The Man And The Hood

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

[The mountainside at an unholy hour of the morning]


The air grew thin as Jason Todd scaled the rugged mountain path, his muscles burning with every step. The icy wind whipped against his face, carrying the scent of pine and distant snowfall.

He could feel the weight of exhaustion settle into his limbs, but he pushed forward, fueled by the single-minded determination Ra's al Ghul had instilled in him during these grueling weeks of training.

The League of Assassins believed in resilience, both physical and mental, and Ra's was relentless in ensuring Jason embodied their principles. This wasn't just about strength; it was about survival.

His legs trembled with exhaustion as he reached the summit of the towering mountain, the path behind him a grueling climb of jagged rocks and sheer inclines. The cold bit at his exposed skin, the sun dipping low, painting the horizon in streaks of gold and crimson.

At the very top, amidst a small, clear plateau, a figure sat cross-legged. Ra's al Ghul, serene as ever, tended to a small flame he had conjured within a neat circle of stones. A simple iron pot rested atop it, steam curling upward as the faint scent of herbal tea reached Jason's nose.

Ra's glanced up at him, his green eyes calm but keen. "You're late," he said, his voice even, unhurried.

Jason dropped to his knees, panting, and let his head hang for a moment. "You didn't tell me this was timed."

Ra's chuckled, pouring tea into two small, delicate cups. "Every challenge is timed, boy, whether you are aware of it or not. Sit."

Jason dragged himself forward, lowering onto a patch of frost-laden grass opposite Ra's. The warmth of the fire was a welcome balm, and the fragrant tea felt almost too refined for the harshness of his journey.

"Here." Ra's handed him a cup, his movements deliberate and practiced. "Drink. It'll replenish your strength."

Jason eyed the tea skeptically but took it, the cup warm against his calloused fingers. He sipped, the taste earthy and grounding.

"You endure much," Ra's began, his tone thoughtful, "more than most would. The mountain tests your body, but what of your spirit? How do you fare, boy?"

Jason hesitated, his gaze falling to the tea swirling in his cup. "I don't know. Some days, I feel like I'm… no one. Just a shadow. A shell." He gritted his teeth. "I don't even know who I was before you found me. How am I supposed to keep climbing if I don't even know where I'm going?"

Ra's watched him, his expression inscrutable but not unkind. He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a gentler register.

"Memory loss is not merely the absence of recollection—it is the loss of one's own identity. I know the pain of that void, Jason. I have seen it in others, and I have walked its dark path myself."

Jason looked up sharply, searching the older man's face for any sign of falsehood. Ra's continued, his gaze steady.

"But," Ra's said, his voice gaining a subtle steel, "identity is not merely given—it is forged. And that, my boy, is what I offer you. Not just the restoration of what was lost, but the tools to shape who you will become."

Jason frowned, his fingers tightening around the cup. "And who am I supposed to become?"

"I see in you the makings of a man who could bring nations to their knees, a man whose very name will make his enemies tremble. But you must trust me. Trust in my training. Let me guide you, and in time, you will surpass even your own expectations."

Jason's lips pressed into a thin line. "Trust doesn't come easy to me," he admitted.

"I do not expect it to," Ra's replied. "But trust is earned, not demanded. And you will find that I am not without patience."

For a moment, they sat in silence, the crackle of the fire and the whisper of the wind the only sounds between them.

Jason stared into the flames, his mind a tumult of doubts and questions, but there was something steadying in Ra's words, a promise that felt like a lifeline.

Ra's set his cup aside, standing gracefully. He looked down at Jason, his expression softened with something almost paternal. "Rest here for a moment, boy. And when you are ready, descend the mountain. You climbed it once today, and you will climb it again tomorrow. Each step you take is another toward the man you are becoming."

Jason looked up at him, weary but resolute. "And if I fall?"

Ra's smiled, his eyes gleaming with something unreadable. "Then you will rise, as you have always done. That is what sets you apart, Jason. You rise."

Jason watched as Ra's turned and walked toward the edge of the summit, his form blending into the deepening twilight. Once again for the first time in a long while, Jason felt a flicker of something he couldn't quite name. Perhaps trust. Or perhaps the first stirrings of belief in himself.





***





Jason stood in the sparring hall, the clash of steel echoing around him as he worked through a kata. Sweat trickled down his back, his breathing steady but labored as he pushed his body to the limit. Every movement was precise, calculated—muscle memory kicking in even when his mind faltered.

Ra's was watching from a sidelines. Jason could feel the old man's pretense like a weight pressing on him, always assessing, always judging. Talia stood beside him, her arms crossed, her sharp gaze following Jason's every move.

He hated It. The way they looked at him like a puzzle to be solved, a tool to be sharpened and used. And yet, a small part of him—the part he hated even more—craved their approval. It wasn't the League he cared about; it was the idea that someone, anyone, might see something in him worth saving.

"Enough," Ra's said finally, his voice cutting through the room like a blade.

Jason halted mid-motion, lowering his sword as he turned to face the man. "What, no applause?" he asked, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

Ra's stepped forward, his hands clasped behind his back. "I can see the fruit of training with Shiva. You've improved," he said simply.

Jason snorted. "Gee, thanks, Dad."

Talia shot him a warning look, but Ra's remained unfazed. "Your progress is undeniable, Jason. But progress without purpose is meaningless. Have you given thought to what I proposed?"

Jason stiffened, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword. "You mean joining your little cult of balance and chaos? Yeah, I've thought about it."


"And?"

Jason hesitated, his eyes darting to Talia and then back to Ra's. "And I'm still not convinced. You talk a big game about balance, but all I see is a bunch of assassins playing god." He was willing to play the long game so he could actually earn Ra's al Ghul's trust before he joins the League.

Ra's smiled faintly, as if amused by Jason's defiance. "Balance is not always easily understood by those who are lost," he said. "But I am patient. You will come to see the truth in time."

Jason gritted his teeth, anger bubbling beneath the surface. "And what if I don't? What if I decide this whole 'League of assassins thing isn't for me?"

Talia stepped forward then, her voice calm but laced with warning. "You're free to leave, Jason. But you know as well as I do that you won't find what you're looking for out there."

Jason turned to her, his eyes narrowing. "And what is it you think I'm looking for?"

"Answers," she said simply. "To the questions you're too afraid to ask yourself."

Jason opened his mouth to respond, but the words caught in his throat. Because she was right. He hated how easily she saw through him, how effortlessly she peeled back the layers of anger and bravado to expose the raw, fractured pieces underneath.

Ra's stepped closer, his voice soft but commanding. "You cannot run from yourself forever, boy. The answers you seek are within you, but they will only reveal themselves when you are ready to face them. And I can help you."

- - -


[That Night]


Jason stood on the balcony of his chamber, staring out at the moonlit mountains that surrounded the fortress. The air was cold and crisp, the silence broken only by the faint rustle of the wind through the trees below.


He couldn't sleep. Couldn't shut off the endless loop of thoughts in his head.


He leaned against the railing, his fingers gripping the cold stone as he replayed Ra's and Talia's words over and over again. 'What if they're right? What if I am afraid to face the truth?'


The door creaked open behind him, and Jason didn't need to turn around to know who it was.


"What do you want, shrimp?" he asked, his voice tired.


Damian stepped out onto the balcony, his arms crossed as he leaned against the wall. "You've been avoiding everyone," he said bluntly.


Jason sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah, well, maybe I just don't feel like being around a bunch of self-righteous assassins right now."

Damian smirked faintly. "Careful, Jase. Someone might think you're starting to grow a conscience."

Jason turned to glare at him, but there was no real heat behind it. "What do you want, Damian? Seriously."

The boy shrugged, his smirk fading into a more serious expression. "I wanted to see if you were okay and not planning to go on a psychotic killing spree when everyone goes to bed."

Jason blinked, caught off guard by the uncharacteristic sincerity in Damian's voice. "Since when do you care?"

"I don't," Damian said quickly, though the slight pink tint to his cheeks betrayed him. "But Mother and Grandfather seem to think you're important, so… I figured I'd make sure you don't do anything stupid."

Jason chuckled, shaking his head. "You're a terrible liar, kid."

Damian scowled. "I'm not lying."

"Sure you're not."

The two of them fell into a tense silence, the only sound the soft whistle of the wind.

After a moment, Damian spoke again. "Do you ever wonder who you were before all this?"

Jason hesitated. "Every damn day," he admitted quietly.

Damian glanced at him, his expression softer than usual. "Maybe you should stop running from it."

Jason looked at him, surprised by the wisdom in the boy's words. For all his arrogance and bravado, Damian had a way of cutting through the bullshit and getting to the heart of the matter.

"I'll think about it," Jason said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

Damian nodded, satisfied with that answer. "Good. Because if you keep sulking like this, I might actually start to feel sorry for you. And neither of us wants that."

Jason couldn't help but laugh, shaking his head as Damian turned to leave.

As the door closed behind him, Jason stared out at the horizon, the good thing about having no memories was the absence of the past garbage and self loath. It was only logical to focus on the present and work towards a future he would like to create for himself.

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

Jason awoke with a start, drenched in sweat. The dream was vivid and disjointed—a flash of a city skyline at night, the overwhelming scent of rain-soaked asphalt, and a voice, deep and warm but laced with an edge.

"You're not just some street kid anymore, Jason. You're Robin now."

His heart raced as the fragments began to slip away, dissolving into the fog of his subconscious. He gripped his head, groaning in frustration.

The voice—familiar and haunting—echoed in his mind. He didn't know who it belonged to, but something deep inside him stirred at the thought.

"Another nightmare, Jason?"

The voice snapped him back to reality. Standing in the doorway was Talia, her sharp gaze softening slightly when she noticed his state. She carried a tray of food, a rare gesture of care from someone usually so distant.

Jason rubbed his face and sighed. "Yeah, something like that."

Talia approached, setting the tray on the small table beside his bed. "Your mind is trying to tell you something," she said gently. "The Lazarus Pit does not simply heal the body—it alters the mind, dredging up what was buried. Memories, emotions… they're all there, do not force it and let them come to you."

Jason eyed her warily. "And what happens it doesn't? What if I'm better off not knowing?"

Talia studied him, her expression unreadable. "The past shapes who we are, Jason. Running from it will only make it harder to control what's inside you. That rage, that… bloodlust—it isn't just from the Pit. It's a part of you. And until you face it, it will control you."

He looked away. "You and your father love talking in riddles, don't you?"

Talia smirked faintly, but there was no malice in it. "We've had practice." She turned to leave but paused at the door. "If you ever wish to talk about your dreams… I'll listen."

Jason scoffed. "Thanks, but I don't think 'talking about my feelings' is going to fix what's broken."

Talia's voice was quiet, almost sad. "Perhaps not. But it's a start."

- - -

[Training with Ra's]

Every day, Jason went through the motions of training, each exercise designed to push him beyond his limits—mentally, physically, emotionally.

The repetitive routines gave him a sense of purpose, a reason to exist beyond the hazy fragments of a past he could not fully recall.

One morning, Jason found himself in the grand courtyard with Ra's al Ghul. The training session was more intense than usual, the geezer pushing him to his limits with a series of drills that seemed designed to frustrate him.

"Again!" Ra's barked as Jason struggled to land a proper counterstrike.

Jason growled under his breath, his muscles burning as he reset his stance. "You know, for a guy who preaches balance, you're really into grinding people into the ground."

Ra's smirked faintly, circling Jason like a predator. "Balance requires discipline, and discipline requires suffering. You cannot achieve one without the other."

Jason lunged, his blade slicing through the air, but Ra's sidestepped with ease. He retaliated with a sharp blow to Jason's ribs, sending him stumbling back.

"Your form is sloppy," Ra's said, his tone sharp. "It seems you are having a hard time applying Lady Shiva's lessons. You rely too heavily on brute strength. Combat is not about power—it is about precision and control."

Jason glared at him, wiping sweat from his brow as he contemplated the philosophy that was quite similar to that of Lady Shiva. "Funny, I thought combat was about winning."

Ra's chuckled, a rare sound that was almost fatherly. "And yet you lose, again and again. What does that tell you, my boy?"

Jason tightened his grip on his sword, the anger simmering in his chest. "It tells me you've had centuries to get good at this, old man."

Ra's raised an eyebrow, amused by Jason's defiance. "Perhaps. A journey of a thousand miles begins with a step, here is the initial point of your journey."

He got nothing an exasperated sign in response from Jason who just leaned over, arms rested upon his knees as he caught his breath.

- - -

[A Clash with Damian]



Later that day, Jason found himself back in the sparring hall, this time facing Damian. The boy was as arrogant as ever, his confidence radiating from him as they squared off.

"You've been distracted," Damian said, his wooden practice sword held at the ready. "I thought you were supposed to be this great prodigy Grandfather keeps talking about."

Jason smirked, rolling his shoulders. "And I thought you were supposed to be the 'perfect heir.' Guess we're both disappointments."

Damian's eyes narrowed, and he lunged without warning. Their swords clashed with a loud crack, the force of the impact reverberating up Jason's arm.

The fight was fast and brutal, both of them refusing to give an inch. Damian was quick, his strikes precise and calculated, but Jason had strength and on his side.

"You're slowing down, pip-squeak," Jason taunted as he parried a blow.

"And you're telegraphing your attacks," Damian shot back, ducking under Jason's swing and landing a quick strike to his side.

Jason grunted, the blow stinging but not enough to stop him. He retaliated with a powerful swing, knocking Damian off balance.

The fight escalated, the sound of wood clashing filling the hall. Damian's technique was nearly flawless, but Jason's unpredictable style kept him on edge.

Finally, Jason saw an opening. He feinted left, drawing Damian's guard, before sweeping his legs out from under him. Damian hit the ground with a thud, his sword skittering across the floor.

"Looks like I won. Again. Yield," Jason said, pointing his sword at Damian's throat.

Damian glared up at him, his pride clearly wounded. "Never."

Jason smirked. "Suit yourself." He tossed the practice sword aside and offered Damian a hand.

The boy hesitated before taking it, his grip firm as Jason pulled him to his feet.

"Good fight, pip-squeak," Jason said, clapping him on the shoulder.

Damian scowled. "You got lucky. Again"

"Maybe," Jason said with a shrug. "But I don't need luck to dominate you in a fight."

As Damian stalked off, muttering under his breath.

- - -


[Six months later]



Jason found himself in the expansive study that Ra's al Ghul often occupied—a room filled with ancient tomes, relics, and artifacts that told the story of a man who had lived lifetimes.

The scent of parchment and aged wood hung heavy in the air, mixing with the faint smell of incense that always seemed to linger wherever Ra's went.

Ra's sat at his desk, meticulously scribbling notes onto a scroll with a quill. His movements were fluid, deliberate, much like the way he fought. Jason watched him from the doorway for a moment before clearing his throat.

"You summoned me, old man?" Jason said, leaning casually against the doorframe.

Ra's didn't look up. "I thought it was time we spoke, boy. Come."

Jason stepped into the room, his boots echoing against the polished stone floor. He crossed his arms, waiting for Ra's to elaborate.

Ra's finally set the quill down and folded his hands on the desk. "Your progress has been… remarkable. It is no small feat to adapt to the techniques of the League as swiftly as you have."

Jason snorted. "Yeah, well, I didn't exactly have a choice. It was that or get left in the dust."

Ra's tilted his head slightly, his gaze piercing. "And yet, I see something more in you. Something beyond mere survival. There is a fire within you, Jason—a hunger that drives you, even if you do not yet understand it."

Jason shifted uncomfortably under Ra's scrutiny. "What's your point? You didn't call me here to stroke my ego."

A faint smile touched Ra's lips. "No, I did not. I called you here because I wish to prepare you for the path ahead. You have a strength that few possess, but it is unfocused. Wild. If left unchecked, it will consume you."

Jason clenched his fists, his voice edged with defiance. "Though I am not unworthy of such praises, I don't mind becoming a puppet if it means earning the League's trust." Jason's voice was thick with frustration, a mix of anger and uncertainty.

Ra's didn't flinch. His gaze remained steady, calm, as though he had expected this. "I never asked you to be a puppet, Jason. I asked you to be a leader. Someone who can rise above chaos and forge his own destiny.

But for that to happen, you must learn discipline, restraint. A great warrior does not only conquer his enemies—he conquers himself."

Jason's eyes narrowed. "You really think I can live up to your expectations?"

Ra's leaned back in his chair, considering. "I do. And that is why I have invested my time and resources into your training. You remind me of myself, once. Headstrong, rebellious, but with potential to shape the future of the League."

Jason wasn't sure what to make of that. Ra's always had a way of speaking in circles, his words shrouded in meaning and intention.

Was this another manipulation? A way to make him feel like he had no greater purpose but to follow in Ra's guidance?

Even if, he wouldn't mind following it.

Still, there was something about Ra's that felt different from the others. The old man was a master of power and control, yes, but when he spoke of Jason's potential, it didn't sound like an empty promise.

Jason had been given second chances—more than he deserved—and Ra's had never been one to waste resources on people who wouldn't contribute.

"You really see something in me?" Jason asked quietly, his skepticism and self doubt slipping into his voice.

Ra's looked him in the eye, his expression unreadable. "I see a future, Jason. A future in which you surpass all those who came before you by reaching heights they could only dream of."

Jason felt a stirring deep within him. Something long buried—his own ambition, perhaps? It was unsettling how Ra's made it sound like he had a place in this vision of the future. A place beyond just being a broken tool that needs fixing.

Before he could process his thoughts further, the door to the study opened. Talia entered, her presence as commanding as ever, though her gaze softened when she saw Jason.

"Am I interrupting something?" Talia asked, her voice light but carrying an edge of curiosity.

Ra's gave a small, approving nod. "Not at all, my daughter. I was just discussing Jason's progress."

Jason met Talia's eyes, surprised by the lack of judgment in her expression. Talia had been aloof, lately. Mainly because she has been off base a lot, doing top priority League stuff.

It was as if she existed in a different world. But today, there was a subtle warmth in her demeanor since her return.

"Progress, hmm?" she mused, walking over to Jason. "I'm curious to see just how far that 'progress' will take you. Father speaks highly of you, but the League is a place where only the strongest survive." She paused, as though considering something.

"You've managed to prove yourself in combat. But can you now handle the pull of your bloodthirsty nature and violent tendencies… when it resurfaces mid battle?"

Jason flinched, the question catching him off guard as he was unable to give any kind of response to that.

Ra's eyes gleamed with quiet approval. "She speaks the truth. The strength to control your chaotic mind is just as important as the strength to control your body."

Jason's gaze flicked between the two of them, his throat tightening. "You both want me to be this perfect… whatever. I'm not that guy, alright? I don't have the answers. Fuck it, I don't even have the memories of who I was." His voice softened. "So what the hell does that leave me with?"

Talia stepped closer, her tone softer than before. "It leaves you with the choice to rebuild, Jason. To carve out your own path—one that is not defined by your past mistakes or the people who tried to control you." Her eyes locked with his, and for a brief moment, there was something almost like… understanding.

Ra's spoke next, his voice low but firm. "We are not here to dictate who you should be, Jason. We are here to give you the tools to be who you could be. The question, as always, is whether you are willing to embrace them."

Jason stood there for a long moment, the weight of their words sinking in. His entire life had been a series of fractured moments—loss, violence, survival—but now, standing between Ra's and Talia, he felt a strange sense of belonging.

They weren't offering him answers or absolution. They trusted him enough and were offering him a chance to be part of their mission.

He finally spoke, his voice low and uncertain. "I'm not sure I can be what you want me to be, but I'll do my best."

Talia's eyes softened even further, and Ra's gave him a knowing look, one that seemed to say he had expected this.

"Then let us help you discover what you can be," Talia said quietly.

Ra's nodded. "All in due time, boy. All in due time." With that, he dismissed Jason for the day.

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

The compound was a fortress of stone and steel, nestled deep in the heart of a jungle that seemed to breathe with a life of its own. The air was thick with humidity, clinging to my skin like a second layer.

The scent of damp earth and rotting vegetation mixed with the acrid tang of burning wood from somewhere in the distance. The jungle was alive with the hum of insects and the occasional rustle of unseen creatures moving through the underbrush.

The moonlight filtered through the dense canopy above, casting eerie shadows that danced across the ground like specters.

The compound itself was a sprawling structure, its walls weathered and cracked, covered in creeping vines that seemed to claw their way up the stone as if trying to reclaim it for the earth.

I moved through the shadows like a wraith, every step calculated, my breathing steady despite the oppressive heat. My dark getup blended seamlessly with the night, the only sound the faint rustle of leaves beneath my boots.

The League had trained me well—taught me to become one with the darkness, to move unseen and unheard. I was becoming a predator, and this jungle was my current hunting ground.

As I approached the outer perimeter, the first guard came into view. The man was stationed near the treeline, his rifle slung casually over his shoulder. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes scanned the darkness with a sharpness that betrayed his vigilance. I crouched low, my fingers brushing against the damp leaves beneath me. I took a deep breath, steadying myself. One step. Two. A flash of silver in the moonlight.

The guard crumpled without a sound, my blade slipping across his throat with the precision of a surgeon. Blood steamed in the cool night air, pooling silently in the earth as the man's body hit the ground.

I didn't pause. I moved forward, taking down sentries one by one. Quick. Efficient. No wasted movement. No mercy. Just like Ra's and Lady Shiva had taught me.

By the time I reached the compound's core, my heartbeat had settled into a steady rhythm. The mission was straightforward: infiltrate, eliminate, disappear. But then I saw it.

The room adjacent to Khalid's quarters was small and dimly lit by a single, flickering lantern. The air inside was thick with the stench of sweat, filth, and fear.

Chains rattled against the walls as the occupants shifted—children, no older than twelve, gagged and bound, their eyes wide with terror. The oldest among them, a girl with matted hair and hollow eyes, flinched at the mere sight of me.

A cold rage seeped into my bones, tightening my grip on my knife until my knuckles turned white. I had heard Khalid was a monster, but this? This was something else entirely. This was rot, a cancer that needed to be cut out. My jaw clenched as I turned away, stepping back towards Khalid's room.

Cautiously peeping through the window, I spotted a warlord, hunched over his desk, poring over maps and documents. He was alone. Vulnerable.

The window was wide open, so there wasn't a need for the lock picking tools I had brought with me.

I moved soundlessly behind him, blade poised. This would be over in seconds.

But then—a noise.

A rustle behind me.

My instincts flared as I turned to see a cat jump out the window, but it was too late.

Khalid turned, his face contorting in shock. "Who are you?!" he barked, his voice sharp and panicked.

I didn't waste words. I lunged, knife flashing toward Khalid's throat. A clean kill.

Except it wasn't.

Something massive intercepted my strike, blocking the blade with inhuman speed. The force of the impact jolted my wrist, sending a shockwave of pain up my arm. I staggered back, my knife clattering to the floor.

Then I saw him.

The bodyguard was a mountain of a man, his skin dark and almost stone-like, muscles straining beneath his flesh. His eyes glowed with a sickly, unnatural yellow. Not just a bodyguard.

Ra's had told me about people with extraordinary abilities and the guy in front of me was one of them, a metahuman.

Khalid smirked from behind his monstrous protector. "Did you think assassinating me would be that easy?" he sneered, his voice dripping with amusement.

I barely had time to move before the brute's fist slammed into my ribs. The force sent me crashing into a wooden cabinet, the air violently torn from my lungs. Pain exploded across my side as I rolled to avoid another crushing blow—one that shattered the wood behind me like brittle glass.

I scrambled to my feet, reaching for my backup blade. I slashed at the brute, but the steel barely left a scratch on the man's thick hide.

The bodyguard snarled, backhanding me with enough force to send me flying across the room. I hit the ground hard, my vision blurring at the edges. My ribs burned, my skull throbbed, and the taste of copper filled my mouth.

The bodyguard loomed over me, his massive frame casting a hulking shadow. "You're just another dead man who doesn't know it yet," the brute growled, his voice deep and guttural. "You should've never come here."

I spat blood onto the floor, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. "Yeah? Well, I'm here now, big guy. So let's dance," I shot back, my voice laced with sarcasm despite the pain.

The bodyguard moved, his fist screaming toward my face. I twisted, ducking at the last second. The air groaned as the fist missed me by inches, slamming into a stone pillar behind me. The entire column cracked on impact.

I used the moment to strike, lunging low with my knives. I aimed for the soft spots—the neck, the joints, the arteries. But the skin was like hardened steel. My blades barely made a dent.

