething at the gall of the kid. And at Bruce’s ineptitude for not having pinned him down yet.
Whatever. At least Jason has some idea that Drake’s actually up to something, now. He finishes off the day by beating up a few muggers in Crime Alley and shooting the kneecaps out of a Penguin enforcer, before getting ready for that night.
The thing is though, Jason’s never really been one for subtlety. Even back when he was Robin. And after a day of all this stealth shit he hates, he’s itching for a good old fashion show of force.
He still scopes out Drake’s penthouse suite before crashing through the window.
The guy’s clearly an arrogant moron, because there’s not a single guard on the premise.
Drake himself is reclined on an overly massive sofa as Jason smashes in, a glass of red wine in his hand. The suit jacket and tie from that day are missing, but other than that he hasn’t bothered changing, shirt slightly crumpled and unbuttoned at the top.
And as Jason lands on one knee amongst shattered glass, Drake’s eyes shoot wide in surprise, the man standing up in alarm.
Jason’s already standing up and pointing a gun at Drake’s face. And while he has just spent the whole day tailing Drake, he hasn’t properly realised until now just how young the guy looks.
Those same youthful, innocent features blink up at him. “You’re new.”
It’s not phrased as a question.
Jason doesn’t bother replying to that. Instead, he takes a few steps towards his new friend. “I’m afraid this isn’t gonna end well for you, Mr. Drake.”
In truth, the words are mostly a scare tactic because Jason hasn’t actually decided if he’s going to kill the guy yet. Before the last few seconds, it’d been a ‘probable yes’ in his head. But now he’s reassessing things.
Because Drake is surely just a snobby rich kid, graduating from school young because of his money and probably buying his college degree much in the same way. An asshole, yes, but someone who’s gotten to where they are right now on privilege and not criminal prowess.
Trading information (and probably drugs too) with trust fund money was bound to have gotten this asshat caught sooner or later. So really, Jason’s doing him a mercy by arriving before Black Mask or Cobblepot or god knows who else.
Drake blinks at him, eyes focused on the gun pointed between his eyes.
Then he licks his lips.
“Not yet.”
Admittedly, Jason falters, because that reply doesn’t make sense as a response to his threat. “The fuck are you on about?” He sneers through his helmet.
“Hmm? Oh, don’t mind me,” Drake replies smoothly, still showing absolutely now signs of fear. Only… interest. “What are you here for again?”
Ah, so he was one of these guys again. The type that plays tough to try and throw Jason off his game. All bark and bite until they actually realise there’s no saving themselves, upon which they’ll devolve into a pathetic, begging mess.
Jason’s not playing that game tonight. He takes a few more steps forward, until there’s only the sofa that Drake had been reclining on earlier separating them.
“A little birdie told me you’ve been taking over the drug game,” Jason settles for eventually, after Drake’s stayed silent. “I guess you could say I’m coming to rectify that.”
After a beat, Drake nods slowly, almost as if to himself. “I see. And exactly which person are you working for? I’d like to know who’s ordered my death before I go, if that’s okay with you.”
Okay… it’s getting a little odd now.
Jason’s gotten pretty good at reading hidden emotions, but as far as he can tell, this guy’s giving nothing away. Unlike so many of the crazies in Gotham, Drake’s apparently sane and not worthy of a stay at Arkham, but right now he’s giving off some slightly unhinged vibes.
Which leaves Jason with two options. Amp things up with more threats and maybe even torture, or just cut his losses and execute the fucker.
And Jason’s had a long day. He can’t be fucked pulling fingernails.
“Sorry, short stuff,” he drawls, relevelling his gun and pulling back the safety. “I don’t kiss and tell.”
Jason gives him one more chance, before pulling the trigger. Just in case he’s going to crack.
Except Timothy Drake doesn’t crack. He just rolls his eyes. The side of his mouth curls upward.
“Okay fine. Do it now I guess.”
Jason’s glad he’s wearing his helmet, because it hides what’s probably visible confusion on his features. Is this nutter actually… asking to be shot? Shit, maybe he does deserve to go to Arkham.
In a few seconds though, Jason will realise that Drake was never talking to him.
The world explodes around him. A blur of black and red, before something thick and hard wraps around his neck. Jason only gets a second to realise that it’s a hand before he’s losing the ability to breathe, being met with bright red orbs that are glaring heat all over him.
Reacting quickly, Jason goes for the taser he keeps in one of his leg gauntlets. Except he’s not standing on the ground anymore. His legs kick against nothing, and Jason’s stomach lurches from the shock of it all.
And then he goes up.
Jason gets one final look at Drake’s satisfied smirk before he’s being pulled out of a hole in the side of the building. A hole. In a fucking high-rise building.
The grip around his neck is like a vice, holding him tight and suffocating him as he’s dragged up higher and higher, until the wind’s whipping around them and Jason can finally get his bearings.
The bright red orbs are eyes… heat vision eyes.
If Jason could talk, he’d be swearing. Because somehow, Timothy Drake has fucking Superman answering his calls. But then face in front of him twists into a furious scowl. Anger radiates off the man that makes Jason want to shrivel, and he realises it’s not Superman.
“Another fucking moron,” not-Superman hisses at Jason, too jagged and cynical for what should be expected. “Gotham never learns, does it?”
Even if Jason’s vocal cords weren’t currently being crushed, he wouldn’t be able to answer. He’s that terrified.
Just when he’s sure he’s going to have a hole burnt through his head, not-Superman’s head jerks to the side and the light in his eyes die down.
