Work Text:
There’s a trend that he’s noticed. Once he resolved things with his ‘family’, started working with them, stopped resorting to knee capping every type of scum that deserved it, there was less fear. Less people afraid of him, afraid of the mask, of everything when he tore through Gotham and what he became.
People aren’t scared anymore. They’re hesitant, yes, but not the gut wrenching fear he used to see. They don’t run and hide from him anymore. In fact, he’s heard them mumble with one another. Things such as he won’t kill you or he’s a softy.
Unfortunately for them, he’s more than happy to give them a reminder.
What better subjects for his reminder than traffickers.
The boat came in less than an hour ago, pushed to the dock by tug boats, cranes waiting for its arrival. Filled to the top with shipping containers, Hanzi characters across the side. Several of them missing, most likely tossed overboard during harsh storms. Sinking to the bottom of the ocean, never to be recovered.
He wants to imagine they were cars, materials, other miscellaneous items. But a part of him knows better, it wouldn’t surprise him if people were in some of those containers. Never to be seen again.
It sickens him.
The cranes get to work, wires coming down to remove the top containers, placing them on the dock. It’s a long, tedious job, several days’ worth of work, men busy around the clock.
He watches it closely. Each hardhat, each vest, the operators, the supervisors, the little people. They move though containers like ants, trucks and forklifts weaving through the maze. Then he spots them.
Blending in well, clipboards in hand, arms waving through the air, vans disappearing through the towering walls of steel. He follows them, keeping high, away from flood lights, slipping through the shadows. They’re hidden from the main work, slipping cash to a few of the workers, workers that turn away, a blind eye as these people move toward a set of containers.
Rust drooling down the sides, doors squealing as they open. His jaw clenches, molars grinding as he watches them wave guns, and exiting from the darkness, are ragged looking woman and children. Clothes barely clinging to their skinny bodies, hair matted messes.
They shuffle from the container, legs chained. Some try to fight, some try to flee. But the men are stronger, and they are weak from weeks at sea. They catch them easily. Punish them relentlessly.
Years of practice keeps his hands away from his guns, feet planted. He needs more information before he can intervene. They’ll need to hold out just a little bit longer.
He watches them a while longer. Watches them get loaded into vans, and before the last ones are in, he heads down to ground level.
Keeping hidden, he heads toward the last van. No ones in the front two seats, all the men in the back. Their guns stay at their sides, relatively hidden from view. M16s, ARs, and other readily accessible assault rifles. Common enough that nobody would bat an eye when purchasing at your local gun store. They don’t have much in terms of firepower, but he can see the body armor. Bulky beneath their jackets and he wouldn’t doubt their effectiveness.
From the purchase history he’s been following, they have SWAT level gear. Wouldn’t be surprising when you’re dealing business in Gotham. And easier to get a hold of if you know the right people and pay the right price. Unfortunately for them, he came prepared.
Being a weapons expert has its perks. While normally he has his twin .45s, or 9mm Glocks, he picked a more expensive set of pistols to add to his armory. Setting him back almost six grand for the set, he is now the proud owner of two Desert Eagles. The ammo is a different story, one he won’t be inclined to tell even if they ask.
Even the best body armor in the city wont stop his bullet. But for scum such as these, he wont be aiming for the chest.
He easily slaps a tracker on the van and heads back to the shadows, toward his bike. He pulls up the map on his HUD, and with a silencer, exhaust wrap, and good muffler, trails them without being spotted.
The building is tucked away, caution tape and boarded up windows, ready to be demolished for something new. There’s already someone waiting, pulling the fence away, allowing the vans inside. He takes a backway, heading down a grimy alleyway, leaving his bike hidden from anyone wanting to take it for parts.
The flooring is… sketchy at best. Holes peering through the floors above, water dripping between, exposed rebar, walls cracked and mold clinging to everything it can. He can’t imagine anyone in their right mind taking residency in this place, even if their desperate.
The men are louder now, shouting orders, idle chitchat, and the distant whimpering of woman and children. He needs to make this quick. He sets up a text for GCPD. A tip with the exact location and description of what they’re going to find. Its set to send in ten minutes. Enough time for him to wrap this up and ease the girls.
He sets himself up in the would be rafters, watching everything with a birds eye view. However, there are a few factors that could turn this into a certified shitshow if he’s not careful. One; the cast on his arm, making his quickdraw less quick and more sloppy. Two; his fancy new pistols are not quiet, the first shot is going to give his position away in a heartbeat. Third; the girls will either get caught in the crossfire, or become hostages.