The bodyguard snarled, backhanding me again. This time, I was ready, putting up my guard just before impact. The force still sent me flying, every fiber of my body screaming in protest. I hit the ground hard, my head swimming. The world blurred, darkening at the edges.

Above me, the bodyguard chuckled, his voice thick with amusement. "Not so tough now, are you?" he taunted, grabbing me by the throat and lifting me off the ground.

I choked, my vision swimming. My arms felt weightless, my legs dangling uselessly. Blood dripped down my forehead, blurring my sight as my body screamed in protest.

Khalid watched from the sidelines, a smirk playing on his lips. "You really thought you could take me down?" he sneered. "You're nothing."

The bodyguard threw me across the room, my body slamming into a wall with a sickening crunch. Pain lanced through my entire body as I dropped to the ground, my limbs refusing to move. My breaths came shallow, my mind racing.

I was losing.

The world around me flickered, the air growing still as if time itself had paused. Then—a voice.

"You are weak."

My blood ran cold. I knew that voice. It was my own, but not quite. It came from behind me, dripping with malice.

A figure loomed in the shadows, chains dangling from his wrists and ankles. I didn't need to turn around to see him. I knew exactly what he looked like.

"At this rate, you will end up dead. Permanently. And those children will be trafficked, raped by men five times their age," the figure sneered, his voice a mix of certainty and malice.

My muscles tensed. I could feel the overwhelming presence of the figure pressing down on me, like I might suffocate from it.

"You won't be able to protect anything, let alone save your own life," the voice continued, the sound of shifting chains echoing as the figure stepped closer.

"Look at me."

I clenched my jaw. "No."

"You know very well that you need me."

An arm reached toward me, the faint rustling of metal ringing in my ears. The figure leaned in, like a devil whispering into my ear.

"Hey… Just accept me."

The voice turned into a manic chant. "Come on, come on, come on, come on—"

"SHUT UP!" I roared, snapping back to reality.

I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to focus. I had spent months training under the League, learning to control my mind, my body, my emotions. But there was a part of me—something deep, something feral—that refused to be tamed. And now, as I lay bleeding, my enemy looming above me, I felt it stir.

Khalid raised an amused brow. "Still alive?" he taunted.

I wiped the blood from my mouth, ignoring Khalid. The bodyguard launched himself into the air, fist raised, aiming to break me beyond repair.

I barely had time to roll away before the bodyguard's fist slammed into the ground where I had just been. The impact sent a shockwave through the floor, shattering the tiles and sending dust and debris into the air.

A crater formed beneath the man's knuckles, a stark reminder of just how much power was packed into those monstrous fists.

Khalid's voice cut through the haze. "Finish him off."

I felt the guard's bloodlust in the air before I saw it. The bodyguard's shadow loomed over me, a giant poised to bring down the killing blow. I forced myself to move.

My body screamed in protest as I rolled just as a foot came down, missing my skull by mere inches. The force of the stomp cracked the floor beneath me.

Faster than before, sharper. My muscles screamed in protest, but my mind was clear, my senses heightened. This was either a good sign, or a very bad one.

But I did not care, I needed to survive and complete my mission.

I twisted away from the brute's reach and sprang to my feet. Before the guard could turn, I grabbed one of my fallen knives, but instead of aiming for flesh, I aimed for the man's eyes.

With a brutal thrust, I buried the blade deep into the socket.

The bodyguard howled, stumbling back as blood poured from the wound. Without hesitation, I yanked out the knife and rammed it into the other eye. The screams that followed were deafening.

The brute flailed, blinded, his massive hands swiping wildly at the air. I ducked beneath one of the swings and moved fast, grabbing a fallen firearm from a dead guard nearby.

I didn't hesitate. I emptied the entire clip into the man's skull at point-blank range.

The first few bullets barely cracked the skin. But I knew better than to stop. I aimed for the same spot over and over, hammering lead into the metahuman's skull until finally—finally—the bone caved.

With a sickening, wet crunch, the bodyguard's massive frame wavered, then toppled. His head hit the ground with a dull thud.

Silence.

I stood over the corpse, chest heaving, blood coating my hands. The room smelled of gunpowder, sweat, and death. My ears rang from the gunfire.

Khalid was still at his desk, frozen in place, his face pale.

I turned to him, eyes dark, jaw clenched. I was exhausted, barely holding myself together. But I wasn't done yet.

Not by a long shot.

Khalid bolted for the door.

I was on him in an instant.

The warlord barely made it three steps before I grabbed him from behind, dragging him back. I slammed Khalid face-first into the desk, knocking the breath from his lungs. The man gasped, struggling, but I held him firm.

"You're not going anywhere," I growled, my voice low and dangerous. "You've got a lot to answer for."

Khalid's eyes widened in fear as I tightened my grip, the cold steel of my blade pressing against the warlord's throat.

"Any last words?" I asked, my tone dripping with sarcasm.

Khalid opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.

He trembled, his bloodied face twisted in terror. "Please… I can pay you—"

I didn't let him finish when I grabbed Khalid by the hair and yanked his head back. With a swift, merciless motion,

I slit his throat.

The warlord gurgled, eyes wide with shock. Blood spilled down his front, soaking his clothes, pooling onto the floor. I let go, watching as Khalid slumped forward onto his desk, twitching, until he finally went still.

The room fell silent once more, the only sound the faint drip of blood hitting the floor. I stood over Khalid's lifeless body, my chest heaving.

And somewhere, deep within me, the voice of my darker self whispered, "You know you can't escape me."

Irritated by how overwhelming his presence was, I clenched my fists, pushing the voice aside. I had a job to do, and I wasn't done yet. The children were still waiting, and I wasn't about to let them down.

Not now. Not ever.

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

I turned away from Khalid's lifeless body, my boots squelching in the pool of blood that had spread across the floor. The metallic tang of it filled my nostrils, but I pushed the sensation aside.

There was no time to dwell on what I'd done. The children were still in the other room, bound and terrified.

I moved quickly, my body protesting every step. My ribs screamed with each breath, and my head throbbed where I'd hit the wall. But I ignored the pain. I'd endured worse. The League had made sure of that.


The door to the adjacent room creaked as I pushed it open. The children flinched at the sound, their wide eyes locking onto me.


The girl with the hollow stare—the oldest of them—shrank back, her chains rattling as she tried to press herself into the corner. I could see the fear in her eyes, the way her body trembled. She didn't see me as a savior. She saw me as another monster.


This part wasn't in my orders. I knew what Ra's had tasked me with: eliminate the target, leave no survivors. The usual cold, efficient mission. But I don't give a damn about orders anymore. Not when I could help these girls in the process. Not when I could make a choice.


I approached the oldest of them, a girl no older than thirteen. Her chains were heavy around her neck, arms, and legs, the cold metal a harsh reminder of her captivity.


"It's okay," I said, my voice low and steady. I kept my movements slow, deliberate, as I approached her. "I'm not going to hurt you."


She didn't believe me. I didn't blame her. After what she'd been through, trust was a luxury she couldn't afford. I crouched down in front of her, careful not to get too close, and pulled a small lock pick from my belt.


The chains around her wrists were thick, but the lock was simple. It took only a few seconds to free her.


She stared at me, her eyes wide and unblinking, as I moved to the next child. One by one, I unlocked their chains, my hands steady despite the pain coursing through my body.


The younger ones whimpered, their cries soft and broken, but they didn't resist. They were too exhausted, too broken, to fight.


When the last chain fell away, I stood and stepped back, giving them space. "We need to move," I said, keeping my voice calm but firm. "This place isn't safe. Can you walk?"


The oldest girl nodded hesitantly, her eyes never leaving mine. She helped the younger ones to their feet, her movements slow and careful.


They clung to her like she was their only lifeline, and maybe she was. I didn't know how long they'd been here, how much they'd endured, but I could see the strength in her. She was a survivor.


I led them out of the room, my senses on high alert. The compound was quiet now, but I knew better than to let my guard down. Khalid's men were dead, but there could still be stragglers, reinforcements, or worse. I wasn't taking any chances.


We moved through the halls, the children following close behind me. I kept my pace slow, matching theirs, but my eyes never stopped scanning our surroundings. Every shadow, every sound, set my nerves on edge.


Ra's mission might be over but mine wasn't over yet. Not until the kids were safe.


The jungle outside was just as oppressive as before, the air thick with humidity and the scent of decay. The moonlight barely penetrated the dense canopy, casting the ground in a patchwork of light and shadow.


I paused at the edge of the treeline, listening for any signs of movement. The jungle was alive with the sounds of insects and distant animals, but there was no sign of human activity.


"Stay close," I said, glancing back at the children. They nodded, their faces pale but determined. I could see the fear in their eyes, but there was something else too—a flicker of hope. They knew they were getting out.


We moved through the jungle, the underbrush crunching softly beneath our feet. I kept to the shadows, my eyes scanning the darkness for any threats.


The children followed silently, their small hands clutching at each other for support. The oldest girl stayed at the back, her eyes darting nervously over her shoulder. She was watching our six, whether she realized it or not. Smart kid.


The trek was slow, but we made progress. My body ached with every step, but I pushed through the pain. The kids needed me to be strong, to get them out of here. I couldn't afford to falter.


After what felt like an eternity, we reached the extraction point—a small clearing where a helicopter was supposed to pick me. I activated the beacon on my wrist, the signal blinking softly in the darkness. The pilot would see it. He'd come.


The children huddled together in the clearing, their eyes wide with a mixture of fear and hope. I stood a few feet away, my back to them, my eyes scanning the treeline. The jungle was quiet now, too quiet. It set my teeth on edge.


"Is someone coming?" the oldest girl asked, her voice barely above a whisper.


"Yes," I said, not looking at her. "They'll be here soon."


She didn't say anything else, but I could feel her eyes on me. She was studying me, trying to figure me out. I didn't blame her. I was a stranger, a shadow in the night who had appeared out of nowhere to save them. She had no reason to trust me, but she didn't have a choice.

The sound of rotor blades cut through the silence, growing louder with each passing second. I glanced up, relief flooding through me as the helicopter came into view. It descended slowly, the downdraft whipping through the trees and sending leaves swirling through the air.


I turned to the children, gesturing for them to stay back until the helicopter touched down. They nodded, their eyes wide with a mixture of awe and fear. The oldest girl stepped forward, her hand gripping the arm of one of the younger kids.


"What happens now?" she asked, her voice trembling.


"You'll be taken to the nearest town. You and girls would go to the police, they would take you home." I said, my voice firm. "You're safe now."


She stared at me for a long moment, her eyes searching mine. Then, slowly, she nodded. "Thank you," she whispered.


I didn't respond. I didn't know what to say. I wasn't a hero. I wasn't even a good person. I was just a man who had done what needed to be done.


The helicopter landed, and I helped the children board, my movements quick but gentle.


"Drop them off at the nearest town, then come pick us up." I said to the pilot, referring to the other who Ra's had sent to supervise me on this mission.


The oldest girl was the last to climb in. She paused at the door, her eyes locking onto mine.


"What's your name?" she asked.


I hesitated. "Jason," I said finally.


She nodded, her expression unreadable. "Thank you, Jason."


I didn't say anything. I just stepped back, watching as the helicopter lifted off and disappeared into the night sky. The sound of the rotor blades faded, leaving only the sounds of the jungle.


I stood there for a long moment, my body aching, my mind racing. The mission was over. The kids were safe. But the voice in my head—the one I'd been trying to silence—was still there, whispering in the back of my mind.


"You can't escape me."


I clenched my fists, my jaw tightening. Maybe I couldn't. Maybe that part of me—the darkness, the rage, the violence—would always be there. But for now, it didn't matter. I'd done what I came to do.

- - -

[General POV]

As he returned into the main area of the compound, he came face to face with the League member who had led the mission. The man was standing over the bodies, his expression unreadable as he surveyed the carnage. His eyes flicked up to meet Jason's.

There was a brief pause. The League member didn't say anything at first, just gave Jason a small nod. A silent acknowledgment of what had been done. It wasn't much, but Jason didn't expect much from them.

"We are done here," the League member said, his voice as calm as ever. "Time to regroup and head back to base."

Jason didn't respond immediately. He just nodded, his mind elsewhere. He followed the man out of the building, his thoughts churning as they walked. The mission had been successful, and now, the aftermath would follow. There would be questions, of course. But for now, he didn't care.

The world was full of scum—people like Khalid, like his guards, the ones who thought they were untouchable, who thought they could break others without consequence. But Jason had just put two of them down. He'd removed them from the equation. He didn't have a lot of respect for their kind, but he wasn't about to let them die without serving a purpose.

At least now, they'd serve a better one. "Fertilizer for the earth," he muttered to himself, a faint grim smile pulling at his lips. It wasn't poetic, but it was fitting. They were dead, and they wouldn't be forgotten. Not by him.

As they moved through the jungle, the humidity clinging to their skin, Jason couldn't shake the image of the girls' faces. The fear, the hope, the uncertainty. He knew he couldn't save everyone, but tonight, he'd made a difference. And for now, that was enough.

The League member glanced at him, his expression unreadable. "You did well," he said finally, his voice low. "But remember, emotions have no place in our work."

Jason didn't respond. He just kept walking, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts. Emotions might not have a place in their work, but they had a place in him. And tonight, they'd driven him to do something more than just follow orders.

- - -

Jason's body ached with every step as he made his way through the winding corridors of the League's mountain stronghold. The mission had taken its toll—his ribs burned, his knuckles were raw, and every muscle screamed in protest.

Blood, dried and fresh, clung to his uniform like war paint, a grim reminder of the battle he had just survived. The wounds he had sustained weren't just physical.

The voice. That—thing—he had seen, had felt, was still lingering in the back of his mind, like a shadow refusing to fade. But he shoved it down, burying it beneath layers of exhaustion and discipline. Whatever it was, it was his problem. Not Ra's.

Not yet.

The grand hall of the stronghold was dimly lit, torches casting flickering light against the cold stone walls. The scent of incense and aged parchment filled the air, mixing with the ever-present scent of blood and steel.

The League was always in motion—figures moved in the shadows, whispers of assassins exchanging information, the clinking of weapons being sharpened. It was a place of discipline, of purpose. A place where weakness had no place.

Jason had learned that the hard way.

At the end of the hall, standing like a statue carved from marble, was Ra's al Ghul. The Demon's Head.

His piercing green eyes met Jason's as soon as he stepped into the room, as if he had sensed his presence long before he arrived.

Ra's stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his posture regal, his expression unreadable. Beside him, Talia watched in silence, her gaze sharp, assessing.

Jason strode forward, his movements precise despite the pain gnawing at his body. He stopped a few feet away, lowering to one knee in a practiced gesture of respect.

"It is done." His voice was steady, but there was an undercurrent of exhaustion beneath it.

Ra's studied him for a moment, then inclined his head slightly. "Rise, my boy."

Jason did as he was told, straightening despite the dull ache in his ribs.

"Khalid?" Ra's asked, though it wasn't really a question.

"Dead."

Ra's nodded, pleased. "And the compound?"

"Erased. No trace of our involvement."

Ra's eyes flickered with approval, but Jason caught the subtle shift in his expression. He knows there's more.

"And yet," Ra's continued, "you seem… troubled."

Jason held his gaze. "I took some hits from his personal guard who possessed superhuman powers. Turned out to be a tougher fight than expected."

Ra's exhaled through his nose, stepping forward with the deliberate grace of a man who had lived far longer than his body suggested.

"You have endured much, my son. But your strength has not failed you. You have once again proven your worth to the League."

He reached out, placing a hand on Jason's shoulder, the gesture almost paternal. "You are shaping into something remarkable."

Jason felt the weight of those words. Ra's didn't offer praise lightly.

But he also knew Ra's was testing him.

The old man's gaze lingered, studying him.

Jason forced himself to remain still, to keep his breathing even. He couldn't afford to let anything slip—not the strange vision, not the voice, not the creeping feeling that something inside him was shifting, changing.

He was killed without hesitation. He had followed orders. He had done everything Ra's expected of him.

And yet…

He had freed the captives.

It had not been in the mission parameters. It had not been necessary.

And he wasn't sure what it meant that he had done it anyway.

Ra's finally released his shoulder and took a step back. "Rest, my boy. You have earned it."

Jason nodded, offering a small bow of his head before turning to leave.

As he walked away, he could feel Talia's gaze boring into his back. She knew something was off.

But Jason kept walking.

For now, his secret was still his own.

For now.

- - -

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[Maverick_DaSupreme]

The cold water cascaded over Jason's body, washing away the blood, sweat, and grime of the mission.

The droplets stung as they hit the fresh cuts and bruises littering his skin, but the pain was a welcome distraction.

It grounded him, kept him tethered to the present. His muscles screamed in protest as he moved, every motion a reminder of the brutal fight he had just survived.

The metahuman's fists had left their mark—his ribs ached with every breath, and his side was a patchwork of purple and black bruises.

He winced as he reached for the soap, his fingers trembling slightly as they brushed against the tender flesh.

"I must have broken a rib or two," he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible over the sound of the water. He took a deep breath, steeling himself against the pain as he began to wash the blood from his skin.

The water ran red for a moment before clearing, the evidence of his violence swirling down the drain. "Might have to pay a visit to the infirmary later," he added, his tone dry, almost sarcastic, as if he were mocking his own injuries.

The shower was agonizing but necessary. It was a ritual, a way to cleanse not just his body but his mind.

The cold water helped numb the pain, both physical and mental, and for a brief moment, he allowed himself to close his eyes and let the water drown out the world.

But the peace didn't last. The memory of the mission—of the children, of the metahuman, of himself—crept back in, unbidden and unwelcome.

He stepped out of the shower, the cold air hitting his damp skin like a slap. He grabbed a towel and dried off quickly, his movements mechanical, almost robotic.

His mind was elsewhere, replaying the events of the night over and over again.

The fight.

The voice.

The figure in the shadows. It all felt so real, so vivid, like a nightmare he couldn't wake up from.

He dropped onto his bed, the thin mattress offering little comfort. His body ached, his mind raced, and exhaustion weighed heavily on him.

"So much for my first mission," he muttered, his voice tinged with bitterness. He stared at the ceiling, his thoughts swirling like a storm.

The mission had been a success—Khalid was dead, the compound was destroyed, and the League's objectives had been met. But at what cost?

The image of the children chained to the walls flashed in his mind, their wide, terrified eyes haunting him. He had freed them, yes, but it didn't feel like enough. It never felt like enough.

And then there was the other thing—the version of him he had seen, the version of himself that had emerged from the shadows of his consciousness while in a concussive state, whispering those dark, insidious words. "You know you can't escape me."

Jason clenched his fist, his knuckles white as he fought to steady his trembling hand. The fear he had felt in that moment—the overwhelming, paralyzing fear—was still there, lingering just beneath the surface.

He tried to rationalize it, to convince himself it had been an illusion, a trick of his mind brought on by exhaustion and adrenaline.

But deep down, he knew it was more than that. It was a part of him, a part he had tried to bury, to ignore, to forget.

He closed his eyes, willing the thoughts to stop, but they only grew louder, more insistent. The voice, the figure, the chains—it all felt so real, so alive. He could still feel the weight of its presence, pressing down on him, suffocating him.

He took a deep breath, forcing himself to focus, to push the thoughts aside. He couldn't afford to dwell on it, not now. Not when Ra's watchful eyes are on him.

But as he lay there, the exhaustion finally overtaking him, the thoughts crept back in, unbidden and unwelcome. The voice whispered in the back of his mind, soft and insidious. "You know you need me."

Jason's eyes snapped open, his heart pounding in his chest. He sat up, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.

He ran a hand through his damp hair, his fingers trembling slightly. He couldn't escape it.

No matter how hard he tried, the voice was always there, lurking in the shadows of his mind, waiting for him to let down his guard.

He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to calm down. He couldn't afford to lose control, not now. Not ever.

With a heavy sigh, he lay back down, his body sinking into the thin mattress. His eyelids grew heavy, the exhaustion finally catching up to him. He closed his eyes, willing himself to sleep, to escape the thoughts, if only for a little while.

But as he drifted off, the voice followed him into the darkness, whispering those same haunting words.

"You can't escape me!!"

- - -

Deep in thoughts and standing at the large window of his office, Ra's al Ghul stared over the mountains and into the night sky when a knock at his door disrupted his thoughts.

Giving the go ahead, the door opened and the League member tasked with leading the mission Jason went on, walked in, returning for a report different from the previous.

He was tasked with leading the extermination of the terrorist group but to not interfere with Jason who was tasked with claiming Khalid's head, rather keep a watchful eye on him and observe from a rational distance.

While Jason battled the metahuman and eliminated his target, he watched the whole thing from the sidelines.

When Jason was near death and all hope seemed to be lost, he did not even flinch as he obeyed the order given to him by Ra's al Ghul, and only observed without interference.

"My Lord." He greeted with a bow, then stood up straight in wait for questioning.

"So tell me, how did the boy fare on the mission?" He asked, walking over behind his desk as he took a seat.

Clearing his throat, he began. "He did well to eliminate the target but he ran into a bit of trouble while on it."

"What kind of trouble?" With a cocked brow and a hint of curiosity for detail in his tone, Ra's asked the man.

"The target had a personal bodyguard who turned out to be a metahuman." He replied.

"Hmm...A metahuman. He did mention Khalid's bodyguard was quite a foe." To Ra's It couldn't be helped, one was bound to encounter unaccounted variables during missions.

After a brief moment of pondering the thought, he reached for his chin as he stroked his beard. "What powers did he possess?"

The man briefed Ra's on the enhanced characteristics he had observed from the fight. But to Ra's that sounded like a large man with superhuman strength and impenetrable skin, basically what he was.

"How did he fare against this person?"

"He fought quite well with little unnecessary movements, although he was overwhelmed and was so close to losing the fight." This made him even more curious as to how Jason managed to end this adversary of his.

Without a word from Ra's, the man continued, giving him the final details.

"The eyes huh, that was good judgment." Ra's remarked, Jason's training appears to be quite effective as he seems to be even more of a quick study than he anticipated.

"He thinks fast on his feet." He muttered, ruminating on Jason's battle IQ.

"That would be all." He said as he gestured a dismissive wave towards the man.

With a slight bow, he pivoted and proceeded towards the exit of the office but came to an abrupt pause.

He looked down for a second as if contemplating something. Ra's noticed this and asked the man, "Anything else?"

"Yes, my Lord." He replied as he turned towards him. "I do not know if this is of enough importance to be included in the report. The target had a number of enslaved underaged children, most likely for trafficking. Jason freed the children after disposing of him."

"Hmm."

Without a definite response, he dismissed him. "You may leave." The man bowed once more and exited the office.

- - -

[Jason Todd's POV]

Strolling down within the massive compound was something I find myself doing these days since I was unable to partake in training, which sucked by the way.

It's been over a week since that mission and the geezer hasn't asked me about any sort of detailed information from the mission. He's just been making me do more meditation each passing day.

He only advised me to learn from the fight's experience. Maybe the guy who gave the report never mentioned the children.

I leaned over the edge of the upper floor's balcony, watching the various exercises below.

Ra's may have suspended me from combat training, but he didn't say anything about not watching others train so I could make mental notes of moves that catch my eye while I watch the others train.

I looked over to Damian who happened to be having his ass whooped by an opponent who wasn't pulling their punches at all.

They might probably be sick of the kid's arrogance and wanting to teach him a solid lesson like I do, not caring if he was the heir to the League or whatever.

They disarmed him with a swift manoeuvre and swept him off his feet. He landed on his butt and his own blade was pointed right up his face.

The look of frustration on his face was so priceless that I could not help the laugh of mockery which escaped me.

The pressure from my mockery must have been so intense that he looked up, gazing right at me with furrowed brows, wanting to channel his anger towards me in an attempt to mask his wounded pride.

Fuck!!

I coughed as I crouched a bit, leaning more upon the wooden edge as I reached for my ribs as my insides burned with excruciating pain. It hurt like hell to even laugh.

Before completing that thought, I let out another series of laughter, the pain was totally worth the sight of Damien's walk of shame and embarrassment as he left the arena.

Due to the League's custom of concealing their identities, I don't know who his opponent was but they seemed quite interesting.

A person who is willing to humiliate that brat so well that I couldn't help it but laugh through the pains from my ribcage, needs to share a drink with me while we discuss how much we enjoy tormenting the brats pompous spirit.

Yeah, call me a bully or whatever I don't care. I know he is just a kid but that pest needs to be humbled big time before he gets any older. Who knows what he might turn into when he hits his rebellious teenage phase.