There’s a brief moment of nothing, a moment that Jason will realise later is from not-Superman listening to Drake back down on the ground.
And then everything goes crazy again. The glittering lights of the Gotham skyline become whirling lines from the speed of their descent. Jason has only a second to panic about what’s going to happen before he’s rolling along the ground.
After a brief few seconds of pain (which has definitely been reduced in some way by not-Superman holding short of outright dropping him), the world stops spinning enough for Jason to regain his equilibrium.
He’s back in the goddamn apartment. Drake is now in the kitchen, pouring himself another glass of wine.
“Oh yeah, I probably should’ve mentioned the Kryptonian, right? My bad,” he says with a mockingly fake wince, eyes alight with what can only be described as mischief.
Somehow, Jason still has his second gun holstered against his thigh. And right now, all he can think about is ending this monster before he can destroy the world or something with the help of his pet.
But as soon as he whips it up to fire a shot without hesitation, there’s a hand over the barrel of the gun, stopping the bullet short.
“Really?” Not-Superman says with a patronising sneer. Now that he’s no longer burning the heat vision eyes, Jason can tell that whoever this is, they look slightly different to the real Superman. A fair bit younger. Plus a real douchey undercut and too many ear piercings.
But then all Jason sees and feels is pain. The world erupts around him.
It takes a few seconds to realise he’s been punched in the face, not-Superman obviously holding back again, because he’s not dead. Instead, Jason sees stars and feels cold air, the shattered remains of his helmet all over the floor on front of him.
He’s being toyed with. Treated like a plaything and he’s going to fucking die again.
By the time Jason can see straight, Drake has made his way out from around the island bench of his kitchen. The filled glass of wine is left behind on the marble benchtop. Instead, Drake has his hands in his pockets, picking his way through the destroyed remains of the window (or wall?) not-Superman’s smashed through.
That same infuriating smirk is still gracing his features.
“Now let’s try this again, shall we? Who sent you?”
The silver lining of his helmet being smashed to pieces is that Jason can now spit blood onto the floor in front of him. “Go to hell.”
“Classy,” Drake snorts. “Good to know I’ve got another cliché on my hands. Which means anyone could’ve hired you, because you’re clearly not very good at your job.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake, Tim,” not-Superman barks from the sidelines. He’s inspecting his fingernails like a fucking teenage girl. “Either kill him or I will.”
Drake blinks in surprise, glancing not-Superman’s way for a moment before turning back to Jason. “You’ll have to forgive Kon, he’s usually not this… snarky. Between you and me, I think he’s going through a phase.”
Not-Superm- Kon doesn’t say anything in response to that, leaving Jason glaring absolute daggers at them both as Drake gets closer. His head is still spinning. But he’s pretty sure there’s no way out of this. Not with a Kryptonian here like some sort of twisted guard dog, standing back and letting Drake do all the talking.
How the fuck has Bruce not clocked in on this shit, happening in his own city?
Jason’s going to die. Again. Fine, he has it coming.
But he’s sure as hell not going out under the pretence of being some hired gun.
“I wasn’t hired,” he growls eventually. Drake stops short.
“Oh?”
“I… I wanted to know how you stopped the offshore drug shipments.”
Jason’s head has lolled to look at the floor, but now that he jerks it back up, he can see that Drake is watching in keen interest. He has a bemused expression gracing his features.
“Really?” He says after a beat. “I have to say, I didn’t see that coming. Sionis has been up my ass lately, I figured you were his latest attempt.”
“I’d never work for scum like that,” Jason spits, before he can stop himself.
Drake just nods slowly. “So then what are you working for, Mr. Hood. To what do I owe the pleasure of being tailed all day for?”
… Shit.
Of course Drake would know who he is, and have been expecting this. He has a fucking Kryptonian on a leash.
Which just leaves Jason floundering even further. Even aside from superpowered lapdog standing guard, he doesn’t think he’s ever have been even-footed against Timothy Drake.
“I…” Jason falters, before steeling himself. He’s dead anyway. “I wanted to take down crime in Gotham from the inside.”
There’s a beat of silence. Jason realises how lame he sounds, now that he’s heard himself.
Kon snorts and rolls his eyes. But Drake just frowns.
“Take down crime? How incredibly boring.”
Drake resumes closing the distance toward him. But just as Jason’s sure that his death is going to be signalled for, the other man falters.
And Jason watches in real time as confusion, and then realisation, graces Drake’s face.
“Kon… take off his domino for me,” Drake orders slowly. All pretence of composure is gone.
Jason doesn’t really process what’s going on. He’s still slumped on the floor and reeling, both from the blow to the head and his imminent death.
Then Kon’s blurring into place with super speed, next to Drake’s side a moment later. He’s looking at his boss (master?) in confusion.
“What?”
“He’ll have the mask electrified, as a last line of defence,” Drake answers, still looking like he’s seen a ghost. “Take it off.”
He’s totally right too. The domino mask Jason wears under his helmet as a precaution is booby-trapped. But it means nothing to a Kryptonian, obviously, and a moment later Kon is stepping forward to pinch the corner of Jason’s mask, peeling it off his face in the next instant.
Jason blinks against the open air, and Drake steps back in shock. His carefully constructed façade is gone.
“You’re… supposed to be dead.”
Before Jason can even begin to process the abject horror of Drake’s implications, the other man signals something to Kon. And then a Kryptonian fist comes straight for him.