The only way to get this to work without it going to hell is one of two things. One; he takes out the closest guards near the girls, less likely for them to become hostages. Two; he waits for the men to put them where they need to and out of the way. There are cages of sorts, used to separate them by age, and other factors he won’t think about.
Option two is seeming to be the best, but there’s still the risk of them catching a bullet. Option one is a higher risk, the possibility of them become a hostage and the risk of them taking off once the shooting starts happening. If they take off there’s an even greater risk of them getting kidnapped again.
He takes a breath and waits. Option two. It leaves less time before the tip gets sent out, but it keeps them all in one place, especially once the cops arrive.
By the five minute mark, he’s getting impatient, anxiety starts to eat at him, watching the clock tick down in his helmet. It isn’t until seven minutes that the girls are sorted.
Now.
He takes a deep breath, pulls his guns, lifts and aims. They call the Desert Eagle a wrist breaker for obvious reasons, and as the guns crack one wrist snaps back, the other stiff and sending an electric spark of pain through his arm.
Men yell, words echoing through the building. He jerks as bullets tear through his position. Another shot cracks through the air, another man splattering across the ground. A fourth shot, a forth man. He jumps, hits the ground in a roll, hiding behind one of the vans. Bullets pocket the metal, tires bursting.
“It’s the Red Hood!” someone yells, and there. He can almost feel it, almost taste it. Fear.
He’s friends with the monster in his head now, uses it to his advantage, and he can feel it roaring.
There's a pause in the gunfire, enough for him to step out from the cover of the van and fire off two more shots. Two more men hit the ground. The others don’t fire, stumbling back, weapons shaking in their hands. He watches them curiously, head tilting slightly, lulling the pistols in their direction.
“Please,” one of them whispers.
His answer is simple. The man hits the ground, blood splattering his buddies.
One of them takes off, dashing for the exit. They don’t get far.
The last one stands there, gun up, shaking, trembling in his grasp. A lamb in the eyes of a wolf.
“Go ahead,” Jason goats. “Shoot me.”
The man swallows. “I have kids, please.”
“Yet here you are.”
“Please. I-I didn’t know.”
“Liar.”
“I-I’ll tell you everything! The buyers, the-the sellers! Everyone! Jus-“
Another crack and he hits the ground, blood pooling through the dilapidated floor.
He turns his attention to the girls, their terrified faces, huddling as far away from the carnage as possible.
“Are you-“
“Behind you!” one of them shouts and the hairs along his neck stand on end. Before he can turn, something smashes into his face, helmet shattering and he’s flying through the air, slamming into the wall.
Ribs crack, splinter, breath gone, blood tainting his tongue. He collapses to the ground, body on fire, everything rattling.
A voice goats, drowned out by the ringing in his ear. He tries to get up, arms shaking and he collapses again. His vision swims, everything doubles and triples. He tries again, getting his arm under him, barely able to get up before a boot slams down on his back, face hitting the ground with a whine.
“Holy shit!” someone says, and a hand is wrapping around his cast, lifting. “Been a long time since I’ve seen you in action. Seems like Wayne finally-“ he grunts and raging hot fire tears through his arm, the break practically echoing in his skull. “-let you off that leash of his.”
He’s limp, pain everywhere, arm throbbing, chest aching, breath wheezing. A hand grips the back of his jacket lifting him enough for fingers to grip his throat and lift him off his feet. His free hand weakly grabs at it, trying to pry away the fingers as they squeeze.
The man, a swimming mass he can’t distinguish through his rapidly fading vision, only tightens his grip. Now he really can’t breathe, gasping and fighting, boots skidding against the wall. The man chuckles, other hand grabbing his broken arm, and lifting. There’s nothing he can do when the man jerks and he can hear, feel, his elbow snap. There’s barely enough air to breathe but he uses the rest of it on a scream.
“Yup, that’ll keep you outta the way for a while,” he’s dropped, air racing back into his lungs and each cough and gasp has him whining and whimpering in pain. “Oh, and this for good measure,” a boot slams down on his hand, feeling like every little bone breaking. He grits his teeth, forehead digging into the dirt. Tears burning his eyes before darkness takes over, the distant sirens a lullaby.