Taking deep breaths as I looked up at the sky, wondering if the universe had bestowed this role upon me. If so, I enthusiastically obliged.

Well, too bad there is no way of telling that guy apart from the rest. Still in thoughts as I looked over the training ground in search of some significant feature of Damian's opponent that could help me tell him apart from the rest, the geezer's voice came from behind me.

I was almost spooked by his sudden appearance but gave no reaction to confirm it, maintaining my nonchalant demeanour without even turning to look his way.

"You seem to be in good spirits ." He said, walking to my side as he joined me at the edge of the balcony.

"Well, I guess I woke up on the good side of bed this morning. Or would you prefer I let myself look as depressing as my insides feel?" I replied without averting my gaze from the on going training match below.

With the various training so far, I've developed senses so kin that I could sense the presence of anyone within my space, the air has some way of giving their presence away.

But this geezer concealed his presence so well that I didn't even notice him until he spoke.

"If I must say, it is quite good to see you in such a moo–"

Unable to hold back my curious thoughts, I blurted out one of the questions in my head, cutting him off before he could finish his sentence. "Are you Dracula or something?"

For a brief second, his face had a confused expression. "What do you mean, boy?" He asked.

Since I woke up in this base, this my first time glimpsing an expression other than the usual stoic look I was beginning to think was hatched on his face.

"That came out wrong." Rephrasing my words by giving a more elaborate explanation, I continued. "I mean, you walked up from behind me and got to my side without the most minimalistic hint of your presence."

"Oh..." He let out an extremely brief laugh, probably still amused by me asking if he was Dracula just cause' I couldn't sense him.

"It's an extremely advanced level of stealth. One I might teach you in due time." He replied.

"Clearly, I'm currently on an unavoidable and mandatory break from combat training. It wouldn't hurt to get a few pointers for that level of stealth."

He mused on the topic for a while, while I prayed he wouldn't dismiss it and make me do more meditative exercise.

"That level of stealth requires a level of mental fortitude which you currently lack, boy."

"Then teach me how to build such mental fortitude." I pressed on.

"You currently undergo the basic level of such training." He replied with a raised brow, having on an expression like a teacher who expects his student to already know the answer to whatever the fuck they were talking about.

'For fuck sake!' I mentally exclaimed, the answer seemed to be the one practice I enjoyed the least.

"Meditation." I replied, earning a slight nod of approval from him.

"It is a practice that brings calm to one's mind and being."

"Then why do I find it hard to grasp? Almost like I'm wasting my time just sitting with my eyes closed."

He did not give an immediate reply but stroked his grey beard in thought as he dug into his purse of wisdom before giving his response.

"Elaborate on your experience ." He asked as if seeking deeper insight before he concluded on my diagnosis.

"At times it feels like there is so much turmoil within my mind that it feels like a fractured and puzzled mess. Even when it gets calm during our practices, there's an uproar which expels that state of bliss."

He was my mentor, it was only right I gave him a glimpse of my own struggles and roadblocks I experienced with his teachings.

"Come with me." He turned and I followed behind him.

We walked down one of the halls until we arrived at a dead end. At this point, with a side eye I looked at the geezer with the thought of maybe he was finally going senile but no one had noticed it until now.

He reached for the stone wall and pushed in a brick sized block. The stone wall did a rotation of one-eighty degrees, revealing a stairway which seemed so deep as if leading deep within the earth.

"Hmmm, a secret passage." For some reason I wasn't surprised by that. In fact, I'd say it was to be expected that the geezer would have some secret passages or at least a false wall.

As we stepped in about three steps down, the entrance shut close behind our backs.

I turned to observe if I could spot the way to open it from this side but it was too dark to see anything, while he continued down, eyes forward without even turning for a glimpse over his shoulders.

We walked down the dark and creepy stairway for a couple of minutes when a glow of light came into sight.

It appeared to radiate from the curved corner to the right as it shine against the left wall. At least there was light at the end of the tunnel. Pun intended.

- - -

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[Maverick_DaSupreme]

We arrived at the opening where the light was coming from—a cavern deep beneath the earth with a glowing pool of green water radiating in the near distance.

We stopped about three meters from the pool. Questions buzzed in my head, but the geezer just stood there, staring at that ominously glowing water like it was his long-lost lover.

It looked like something out of a kid's cartoon—one of those witch's brews, all neon and swirling, except this wasn't some muddy sludge. The liquid was clear, almost too clean.

Wait, is this his secret to not looking like a thousand-year-old mummy? Some fancy-ass well of longevity elixir?

I crossed my arms. "So. Why are we here?" I asked, unsure of his purpose for taking an injured kid down to a secret location with a mysterious pool of water.

With a sudden halt, a thought came to mind. "Don't tell me you have an aquatic beast for a pet and it's inside that green pool."

Ra's turned, his robes doing that dramatic sweep thing he probably practiced in a mirror. "This, my boy, is a restorative pool. Some call it the Fountain of Youth. But it is known as the Lazarus Pit."

"The Lazarus Pit?" I muttered. "You mean this is the magic bathtub that yanked me back from the dead?" It looked nothing like what I had imagined.

"Yes, it is." He crouched, dipping his fingers into the water like he was testing a damn bath.

I scoffed. "When you and Talia talked about the Lazarus Pit, I always imagined—well, an actual pit. Some murky, ancient hole filled with magic sludge that could heal the dying." My voice dripped with disappointment. "This looks more like a hunted jacuzzi."

Ra's ignored the jab. "Remove your clothes and enter." He adjured.

I blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

"Of course I did." I guess I'd just pretend that didn't sound kinky at all.

I threw my hands up. "Oh, sure. Because obviously the next step in 'mystical resurrection water' protocol is stripping down. What's next, a guided meditation? Do I get a cucumber slice for my eyes too?"

He didn't even twitch. "The waters must touch your skin directly to work."

Grumbling, I peeled off my cloths, tossing it aside. "If this turns out to be some weird cult baptism, I'm setting something on fire."

As I stepped forward to dive in, the water shimmered ominously, reminding me of the eerie depths that might hide the Flying Dutchman—an image stuck in my mind since that strange afternoon at a roadside diner. Back then, during some relentless "reckon training" the old geezer had forced on me in that no-name town, I'd caught a bizarre underwater sponge show on the flickering TV, and the comparison now had a haunting image.

The water was warm as I stepped in—one foot, then the other—sinking deeper until I was fully submerged. The glow pulsed around me, casting eerie shadows on the cavern walls.

So… what now?

Then it hit.

Fire exploded through my veins, like my blood had been swapped with molten metal. My muscles locked, my lungs burned—

With a choked gasp, I burst out of the water, scrambling for the edge like the pit itself was trying to drag me under. Ra's stood there, holding out a towel like this was all playing according to plan.

Not even gonna ask where the hell he pulled that from.

I snatched it, wiping my face. "What the hell was that?"

"The healing effects of the Lazarus Pit," he said, like that explained anything. "How are your wounds?"

"What about my wou—" I cut myself off.

I shouldn't have been able to move like that. Not with the cracked ribs, the stitched-up gash on my side—

Slowly, I raised a hand, pressing against my bandaged torso. No pain.

I ripped off the wrappings. Nothing but smooth skin.

"Huh." I prodded the spot where a knife had gone in a week ago. "I feel… okay."

Ra's just smirked.

"The location of this sacred pool is known to only a few," he said. "Merely being a member of the League does not grant you this privilege."

"Hmm, I see." I rolled my shoulders, testing my range of motion. "I gotta admit, it's fascinating. But–why?

Why show me this sacred place and let me use the pit to heal my wounds?"

He studied me for a moment while stroking his beard, before answering.

"Think of it as a welcoming gift into the League." He replied, clasping arms behind his back as he turned towards the pool.

"There are people who would kill and exhaust all sorts of resources, if they believe that it might give them access to the Lazarus pit."

"Can't say I am surprised by that, people would do anything for the power to sustain life. But that doesn't answer my question, why me?" I pressed on.

The damp air of the cavern clung to my skin as I unwound the last of the bandages from my torso. The faint, eerie glow of the Lazarus Pit cast flickering reflections across the stone walls, painting the chamber in shades of emerald and shadow.

Ra's al Ghul stood with his arms clasped behind his back, his silhouette framed against the luminous waters. His voice was smooth, almost amused, as he spoke.

"Welcome to the League, boy."

I flexed my shoulders, testing the absence of pain. The wounds that had plagued me for days were gone—vanished as if they had never existed. The Pit's power was unsettling, intoxicating.

"There are also men who would burn cities to ash if they believed it would grant them a single drop from these waters," Ra's continued, his gaze fixed on the swirling depths. "Power over life and death is a rare temptation—one few can resist."

I smirked, rolling my neck. "No one wants to die, especially when you are rich and powerful. People will do anything to cheat death."

"Thanks for healing me, Ra's Now I can get back to training or at least sleep comfortably." A hint of excitement mixed with my voice.

Ra's turned his head slowly, the movement deliberate, predatory. His lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile.

"Oh, don't thank me just yet, boy." His voice was a low purr, laced with dark amusement. "The real work begins now."

I raised an eyebrow. "That sounded more like a threat than a pep talk."

His chuckle was velvet and venom. "Call it what you will. You won't be smiling for long."

I matched his tone with a grin of my own. "You miss training me, don't you? Admit it—you've been bored without me around to keep you entertained with my daily dose of torture disguised under the term, training."

Ra's exhaled through his nose, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. "Enjoy your humor while it lasts. You'll need it." He stated as we approached the cavern' exit.

As we ascended the stairway. The air grew cooler as we neared the surface, the weight of secrecy pressing between us.

- - -

"As you must already know," he began, his tone like tempered steel, "The location of the Lazarus Pit is a secret that transcends life and death. You will guard it with your last breath. Should you ever betray this trust, the consequences will be...absolute."

The air thickened, pressing in like an unseen hand around Jason's throat. This wasn't a request—it was a decree. The Demon's Head did not make idle threats.

Jason met Ra's' gaze without flinching, though the gravity of the moment settled deep in his bones. "I understand," he replied, his voice stripped of its usual defiance. "You have my word. No one will hear of it from me—not even under torture."

Ra's studied him, his dark eyes unreadable. For a heartbeat, Jason wondered if the ancient warlord saw his resolve as 'weak.'

But then, with a slow nod, Ra's turned away, the helm of his robe whispering against the false wall as he repeated the previous process as their time of entry.

With practiced ease, Ra's pressed his palm against an unremarkable section of the wall. A mechanism groaned, and the false panel swung open, revealing the training grounds beyond. Sunlight spilled in, harsh after the Pit's eerie glow.

Outside, the clash of steel and the grunts of combat filled the air. Damian led the drills with lethal precision, his movements a mirror of his mother's relentless grace. Talia observed from the sidelines, her sharp eyes missing nothing—until they landed on Ra's and Jason emerging out of nowhere and unto the training ground.

"Father," she greeted, though her voice carried an edge of wariness. "I didn't expect you to join us today." Her gaze flicked to Jason, lingering on the absence of bandages, the lack of a limp, or even a sight of a bruised skin or scar on his face.

"You're healed."

Ra's clasped his hands behind his back, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. "The Pit's waters work swiftly."

Talia's breath hitched, barely perceptible. "You showed him the Pit?" The question was a blade wrapped in silk.

"He needed to be at full strength for what comes next."

Jason shifted, the weight of the unspoken tension pressing down. "Yeah, about that—where exactly are we going?"

Ra's didn't look at him. "Pack for a week. Wilderness survival gear. Weapons of your choice. Meet me here in fifteen minutes."

"You didn't answer the question," Jason pointed out, crossing his arms.

"Consider it a test of adaptability," Ra's replied, already walking away as Talia followed close behind.

- - -

Talia waited until Jason was out of earshot before stepping closer to her father, her voice a hushed whisper. "You've never entrusted the Pit's location to an outsider. Not even to Bruce."

Ra's exhaled, slow and measured. "Jason Todd is no longer an outsider, daughter. He is a weapon being forged by the League—one that must be honed without cracks."

"And Damian?" Talia's gaze flicked to her son, who was now drilling two League assassins at once, his strikes fiercer than necessary. "He sees Jason as a rival. This will only stoke that fire."

"Good," Ra's murmured. "Fire tempers steel. Let him chase Jason's shadow. It will make him stronger."

A League operative approached, bowing as he presented a meticulously packed rucksack. Ra's took it without acknowledgment, his attention fixed on the horizon.

Jason returned moments later, his own bag slung over his shoulder, a knife strapped to his thigh. "Alright, Sensei. Lead the way."

Ra's arched a brow, tossing the heavy bag for Jason to carry. "This isn't a vacation, boy. You will train until your muscles scream. Until your mind breaks. And then—you will train more."

Jason grinned, sharp and feral. "Yeah, yeah. Just try to keep up, old man."

As they strode toward the gates, Talia watched them go, her fingers tightening around the hilt of her dagger.

"Be careful, Father," she murmured. "That one bites."

Ra's didn't look back. "So do I."

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

The crisp air bit at my skin as I trudged through the dense woods, the weight of the camping backpack digging into my shoulders.

It had been over ninety minutes since we left the compound, and the old man—Ra's al Ghul, the Demon's Head himself—hadn't said a word since we started this little nature hike. Typical. The guy loved his dramatic silences almost as much as he loved hearing himself talk.

The woods were alive with the sounds of nature—rustling leaves, chirping birds, the occasional snap of a twig underfoot. It was almost peaceful, if you ignored the fact that I was following a centuries-old megalomaniac into the middle of nowhere with no idea what he had planned.

The snow had stopped falling, thank God, but the ground was still a mess of slush and mud. My boots were caked with it, and my jeans were soaked up to the knees.

Ra's moved ahead of me with that infuriating grace of his, his hands clasped behind his back like he was out for a leisurely stroll. Meanwhile, I was sweating under the weight of the backpack, my breath coming out in visible puffs in the freezing air.

We weren't even dressed for this weather—just our normal clothes. No coats, no gloves, nothing. Because why would Ra's al Ghul bother with something as mundane as warmth?

He stopped suddenly, and I nearly ran into him. He stood there, staring ahead like he was contemplating the mysteries of the universe.

Then, without a word, he turned right, pushing through a thicket of waist-high bushes and towering trees. The canopy above was so dense that barely any sunlight filtered through, casting the area in an eerie, almost oppressive darkness.

"Great," I muttered under my breath. "Just the kind of place I'd pick for a picnic. If I were, you know, a serial killer."

Ra's didn't respond. Of course he didn't. He just kept walking, his movements smooth and deliberate, like he was gliding over the uneven terrain. I stumbled after him, cursing under my breath as branches snagged at my clothes and scratched my arms.

The muffled sound of running water grew louder as we pressed on, and eventually, we emerged into a small clearing.

Ra's stopped at the edge of a shallow stream, his gaze fixed on the waterfall that cascaded down a rocky outcrop.

It was beautiful, in a secluded, untouched kind of way. The water sparkled in the faint sunlight, and the air was filled with the soothing sound of it rushing over the rocks.

"We've arrived," Ra's said, breaking the silence at last. His voice was calm, almost serene, like he hadn't just dragged me through a mile of wilderness without explanation.

I caught up to him, dropping the backpack with a grunt. "Yeah, no kidding. Mind telling me where 'here' is exactly? Or is that part of the whole mysterious mentor shtick?"

He turned to me, his expression unreadable. "This is where you will be training for the next three days to a week, depending on how long it takes you to grasp the lessons I will be teaching you."

I raised an eyebrow. "Training? In the middle of nowhere? With no food, no shelter, and probably a million bloodthirsty mosquitoes? Sounds like a blast."

Ra's ignored my sarcasm, gesturing for me to follow him again. We walked to a clearing near the riverbank, where he told me to drop the bag. He picked up his sword and a length of rope, then motioned for me to follow him deeper into the woods.

"What kind of training requires us to be in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere?" I asked, my tone dripping with sarcasm. "Is this some kind of survivalist boot camp? Because I've heard about the whole 'eat bugs and drink your own pee' thing. Not a fan."

Ra's didn't answer. He just kept walking, his silence as infuriating as ever. We stopped in front of a massive tree, its trunk so thick it would've taken an axe-wielding man hours to bring it down.

Ra's drew his sword in one fluid motion, and before I could even blink, he delivered three precise horizontally patterned strikes. The tree fell with a loud crash, splitting into two large logs.

I stared at him, my mouth hanging open. "Okay, that was… impressive. But also kind of overkill. You know we are literally surrounded by easily attainable firewood, right?"

He sheathed his sword and handed me the rope. "Use this to pull both of them back, together."

I took the rope, glaring at him. "Oh, sure. No problem. I'll just drag a couple of tree trunks through the woods like a pack mule. Why didn't I think of that?"

He clasped his hands behind his back and walked away, leaving me to wrestle with the logs. I tied the rope around them as tightly as I could, then slung it over my shoulder and started pulling.

It was hell. The logs caught on every rock and root, and my muscles burned with the effort. Sweat dripped down my face, and my breath came in ragged gasps.

"This isn't training," I muttered under my breath. "This is punishment. Probably for asking too many questions. Note to self: stop prying into the life of the immortal ninja warlord. He doesn't like it."

By the time I dragged the logs back to the clearing, I was ready to collapse. Ra's had set up a small fire pit, and he gestured for me to place the logs on either side of it. I dropped them with a groan, then sank to the ground, trying to catch my breath.

Ra's sat across from me, his expression as calm as ever. "While you catch your breath, I believe it is best I keep to my word and give you answers to your questions earlier."

I shot him a look. "Really? Now you're feeling chatty? After you made me haul half a forest back here? Gee, thanks."

He chuckled softly, stroking his beard. "I spent my years cultivating wisdom and accumulating knowledge, practicing and mastering all sorts of martial arts. My later years were spent on the study and practice of ancient esoteric knowledge."

"Esoteric knowledge, huh?" I said, raising an eyebrow. "You mean like how to be cryptic and annoy the hell out of people? Because you've got that down pat."

He Ignored the jab. "Having lived as long as I have, there are downsides. Watching humanity repeat the same mistakes, generation after generation, is… frustrating."

"Yeah, I bet," I said, my tone dripping with sarcasm. "Must be tough, being all wise and immortal while the rest of us idiots keep screwing up.

But hey, at least you've got your priorities straight. Like bringing me back from the dead. Speaking of which—why me?" I've been meaning to ask him that. Last time I did, he found a way to evade providing a direct answer.

Ra's met my gaze, his expression serious. "Because a mistake I made cost you your life. You were collateral damage." He replied.

I stared at him, my sarcasm momentarily forgotten. "What kind of mistake?"

"You were at the wrong place at the wrong time," he said, his voice heavy with something that almost sounded like regret. "You were caught in an explosion caused by someone I never should have employed."

I opened my mouth to ask more, but he cut me off. "You've rested enough. It's time to commence your training."

I groaned, dragging myself to my feet. "Of course it is. Because why would we waste time talking when we could be doing more manual labor?"

Ra's didn't respond. He just stood there, his hands clasped behind his back as always, looking every bit the enigmatic mentor. I sighed, resigning myself to whatever fresh hell he had in store for me.

"Alright, old man," I said, cracking my knuckles. "Let's get this over with."

Ra's led me back toward the waterfall, his steps unhurried, as if he had all the time in the world. Which, I guess, he did. Immortality must be nice like that—no rush, no deadlines, just centuries of cryptic wisdom and dramatic pauses. Meanwhile, I was stuck playing catch-up, my muscles still screaming from dragging those damn logs.

The waterfall roared in the background, its mist cooling the air around us. Ra's stopped at the edge of the stream, where the water pooled into a shallow, crystal-clear basin. He turned to me, his expression unreadable.

"Advanced stealth," he began, his voice carrying over the sound of the rushing water, "is not merely about moving unseen. It is about becoming one with your surroundings. Your mind must be as still as the surface of an undisturbed lake, your body as fluid as the current of this water."

I crossed my arms, raising an eyebrow. "So, what? I'm supposed to, like, meditate by the river and hope I turn into a ninja? Because I've got to tell you, I'm not really the 'ohm' type."

Ra's didn't smile, but there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "Meditation is only the beginning. Your mind is restless, Jason. It is clouded by anger, by self doubt, by the noise of your past shadow which tries to sabotage whatever ounce of peace you might achieve. Until you learn to silence it, you will never master true stealth."

Flashes of my encounter with the hallucination—that eerily lifelike version of myself—haunted my thoughts. Sleep had become elusive since then, my nights restless and frayed at the edges.

The way I had killed Khalid's guard— so inhumanly—weighed on me. Two lives, extinguished by my hand. No matter how often I told myself they deserved worse, no matter how I justified it, their deaths lingered in my conscience like a stain I couldn't scrub away.

I snorted. "Yeah, well, maybe my 'restless mind' has something to do with the fact that I died and got thrown into a magic pit that brought me back wrong. Ever think of that?"

He tilted his head, studying me like I was some kind of puzzle he was trying to solve. "The Lazarus Pit did not make you 'wrong,' Jason. It amplified what was already within you. Your anger, your pain—these are not weaknesses. They are tools, if you learn to wield them."

"Tools, huh?" I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "Great. So instead of therapy, I get to channel my trauma into becoming a better assassin. Sign me up."

Ra's ignored my jab, gesturing to the stream. "Step into the water."

I blinked at him. "You're kidding, right? It's freezing out here."

"The cold is irrelevant," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Step into the water."

I muttered a string of curses under my breath but did as he said, kicking off my boots and wading into the stream. The water was icy, biting at my skin like a thousand tiny needles. I sucked in a sharp breath, my teeth clenched to keep them from chattering.

"Now," Ra's said, his voice calm and measured, "close your eyes. Focus on the sensation of the water around you. Let it guide your thoughts."

I closed my eyes, though I was pretty sure this was a waste of time. The water was cold, yeah, but it wasn't exactly enlightening. All I could think about was how much I wanted to get out and dry off.

"Your mind is still racing," Ra's observed, his voice cutting through my thoughts. "You are fighting the current instead of letting it flow through you."

"Yeah, well, maybe I don't feel like flowing today," I shot back, opening my eyes to glare at him. "Can we skip to the part where I get to punch something?"

Ra's sighed, a rare show of exasperation. "You are impatient, Jason. Impatience is the enemy of focus."

"And focus is the enemy of fun," I retorted. "Look, I get it. You're trying to teach me some deep, mystical lesson about inner peace or whatever. But I'm not exactly the poster child for Zen. So how about we try something that doesn't involve me turning into a popsicle man.

Ra's shook his head. "You're assuming I'll grow tired of your stubbornness—that I'll give up and switch to training you'd actually enjoy. You're only delaying the inevitable." His voice hardened. "Now shut up, close your eyes, and focus."

Finally, I'd struck a nerve. The old man had seemed immune to my jabs lately, but irritation flickered beneath his calm now.

Best not to push him further. I obeyed, shutting my eyes—yet even in the dark, I could feel the weight of his glare, sharp with frustration. Yeah… time to behave.

- - -

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[Maverick_DaSupreme]

[Talia al Ghul's POV]


The night air of Gotham City was thick with the stench of decay. It clung to the rooftops, seeped into the cracks of crumbling buildings, and lingered in the shadows where the dregs of humanity festered.


The city was a festering wound, a place where hope went to die, and yet, it was also the home of the man Talia al Ghul could not seem to rid from her thoughts.


Bruce Wayne. The Batman. Her beloved.


The League of Shadows' mission here was complete, and her father's orders had been carried out with precision.

The criminal underworld of Gotham would feel the aftershocks of their work for weeks to come, though they would never know it was the hand of the Demon's Head that had struck them. Standing on the edge of a rooftop, overlooking the city, Talia felt a pang of something unfamiliar—nostalgia, perhaps.

Or maybe it was simply the weariness of a woman who had seen too much, done too much, and yet still found herself drawn to the one man who had always eluded her grasp.

The city sprawled before her, a labyrinth of shadows and light. The skyline was jagged, a silhouette of broken dreams and forgotten promises. The faint hum of traffic below was a distant murmur, drowned out by the occasional wail of a siren or the sharp crack of gunfire.

Gotham was a city that never slept, but it did not live either. It existed in a state of perpetual unrest, a battlefield where the lines between hero and villain blurred into obscurity.

She adjusted the hood of her cloak, pulling it tighter around her face. The fabric was dark, blending seamlessly with the night, and the faint glint of her armor beneath was the only hint of her presence.

The League's uniform was a second skin, a reminder of who she was and what she represented. But tonight, she was not here as the heir to the Demon's Head. Tonight, she was here as Talia. Just Talia.

The thought of seeing Bruce again stirred something deep within her. It had been too long since their paths last crossed, and though she would never admit it aloud, she had missed him. Missed the fire in his eyes, the way he moved with the grace of a predator, the way he spoke with a voice that carried the weight of the world.

He was a man of contradictions—a man who fought for justice yet lived in the shadows. A man who wore the mask of a bat to strike fear into the hearts of criminals, yet beneath it all, he was still the boy who had lost his parents to the very darkness he now battled.

She wondered how he was coping. The death of his son, Jason Todd, must have shaken him to his core. Bruce had always been a man who carried his burdens alone, burying his pain beneath the cowl and the mission.

But even Batman was not invincible. Even he had to feel the weight of loss, the sting of failure. She knew this better than anyone. She had seen the cracks in his armor, the moments when the mask slipped and the man beneath was revealed.

If only I could tell him the truth.

If only she could reveal that Jason was alive, that he was well, and that he was under her father's care. But such a revelation would come at a cost.

Ra's al Ghul's plans were not to be trifled with, and his interest in Jason was… troubling. The boy was a weapon, a tool to be shaped and molded, and Talia feared what he might become under her father's influence. But for now, she had to remain silent. To speak would be to betray her father, and that was a line she could not cross. Not yet.

She leaped from the rooftop, her movements fluid and precise. The city rushed past her in a blur of light and shadow as she navigated the rooftops with ease. The wind whipped at her cloak, tugging at the fabric, but she paid it no mind.

Her focus was singular, her destination clear. She knew where to find him. She always did.

It did not take long to spot him. He was perched on the edge of a rooftop, his silhouette unmistakable against the night sky.

The cape billowed behind him, a dark shroud that seemed to merge with the shadows, and the pointed ears of the cowl gave him an almost otherworldly appearance. He was a figure of myth, a legend brought to life, and yet, he was also just a man. A man who had given everything to this city, to his crusade.

She landed silently behind him, her boots barely making a sound against the gravel. He did not turn, but she knew he was aware of her presence. The Batman was never caught off guard. Not by her. Not by anyone.

"Talia," he said, his voice low and gravelly. It was a voice that commanded attention, a voice that carried the weight of authority. But there was something else there too. A hint of… something. Surprise? Relief? She couldn't tell.

"Bruce," she replied, stepping closer. The distance between them felt both vast and infinitesimal. They were two sides of the same coin, bound by a connection that neither could fully understand or escape. "It's been a while."

He turned then, his eyes narrowing beneath the cowl. The white lenses of the mask hid his true expression, but she could feel the intensity of his gaze.

It was a look that pierced through the layers of armor, both physical and emotional, and reached the core of who she was. It was a look that had haunted her for years.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, his tone guarded. There was no warmth in his voice, no hint of the man beneath the mask. But she knew it was there. She had seen it before.

"Can I not visit an old friend?" she said, her lips curling into a faint smile. The words were light, but the weight behind them was anything but. They were more than friends—they were allies, enemies, lovers, and adversaries. They were everything and nothing, all at once.

He didn't respond immediately. Instead, he turned back to the city, his gaze sweeping over the skyline. The silence between them was heavy, filled with unspoken words and unresolved tensions.

"The League's presence in Gotham hasn't gone unnoticed," he said after a moment. His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it. A warning. "If you're here on your father's orders—"


"I'm not here on my father's orders," she interrupted, her tone sharp. The mention of Ra's was a sore subject, a reminder of the divide that separated them. "I'm here because I wanted to see you. Because I… needed to see you."

The admission hung in the air between them, fragile and raw. It was not often that Talia allowed herself to be vulnerable, to show the cracks in her own armor. But with Bruce, it was different. With Bruce, she couldn't help but be honest.

He turned to her again, his expression unreadable. The silence stretched on, and for a moment, she wondered if he would say anything at all. But then, he spoke.

"Why now?" he asked, his voice softer now. There was a hint of something in his tone. Curiosity? Concern? She couldn't tell.

"Because I don't know when I'll see you again," she replied, her voice steady despite the storm of emotions raging within her. "Because I know what you've lost, and I… I wanted to make sure you were alright."

The words were true, but they were not the whole truth. She couldn't tell him about Jason. She couldn't tell him that his son was alive, that he was out there somewhere, waiting to be found. But she could offer him this—a moment of connection. A moment of understanding.

He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. The cape swirled around him like a living thing, and the faint scent of leather and smoke filled the air. He was so close now, close enough to touch, and yet, the distance between them felt insurmountable.

"I'm fine," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. But she knew better. She could see the pain in the set of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders. He was not fine. He was far from it.

"You don't have to lie to me, Bruce," she said, her voice gentle. "Not to me."

He looked at her then, really looked at her, and for a moment, the mask slipped. She saw the man beneath the cowl, the man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. The man who had lost so much and yet continued to fight. The man she had loved for as long as she could remember.

"Talia…" he began, but the words caught in his throat. He didn't know what to say, and neither did she. There were no words that could bridge the gap between them, no words that could undo the choices they had made or the paths they had chosen.

And so, they stood there, two figures silhouetted against the night, bound by a connection that neither could fully understand or escape.

The city stretched out before them, a sprawling testament to the darkness they both fought against. And for a moment, just a moment, Talia allowed herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, there was still hope for them.

But the moment passed, as all moments did, and the weight of reality settled back onto her shoulders. She stepped back, the distance between them growing once more.

"Be careful, Bruce," she said, her voice soft but firm. "The city is not the only thing that can break you."

He nodded, his expression unreadable once more. The mask was back in place, the walls rebuilt. But she knew what lay beneath. She had always known.

With one last look, she turned and leaped from the rooftop, disappearing into the night. The wind rushed past her, carrying with it the faint scent of Gotham's decay. But as she made her way through the city, she couldn't help but feel a sense of… something. Relief? Regret? She didn't know.

Somewhere out there, Batman continued his relentless crusade, fighting to fill the ever-expanding void that consumed him.

She saw it in his every move, in the way he threw himself into the abyss of Gotham's chaos. He blamed himself for the loss of his son, Jason Todd, and that guilt had become his penance, his retribution.

If only she could tell him the truth, if only she could ease his suffering. But the time was not right, and the secrets she carried were not hers to reveal—not yet.

Their son, Damian, was a light in this darkness, a beacon of hope and pride. He was everything she could have dreamed of and more.

With his striking resemblance to Bruce, his sharp intellect, and his prodigious talents, Damian was a testament to the legacy of both his father and the al Ghul bloodline.

He was her joy, her purpose, and her greatest triumph. How she wished she could share this with Bruce, to let him know that a part of him lived on in their son.

Damian was not just her child—he was theirs. He carried Bruce's strength, his determination, and his unyielding sense of justice. But for now, this truth had to remain hidden. The weight of it would only complicate matters, and Bruce was not ready to bear it. Not yet.


She knew her beloved would endure. He was Batman, after all—the man her father had once seen as a worthy successor to the League of Assasins. Bruce's resilience was unmatched, and though he might be lost in the shadows now, she had faith he would find his way.


- - -


Some may claim that so far I've misrepresented Batman, but I believe my take is justified.


That's because we all see him as stoic, unwavering, a man who identifies himself as Batman, with Bruce Wayne as the alias.


But so many forget that beneath the mask, beyond the demons he conceals so perfectly, lies something far more profound: a human being. A father.


My intention is to encapsulate or at least reveal a glimpse of the man who carries the weight of his personal struggles yet still places his city, even the fate of the world, above his own heartaches.

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

[Jason Todd's POV]

The sun hung low in the sky, its golden rays bleeding into the horizon as the day surrendered to the encroaching twilight. The river before me shimmered like molten bronze, its surface rippling with the occasional leap of a fish or the gentle caress of the evening breeze.

The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and wildflowers, a stark contrast to the metallic tang of blood and sweat I was now accustomed to. Out here, in the middle of nowhere, the world felt both vast and suffocating—a paradox I couldn't quite reconcile.

I sat cross-legged on the riverbank, my back stiff from hours of forced meditation. Ra's al Ghul, had insisted on it. "Meditation is the foundation of control," he'd said, his voice as smooth as the river's current but with an undercurrent of steel. "Without it, you are but a leaf in the wind, tossed about by your emotions."

I Hated it. Every second of it. My mind doesn't seem to be built for stillness. It felt more like a battlefield, a cacophony of anger, regret, and the ever-present itch for carnage.

But here I was, playing the obedient student, because if there was one thing I hated more than meditation, it was feeling like I had no control over myself.

Ra's had set up camp a few yards away—a modest tent that looked more like a relic from a bygone era than something fit for a man of his stature. I doubted he'd be sharing it. The old man had a flair for the dramatic, and his idea of "roughing it" probably involved silk sheets and a butler.

As the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the river, Ra's called out to me. "Jason, join me."

I stood, brushing the dirt from my pants, and made my way over. He stood at the water's edge, his silhouette framed by the dying light. In his hands, he held a dagger, its blade glinting ominously. A length of rope was tied to its handle, the other end coiled neatly in his palm.

"Let us catch ourselves some dinner before your final lesson for the day," he said, his voice calm but commanding. He tossed a handful of bait into the water, and almost immediately, the surface erupted with activity as fish swarmed the spot, their silvery bodies darting to and fro.

I raised an eyebrow. "Is it just me, or did you skip the part about eating dinner before we call it a night? Because I'm starving."

He didn't respond. Instead, he twirled the rope with practiced ease, the dagger spinning in a deadly arc. With a flick of his wrist, he hurled it into the water. The blade struck true, impaling a fish mid-swim. He yanked it back, the fish flopping helplessly as he placed it on a bed of leaves behind him.

He repeated the process, catching another fish with the same effortless precision. Then, without a word, he handed the rope and dagger to me.

"Your turn," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

I took the makeshift fishing tool, feeling the weight of the dagger in my hand. "Okay…" I muttered, more to myself than to him. I mimicked his movements, twirling the rope until the dagger gained momentum.



My eyes locked onto a fish—a plump one, lazily drifting near the surface. It looked like it would taste amazing roasted over a fire, especially after the grueling day I'd had.

I halted the rotation and hurled the dagger, aiming for the fish's body. The blade hit the water with a splash, missing its mark entirely. The fish darted away, disappearing into the murky depths.

"Shit!" I growled, frustration bubbling up. I tried again, this time aiming for a smaller fish. Same result. The damn thing was faster than it looked.

The geezer watched silently, his expression unreadable. "There are a few more around," he said finally. "You only need to catch one."

"Just one?" I shot him an incredulous look. "Three fish won't be enough for both of us. I'm starving. Four would be ideal."

He folded his arms, his gaze steady. "We will be incorporating fasting into our training for the next few days."

"Fasting?" I echoed, my voice rising. "You've got to be kidding me."

"Fasting is a key practice," he explained, his tone infuriatingly calm. "It will help you attune to your body and mind during meditation. Now, focus. Catch a fish before we lose the light."

I took a deep breath, forcing myself to push down the irritation. I locked onto another fish, this one smaller but quicker. Ra's voice cut through my thoughts. "Anticipate its movement. Strike where it will be, not where it swims."

It was simple advice, but it clicked. I spun the rope again, the dagger whirling in a tight circle. This time, I aimed for the fish's head, calculating its trajectory. With a grunt, I let the dagger fly.

It struck true, the blade embedding itself in the fish's body. I yanked it back, a triumphant grin spreading across my face. "Yes!"

"Good," Ra's said, his approval as understated as ever. He nodded slightly, the closest I'd get to a pat on the back.

By the time I pulled the fish ashore, the sun had fully set, leaving the world bathed in the soft glow of the moon. The old man lit a campfire, the flames casting flickering shadows across his face as he prepared the fish. He skewered them on sticks and set them over the fire, the smell of the roast making my stomach growl.

When the fish were done, he handed me two, keeping only one for himself. "Here," he said. "You earned it."

I hesitated, eyeing the second fish. "Are you sure?"

"You will need your strength for tomorrow's training," he replied, his tone leaving no room for argument.

I took the fishes, the warmth of the fire seeping into my bones as I ate. The silence between us was heavy but not uncomfortable. The old man had a way of making even the simplest moments feel like a test.

As he stood to retire to his tent, he paused, turning to me. "Yes? Ask your questions. I will answer two, so choose wisely."

I blinked, caught off guard. Damn, is he psychic too?

The first question came easily. "How long is this training going to take?"

"Until you achieve a level of self-mastery that allows you to conceal your presence from even the most alert individuals," he said, his voice as steady as the river's flow. "This training should help you gain control over your emotions and impulses."

I nodded, the answer both satisfying and daunting. The second question was more of a jab. "Why do you get a tent, and I'm stuck out here with a sleeping bag?"

He didn't miss a beat. "Because I say so."

"That's not an answer," I called after him as he disappeared into his tent.

He didn't respond.

I added more wood to the fire, the flames crackling as I settled into my sleeping bag. The exhaustion of the day weighed heavily on me, and despite the hard ground and the chill in the air, sleep came quickly.

As I drifted off, the last thing I saw was the fire's glow, a small beacon in the vast, dark wilderness. And for the first time in a while, I felt a flicker of hope. Maybe, just maybe, this would work.



- - -

The first light of dawn crept over the horizon, painting the sky in hues of pale pink and gold. The forest was alive with the sounds of waking creatures—birds chirping, leaves rustling, and the distant gurgle of the river. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of dew and pine. Jason Todd stirred in his sleeping bag, the chill of the morning seeping into his bones.

He groaned, pulling the thin fabric tighter around himself. He didn't have a nightmare last night and was having the best sleep he has had since the past week, but the peace was short-lived.

"Jason," Ra's al Ghul's voice cut through the stillness, sharp and commanding. "Rise. The day does not wait for those who linger in comfort."

Jason cracked an eye open, squinting at the silhouette of Ra's standing over him. The man was already dressed, his robes immaculate despite the wilderness setting.

Jason muttered a curse under his breath but forced himself to sit up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "You know, most people start the day with coffee, not a wake-up call from the Demon's Head."

Ra's ignored the quip, his expression as unreadable as ever. "Today, we begin your training in earnest. Follow me."

Jason dragged himself to his feet, shivering as the cold morning air bit through his clothes. He grabbed his jacket and followed Ra's, who moved with the grace of a predator through the dense forest.

The ground was soft beneath their feet, covered in a thick layer of moss and fallen leaves. The trees towered above them, their branches intertwining to form a canopy that filtered the sunlight into dappled patterns on the forest floor.

After a short hike, they reached a clearing where a waterfall cascaded down a rocky cliff, its waters crashing into a crystal-clear pool below. The sound was deafening, a constant roar that drowned out all other noise. Mist rose from the pool, catching the sunlight and creating a shimmering veil around the waterfall. It was a scene of raw, untamed beauty, but Jason had a feeling he wasn't here to admire the view.

Ra's turned to him, his gaze piercing. "You will sit beneath the waterfall. The cold and the pressure will test your endurance, but more importantly, they will force you to focus inward. You must let go of the outside world and confront the darkness within."

Jason raised an eyebrow. "You want me to sit under that? In this weather? Are you trying to kill me?"

Ra's didn't flinch. "If I wanted you dead, Jason, you would be. This is not about comfort. It is about control. The chaos in your mind is your greatest enemy. To master it, you must first face it."

Jason hesitated, staring at the waterfall. The idea of sitting under that freezing torrent was about as appealing as a root canal, but he knew better than to argue. With a resigned sigh, he stripped off his jacket and shirt, leaving him in just his pants. The cold air bit at his skin, raising goosebumps as he stepped into the shallow stream. The water was icy, sending a shock through his system as he waded deeper.

He reached the base of the waterfall, the force of the falling water pounding against his shoulders as he tried to find a stable position. The rocks beneath his feet were slippery, and the pressure of the water threatened to knock him off balance.

He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to sit cross-legged beneath the cascade. The cold was unbearable, and the pressure felt like a thousand tiny needles stabbing into his skin.

"Close your eyes," Ra's instructed, his voice carrying over the roar of the waterfall. "Focus on the darkness you see within. Let go of the outside world. Listen only to the pulse of your heartbeat."

Jason clenched his jaw, trying to block out the discomfort. He shut his eyes, but all he could see was a swirling mass of anger, and pain.

The blurred memories of his past, familiar but unidentifiable, voices of a deranged clown, his death, his resurrection, flooded his mind, threatening to overwhelm him as he was almost sent into shock.

He struggled to push them aside, to focus on the pulse of his heartbeat, but it was like trying to hold back a tidal wave with his bare hands.

"I can't—" he started to say, but Ra's cut him off.

"You can. And you will. This is not about physical strength, Jason. It is about mental fortitude. The chaos in your mind is a reflection of your lack of control. Confront it. Master it."

Jason took a deep breath, forcing himself to relax. He focused on the rhythmic pounding of his heart, using it as an anchor to ground himself. Slowly, the chaos in his mind began to recede, replaced by a sense of calm.

The cold and the pressure of the water faded into the background, becoming distant sensations rather than overwhelming forces.

As he sat there, the faint flashes of memories blurred even further, slipping away like sand through his fingers.

- - -

The training continued for three days, each one more grueling than the last. Ra's pushed Jason to his limits, forcing him to confront his weaknesses and overcome them.



They hunted for food, tracking wild animals through the dense forest and catching fish from the river. Ra's taught Jason how to move silently, to blend into his surroundings, and to strike with precision. But the most challenging part of the training was the meditation beneath the waterfall.

Each morning, Jason would sit beneath the cascade, the cold and pressure testing his endurance. At first, he struggled, his mind a whirlwind of chaos and emotion. But with each passing day, he grew stronger, more focused.

Due to this training Ra's had put him unto, the resurfacing memories of his past were chugged down to the deepest corners of his mind, replaced by a sense of calm and control. By the third day, he could sit beneath the waterfall for hours, his mind clear and his body still.

On the final day, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Ra's called an end to the training. "You have made progress," he said, his tone as neutral as ever. "But this is only the beginning. True mastery takes years, even decades. Are you prepared to continue?"

Jason nodded, his expression determined. "I'm ready." He replied, feeling like some weight has been lifted off his shoulders.

Ra's studied him for a moment, then turned and began walking back toward the camp. "Then let us return to the base. There is much work to be done."

As they made their way through the forest, Jason couldn't shake the feeling that something had changed. The anger and pain that had once consumed him were still there, but they felt distant, like echoes of a past life.

He didn't realize it, but the training had done more than just teach him control—it had reshaped him, solidifying his current personality and burying the memories of his old self deep within his subconscious.

When they finally emerged from the forest and returned to the base of the League of Assassins, Jason felt a sense of accomplishment.

He had faced his demons and come out stronger. But as he looked at Ra's, he couldn't help but wonder what the future held. The path to self-mastery was long and arduous, but for the first time in a long time, Jason felt like he was on the right track.

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

The base of the League of Assassins was a fortress carved into the side of a mountain, it's dark stone walls blending seamlessly with the jagged cliffs that surrounded it.

Inside, the halls were lit by flickering torches, casting long shadows that danced across the ancient tapestries and weapons adorning the walls.

The air was thick with the scent of incense and the faint metallic tang of steel. It was a place of discipline, of order, and of secrets—a stark contrast to the untamed wilderness where Jason had spent the past three days.

Ra's al Ghul led Jason through the labyrinthine corridors, their footsteps echoing in the silence.

They passed training rooms filled with assassins honing their skills, their movements precise and deadly. Jason couldn't help but feel a sense of awe at the level of skill on display, but he also felt a growing determination. He would master his combat training, no matter what it took.

They reached a secluded chamber deep within the base, its walls lined with shelves filled with ancient scrolls and texts. In the center of the room was a large stone table, its surface covered in maps and diagrams. Ra's gestured for Jason to sit, then took his place at the head of the table.

"You have made progress in taming your emotions and mastering your physical body," Ra's began, his voice calm but commanding. "But true stealth is more than just hiding in the shadows or moving silently. It is about erasing your presence entirely—becoming one with your surroundings, so that even the most alert individuals cannot sense you."

Jason leaned forward, his interest piqued. "How do I do that?"

Ra's smiled faintly, a rare expression that hinted at approval. "It begins with understanding the concept of muga—the state of no-self.

When you achieve muga, you become invisible in the dark not just to the eyes, but to all senses. You are no longer yourself alone. You are the air, the shadows, the silence."

Jason frowned, trying to wrap his head around the concept. "Sounds like a bunch of philosophical mumbo jumbo."

Ra's chuckled softly. "Perhaps. But philosophy and practicality are not mutually exclusive. To achieve muga, you must first master the art of zanshin—the state of relaxed awareness.

You must be aware of everything around you, yet remain completely relaxed. Only then can you blend into your environment so seamlessly that you become undetectable."

He stood and motioned for Jason to follow. They left the chamber and made their way to a large training hall, its floor covered in soft mats. Ra's handed Jason a blindfold and a pair of weighted gloves. "Put these on. You will learn to rely on your other senses."

Jason obeyed, slipping the blindfold over his eyes and pulling on the gloves. The world went dark, and the added weight made his movements feel sluggish.

Ra's voice came from somewhere in front of him, calm and steady. "Close your eyes and focus on your breathing. Feel the air moving in and out of your lungs. Listen to the sounds around you—the rustle of fabric, the creak of the floorboards, the distant hum of the torches."

Jason did as he was told, forcing himself to relax. He focused on his breathing, letting it slow and deepen. The sounds of the training hall became sharper, more distinct. He could hear the faint scrape of Ra's boots on the mats, the subtle shift of his robes as he moved.

"Now," Ra's said, his voice barely above a whisper, "try to sense my presence. Do not rely on your eyes. Use your other senses."

Jason concentrated, his mind reaching out like a radar. He could feel Ra's presence, a faint pressure in the air, but it was elusive, shifting and changing like a shadow. He took a step forward, his movements slow and deliberate. The weighted gloves made his arms feel heavy, but he forced himself to ignore the discomfort.

Ra's moved silently, his footsteps barely making a sound. Jason strained to follow him, his senses stretched to their limits. He could feel the air currents shifting as Ra's moved, the faintest whisper of fabric brushing against skin. He turned, following the sensation, but Ra's was always one step ahead.

"You are trying too hard," Ra's said, his voice coming from behind him. "Relax. Let go of your logical thoughts. Become the air."

Jason took a deep breath, forcing himself to relax. He let go of the tension in his muscles, his body becoming loose and fluid.

He focused on the sensations around him, letting them flow through him like water. Slowly, the world seemed to fade away, leaving only the faint pressure of Ra's presence.

He moved, his steps light and silent. The weighted gloves no longer felt like a burden; they were an extension of his body. He could feel Ra's presence more clearly now, a subtle shift in the air. He turned, his movements smooth and effortless, and reached out.

His hand brushed against Ra's shoulder, and he heard a faint chuckle. "Better," Ra's said. "But you still have much to learn."


By the end of the week, Jason's progress was undeniable. He had grown quieter, more attuned to the subtle nature of his surroundings. Each day is more intense than the last. Ra's pushed Jason to his limits, forcing him to refine his senses and master the art of zanshin.

Contrary to Muga which was the state of no mind, Zashine was focused more on a state of awareness.


They practiced in the training hall, in the forest, and even in the bustling streets of a nearby village. Jason learned to blend into his surroundings, to move without a sound, and to erase his presence entirely. Just like an expert assassin.


- - -

[Three months later]

Just another day at the League's base, everyone and everything went on with their daily routines.

This morning the training ground had Damian engaged in hand to hand combat, he had a lot to cover up in that field. Being a kid and all had it's disadvantages if he's without a weapon, despite how nimble he was with that stature of he's.

He needed to make up for his size and lack of physical power. So, his focus was more on precision and technique.

With how he was dominating his grown up opponent, it was easy to see the time and effort he had put into his training. That much was expected of him.

As the heir to the League, his shoulders are burdened by the pressure of his birthright. This has made him so very determined to be the best at everything worth acknowledging by his grandfather, the Demon's Head.

Nah—not determined, more like obsessed with being the best. That was a lot of pressure for a child to bear. He knows nothing of a normal childhood, only training and combat.

With all the expectations and responsibilities his heritage has placed on him, being the heir to the League did have its advantages.

It gives him access to premium training, his dedication, resilience, fear of disappointing his mother and grandfather, were the propelling forces behind this prodigy's diligent and energetic attitude towards training exercises.

He evaded a strike from his opponent, and countered by invading his personal space as he landed a direct blow to his opponent's solar plexus, causing him to drop to his knees and down on his face, unconscious.

Maintaining a stern expression and without the slightest hint of satisfaction from his victory like it was some mundane chore, he took his bow and proceed to descend the arena.

"You know you are supposed to look pleased from your victory, but its alright if you aren't aware." Jason's voice reached him, practically dripping with sarcasm as they crossed path while he ascended the arena.

Damian halted, making a circuitous turn as he averted his gaze at Jason who was already at the edge of the arena. "Please, a victory such as that isn't worth acknowledging. It is only normal I win."

He replied with a stern look in his eyes and with no tonal inflection in his voice, then proceeded to join the others to watch from the sidelines.

Both participants took their stance as they awaited the command to bash the other's face in.

"Begin!"

Ra's instructed as they both lunged themselves at each other. Jason currently battled a skilled member of the League, one that would have easily taken him down a couple months ago.

But that doesn't seem to the case at this point. He was holding his ground against his opponent, matching up to skill, only being pushed back due to the years of experience his opponent had under his belt.

"He shows significant levels of improvement." Taking stance right next to her father, Talia joined him to watch the ongoing sparring session.

"Yes he does, daughter." He replied with the slight expression of a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

"He shows improvement in skill, and adaptability." Talia observed, watching as Jason seem to have gotten the rhythm of his opponent and now made the fight seem to be on even grounds.

"Within the past couple of months, I've trained the boy on basic skills needed to be a good assassin. His progress as we move forward, depends on him." Ra's earned himself a side glance from his daughter who looked at him with an hint of disbelief.

"You doubt me, daughter?" He asked, averting his gaze her way.

"In no way do I bare doubtful thoughts towards you, father. But your previous statement sounded unlike youself."
With a brow cocked up, Ra's stared at her intensely, almost in scrutiny. "What do you mean?"
"I know you would do anything and everything within your power to push Jason towards his innate potential, and not do a little and leave the rest of his progression in his hands."
"Hmmm." Stroking his chin as he thought on it, Ra's could not help the brief laughter that escaped his lips.

"You are right indeed, daughter."
Talia knew her father better than anyone, she knew he wouldn't sit back and leave Jason's progress in his own hands, serving only as a guide and instructor along the way.
No, he wouldn't. His plans to groom the boy into the perfect assassin and possibly a contender to his succession.

"So far he has displayed unwavering loyalty to our cause. But I wonder if he is committed enough to the order that he would go against the subconscious programming the detective did to his morals during his time with him."
"Wait…are you saying even though he is without memories, the morals Bruce had engraved into him is still at play subconsciously?" Talia questioned, confusion etched in her voice.

"It would seem like so." Her father replied. "Though he understands there are times when killing is a necessity, he still shows signs of resistance before taking a life, then self scrutinize after."

"Those are traits unbecoming of a proper assassin." She replied, feeling a sense of relief that Jason wasn't a full blown murder just yet. Even upon heavy influence from the Lazarus Pit to take lives so as to feed the hunger, the overwhelming thirst to take lives, he still had his humanity.

But that relief wasn't long lived as her father seem to have a plan regarding that minor issue. A way to mold and reshape the boy into the ideal assassin.

"That issue would be dealt with, in time." He replied, while both watched Jason takedown his opponent and forced him into submission.

To Ra's, having him shed his humanity would just result in a soulless soldier who lives for the sake of his mission and in turn would lack the flexibility and will power to do whatever it took to survive.

A smirk appeared across Ra's al Ghul's lips as he watched Jason claim his victory, envisioning the path he was leading him to.

A path where logical initiatives overwrite emotional actions. An individual with talents such as Jason's, needed to be groomed and fine tuned into the perfect assassin.

Emotions were useless to an assassin. A fledged soldier of the League had to be without emotions.

"He was reported to have acted out of the mission objectives given to him, and rescued some kids in Khalid's captivity." He spoke in a calculated cold tone.


"You speak like he has committed a crime, he is human after all." Talia replied, turning to her father.

"He did complete the mission's objective before acting off course." Ra's said as he turned to take his leave. "He shows sympathy in his eyes, I would have to erase that and mold him into the perfect soldier."

With that, he took his leave, earning a side gaze from Talia as she feared her father's plans for the young lad.

Having him kill off his emotions in the name of creating the perfect soldier would lead to him becoming a fearsome and ruthlessly efficient assassin, even among the top members of the league.


- - -

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[Maverick_DaSupreme]

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon and the base was bathed in the soft glow of torchlight, Ra's summoned Jason to his private quarters.

The room was sparsely furnished, with a large wooden desk, a few chairs, and a map of the world pinned to the wall. Ra stood by the desk, having a neutral expression.

"You have made significant progress," Ra's said, his voice calm but commanding. "But true mastery can only be achieved through practical field application. A mission has come up that will test your skills."

Jason's eyes narrowed. "What kind of mission?"

Ra's gestured to the map, his finger tracing a line to a small village nestled in the mountains. "There is a target here—a man who has betrayed the League.

He is hiding in the village, protected by a group of mercenaries. Your task is to infiltrate the village, eliminate the target, and retrieve a valuable artifact he has stolen. You must do this without being seen or noticed until you have retrieved it and assassinated the target."

Jason studied the map, his mind already working through the details. "When do I leave?"

"At dawn," Ra's replied. "This will be your final test. If you succeed, you will have proven yourself worthy of the League's teachings."

Jason nodded, a determined glint in his eyes. "I won't fail."

- - -


The village was a ghostly settlement swallowed by towering pines, their skeletal branches clawing at the overcast sky. Wooden houses, their beams blackened by time, stood like sentinels beneath thick blankets of moss.

Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, carrying the scent of burning oak and spiced meat. Laughter echoed through the narrow streets, but Jason didn't let the illusion of peace fool him.

'Too quiet for a mercenary base.'

He moved like a wraith, his boots barely disturbing the damp earth. The League's training had honed his instincts to a razor's edge—every rustle of leaves, every shift in the wind, spoke to him. His fingers brushed the hilt of a dagger strapped to his thigh, the cold metal a silent promise.

'Guards. Two at the gate, four patrolling the perimeter. Too many for a simple village.'


His target's hideout loomed ahead—a fortified manor encircled by a high stone wall, its surface slick with ivy. Mercenaries prowled the grounds, their rifles slung over their shoulders, eyes sharp.

Jason smirked beneath his mask. Amateurs.


He waited, counting the seconds between patrol rotations. Then—flick—a pebble arced through the air, landing in the underbrush with a soft crunch.

The nearest guard spun. "You hear that?"

Jason was already moving, scaling the wall with practiced ease. His muscles coiled as he dropped into the courtyard, rolling behind a rain barrel. The scent of damp wood and gun oil filled his nostrils.

No alarms. Good.

The manor's back door was reinforced steel, but the lock was a joke. Three picks, a twist, and the mechanism surrendered with a soft click. Inside, the air was thick with incense—sandalwood and something bitter. Camouflage. They're hiding something.

He ghosted through dim corridors, his senses hyper-alert. The study door was ajar, golden candlelight spilling onto the hardwood floor.

There.

A man sat at an oak desk, his back turned, a familiar ornate box resting before him. The build matched his target's—broad shoulders, military-straight posture. Jason's grip tightened on his knife.

End this quick.

In three silent strides, he was behind him. "Don't move," Jason murmured, voice low and lethal. "This doesn't have to get messy."

The man tensed—then moved. A dagger flashed in the candlelight, slicing toward Jason's throat.

'Shit.'

Instinct took over. Jason twisted, catching the man's wrist and driving a brutal elbow into his windpipe. The mercenary gagged, crumpling like a puppet with cut strings.

Jason yanked down the scarf masking the man's face.

It wasn't the League's target, Slade Wilson.

A muscle in his jaw twitched as he thought to himself. 'Slade should be here somewhere.'

He did not know why the name or picture of his target was so familiar to him, but he ignored that and was so focused on executing his mission with acute efficiency.

Footsteps echoed in the hall—heavy, purposeful.

Jason acted fast. He dragged the unconscious merc behind the desk, then slid into the vacated chair, pulling the scarf over his own face. The door creaked open.

A guard stepped in, his rifle slung lazily over one shoulder. "Didn't realize you were still here, sir. Just checking in."

Jason kept his voice smooth, bored. "I'm reviewing intel." He slowly walked towards the door and closed it behind him.

The guard hesitated. "You… weren't with the main force?"

Jason's pulse spiked, but his tone remained ice. "I had separate orders." Curious as to where the main force may have gone to as it was only reasonable that their leader might be with them, he asked.

"Where'd the main force head off this morning?" Jason kept his voice casual, leaning against the doorframe like he belonged there. "Just finished my assignment, but by the time I got back to file my report, the place was half-empty."

The guard smirked, puffing out his chest. "Oh, you missed the fun. Boss took the big guns out for a hunt."

Jason raised an eyebrow, feigning mild interest. "That so? What's the target?"

"The League of Assassins' stronghold," the guard said, pride dripping from his words.

"Slade's gonna carve up Ra's al Ghul himself and bring back his head as a trophy. Let's see the 'Demon's Head' survive that." He barked a laugh, sharp with mockery.

Jason's jaw clenched behind the mask, teeth grinding against the sting of the insult. It burned—not just the words, but the casual arrogance behind them.

They'd slaughtered an entire unit like it was nothing. He forced a chuckle anyway, rough and approving, the sound scraping his throat like gravel.

"Damn. Wish I'd been on that op." A shake of his head, the picture of a soldier denied glory. "Nothing left but cleanup now, huh?"

The guard shrugged, oblivious. "Pretty much." Then, with a camaraderie that made Jason's skin crawl, the man clapped him on the shoulder—

—and froze.

Jason saw it the second the guard's gaze flicked downward, toward the unconscious man's boot protruding from behind the desk. A half-breath of hesitation. A widening of pupils.

Too late.

Jason was already moving.

With much practiced efficiency, his hand snapped up in a knife-edge strike, driving into the guard's exposed throat with surgical precision.

The man's choked gasp died as his windpipe collapsed; he folded like a marionette with its strings cut, knees hitting the floor before his body toppled sideways.

No time to dwell. No time to check pulses.

'They're inside the League.'

The realization coiled like ice in his gut. He snatched the artifact from the desk—its weight suddenly too light for the havoc it carried—and was at the door in three strides.

Shadows swallowed him as he slipped into the corridor, his breaths measured, his footfalls silent. Every instinct screamed at him to run, but discipline kept his movements efficient, invisible.

He retraced his steps through the hideout's labyrinthine halls, a ghost in enemy territory.

A guard turned the corner ahead; Jason melted into an alcove, pressing flat against the wall until the man passed, whistling. Another heartbeat, and he was moving again, slipping out a side entrance into the knife-cold air of the forest.

Dawn had bled into midday by the time he cleared the tree line, the sun high and pitiless.

The artifact was secure in his pack, but his fingers twitched toward the comm unit at his belt. Static hissed back—jammed, or the League's channels were chaos. Either way, the message was clear.

They're under attack. And Ra's doesn't know.

He broke into a sprint.


- - -


[The League of Assassins stronghold]


Training had begun, and Jason was nowhere to be found. When that happened, he was usually with Ra's or receiving secluded instruction from him. But this morning, Talia spotted her father on the balcony above, surveying the training grounds as she led the assassins through their drills.

Damian had also noticed the older boy's absence. Under his mother's orders, he had gone to drag Jason down to the courtyard, eager to annoy the shit out of him before training even started. To his irritation, the room was empty. Jason wasn't in his usual spot atop the mountains either, where he often went to clear his head.

As another instructor took over the weapon drills, Talia seized the moment to approach her father. His undisturbed demeanor suggested he knew exactly where Jason was—and that bothered her.

She climbed the stairs, her steps measured, and joined him at the balcony's edge.

"Father," she greeted, her voice steady.

"Daughter," he replied, his gaze still fixed on the courtyard below. "As always, your training sessions are commendable. You will make a fine leader for the League, guiding my grandson when the time comes for him to claim his inheritance."

"Thank you, Father."

The praise warmed her, as it always did. She had spent her life striving to meet his expectations, honing herself into the perfect weapon—not as the heir he might have wanted, but as the assassin he needed.

Yet something gnawed at her.

"Jason wasn't present for training this morning," she remarked, keeping her tone neutral. "He didn't report in, nor did he give notice. That isn't like him."

Ra's finally glanced at her, his expression unreadable. "You're concerned for the boy."

It wasn't a question.

"There's no need for worry. I sent him on an errand—a challenge to help provide him with insight on the strength he must still attain."

Talia's fingers twitched, the only outward sign of her unease. Her father's missions were brutal by design, but this secrecy was unusual.

"What mission required such discretion that he couldn't inform me?"

"I ordered him to tell no one. He left before dawn." Ra's paused, weighing his next words. "A containment box was stolen from my gallery. It appeared to be a mere artifact, but it held a tracker—one that was likely discovered and destroyed by now. Only one man could have taken it without detection."

Talia's stomach tightened. "Who?"

"Slade Wilson."

Her breath caught. "You sent Jason after Deathstroke?" Disbelief sharpened her voice. "He's outmatched in every way—experience, skill, combat instinct."

Ra's remained impassive. "It will serve as a lesson. Either he rises to the occasion, or he perishes. Survival alone will force growth."

"This isn't training, Father. It's a death sentence."

"He won't die so easily."

"How can you be certain?"

"Intuition." Ra's turned back to the courtyard, his voice low. "He has the will to survive. If he returns, he will have earned his place. If not… then he was never fit for the role I envisioned."

Talia bit back her protest. There was more to this. "What was in the artifact?"

Ra's exhaled, as if amused by her focus. "The question isn't what it contained, but what was engrav—"

"Mother!" Damian's voice cut through the air as he strode toward them. "He's gone. No one has seen Jason all morning."

Talia forced calm into her tone. "Your grandfather sent him on a mission."

Damian's jaw tightened. The implication was clear—Jason was being groomed in ways he wasn't. A flicker of resentment burned in his eyes.

Ra's noticed. He extended a hand, drawing Damian closer. "You need not worry. None of this diminishes your birthright." He gestured to the assassins below, moving in flawless unison. "This is your legacy, Damian. The League will be yours."

Pride swelled in the boy's chest, but before he could respond, Ra's stiffened. His sharp eyes caught the glint of a rifle muzzle from a nearby doorway.

"Get down!"

He shoved Damian aside as Talia dropped. A gunshot rang out—a near miss, but the bullet grazed Ra's shoulder.

Blood seeped into his robes.

"We've been breached!" he snarled.

Talia's gaze snapped toward the shifting shadows. Dark figures poured into the courtyard like ink spilling across parchment, their movements precise, predatory. The glint of firearms in their grip caught the pale morning light, cold, impersonal, lethal.

"Get him out of here," Ra's ordered, unsheathing his sword, his wound ignored.

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

Chaos erupted in the heart of the League's stronghold.

Ra's al Ghul stood unwavering despite the blood seeping through the fabric of his robes, staining the dark green silk a deeper crimson.

The bullet wound in his arm pulsed with each heartbeat, yet his posture remained rigid, his very image of indomitable will.

Before him, black-clad intruders poured into the courtyard like a tide of shadows, their assault rifles gleaming dully in the pale morning light as they fanned out with military precision.

Every muzzle was trained on the Demon's Head, his daughter, and his grandson, three generations of al Ghul legacy standing against the storm.

"Take the boy." The command left no room for debate, Ra's voice cutting through the cacophony like a blade through silk.

Talia moved before the echo faded.

Her fingers closed around Damian's wrist with the certainty of a falcon's talons, yanking him behind her.

The assassins flooding through the arched gateways moved with a synchronization that made her stomach clench, these weren't mere mercenaries.

Their footfalls fell in perfect rhythm, their attacks coordinated with lethal efficiency. These were trained killers.

"Stay close," she ordered Damian, her voice sharp as the steel in her hand.

"I don't need protection!" Damian spat, his young face contorted in a mix of fury and indignation, his small hands already gripping his own dagger.

But Talia's attention was already elsewhere - mapping escape routes, calculating threats, her mind working with the cold precision that had kept her alive through countless coups and betrayals.

The second gunshot shattered the moment.

Talia's body moved before her mind fully registered the threat. She twisted, using her momentum to slam Damian against a weathered stone pillar just as the bullet struck where his head had been, sending chips of ancient rock spraying through the air.

The acrid scent of gunpowder mixed with the metallic tang of blood from the courtyard.

"They're not just here to raid," Talia realized aloud, her voice barely above a whisper yet carrying terrible certainty. This was an extermination. A purge.

Damian's emerald eyes burned with defiance, his small chest heaving, but before he could voice another protest, a shadow detached itself from the corridor ahead.

Talia's dagger met the attacker's blade in a shower of sparks, the ringing clash echoing off the courtyard's walls.

Without breaking rhythm, she drove her knee upward, feeling ribs give way beneath the impact. The assassin stumbled back, choking on blood.

"Move!" The command left her lips like the crack of a whip, her palm pressing firmly between Damian's shoulder blades to propel him forward.

Ra's' sword moved like liquid silver, each swing a masterpiece of violence. The blade sang as it parted flesh and bone, his movements so precise they seemed choreographed.

An attacker fell, throat opened. Another collapsed, clutching at the ruin of his abdomen. Yet for all his lethal grace, the numbers were against him.

Then– destruction.

The traditional fusuma doors that had stood for generations, elegant wooden frames papered with delicate scenes of mountain landscapes–exploded inward in a hail of splinters.

The sound was deafening; centuries of craftsmanship reduced to flying shrapnel in an instant. Through the ruined doorway poured more black-masked figures, their weapons glinting like a field of deadly stars in the morning light.

"Get him out of here!" Ra's voice carried over the din, the order absolute.

This time, Damian didn't resist. Talia felt the subtle shift in his posture the moment his training overrode his pride.

She wrapped her arms around him, pulling his small form tight against her chest, and leapt from the balcony without hesitation.

Wind rushed past Talia's ears as they fell. The extended rooftop rushed up to meet them, its clay tiles baking in the morning sun. Impact came with a thunderous crack as their combined weight shattered the ancient terracotta.

They skidded downward in a cascade of broken fragments, Talia's body twisting mid-fall to take the brunt of the impact, her arms forming a protective cage around Damian.

For one breathless moment, the world was dust and pain and the sharp scent of broken clay.

Then training took over. Talia rolled them to their feet in one smooth motion, her eyes already scanning for the next threat even as she assessed Damian for injuries.

Ra's al Ghul had already begun his
bloody work on the balcony above.

The Demon's Head stood silhouetted against the pale sky, his sword raised high like a standard of defiance.

Every gun on the spot turned toward him as one, forming a perfect semicircle of death. The simultaneous gunfire was deafening, a wall of lead and fire rushing toward its target.

Ra's moved like a specter.

His blade became a silver blur, deflecting bullets with impossible precision. Sparks flew as steel met lead, the ricochets whining through the air like angry hornets. Step by calculated step, he closed the distance, his expression one of terrifying calm.

Then he struck.

The first attacker died with Ra's sword buried to the hilt in his chest, the blade punching through armor as if it were parchment.

As the others continued firing, Ra's danced between the bullets, his footwork a deadly poetry. Each slash sent arcs of crimson through the air; each parry rang like a death knell.

One by one, they fell.

The last surviving attacker backpedaled desperately, his boots slipping in his comrades' blood. The whites of his eyes showed stark against his black mask as he emptied his clip in a panicked spray.

Ra's sidestepped the barrage with contemptuous ease. Then he leapt - a perfect, soaring arc that carried him over the final distance.

The attacker had just enough time to scream before the sword found its mark, punching through his open mouth and out the back of his skull in a grisly fountain of gore.

Silence fell.

Then–the unmistakable crack of a high-powered rifle from the shadows of the inner corridor. The bullet passed so close to Ra's face that it stirred the hairs of his beard. His head snapped toward the darkness, his eyes burning with primal fury.

"Who would dare?" The words dripped with venom, with the outrage of a king defied in his own hall. This wasn't battle - this was cowardice.

Without another word, he charged into the darkness, his sword hungry for one more kill.


- - -


The stronghold burned.

Flames clawed at the ancient stone walls, their orange tongues licking the darkened sky as smoke coiled thick and suffocating.

The League's sanctum, once a fortress of shadow and discipline, had become a slaughterhouse. The air trembled with the roar of gunfire, the shriek of missiles, and the dying cries of assassins cut down before they could strike.

Talia moved like a wraith through the carnage, her son Damian pressed close behind her. The courtyard was a nightmare of flickering firelight and blood-slicked stone.

Bullets chewed through the air, stitching death into the ranks of her warriors. Above, the mechanical beasts of war—four AH-64 Apache helicopters—hovered like vultures, their miniguns spitting leaden fury.

Then came the thunder.

Missiles streaked from the choppers, slamming into the open field. Dirt and bodies erupted in geysers of flame. A direct hit vaporized three assassins mid-charge, their swords flashing uselessly before they were reduced to crimson mist.

Talia seized Damian's arm and yanked him behind a crumbling section of wall just as shrapnel whined past, embedding itself in the stone where his head had been.

"Stay down," she hissed.

Twice now, in the span of ten brutal
minutes, death had reached for him-
and twice, Talia had ripped him from
its grasp.

Damian exhaled sharply, his small
frame pressed against the scorched
stone wall. His fingers curled into
fists, nails biting into his palms.

His eyes—green and sharp as dagger points—flickered with something between fury and fear. But he obeyed.

Across the courtyard, the League's warriors fought with the desperation of cornered beasts. Some fell, their bodies jerking under hails of gunfire.

Others, faster, deadlier, twisted through the bullets like serpents, closing the distance to bury blades in mercenary throats. But for every soldier that fell, another seemed to take his place.

Then, the reinforcements arrived.

Five CH-53E Super Stallion helicopters descended, their rotors whipping the smoke into frenzied spirals.

Ropes uncoiled like striking vipers, and mercenaries rappelled down, boots hitting the ground in synchronized thuds. M16s and M13s glinted in the firelight as they fanned out, advancing in disciplined formation.

Talia's jaw tightened. This was a massacre, not a battle.

She couldn't wait any longer.

"Stay here." The command left no room for argument. She shoved Damian deeper into cover, ensuring the shadows swallowed him whole. Then she stepped into the fray.

A bow found its way into her hands—snatched from a dying assassin whose chest was a ruin of bullet wounds. The arrows were League-forged, their tips designed to punch through steel. She nocked, drew, and released in one fluid motion.

The arrow streaked through the chaos, a silver whisper in the night. It found the cockpit of the nearest Apache, piercing the pilot's throat with surgical precision. Blood painted the glass as the chopper lurched, its controls slipping from lifeless fingers.

The co-pilot scrambled, hands grappling at the cyclic, but the bird was already spiraling. It struck the ground in a fireball that sent shockwaves through the battlefield.

Her warriors roared.

Talia became a storm. Arrows flew, each one a death sentence. She emptied her quiver, then discarded the bow and moved like vengeance incarnate. A mercenary lunged—she broke his wrist, stole his rifle, and put two rounds through his skull before turning the weapon on the next.

Gunfire. Screams. The stench of burning flesh.

She fought her way toward the fences, where more mercenaries poured in like a black tide. A soldier dropped from the wall, rifle swinging toward her—she was already moving.

Her knee crashed into his ribs, the impact driving the air from his lungs. Before he could recover, she used his collapsing body as a stepping stone, launching herself onto the wall.

Now she had the high ground.

A pump-action shotgun barked in her hands, its roar drowning the cacophony. Shell after shell, she cut down the reinforcements, her aim unerring. Bodies tumbled from the wall like broken dolls.

Behind the crumbling barricade, Damian watched. His small hands clenched into fists.

A mercenary spotted him—grinned—raised his pistol.

A blade flashed. The man's arm hit the ground before he could pull the trigger. His scream was cut short as an assassin's sword took his head.

Damian didn't flinch.

His gaze locked onto the fallen pistol. An opportunity.

In a heartbeat, he was moving. Small, fast, lethal. He snatched the gun, rolled into a crouch, and fired. Two mercenaries dropped before they even registered the threat.

"A child?" Their faces twisted in disbelief as they dropped dead.

Damian advanced, his shots precise, his stance that of a trained killer. The League's blood ran thick in his veins.

Above, the remaining choppers faltered. League assassins, now regrouping, rained arrows and launched projectiles with deadly accuracy. One Apache took a direct hit to its rotor, spinning wildly before exploding midair.

The mercenaries, once an unstoppable wave, now wavered.

But Talia knew this wasn't over.

To her ignorance, Slade's true objective wasn't the League.

It was Ra's al Ghul.

And somewhere in the fortress, her father was alone and outnumbered.

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

The wind howled like a wounded beast as Jason crested the ridge overlooking the League of Assassins' stronghold. The obsidian fortress, carved into the mountainside, was usually a bastion of impenetrable silence.

Today, it burned.

Smoke coiled into the blood-red sky. The scent of charred wood and iron filled the air. Distant shouts echoed—orders, screams, the clash of steel.

They're already inside.

Jason's grip tightened around the artifact in his pack.

He didn't have much time.

- - -

Back within the dimly illuminated corridors, Ra's al Ghul walked through with extreme caution as he held his sword in a readied stance while he made his way through the dimly lit hallway.

Some might wonder why the Head of the Demon cautiously made his way through that dimly lit hallway when he was currently the most skilled person at that base.

That's because he was fully aware of how dirty and dishonourably those mercenaries fought, he also had a suspicion of who might have led them, for an utter outsider wouldn't have been able to launch such an attack on his home.

Sensing their presence within the darkness, he made a swift turn just as the mercenary soldiers came out of hiding for a surprise attack from behind.

The muzzle of a rifle was right up his face but unfortunately for them, his eyes had well adjusted to the dark already.

Metal shrieked as the rifle's barrel split cleanly, severed before the trigger could be pulled.

The first man fell, his throat opened before he could scream. The second barely had time to widen his eyes before Ra's drove the tip of his blade through his heart.

He was utterly surrounded by enemy forces, all wielding guns while he had nothing but his trusty sword in hand.

Ra's slashed, stabbed and cut his way through every intruder that dared to make an attempt for his head.

The space was too narrow for them to simultaneously open fire, and it didn't help that Ra's kept getting in range of their allies.

If there was any misfire, it could take out their own men.

His sword became a whirlwind of death, parrying the sporadic gunfire that came his way, each deflection ringing like a death knell.

He moved like a specter, slipping between them, his blade drinking deeply as it carved through flesh and bone. Blood painted the walls in macabre strokes, pooling on the floor beneath their fallen comrades.

One mercenary, braver—or more foolish—than the rest, charged with a roar.

Ra's sidestepped, using the man's momentum to impale him on his own sword. As the body slumped, two more opened fire.

He yanked the corpse up as a shield, feeling the bullets thud into lifeless flesh before surging forward. A swift decapitation sent one man's head rolling; a reverse slash split the other from shoulder to hip.

The survivors faltered.

Then, with a collective snarl, they rushed him—forcing him backward through a Shōji door. The delicate paper screen tore like flesh beneath their assault, its wooden frame splintering as they spilled into the meditation chamber beyond.

The room was serene, untouched by the carnage outside. A single mat lay in the center, the same one where Jason had spent hours in silent contemplation. Now, it was a battleground.

Ra's found himself surrounded, a ring of steel and gun barrels tightening around him. The mercenaries' eyes gleamed with the certainty of victory.

"Die, old man!" one spat.

Gunfire erupted.

Yet Ra's did not fall.

His sword became a blur, deflecting bullets with impossible precision, the clang of steel on lead filling the room like some hellish symphony. He moved with preternatural speed, his footwork a dance of death, his blade an extension of his will.

Two soldiers, firing wildly, found their bullets buried in each other's chests instead. They collapsed, their expressions frozen in shock.

Silence.

"Hold your fire, he's mine."

A voice came from behind as a masked figure stepped forward—taller than the rest, twin blades in his possession, one stealthed at his back and the other drawn.

He had his mask raised over his head, leaving his face in total exposure.

"You've grown reckless, Demon's Head," the man said, his voice distorted.

Ra's didn't flinch. "And you've grown bold. A fatal mistake."

'It seems the boy was unsuccessful with his mission. No. Considering the timing of this attack, it's most likely the boy missed him.' Ra's thought to himself.

"Confused Old man?" Deathstroke asked as he tried to make sense of what went on in Ra's' mind.

"Slade, what is the meaning of this?" Ra's asked, his tone demanding for an immediate answer.

"I call it a hostile takeover." He deadpanned.

"Your arrogance emberasses me and shames you." Ra's stated, the other mercenaries stood by to withhold the impending showdown.

"Yet here I am, so close to taking over this legacy of yours and making it mine." He stated, not bothered by the prio comment.

His eyes squinting as they locked on to Slade, he spoke without the slightest hint of accusation in his voice. "I know you stole the artifact." Certainty clearly audible in his tone.

"Oh, that." Slade casually admitted to the accusation with such nonchalance that confirmed Ra's' suspicion of Jason not having met Deathstroke at the base where he was to assassinate him.

"You will never be able to decipher what's within and get a hold of the information inside." Ra's said with a stern tone.

"Only I have the knowledge to decipher what's within, and it would be utterly impossible getting it out of me."

"Hmmm. Well, that's where you are wrong, old man. I don't need you, there's someone else on this very base that I am certain you must have thought of how to do so." Slade replied as a wicked smirk crepted to the side of his lips.

"You will never have your way, boy."

"I see you still have some spring in your steps, let's see how you do against a real swords man, come and get some. Old man." He taunted Ra's into combat before him and his team ran out of time.

"After you, boy." Ra's retorted as he glared at Deathstroke who seemed to be in need of some serious ass whooping to put him in his place.

Yet, Ra's did not underestimate how dangerous his prey was as he remained on guard and cautious.

'I might as well fulfill the task I sent Jason on. For this you have done Slade, your head shall be mine.' Ra's declared in his thoughts while taking on a sword stance.

Seeing the glare in his eyes, Deathstroke reached for his second sword behind his back.

He wielded a twin blade.

The traitor lunged.

Steel met steel in a furious exchange, sparks flying as Ra's parried and countered with inhuman speed.

Deathstroke swung both swords down at Ra's who successfully blocked both, but the wound in his arm slowed him—just enough for Deathstroke to go in for a counter.

Ra's avoided he kick then went in for an attack, their swords clashed once more

"How could you have pushed me out!?" Deathstroke yelled in a fit of rage, their swords pressed against the other in a deadlock of blades. "I was your right hand."

"Your actions decided for you." Ra's deadpanned, not needing to explain himself to the brat who was in way over his head.

As the fight raged on, a masked mercenary soldier far behind, noticed Ra's was well invested in the fight. "He's in position." He reported into his comms.

As if having received confirmation from the other end, they evacuated the scene, leaving the two to battle.

Slade ran out of the space, making way towards the hallway.

He does this while maintaining appropriate distance with Ra's who would cut him down from the slightest slip up.

The Demon's Head closed in on him, his emerald robes whispering against the ground.

His sword caught the pale light, its edge glinting like a serpent's fang. His eyes, cold and ancient, locked onto his prey with the patience of a predator who had hunted for centuries.

"You flee like a cornered rat. I expected more from the world's deadliest mercenary. To think you aspired to become my right hand man." Ra's stated the last bit with disgust and disappointment in his voice.

A smirk appeared on the mercenary face, fingers flexing around the hilt of his blade. There was no fear in his stance—only calculation.

"Fleeing?"

He wasn't running, but luring.

He came to a stop as steel flashed. The mercenary struck first, his sword a silver blur aimed for the throat.

The clash of metal rang through the hallway, sparks erupting as their blades ground together.

The older man deflected with ease, twisting his wrist to send a vicious upward slash toward his opponent's ribs. The mercenary barely pivoted in time, the edge grazing his armor.

"You cannot outthink centuries of battle, boy."

A feint—left, then right. The mercenary's boot lashed out, kicking a broken pillar toward the robed figure, forcing him to sidestep. In that split second of distraction, the mercenary turned and bolted down the ruined hallway, his footsteps echoing against the stone.

A snarl twisted the older man's lips.

"Running again?!"

He gave chase, his robes billowing behind him like the wings of some avenging specter.

Then—the mechanical roar of engines.

The Demon's Head halted, his sharp ears catching the sound of a chopper from the far end of the hallway's entrance too late.

His eyes flicked behind him just as the chopper descended to the balcony's level at the far end of the hallway, launching missiles right into it.

It was a straight line through the hallway right to his current location and Slade was already making a run for it.

The missiles screamed toward them.

The Ra's turned, instincts honed over lifetimes screaming at him—but his opponent was already moving.

Fire erupted behind him, a rolling inferno devouring stone and air alike. The heat lashed at the Demon's back, searing his robes, but he ran, his ancient body pushing through the pain.

The mercenary sprinted for the edge of the hallway which led to space below.

At the edge, the mercenary leapt—his augmented muscles carrying him effortlessly across the gap and unto the edge of a balcony across the yard.

The older man followed, but the flames overtook him. His robes ignited, the fire biting into his flesh as he let out a loud and agonizing scream. A choked gasp escaped him as the ground vanished beneath his feet.

The mercenary stood at the far edge, his face unreadable.

"Insurance."

He muttered, his words a dirge as he watched the Demon's body drop to the ground below with an audible thud.


- - -

[The Fallen Demon]

He crashed onto a lower ledge, his body wreathed in smoke, his sword skittering away into the darkness. Pain lanced through him, but he stifled a groan that threatened to escape.

With his body burnt to a crisp, Ra's had just one option if he wished to survive, but time wasn't on his side and he needed to act fast.

The pit.

He tried crawling his way there, he extended an arm in front of him so he could pull his body along the ground.

Then—a boot pressed down on his back

The mercenary loomed above him, his sword resting against the older man's throat. His eyes gleamed with cold satisfaction.

"Centuries of battle… and you still didn't see the missile play coming?" He taunted.

Slade kicked his side with enough force to flip him over on his back.

A cough. Blood on his lips. But the smirk remained, defiant even in ruin.

"A clever gambit… but you forget—"

A flash of steel—the hidden dagger in his sleeve slashed across the mercenary's thigh. The younger man staggered, but his reflexes were inhuman. His fist snapped forward, cracking against the older warrior's jaw.

Blood filled his mouth. His vision swam.

The mercenary pressed the blade harder, his breathing steady despite the wound.

"Any last words, old man?"

The Demon's Head glared up at him, his eyes burning brighter than the flames that had engulfed him.

"This… is not over."

- - -

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[Green Syn]

"This… is not over."

Click to shrink...

Okay, now I am starting to see the AU.
So far, it's pretty good!

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

Moving like a specter, Jason slipped through the fortress's hidden passages—routes only the Demon's Head and his most trusted knew. The stone walls, usually cold and unyielding, now trembled with the force of battle.

A shadow lunged at him from a side corridor.

Jason reacted on instinct—his dagger flashed, steel meeting steel in a shower of sparks. The assassin's eyes widened beneath his hood.

"Jase?"

Jason recognized the voice—Cassius, one of Ra's elite. The man's robes were torn, his left arm slick with blood.

"Where's Ra's?" Jason growled, not lowering his blade.

"The inner sanctum," Cassius hissed. "Deathstroke's forces broke through the eastern gate. They're—"

A gunshot cracked through the hall.

Cassius staggered, a bloom of crimson spreading across his chest. Jason yanked him into cover as another bullet ricocheted off the stone.

"Go," Cassius coughed. "Warn him, though I fear it might be too late."

Jason didn't waste time on farewells.

He ran.


The sanctum doors were shattered. Bodies littered the floor—League assassins and mercenaries alike. The air reeked of gunpowder and death.

He spotted two figures at the other end, one stood above the other as his glinting sword was placed on the neck of the other.

As he closed the distance, making haste to the opening, he noted the stature of the one above was too different to be Ra's.

Then he noticed, the attire of the barbequed human who laid on the floor, were worn by Ra's alone.

Slade stamped his dominant foot into Ra's chest, placing his sword right against the side of his neck.

"After five hundred years, the world has had quite enough of you, old man. The Lazarus Pit will not bring you back this time."

With both hands he grabbed onto his sword as he raised it high, prepared to stab it through the Demon's Head.

"I've waited quite a long time for this." He added.

Slade was unable to finish his downward motion as a heavy kick made way into his chest, propelling him off his feet.

With a flip, he got on his feet and looked up to see who the hell had just interrupted his kill.

"Old man!" Jason exclaimed, a mix of concern and worry in his voice as he sympathized with the grotesque wounds he had conceived.

Deathstroke charged in with a sword in hand, attempting to behead the masked individual who had obstructed him from claiming the victory he had longed for, for so long.

With a swift turn, he parried off Deathstroke's attack with his blade, sending him back a couple feet.

"How dare yo–"

"No, how dare you?" Jason retorted, cutting off Deathstroke.

"How dare you do this to the old man? How dare you attack this place?" He asked once more, anger sipping into his voice, rage began to swell up from within.

The closet thing he had to a father figure was dying right before his eyes and the person responsible stood before him.

The thought of how capable Deathstroke had to be to inflict such damage upon Ra's came to mind but he shrugged it aside, only taking it as a note of caution.

All he could think about was ending the man who stood before him, with the title of world's best mercenary.

Before his stirring rage, that title meant nothing.

He lunged forward, with his blade in hand as he closed in within Deathstroke's range for an attack.

It was parried, and countered as Deathstroke used the base of his sword's handle to jab at Jason's forehead.

He was quick enough to duck underneath the filthy strike and delivered a strike of his own aimed at Deathstroke's arm.

With practiced technique, he was able to disarm him as Deathstroke was left with just one sword.

Without needed recovery time, Deathstroke swung his elbow from above with enough force that could dislocate Jason's shoulder bone.

But he was quick enough to sidestep with his sword going in for a counter strike, aimed at Deathstroke's torso.

Reaching for his undrawn sword with applaudable speed, Deathstroke blocked the attack.


With skilled foot work, Jason pivolted his way into Deathstroke's personal space as he successfully landed a jab upon Deathstroke's nose with his elbow.

He instantly initiated a follow up attack as Deathstroke would be unable to use his sword in such close range, but his attack was thwarted before he could fully initiate it as Deathstroke delivered a high knee swing aimed at his solar plexus.

Skill and reflex came into play as he instantly put up his forearms as guards to shield himself and minimize the damage attempting to be dealt.

But instead, the force on impact sent him flying as his back smacked into the wall behind.

"You are quite good, for a kid." Deathstroke acknowledged, making it known he knew Jason was still inexperienced and just in his late teens.

"But not good enough." He added, walking towards his sword which Jason had disarmed.

"And you are freakishly strong." Jason stated, pushing himself to his feet as he took on a sword stance.

He was even more eager to end the fight as soon as he possibly could because the more the fight prolonged, Deathstroke would totally have the advantage as momentum was already with him.

Not to mention he was very skilled and has decades of combat experience.

He had read Deathstroke's file, the details that were given to him before he embarked on his mission to assassinate the man.

A mission that if had been successful, would have increased his rank and reliability within the League for it would have proven he excels in skill and the title of 'Assassin' would have been given to him.

Ra's was more likely to have bestowed upon him a personalized title of his own.

But he had missed his target and as if by fate, here he was.

And had committed a crime so heinous that it was unforgivable, Deathstroke needed to be sent off the world of the living and off deep into the depths of hell so Hades and the demons down there would torment him for eternity.

And if they were to ever meet in hell, he would ensure to continue their fight down there until he had destroyed his soul.

That was how much hatred he now harbored for the mercenary.

Jason knew that in his current state, his chances of victory in a straight up confrontation was very slim. But at this point, he didn't care.

Deathstroke picked up his sword, his eyes locked unto the masked teenager who glared at him with a fierce look in his eyes.

They didn't dim the boy's worth of even calling his prey.

His whole invasion and strategized attack was being done according to time, and he did not have much of it left, he and his troops needed to evacuate real soon.

"Time to end this!"

He lunged forward for a piercing strike, Jason sidestepped and swung his sword to cut off Deathstroke's arm in counter.

But it was a feint, as Deathstroke's other sword went in for an horizontal slash attack aimed to cut across his torso.

There wasn't enough space behind him to step out of the swing's range because a wall was behind him. It was checkmate…Or so Deathstroke thought, unaware of how nimble and quick on his feet Jason could be.

Much to his surprise, Jason leaped off the ground backwards onto the wall as he pushed off the wall and propelled himself over his blade with a dive.

Upon impact with the ground, he transitioned into a roll and quickly made way for the nearest wooden pillar.

Before Deathstroke knew it, Jason cut through the thick wood with a single strike. Just as Ra's al Ghul had taught him during their training in the woods.

The wooden structure above, crumbled upon Deathstroke who was unable to get out on time.

"You little bastard." He grimaced as his head came through the wreckage first while he made way for his body to pull through.

Jason was right in front of him already.

With one quick strike, he thrusted his sword right at Deathstroke's face with the intention of driving his blade through the man's thick skull.

With Deathstroke's movement partially restricted, he could barely get his face out of the way on time before Jason buried his blade into his right eye but not deep enough to reach his brain.

Aghhhh!!

The pain was so excruciating that he screamed in agony.

Jason did not mind that, but rather proceeded unto a follow up attack as he pulled back his sword and made a horizontal slash with an attempt of beheading the man.

A fitting death, given what he has done.

Deathstroke quickly pulled himself off the wreckage, right on time to fend off the strike with his own blade, pushing Jason slightly off balance.

The sound of a chopper came from above and just as Jason looked up to see if it would rain down bullets, Deathstroke landed an attack.

He kicked Jason so hard that he was sent somersaulting halfway across the yard. He struck his sword into the ground, regaining his bearings.

Looking up, he saw Deathstroke grab onto a zipline dropped from the hovering chopper.

"As much as I'd enjoy playing with you some more kid, It's time for me to leave." He announced with a slight hint of amusement in his voice as he stared down the boy.

"No you don't." Jason reached into a small pack attached to the side of his belt and pulled out three shurikens which he simultaneously hurled at Deathstroke with speed and precision.

With one hand holding onto the zipline, Deathstroke made use of the other which held his blade as he easily fended off the ninja shooting stars.

"Get back here you coward." Jason yelled out to him.

"Don't worry kid, I will make sure to pay you back for this." He replied as he gestured to his bleeding eye.

Jason said nothing in response but maintained a death glare until the chopper was gone.

"If only I had a gun." He angrily muttered to himself. "A gun would surely help me get to targets that are far out of range, there's only so much one can do with a sword."

He snapped out of his thought as a sudden realization dawned on him. He could still save Ra's.

With the help of the Pit, he should be as good as new. Turning to the spot where Ra's barbecued body laid, he was nowhere to be found.

"Where is the geezer?" He muttered to himself as he ran down towards the hidden carven where the pit was located.

As he made his way down the stairs and finally arrived at the glowing cave, he spotted Ra's lifeless body near the water.

His arm was stretched out, just a couple inches away to the edge of the pool. He appeared to have crawled his way there.

He walked in on a few members who paid witness to the scene with a mournful demeanor as they paid respect to their dead leader.

Damian picked up Ra's lifeless body in his arm and approached the pit, attempting to drop him into its waters in hope of the miracle waters reviving his grandfather.

Talia made her way to his front, standing between him and the pit as he halted.

"He's already dead, Damian. There's nothing the waters can do for him now." She said to him in an attempt to persuade him from completing that action.

Yes, dropping her father's corpse into the Lazarus Pit could revive him. But there was a high probability that it might only bring his body back to life, which would be devoid of his soul.

An empty shell.

They were lucky with Jason, who's life was fortunate enough to defy the odds and eventually regained both his sanity, and his soul.

Though she still had her doubts over the sanity part, it was a process she refused to put her father through.

She refused to see him in such a condition, an empty shell. A shadow version of her father which would highly pale in comparison to the great man her father truly was.

The best they could do at the moment was to come to terms with the acceptance of their leader's death and find a way to move on.

"I failed." The words that escaped Damian with a tone of defeat mixed into his words.

"We can't think about that now, we have to move." She grabbed onto his arm and pulled him as she walked out.

"Where are we going?" He asked, but showed no resistance to his mother's pull.

"To meet your father."

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

Knock.

The sharp rap against the door cut through the silence of the dimly lit room.

"Come in."

The reply was immediate, smooth, and devoid of hesitation. The voice carried the weight of authority, a tone that brooked no argument.

The man on the other side twisted the doorknob, pushing the door open with a slow creak. The hinges groaned in protest, as if reluctant to admit him. The air inside was thick with the scent of aged wood, polished leather, and the faint metallic tang of weapon oil.

A single desk lamp cast long shadows across the room, its golden glow barely reaching the corners where darkness clung stubbornly.

Slade Wilson—Deathstroke—stood with his back turned, his broad frame silhouetted against the flickering light. His posture was rigid, his stance that of a man who had long since mastered the art of patience.

"I've got to say, boss," the man began, stepping inside and letting the door click shut behind him, "the rate at which we keep changing our base is starting to get disturbing." His voice was laced with dry amusement, but beneath it was an undercurrent of genuine concern.

Slade didn't turn immediately. Instead, he exhaled, a slow, measured breath that spoke of controlled irritation. "This change of location was necessary." His words were clipped, final.

"Yeah, yeah, I get it," the man—Jones—replied, striding forward without waiting for an invitation. He dragged a chair from the side of the room, its legs scraping against the hardwood floor, and dropped into it with a sigh.

"But a little heads-up would've been nice. I was already halfway to the old base when I got the message." He leaned back, crossing his arms. "Imagine walking into an ambush just 'cause the intel was late. Sheesh."

Finally, Slade turned. The dim light caught the black eyepatch stretched over his right eye, the leather stark against his scarred face.

His remaining eye—sharp, calculating—locked onto Jones with an intensity that made the air between them feel heavier.

"Come on, Jones," Slade said, his voice a low rumble. "You and I both know you can handle yourself." He moved with deliberate steps toward a small oak cabinet in the corner, its surface dusted but well-maintained.

Jones smirked, though his gaze lingered on the eyepatch. "Love the new look, by the way. Gotta say, it's a bold statement."

Slade pulled open a drawer, retrieving a bottle of amber whiskey and two crystal glasses. "It isn't for fashion."

"Didn't figure it was," Jones admitted, watching as Slade poured the liquor. The liquid caught the light, glowing like molten gold. "But in our line of work, it does make you look all… dangerous and murdery." He reached out, accepting the offered glass with a nod of thanks.

Slade's lips twitched—not quite a smile, but something close. "The old man didn't go down without leaving his mark." Jones teased as he swirled the whiskey, studying its slow crawl down the sides of the glass.

"Ra's al Ghul, huh?" He took a sip, relishing the burn. "Figured as much. Hard to imagine anyone else over there who could've done that to you."

Slade's expression darkened. "Ra's wasn't the one who took my eye."

Jones froze mid-sip, his brow furrowing. "What?" He lowered the glass. "You're telling me there was someone else in that hellhole who could pull that off?"

Slade said nothing, choosing instead to take a slow drink. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken implications.

Jones exhaled sharply, leaning forward. "Alright, fine. Keep your secrets." He waved a hand dismissively. "How'd the mission go, then? Aside from the… unexpected accessory."

Slade's grip tightened slightly around his glass. "Everything went according to plan—until the end."

"Until?"

"Ra's was already finished. Burned, broken. I had him beneath my boot, blade at his throat." Slade's voice was eerily calm, but Jones could hear the undercurrent of frustration. "I wanted him to see it coming. To know it was me."

Jones nodded slowly. He knew the history—the betrayal, the exile. Slade had waited years for this moment.

"And?" he pressed.

Slade's jaw tightened. "I was interrupted."

Jones blinked. "By who? Talia?"

"No. She was occupied, just as planned." Slade set his glass down with deliberate care. "This was someone else."

Jones waited, sensing the reluctance in his boss's posture.

Slade exhaled through his nose. "A kid."

Jones choked on his whiskey. "A what?"

Slade's eye narrowed. "You heard me."

Jones wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, staring. "You're telling me some teenage brat got the drop on you?"

Slade's silence was answer enough.

Jones let out a low whistle. "Damn. Now I gotta hear this."

Slade leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking beneath him. "He wasn't just some kid. He moved like a trained killer—raw, but skilled."

"League-raised?"

"No." Slade's voice was firm. "His style was different. Unrefined, but… adaptable. Instinctive."

Jones frowned. "You sound almost impressed."

Slade's eye gleamed. "He fought like he had nothing to lose."

Jones mulled that over. "And the eye?"

Slade's fingers brushed the edge of the patch. "He trapped me. Just for a second. That was all he needed."

Jones exhaled sharply. "So what now? We hunting this kid down?"

Slade's expression hardened. "No. He's not the priority." He reached into his coat, withdrawing a folded piece of parchment covered in cryptic symbols. "This is."

Jones studied the markings. "Still no luck deciphering it?"

"None." Slade's voice was grim. "Which means we need someone who can."

"Who?"

Slade's lips curled into something cold. "Talia al Ghul."

Jones groaned. "Oh, come on. After what you did to her old man?"

Slade's gaze was unreadable. "She'll talk. One way or another."

Jones shook his head, then paused. "Wait—before we go charging into that mess, what's this even for?" He gestured to the parchment. "What info did you need from the stolen artifact? What's the endgame here?"

Slade was silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, he spoke.

"Ever heard of the Mirakuru serum?"

The name hung in the air like a promise—or a threat.

Jones's glass froze halfway to his lips.

And just like that, the atmosphere tensed up.

- - -

Like vengeful spirits, the winds howled across the jagged peaks of the hidden mountain, their mournful cries echoing through the stone corridors of the League's new stronghold.

The air was thin here, laced with the crisp bite of altitude, and the scent of burning incense clung to the walls—sandalwood and myrrh, the traditional offerings for the dead.

Talia al Ghul stood at the edge of the fortress's highest balcony, her fingers curled around the railing, her knuckles pale with tension. Below her, the world stretched out in an endless sea of mist and rock, a kingdom of shadows now hers to command.

A week had passed since her father's murder.

A week since Slade Wilson had defiled the sanctity of the Lazarus Pit, turning what should have been a place of rebirth into a tomb.

She had sealed the cavern herself, pressing her palm against the ancient stone doors as they groaned shut, sealing Ra's al Ghul's scorched remains within. No rites. No final words. Just ash and silence.

The dishonor of it burned in her chest like a brand.

Her father—the Demon's Head, the man who had shaped empires and outlived dynasties—had been denied a warrior's death. Instead, he had fallen to treachery, to explosives and ambushes, to the cowardice of a man who had once been his most trusted blade.

Slade would pay for that.

The League had abandoned the old base, retreating to a secondary stronghold—one of many her father had prepared for exactly this scenario.

Nestled deep within the Himalayas, this fortress was a labyrinth of black stone and hidden passages, its defenses refined over centuries.

Motion-sensitive traps lined the halls, and every entrance was guarded by loyal shadows who had sworn their lives to the Demon's Head—now to her.

Talia had ensured Damian was far from this war. She had left him with his father, Bruce Wayne, in Gotham. The boy would be safe there, far from the bloodshed to come.

As for the rest of the League?

They were hers now.

Her first decree had been simple: Find Slade Wilson.

A dozen assassins had already been dispatched, their orders clear—track him, but do not engage. Not yet. She would take his head herself.

What Talia did not know was that Slade was hunting her just as fiercely.

He needed her alive.

The artifact—a relic of unknown power, its surface etched with indecipherable symbols—remained a mystery. Slade had expected Ra's to die without revealing its secrets; the old man had been too stubborn, too prideful to break under torture.

But Talia?

She was different.

If she knew how to decode the artifact, she would crack. Eventually.

As for Jason, Talia had given him a choice: stay and fight under her banner, or leave and find his own path.

Ra's had brought him into the League for reasons he had never shared with her. Some grand design, some purpose Jason was meant to fulfill. But with her father gone, those plans were lost to the winds.

Jason was skilled—brutally so—but Talia had no use for ghosts of her father's schemes.

Before their paths diverged, he had returned the artifact to her.

"It belonged to him," he had said, his voice rough with something between respect and resentment. "Now it belongs to you."

Talia had turned the relic over in her hands, studying the strange markings. She had no idea what it meant, what power it held. To her, it was just another piece of her father's legacy—one she had no interest in unraveling.

So she had given it back.

"Keep it," she had told him. "A memento. Of the man who was your teacher."

Jason had accepted it without a word, tucking it away before vanishing into the night.


Now, as Talia stood alone in the dim light of the fortress, the weight of her new title settled upon her shoulders.

Ra's al Ghul was dead.

Slade Wilson had declared war.

And somewhere in an unknown destination, an ancient power lay dormant, its secrets waiting to be unlocked.

The game had only just begun.

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

Talia al Ghul stood at the edge of the treeline, her emerald eyes narrowed, calculating. Behind her, a number of the League's deadliest assassins waited, their black garb blending into the shadows.

The intel had been precise—this was where Deathstroke had retreated after slaughtering her father.

Where he had hidden like a coward after dealing a surprise attack which led to her father's death and a loss in great numbers of their soldiers.

Dishonorable.

Unforgivable.

Talia's fingers curled around the hilt of her dagger, the metal biting into her palm. She would carve the truth from his flesh before she let him die.

A single gesture.

Her assassins moved like ghosts, scaling the compound walls with practiced ease. No alarms sounded. No guards patrolled. The silence should have been her first warning.

The second came when the floodlights exploded to life, blinding white, and the gunfire erupted.

They had walked into a trap.

Bullets tore through the first wave of her men before they could react, bodies jerking like broken marionettes before collapsing.

Talia rolled behind a concrete barrier, the heat of muzzle flashes searing the air. She could hear Deathstroke's mercenaries shouting, their boots pounding as they closed in.

Then he stepped into view.

Deathstroke stood atop a steel walkway, his mask a blank, emotionless slate, his single visible eye glinting with something like amusement. "Talia al Ghul," he called, his voice a deep, mocking rasp. "I was wondering when you'd come."

She didn't waste words.

With a snarl, she lunged, her blade flashing toward his throat. He blocked with his forearm, the reinforced plating screeching against steel.

She twisted, driving her knee into his ribs—only for him to grab her leg and hurl her into a shipping container. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs, pain spiderwebbing up her spine.

Her assassins rushed him.

The slaughter was methodical.

Deathstroke moved like a machine, every motion precise, brutal. A sword severed a man's arm at the elbow before reversing into his gut.

A pistol barked twice—two headshots, two corpses hitting the ground before the echoes faded. Talia regained her footing just in time to see him drive a combat knife through the eye socket of her last remaining fighter.

Then he turned to her.

She attacked again, faster this time, her strikes a blur of lethal intent. He countered each one, his strength overwhelming.

A fist cracked against her jaw, sending her stumbling. A boot slammed into her ribs—she felt something snap. Blood filled her mouth, metallic and warm.

She barely registered the needle sliding into her neck before the world went black.

- - -


When consciousness returned, it came with agony.

Talia hung from chains bolted to the ceiling, her arms stretched taut, her toes barely scraping the concrete floor. The room stank of blood and antiseptic, the flickering fluorescent light casting jagged shadows across Deathstroke's armor as he paced before her.

"You're awake," he observed. "Good."

He backhanded her.

The force snapped her head to the side, her vision swimming. Blood dripped from her split lip, splattering the floor between them.

"Where is it?" he demanded.

She spat at him.

The knife came next, sliding between her ribs with clinical precision. She choked on a scream, her body convulsing as he twisted the blade.

"Ra's had something I need," Deathstroke continued, his voice disturbingly calm. "Coordinates. Hidden in an artifact. You will tell me how to decipher them."

Talia gritted her teeth. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Another strike—this time the pommel of his knife crushing her fingers. Bones shattered. She couldn't stop the cry that tore from her throat.

Days blurred together in a haze of pain.

Electricity seared her nerves.

Knives peeled skin from muscle.

Salt and acid followed, burning into open wounds.

Through it all, Deathstroke repeated the same question.

And through it all, Talia gave the same answer.

She didn't know.

But he didn't believe her.


On the fifth night, as she hung limp in her chains, barely conscious, Deathstroke finally paused.

"You're either remarkably stubborn," he mused, "or you truly are ignorant."

Talia lifted her head, her breathing ragged. Blood matted her hair, her once-pristine robes now shredded and stained. "Why?" she rasped. "You killed my father. You tore the League apart. Taking control… that wasn't your end goal. What do you want?"

Deathstroke studied her for a long moment. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he removed his mask.

The face beneath was scarred, weathered, his single eye cold as ice. "Normally," he said, "I wouldn't waste my breath. But since you won't be leaving this room alive…" He reached into his belt, withdrawing a small, weathered map. "Have you ever heard of a drug called Mirakuru?"

Talia frowned. The word was unfamiliar.

"It was a Japanese experiment," Deathstroke continued. "World War II. A serum designed to create super-soldiers. It worked too well." He unfolded the map, revealing an island circled in red. "The test subjects became monsters. Unstoppable. Unkillable. The project was buried, the remaining vials lost."

His finger tapped the coordinates.

"Until Ra's al Ghul found one."

Talia's blood ran cold.

Deathstroke's smile was a razor's edge. "Imagine an army of men like me. Unbreakable. Unyielding. That is what your father hid. And I will have it."

He leaned in, his breath hot against her ear.

"Even if I have to carve the answer from your bones."


Talia's body was a ruin of pain, every breath a struggle against broken ribs and seared flesh. Deathstroke's words echoed in her skull—Mirakuru. An army of monsters. The thought of it made her stomach twist. Her father had kept many secrets, but this… this was something else entirely.

Deathstroke stepped back, observing her reaction with detached interest. When she said nothing, his gloved hand closed around her throat, squeezing just enough to make her vision pulse black at the edges.

"Still playing the loyal daughter?" he mused. "Ra's is gone. His empire is ash. Whatever misplaced devotion you have left won't protect you from what's coming."

She spat blood at his feet. "You think you're the first man to try breaking me?"

His grip tightened. "No. But I'll be the last."

- - -

The next round of torture was worse.

The dim glow of flickering torches cast long, wavering shadows across the stone-walled chamber, their orange light dancing over the cold, damp surfaces.

The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood and the faint, acrid tang of smoke from recently extinguished fires. Talia knelt on the rough-hewn floor, her wrists bound behind her, her dark hair disheveled and clinging to her sweat-streaked face.

Despite her predicament, her emerald eyes burned with defiance, fixed on the man who loomed over her—Deathstroke, the mercenary whose reputation for ruthlessness was as legendary as his skill.

Deathstroke didn't just want pain—he wanted erosion. The slow, methodical dismantling of her will.

This time around, he started with precision strikes, targeting nerve clusters that left her screaming without leaving permanent damage. When that didn't work, he moved to more creative methods.

A scalpel traced the old scars on her back—the ones from her League training. "You were always his favorite weapon," he murmured as the blade bit deep. "Sharpened to perfection. Tell me, did he ever see you as anything more than a tool?"

Talia clenched her jaw. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

He pressed a live wire to the fresh wound.

Her body arched against the chains, a raw, animal scream tearing from her throat. The smell of burning flesh filled the room.

Deathstroke watched, unmoved. "The coordinates, Talia."

"I. Don't. Know."

He sighed, as if disappointed. Then he pulled a syringe from his belt. The liquid inside was thick, iridescent—unnatural.

Her breath hitched. "What is that?"

"A gift from an old friend," he said, tapping the needle. "Not Mirakuru, but close enough. It won't kill you. It'll just make you wish it did."

The injection burned like molten lead in her veins. Within seconds, her muscles locked, her nerves alight with white-hot agony. She couldn't scream. Couldn't move. Could only feel as if her body betrayed her.

Deathstroke leaned in, his voice a malicious whisper. "When it wears off, you'll talk. Everyone does."


His armored fingers tightened around her throat, not enough to crush, but enough to remind her of his control. The black and orange mask obscured half his face, leaving only one cold piercing blue eye visible.


He studied her reaction, searching for any flicker of fear, any sign that she might break. But Talia had been trained by the Demon's Head himself; she would not give him the satisfaction.

"Sir."

The sudden voice came from behind, abruptly cutting through the tension.

A masked soldier stood at attention in the doorway, his posture rigid, his gloved hand pressed to his brow in salute. The insignia on his shoulder marked him as one of Deathstroke's elite—loyal, lethal, and utterly disposable if necessary.

Deathstroke didn't turn. "Can't you see I'm busy?" His voice was a low growl, the irritation barely restrained. His grip on Talia's neck remained firm, his thumb pressing just beneath her jaw, where the pulse thrummed steadily.

The soldier hesitated, then stepped forward. "I apologize, sir, but it's urgent."

"And?" Deathstroke's tone was flat, daring the man to waste his time.

The mercenary's gaze flickered briefly to Talia before he continued, his voice dropping slightly, as if uncertain whether she should hear. "It's an urgent message from Vice Commander Jones."

A slow, knowing smirk curled beneath Deathstroke's mask. "Oh, do not mind her." He tilted his head slightly, his eye never leaving Talia's face. "She won't be alive long enough for it to matter."

The soldier swallowed hard but obeyed. "Vice Commander Jones says… it's been found."

For the briefest moment, the chamber seemed to freeze. The crackling of the torches, the distant drip of water from the ceiling, even Talia's steady breathing—all of it faded into silence. Deathstroke's eye widened, a spark of triumph flashing within its depths.

Then, in one swift motion, he released Talia, letting her slump forward as he turned fully toward the soldier. "I see." His voice was dangerously calm.

Without another word, he strode toward the exit, his armored boots echoing against the stone. But just before he crossed the threshold, he paused.

His head tilted slightly, his single visible eye locking onto Talia over his shoulder. The message in that gaze was unmistakable.

"Looks like you just outlived your usefulness."

The words hung in the air like a death sentence. Talia didn't need an explanation—she understood immediately.

Whatever Deathstroke had been trying to extract from her, he no longer needed. Someone else had given him the answers. And now, she was nothing more than loose ends to be severed.

As his footsteps faded down the corridor, the heavy iron door groaned shut behind him, sealing her fate. The chamber felt colder now, the shadows deeper. Talia exhaled slowly, her mind already racing through escape routes, contingency plans, last resorts.

But one thing was certain—Deathstroke had what he wanted. And she had just become expendable.

- - -

The Batcomputer's screen flickered with satellite imagery, its blue glow casting sharp shadows across Batman's cowl.

Coordinates blinked red over a derelict industrial complex on Gotham's northern outskirts—abandoned on paper, but recent thermal scans showed heat signatures where there should have been none.

This was the recent base Deathstroke currently held in Talia, after moving from the previous one she had engaged in her raid.


"Slade's hiding in plain sight," Batman growled, pulling up schematics of the facility. "Old Kord Industries storage site. Reinforced sublevels, limited entry points. He's using it as a staging ground."

Nightwing leaned against the console, arms crossed. "So, what's the play? Sneak in quietly, or give him the usual Bat-branded house call?"

Batman's gauntleted fingers tightened around a smoke pellet. "We go in hard. He's expecting stealth. We make noise."

The complex loomed like a graveyard of steel and concrete, its chain-link fences topped with rusted barbed wire. Batman and Nightwing dropped onto the rooftop of an adjacent warehouse, their boots silent on the rain-slicked surface.

"Guards at every stairwell," Nightwing observed through his binoculars.

"Two-man patrols. Military-grade gear. Definitely Slade's boys."

Batman's eyes narrowed. "Take the east entrance. I'll flank from the west. Meet at the central elevator shaft."

Nightwing smirked. "Try not to hog all the fun."

They moved like shadows splitting in the dark.

Batman descended through a shattered skylight, landing behind two mercenaries chatting near a stack of crates. A batarang to the first man's temple, a spinning heel kick to the second's jaw—both dropped before they could blink.

Alarms blared.

"So much for subtlety," Nightwing's voice crackled over the comms, punctuated by the crunch of a well-placed escrima strike.

More guards poured into the corridor. Batman grappled upward, kicking off a wall to somersault over their heads. He landed in a crouch, twin batarangs already whirling through the air. They struck rifle barrels, sending sparks flying as guns misfired.

Nightwing flipped into the fray, his staff a blur of motion. "You know, for a guy who hates guns, you sure love disarming people."

A mercenary lunged with a combat knife. Batman caught his wrist, twisted, and drove an elbow into his throat. "Focus."

They cleared the hallway in under a minute.

The central elevator was locked down, but Batman pried the doors open with a hydraulic tool from his belt. The descent into the sublevel was pitch-black, the only sound the whir of the grappling line.

At the bottom, a reinforced door stood ajar. Flickering light spilled from within.

Batman motioned for silence. Nightwing nodded, shifting his grip on his escrima sticks as Batman took a look.

Batman froze for a fraction of a second—just long enough for Nightwing to notice.

"Well," Nightwing muttered, "that's not what I expected to find."

Talia lifted her head slowly, her emerald eyes glinting with a mix of defiance and exhaustion. A bruise darkened her cheek, and her usually immaculate attire was torn and stained. Yet, even in this state, she carried herself with regal disdain.

"Bruce." Her voice was hoarse but steady. "I suppose I should be flattered you came looking for me."

Batman moved forward, slicing through her restraints with a batarang. "I wasn't." His tone was clipped, but there was an undercurrent of tension—anger, concern, something unspoken.

Nightwing folded his arms, watching the exchange with raised eyebrows. "Awkward family reunion? Should I step outside?"

Talia's lips curled into a faint, bitter smile. "Still keeping such delightful company, I see."

Batman ignored the barb, his hands briefly checking her injuries. "Deathstroke did this?"

"Obviously," Talia replied dryly. "He was... persuasive in his methods."

Nightwing whistled low. "Guess even the great Talia al Ghul isn't immune to bad dates."

Batman shot him a glare before turning back to Talia. "Where is he?"

"Gone." She straightened with effort, wincing slightly. "He found what he was looking for. And I was no longer of use."

A muscle twitches in Batman's jaw. "What was he after?"

Talia met his gaze, her own unreadable. "Something you won't like."

Nightwing sighed. "Oh good. Cryptic answers. My favorite."

Batman's cowl hid his expression, but his voice was steel. "We're leaving. Now."

As they moved toward the exit, Nightwing couldn't resist one last jab. "So, Talia, you need a lift, or do you have a League of Assasins Uber account?"

Talia's smile was razor-thin. "Charming as ever, Richard."

Batman didn't speak again, but the tension in his shoulders said enough. Deathstroke had slipped away. And whatever he had wanted—whatever he had found—was trouble.

Big trouble.

- - -

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[Maverick_DaSupreme]

Jason had been making use of the vastly empty base. He continued to live there and maintained his routine training schedule Ra's had him undergo either frequently or at consecutive times periods.

He basically lived in the mountains, engaging in frequent hunting and fishing from around the region.

These activities seem to bring him some sense of peace and help him feel some sort of connection with Ra's.

He had lost the only father figure in his life.

The man who had wholeheartedly accepted him even with his clearly visible flaws and questionable sanity.

He still treated him like a son, taught him a lot of things which quite a majority of then currently kept him alive.

The old man had taught him how to survive in this world which ran on the principle of survival of the fittest, in one way or another.

Ra's had helped him pick up a couple pieces of himself to help him form an identity and gave him direction and purpose in life.

He was just beginning to feel whole, right from the camping trip where Ra's had him meditate right beneath the waterfall.

Now he felt empty again, like those pieces which held up his identity and sense of self had shattered and scattered vastly across the earth.

Deathstroke would pay for taking Ra's from him, for causing him to feel this way.

He would pay for introducing him to the pain of such loss.

Every morning he would climb to the mountain top which was part of his regimen. But now he often caught himself, reminiscent of several conversations he had with Ra's atop that mountain top.

Hell, he even misses the herbal tea the old man would often make for him to calm his nerves and help sooth his mood.

He should be out there in the world and on the hunt for Deathstroke, but was clearly aware of their difference in skill,strength, and technique.

So he settled for completely surrendering his mind and body to constant rigorous training.

Being he now constantly by himself and with no one around, he hardly got his usual impulsive thoughts to end a person's life in the most gruesome way he could possibly imagine.

Scratch that.

His imagination was more like a plain canverse, one where his creativity for painting the most grotesque and disturbing outcome even just in his head alone, surprises him.

Most times he would spend days at the campsite him and Ra's visited, as he occasionally engaged in mindful meditation while being seated directly below the water fall.

Jason trained to fortify himself in both body and mind. He wasn't bothered if Talia and the others got Deathstroke before he goes hunting for him.

After all, it was their right to get revenge for the old man. And it should help them get some closure over his death.

But if they haven't succeeded in exerting their revenge by the time he felt ready enough to confront Deathstroke and avenge his fallen sensei, then he'd call shotgun for that meant Deathstroke was all he's for the taking.

Until then, he'd continue to train deep in the mountains while continuously honing his skills.

He also worked on his tracking skills while he hunted certain types of animals which possess at least some kind of intelligence.

At times he would put himself in the shoes of his prey while tracing the tracks left behind, in an attempt to understand what instinctive thought patterns went through their head if they were to survive.

He would often let the injured prey run off on purposely, all so he could trail, track and retrieve them.

He did this for sport.

He had no way of tracking down Deathstroke, it would be like trying to track down a shadow who doesn't want to be found.

So in the meantime, he immersed himself in training.

In recollection of how Deathstroke and his army of mercenaries overwhelmed the League, he realized there was only so much one could do with a sword.

A gun had its advantages and since it was the primary weapon of his target and subordinates, he got himself a gun from League's base.

He had stock piled them when he did clean up on the stronghold, burning the corpses of enemies and allies alike.

Jason trained with all sorts and sizes of firearms, but none felt right to him.

That was until he tried out a glock–45 which he found to be an efficient firearm.

It was portable, easy to use and quick to draw.

It just felt right.

But of all the weapons inhabited within the base, he trained mainly on the utilization of knives, swords, and his gun.

He had found his basic tools.

All that was left for him was training to utilize them in combat, working to get a feel for quick transitions from one weapon to the other.


- - -

[Jason Todd's POV]

The world was a blur of pain and cold.

I lay flat on my back, every breath a struggle, my body a map of bruises and lacerations. The chill of the forest floor seeped into my bones, gnawing at me with relentless teeth, as if the earth itself sought to claim what warmth I had left.

My eyelids were leaden, the weight of exhaustion and injury pressing them shut. For a fleeting moment, surrender whispered in my ear—just stay here. Just rest.

But survival was a habit I couldn't shake.

The ground beneath me was unforgiving—a jagged mosaic of rocks and roots, each one digging into my flesh with malicious precision.

Compared to this, the hard-packed dirt of Ra's al Ghul's training camps might as well have been a featherbed. At least there, I had the luxury of knowing I wouldn't wake up with a predator's teeth in my throat.

Consciousness returned in fragments, each thought sharp and disjointed.

It hurts.

The pain was a living thing, coiled around my ribs, pulsing in time with my heartbeat. Every muscle screamed in protest as I shifted, testing the limits of what my body could still endure. The metallic tang of blood clung to the back of my throat, thick and suffocating.

'Where am I?'

'What happened?'

The questions cut through the fog in my mind, sharp as the claws that had torn into me.

My eyes snapped open.

Darkness.

Not the comforting shadows of trying to stay hidden, but the oppressive, consuming black of the wilderness at night.

Above me, skeletal branches clawed at the sky, their outlines barely visible against the dim glow of a half-moon. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and pine, undercut by the coppery stench of my own blood.

'The woods.'

Memory rushed back in a nauseating wave.

I'd gone hunting.

Stupid.

Arrogant.

I'd ventured deeper than I ever had before, confident in my own skill, in the knife strapped to my thigh.

Then the bear.

It had been still, a hulking shadow wrapped in the forest's camouflage, its fur blending seamlessly with the undergrowth. I hadn't seen it until it was too late. Maybe it had been stalking something else. Maybe my stumbling footsteps had scared off its meal.

Either way, it had decided I was the next best thing.

The roar had been deafening, a sound that vibrated in my chest, rattling my ribs like a physical blow.

I'd barely registered the movement before its paw connected, claws slicing through fabric and flesh with terrifying ease. The force sent me reeling, my back hitting the slope of the hill before gravity took over.

Tumbling. Rolling. Impact after impact, rocks and roots tearing at me until the world went black.

Now, here I was. Alive. Barely.

Gritting my teeth, I forced myself into a sitting position, my back pressed against the rough bark of a tree.

The wound on my chest was a ragged, angry red, the edges of torn fabric sticking to it with dried blood. Not deep enough to kill me—not yet—but enough to make every breath a battle.

Lucky.

If the fall hadn't knocked me out, the bear might have finished the job.

A bitter laugh escaped me, the sound hoarse and broken. Tasty meat. That's what I'd wanted. And now? Now I was the one who'd almost ended up as dinner.

"Ouch."

The word hissed between my teeth as I shifted, my knee protesting violently. A quick inspection confirmed it wasn't broken—just badly bruised, the joint swollen and throbbing. Probably smashed against a rock during the fall.

Improvisation was second nature. I tore the hem of my shirt, binding two sturdy twigs against either side of my knee with the fabric. A makeshift splint. Not perfect, but enough to keep me moving.

Standing was agony.

The forest swayed around me, my vision swimming in and out of focus. Blood loss. Dehydration. The world tilted dangerously, and for a moment, I thought I'd collapse right back into the dirt.

No.

I couldn't afford to stop. Not here. Not now.

The night was alive with unseen threats—predators that wouldn't hesitate to finish what the bear started.

Every rustle of leaves, every distant snap of a twig sent a jolt of adrenaline through me. My fingers twitched toward the empty space on my thigh where my knife should have been.

Gone. Lost in the fall.

Another mistake.

I forced myself forward, each step a battle against the weight of my own body.

The trees loomed like silent sentinels, their branches twisting into grotesque shapes in the dim light. My breath came in ragged gasps, the cold air burning my lungs.

The water in my bag was a small mercy. I poured it over my head, the shock of the icy liquid sharpening my senses for a fleeting second.

More trickled over the wound on my chest, washing away dirt and dried blood. The sting was excruciating, but necessary. Infection out here would be a death sentence.

I wanted to drink. God, I wanted to. My throat was parched, my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth.

But at the moment, swallowing could mean death.

So I resisted.

The journey back was a haze of pain and determination. Time lost meaning. Minutes bled into hours, each one an eternity of stumbling, falling, dragging myself back up. The forest seemed endless, the trees closing in around me like prison bars.

Then, there it was.

The League's stronghold.

Relief was a fleeting thing, quickly swallowed by the reality of my condition. I wasn't safe yet. The infirmary was my only goal, the only place with the supplies to keep me from bleeding out on the floor.

The hallway stretched before me, the walls cold and unyielding under my trembling hands. My legs threatened to give out with every step.

"Almost there," I muttered, the words slurring. A mantra. A lifeline.

"Just a little further."

Then—

"Oh no, you don't."

The voice was mine. But it wasn't.

I froze.

Hallucination. It had to be. Blood loss did strange things to the mind.

I turned, my vision swimming, and there—me. Standing there. Watching. A mirror image, but wrong. Smirking.

"You," I breathed.

The ground rushed up to meet me. Or maybe I was the one falling. The world tilted, the ceiling spinning above me before everything went black.

The last thing I heard was my own voice, dripping with amusement.

"Yes. Me."

Then—nothing.

- - -

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[Maverick_DaSupreme]

The voice was distant, muffled, as if spoken through layers of water and delirium.

"It would be so pathetic if we died here."

The words slithered into Jason's consciousness, barely coherent, before his body jerked awake—only for him to realize, with a surge of primal terror, that he wasn't breathing.

His eyes flew open, but all he saw was an eerie, pulsating glow, liquid emerald swallowing his vision.

The cold, thick weight of the Lazarus Pit pressed against his skin, seeping into his wounds, his lungs, his very bones.

Then—

The pain hit him like a wave—white-hot and merciless, as if every nerve in his body had been set ablaze. His chest convulsed, screaming for air, but the Pit's waters filled his throat instead, thick and metallic, like drinking liquid fire.

He thrashed, limbs heavy and uncoordinated, his muscles remembering survival before his mind did.

His hands clawed upward, desperate for the surface, but the water resisted, viscous as oil. For a heart-stopping second, he wondered if this was death—if he had already drowned, and this was some cruel afterlife.

Then his fingers broke through.

He erupted from the depths with a ragged, choking gasp, his body heaving as he dragged in air that burned just as much as the water had.

The cavern around him swam in and out of focus—a jagged, obsidian maw of rock, the walls slick with moisture, the only light coming from the Pit itself, its luminescence casting writhing shadows across the stone.

His arms gave out, and he collapsed onto the rocky shore, his body convulsing as he coughed up mouthfuls of bitter, glowing fluid.

His stomach heaved, and he retched violently, the Pit's waters leaving his throat raw, his insides feeling scraped hollow. The taste lingered—like copper and rot and something unnervingly alive.

He rolled onto his back, chest heaving, and stared up at the cavern ceiling, his thoughts a fractured mess.

How the hell did I end up here?

The last thing he remembered was heading to the infirmary. His own hands, slick with red, pressing uselessly against the wound. The creeping numbness as his vision darkened at the edges.

He had been dying.

And now he wasn't.

The realization hit him like a second drowning. His fingers trembled as he pressed them to his chest, searching for the injury—but there was nothing. No gaping wound, no torn flesh. Just smooth, unbroken skin, damp with the Pit's residue.

A shudder ran through him, deeper than the cold.

The Lazarus Pit didn't just heal. It changed things.

And someone had thrown him into it.

He pushed himself up on shaking arms, his breath still uneven, and scanned the cavern. No footsteps. No voices. Just the quiet drip of water from stalactites and the low, almost rhythmic pulse of the Pit's glow.

He was alone.

Alive.

And he had no idea why.

His fingers brushed against his side, probing for the wound—only to find smooth, unbroken skin.

Even the persistent ache in his knee had vanished, as though it had never existed. A frown creased his brow as he glanced around the cavern, the dim light casting long shadows across the uneven stone.

What the hell happened?

The silence of the cave offered no answers. His gaze drifted to the far end, where a freshly dug grave lay nestled against the rock.

'Talia must have buried Ra's here before sealing the cavern.' The thought twisted something inside him—gratitude and resentment tangled into one.

Then it struck him.

The exit.

He turned sharply toward the collapsed rubble that had once been the way out. No passage remained, no gap to squeeze through. The realization settled heavily in his chest.

Then how did I get in here?

His eyes narrowed as he studied the cavern's entrance—the one Talia and the League had used. Something about it felt off. The positioning was wrong. It wasn't the same as the hidden passage Ra's had led him through before.

If memory serves right…

Pushing himself up, he limped toward the wall, tracing the rough stone with his fingertips. The texture here was different—unnatural. Too precise. Too deliberate.

A slow smirk tugged at his lips.

Ra's had always been a man of secrets, of illusions. False walls, hidden pathways—everything was a game to him. And games had rules.

Mimicking the old man's movements from memory, he pressed his palm against a cluster of protruding rocks.

For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then, with a faint grind of stone, his hand sank inward. The wall yielded, sliding aside with a whisper of dust.

You sly old man.

Before him, a narrow stairway spiraled upward into darkness. He didn't hesitate. Each step echoed faintly as he ascended, the air growing cooler, thinner. At the top, another false wall waited.

Again, he repeated the motion—the same pressure, the same angle. The mechanism responded with a quiet click, and the wall retreated, revealing the dimly lit hallway beyond.

He stepped through, blinking against the sudden light. The hallway was empty, silent. No one in sight.

"How did I end up in that cavern?"

The question gnawed at him, but for now, it didn't matter. He was alive. And he owed Ra's a debt—one that could only be repaid in death.

- - -


The morning light filtered through the high arched windows of Jason's chamber, casting elongated golden streaks across the stone floor.

He stirred, blinking slowly as consciousness fully settled in. For the first time in what felt like years, his body didn't ache with the familiar tension of old wounds.

The Lazarus Pit hadn't just healed him—it had renewed him. His muscles were loose, his mind unnervingly sharp, as if someone had scrubbed away the fog of exhaustion and doubt that had clung to him for so long.

He sat up, running a hand through his disheveled hair, and exhaled. The air itself felt different—charged, like the static before a storm.

His thoughts, usually a tangled mess of unease and suppressed rage, now rang with startling clarity. It was almost intoxicating.

Then his gaze landed on it.

The artifact.

It sat on the table across the room, bathed in the pale morning glow. He had carried it for days, turning it over in his hands, searching for answers, yet never truly seeing it. But now, from this angle, in this light—something was different.

A pattern.

Subtle, almost invisible unless the light hit it just right. A series of interwoven lines and symbols that tugged at his memory. He knew this. Not just from handling the artifact, but from… somewhere.

Frowning, he swung his legs off the bed and crossed the room in quick strides. The stone was cool under his fingertips as he lifted it, tilting it toward the light. The design wasn't just decorative—it was a map. Or part of one.

His pulse quickened.

He had seen this before. Not on a mission, not in some dusty archive—but here, in the heart of Ra's al Ghul's stronghold.

The gallery.

Without another thought, he was out the door, moving swiftly through the dimly lit corridors.

The fortress was quiet, the only sounds the distant birds chirping in the morning air.

The gallery was a vast hall lined with paintings, tapestries, and relics from centuries past.

Jason's boots clicked against the marble as he scanned the walls, his eyes darting from one piece to another. He tore through them, frustration mounting with each passing second.

Nothing.

Had he imagined it? Was his mind playing tricks on him, still riding the high of the Pit?

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. Then, just as he turned to leave—

A flicker. A shift in the light.

His breath caught.

There, on the far wall, was a painting—unremarkable at first glance. But as he stepped sideways, the angle changed, and the image morphed. The brushstrokes rearranged themselves into the same intricate pattern that adorned the artifact.

"There it is," he muttered, striding toward it.

He reached out, fingers brushing the frame before carefully lifting it from the wall. The back was aged, the wood slightly warped with time. And there, etched into the corners—

Two words.

His lips curled into a slow, knowing smirk.

- - -

[At the same time]

The rotors of the helicopter thundered overhead as the chopper descended onto the cracked tarmac of the abandoned military base.

The hangar loomed ahead, its metal skeleton rusted and half-collapsed, a relic of a war long forgotten.

Slade Wilson stepped out, his combat boots crunching on broken concrete. The wind whipped at his jacket as he strode forward, his single visible eye scanning the perimeter with cold precision.

The soldiers stationed there stiffened as he passed—some out of respect, others out of fear.

He didn't bother with greetings.

The office door slammed shut behind him as he entered, his gaze locking onto the man hunched over a bank of flickering monitors.

"You better be certain about this," Slade said, his voice a low growl.

Jones didn't look up, fingers flying over the keyboard. "Of course." A pause. Then, with a smirk, "Have I ever let you down?"

Slade's eye narrowed.

Jones chuckled, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "Okay, okay. Apart from those times."

Slade ignored the jab. "How did we miss this before?"

Jones swiveled in his chair, tapping the screen. "Because it wasn't just hidden—it was erased. Scrubbed from every map, every satellite feed. The system didn't just fail to locate it—it just couldn't."

He punched a series of commands into the console. The screen flashed red—ERROR.

Then, with a few more keystrokes, the display shifted. A satellite image filled the monitor—endless ocean, stretching into oblivion.

And then, a single red marker pulsed to life.

Slade's lips twitched.

"You brilliant bastard," he murmured, staring at the coordinates.

- - -


Jason's fingers traced the engraved words on the back of the painting, realization hitting him.

At the same moment, thousands of miles away, Slade's screen displayed the same two words in bold, glowing text.

Their voices, though separated by distance, echoed the same name—

"Lian Yu!!"

The island of death. The place where everything had begun.

And where, it seemed, it would all end.


The moment the name Lian Yu seared itself into Jason's mind, he was already moving.

His body thrummed with restless energy, the kind that came from standing on the precipice of a revelation too dangerous to ignore.

The dim glow of the library's ancient lanterns painted the room in flickering amber, casting long, wavering shadows across the towering shelves of forgotten knowledge. The air smelled of aged parchment, brittle leather, and the faint metallic tang of ink that had dried centuries ago.

Ra's al Ghul's library was a fortress of secrets—each book, each scroll, a silent witness to histories too dark for the world to remember.

And if there was any truth about Lian Yu still in existence, it would be buried here, hidden between the lines of some crumbling manuscript or locked away in a cipher only the most determined could unravel.

Jason's fingers moved with practiced precision, tracing the spines of books, pulling volumes from their resting places with a quiet urgency.

The silence of the library was oppressive, broken only by the whisper of turning pages and the occasional creak of the old wooden desk beneath his weight. Time blurred.

Minutes stretched into what felt like hours, the monotony of research gnawing at his patience. His eyes burned from strain, his muscles tense with the need for action rather than this slow, methodical search.

Then—

A brittle, leather-bound ledger, its cover cracked with age, nearly disintegrated at his touch. The pages were yellowed, the ink faded, but the words were unmistakable.

Lian Yu. North China Sea. Imperial Japanese black site.

Project designation: Imperial Japanese Military.

Objective: Development of enhanced combatants through biochemical augmentation.

Termination ordered.

Records purged.

Jason exhaled sharply, his grip tightening on the ledger. The implications crashed over him like a wave.

Lian Yu wasn't just an island—it was a graveyard of horrors. A place where men had been turned into weapons, their bodies and minds reshaped in the name of war.

The Japanese had sought an unstoppable army, soldiers who moved faster, hit harder, thought sharper. But something had gone wrong. The project had been buried, erased from history as if it had never existed.

And yet, Slade had something to do with this Mirakuru serum. Which the Japanese referred to as the Miracle serum.

Jason's mind raced, piecing together the fragments. Ra's' intel had painted Slade as a soldier turned mercenary, a man whose skills defied natural limits. His reflexes, his strength—they weren't just the result of training. They were engineered.

A cold realization settled in Jason's gut.

Slade wasn't just a killer for hire. He was a success. A living testament to whatever nightmare science had been wrought on Lian Yu. And now, armed with that knowledge, he wasn't content with being the only one.

He wanted an army.

Jason could see it now—rows of soldiers, each one a mirror of Slade's lethal perfection.

An unstoppable force, answering only to him.

The ledger slipped from his fingers, landing on the desk with a soft thud. Outside, the wind howled through the mountains, a hollow echo of the storm that was coming.

Lian Yu had been the beginning.

And if Jason didn't act fast, he would lose the opportunity to enact his revenge.


- - -

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[Maverick_DaSupreme]

Jason sent word to Talia—short, direct, no room for negotiation. He knew where Slade was heading. But information like that came with a price.

The climb to the League's new stronghold was grueling. The mountain pass was narrow, the air thin enough to make his lungs burn. Stone steps, worn smooth by centuries of assassins' footsteps, wound up the cliffside like a serpent's spine.

At the top loomed a massive gate, flanked by twin statues—ancient, weathered sentinels with hollow eyes that seemed to track his every move. Their stone robes were carved with symbols Jason didn't recognize, remnants of a language lost to time.

The gate groaned open before he could raise a hand. No guards challenged him. No blades crossed his path. Just silence.

Inside, the fortress buzzed like a stirred hornet's nest. Masked soldiers moved in tight formations, sharpening swords, loading rifles, their movements precise but hurried.

The scent of oiled steel and smoldering incense clung to the air. Among them, Jason spotted unfamiliar figures—fighters in sleek, modern combat gear, their masks angular, their posture rigid. Not League. Not entirely.

A soldier in a blackened helm gestured for him to follow. Jason fell into step behind them, eyes scanning.

The halls were dim, lit by flickering torches that cast long, dancing shadows. Murals of past Demon Heads lined the walls, their painted eyes seeming to follow him. Ra's was among them, frozen in pigment and pride.

They stopped at a heavy oak door. The soldier knocked once, then melted back into the shadows, leaving Jason alone.

He pushed the door open.

Talia sat slumped in a high-backed chair, her usual poise shattered. Bruises mottled her arms, a fresh cut split her lip, and her knuckles were raw—defensive wounds. But it was her eyes that struck him: dark, exhausted, simmering with something between fury and defeat.

Beside her stood a woman Jason had never seen. Tall, lean, with the same sharp features as Talia but colder.

She wore fitted armor, a dagger strapped to her thigh, and a smirk that didn't reach her eyes.

"Welcome, Jason," Talia said, her voice hoarse. She gestured to the woman. "This is Nyssa al Ghul. My sister."

Jason's brows lifted. Sister?

Nyssa extended a hand. Her grip was firm, calloused. "I've heard so much about you."

Jason held her stare. "Funny. First I'm hearing of you."

A flicker of amusement crossed Nyssa's face. "There's a story there."

"One we don't have time for," Talia cut in, wincing as she shifted in her seat.

Jason crossed his arms. "Then give me the short version. And why she's here."

Talia exhaled. "She and my father had a… falling out. She took a faction of the League and left. Built her own empire."

Jason glanced at Nyssa. Of course Ra's had more secrets. The old man had probably buried more skeletons than Jason could count.

"And the injuries?" he pressed.

Talia's jaw tightened. "Deathstroke. He had me for days. Wanted the artifact's secrets." Her fingers curled into fists. "By the time I escaped, he'd already deciphered it."

Jason's stomach twisted. The thought of Talia—proud, unbreakable Talia—broken under Slade's hands made his blood simmer.

Nyssa leaned against the table, arms crossed. "She says you cracked Ra's code. What's your price?"

Jason didn't hesitate. "I go with you. And Slade's mine."

Talia's gaze darkened. For a heartbeat, Jason saw the conflict—the daughter's vengeance warring with the strategist's pragmatism. Then, slowly, she nodded.

Jason pulled a map from his jacket, spreading it across the table. "It's a black site. An island called Lian Yu, hidden in the North China Sea."

Talia frowned. "I've heard the name."

Nyssa's smirk returned. "I can take you there."

Jason eyed her. "How? The area's a maze of islands."

"Because," Nyssa said, tracing a finger over the map, "Ra's took me there. For training."

Silence settled over the room. Jason studied her—the way she held herself, the way her fingers lingered near her dagger. She wasn't just Talia's sister. She was Ra's' daughter. And if Ra's had trusted her enough to show her Lian Yu…

"Then we move now," Jason said, rolling up the map.

Talia pushed to her feet, grimacing. "Deathstroke won't be alone. He'll have an army."

Nyssa's grin turned razor-sharp. "So do we."


- - -

The chopper blades thundered overhead before Slade's boots even hit the damp earth of Lian Yu. The island smelled like salt and decay - a graveyard of forgotten experiments and half-buried secrets.


His mercenaries fanned out like a dark tide, their rifles sweeping across the overgrown ruins of what had once been a military compound.

Crumbling concrete walls, long since reclaimed by vines, stood as silent witnesses to the horrors this place had birthed.

"Fan out," Slade barked into his comms, his single eye scanning the tree line.

"I want every bunker, every tunnel checked. The serum samples have to be here somewhere."

The Mirakuru formula was his endgame, the key to building an army that could never be stopped.

His men moved with practiced efficiency, breaching rusted doors and kicking through debris. The occasional rat scurried from their path, the only signs of life on this cursed island.

Then the world exploded.

The first rocket hit the eastern ridge, sending a fireball curling into the dawn sky. Slade whirled, his sword already in hand as the familiar whump-whump-whump of approaching helicopters shook the trees. Not his. Not expected.

"Contact!" one of his lieutenants screamed just as the treetops erupted with gunfire. Leaves shredded under the barrage, his mercenaries diving for cover as a second chopper banked hard, its side-mounted machine gun painting the ground with bullets.

Jason felt the adrenaline surge as his chopper door slid open, the wind whipping at his all black get-up. Below, Deathstroke's forces scrambled like ants under a magnifying glass. Good. Let them feel what surprise felt like for once.

"Go! Go! Go!"

The pilot didn't need to yell - Jason was already leaping, his boots hitting the soft earth as he rolled to absorb the impact.

Around him, League assassins and Nyssa's hybrid forces hit the ground running, their war cries mixing with the staccato rhythm of gunfire.

The island had become a living thing– breathing fire, screaming metal. To the east, though injured, Talia moved like shadow given form, her sword flickering in the daylight as she cut through two mercenaries before they could raise their rifles.

To the west, Nyssa's forces employed brutal efficiency, their modified rifles spitting specialized rounds that punched through body armor.

Jason's pistol barked twice, dropping a sniper trying to reposition on a crumbling watchtower. The man tumbled like a broken doll, his rifle clattering down the rocks.

Somewhere in the chaos, he heard Deathstroke roaring orders, but the sound was swallowed by another explosion, someone had hit an ammo cache.

The ground became a chessboard of violence. Here, a pair of assassins fought back-to-back against four mercenaries, their blades weaving deadly patterns.

There, a League archer picked off targets from the high ground, each arrow finding its mark with eerie precision. The smell of cordite and blood hung thick in the air, mixing with the salt spray from the nearby cliffs.

Jason moved toward the sound of Slade's voice, his boots crunching on broken glass and spent shell casings. This time, the playing field was level. This time, it ended.

A mercenary lunged at him from behind a burned-out jeep. Jason sidestepped, driving his elbow into the man's throat before putting two rounds in his chest. No hesitation. No mercy. Not today.

Through the smoke and chaos, he caught glimpses of the real battle unfolding, not just between armies, but between ideologies. The League's cold precision against the mercenaries' brutal pragmatism. And somewhere in that mess, his personal war waited.

The chopper blades still thundered above it all, the sound now mixed with screams and the wet thunk of steel meeting flesh.

Determined to stay on course, he hailed one of the helicopters and took off, moving in Slade's approximate direction.

Lian Yu, the island that had birthed so much pain, would bear witness to one more bloody chapter.

Jason reloaded his pistols, his eyes sharp for even the faintest trace of Slade.

- - -


The distant echoes of gunfire and shouting faded into the background as Deathstroke and Jones pushed deeper into the dense foliage of Lian Yu's interior.

The jungle here was thicker, the air heavy with the scent of damp earth and rotting vegetation. Sunlight barely pierced the thick canopy overhead, casting everything in a murky green twilight.

Jones wiped sweat from his brow, his rifle slung over his shoulder as he stepped over gnarled roots.

"How could they have cracked the code so fast?" he muttered, swatting away a cloud of insects. "We barely got our hands on the damn thing before they were on our tail."

Deathstroke didn't slow his pace. His tomahawk flashed in the dim light, cleaving through vines and low-hanging branches with practiced efficiency.

"Talia played us," he said, his voice a low growl. "Either she knew how to decipher it all along and held out under torture—which, I'll admit, would be impressive—or someone else figured it out faster than expected."

The ground beneath them sloped upward, the terrain becoming rougher. Rocks jutted from the earth like broken teeth, forcing them to navigate carefully. Somewhere in the distance, the rhythmic thud of explosions underscored the ongoing battle near the shore.

Jones glanced back the way they'd come. "You really think she'd let herself get carved up just to keep a secret?"

Deathstroke's lips curled beneath his mask. "You don't know the al Ghuls like I do. Pride makes people do stupid things."

Before Jones could reply, a new sound cut through the jungle—the unmistakable thrum of helicopter blades, growing louder by the second. Both men froze, their instincts screaming danger.

The trees above them shuddered as the chopper roared into view, its shadow slicing across the forest floor.

"Move!" Deathstroke barked.

They dove in opposite directions just as the machine gun opened fire. Bullets chewed through the foliage, sending splinters of wood and shredded leaves raining down.

Dirt erupted in geysers where rounds struck the ground, stitching a deadly line between where they'd been standing moments before.

Deathstroke rolled behind the thick trunk of a banyan tree, his pulse steady despite the close call. He peered around the edge, his single eye narrowing as two figures rappelled down from the hovering chopper, black-clad and moving with lethal precision.

One of them turned, and even from this distance, Deathstroke recognized those eyes—cold, furious, and utterly focused.

"Well, well," he murmured, stepping out from cover. He didn't bother reaching for a weapon yet. Instead, he rubbed his gloved fingers over his eyepatch, the leather creaking softly. "Thanks for coming, kid. I did promise to pay you back for this."

Jason didn't blink. He unsheathed his blade in one smooth motion, the steel glinting dully in the filtered light. "You can have the other one," he said to the assassin beside him, never taking his gaze off Deathstroke.

The second fighter—one of Nyssa's elites—nodded and melted into the trees after Jones, leaving the two of them alone in the clearing.

Jason adjusted his grip on the sword, settling into a stance Ra's had drilled into him a thousand times. "And I promised to finish the job." His voice was calm, but Deathstroke didn't miss the undercurrent of something darker beneath it.

"You owe me a death. I'm here to collect."

Around them, the jungle seemed to hold its breath. Somewhere far off, a bird shrieked, but the sound was swallowed by the distant chaos of the larger battle. Here, in this pocket of stillness, there was only the two of them—and the debt between them that could only be paid in blood.

Deathstroke finally reached for his own sword, the metal whispering as it left its sheath. "Then let's see if you live long enough to cash in."

Jason's answering smirk beneath his mask, was all the reply he needed.

The fight began.

- - -

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