The Man And The Hood

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

[Damian Wayne's POV]

Gotham's nightlife had been boiling over these past few days, noisier and more restless than usual. It wasn't hard to figure out why—the bounty. Jason's bounty. Ten million dollars for a single head. It was enough to set every gutter rat, trigger-happy merc, and wannabe killer loose on the streets.

Even the smallest criminals, the kind who normally kept to their pathetic little corners, were suddenly bold, looking at Red Hood like he was a winning lottery ticket walking around in body armor.

I kept hearing the same whispers wherever I went. Ten million. Ten million. Ten million. It clung to Gotham's air like the stink of smoke after a fire.

And even though father forbade it, I couldn't help myself. I'd been using my patrol hours to search, to hunt, to watch the city for any trace of him. Not for the bounty.

Never for that. I wanted to find Jason. I wanted to speak with him.

For over a week I scoured rooftops, alleys, and streets, yet not even a glimpse of him. It was as if he had dissolved into Gotham's shadows. He had gone silent. Some would take that as cowardice, but I didn't believe it for a second. I didn't know him before the League, but I knew grandfather well enough. Ra's al Ghul never trained cowards. Which meant Jason was still out here, somewhere. Watching. Waiting. The question was—where?

Tonight was no different. Twenty minutes of leaping over rooftops, scanning every corner, and still nothing. Even when a burglary broke out down below—a jewelry store, the windows shattered, alarms screaming—he didn't appear. If Red Hood truly "protected" his so-called territory, wouldn't he have intervened?

I dropped in and handled it myself. The burglars folded easily enough; a few broken noses were enough to end their ambition for the night. Blood smeared across my gloves as I perched near a gargoyle, shaking it off with a sharp flick of my wrist. "Doesn't he protect his own territory?" I muttered aloud, irritation bubbling in my chest.

That's when the voice cut through the night.

"Isn't it past your bedtime, kid?"

The sound startled me enough that my body reacted before my mind did—I spun around, blade sliding free, boots stepping back from the gargoyle to claim solid footing on the rooftop. My eyes swept the shadows behind me, scanning every line and angle. No one. Nothing but the whisper of wind. My grip on the sword tightened.

"I see you have plenty of time on your hands if this is what you're doing." There it was again. A voice, calm, deep, carrying that distorted edge of a modulator.

My heart leapt into my throat, and then I saw him. Jason—no, Red Hood—perched on the gargoyle I had just abandoned.

Helmet gleaming under the pale light, posture relaxed, gun resting low at his hip like some gunslinger out of the West. He wasn't aiming it, not yet. Just holding it there, close, reminding me he could draw faster than I could blink.

With narrowed eyes, I answered him sharply. "Patrolling is a duty, not a waste of time." My voice didn't waver, but inside I couldn't decide whether I should be wary of him or treat him like the annoying bastard who kept forcing himself back into my life out of nowhere.

He tilted his head, almost curious, like he was studying me. "I meant chasing after someone who doesn't want to be found. That's a waste of time. But since we're going down this road… yeah. Patrolling is a waste of time if you're not putting down the mad dogs that actually need to be put down. Not tossing them into Arkham just so they can take a short vacation before the system spits them back out into society again."

Of all the words he spoke, that last part dug at me the most. I almost found myself agreeing, almost leaning into the temptation of it. But I kept my expression cold. I already knew where I stood on that matter, and I wasn't about to show him.

"Wait," I said slowly, piecing it together.

"You knew I was searching for you? All this time?"

"For someone who walks with the Bat, you weren't doing a great job," Jason replied, casual as ever. He gave a slight shrug, gun still resting against his hip. "Guess I'll have to make sure you never try again. Besides, what would a kid like you want ten million dollars for?"

The words cut, not because they carried truth, but because of the insult behind them. Did he really think I was chasing him for the bounty? Did he see me as that low?

My grip tightened on my sword. "So which is it? Jason? Todd? Or …the Red Hood?" I asked, refusing to dance around it any longer.

He chuckled beneath the mask, the sound dry and bitter. "I see Bruce told you about me. Huh. I'll admit, I'm surprised. Thought he'd keep that our little secret. Guess he's gone soft over the years."

I said nothing, letting silence be my shield. I wasn't going to play into whatever game he was baiting me into.

And then—everything changed.

The air thickened. His posture didn't move, but something shifted, something primal and terrifying. It was like the rooftop itself shrank, like the night turned sharp around me. A wave of killing intent rolled off him, pressing down on me, cold and suffocating.

"I might have to kill you," Jason said softly, almost conversational. "Since you know who I am under the hood."

He wasn't bluffing. I felt it—every nerve in my body screamed at me that he meant it. A violent shiver crawled up my spine, my legs almost trembling against my will. My grip on the blade faltered as sweat dampened my palms, the weapon threatening to slip free. My throat tightened, forcing out a gulp I couldn't stop. I was sweating, but I was freezing at the same time, paralyzed in the grip of something I couldn't shake.

I hated it. I hated this weakness.

From below came startled voices, carried up from the streets. "Hey… what's going on?"

"Dude, you feel that?"

"Something doesn't feel right."

"Let's get out of here!" Through the corner of my eye, I saw them—men scattering into the dark, abandoning whatever crime or shadow business they'd been tangled in. They ran like animals fleeing a predator.

And I understood them. How was he doing this? What had Jason become?

And more importantly—what was he going to do to me?

Questions tore through my thoughts, frantic, piling one atop the other as I fought to break free of the invisible chokehold he'd wrapped around me.

I stood there, frozen. The Red Hood was right in front of me, closing the distance at a pace that felt unbearably slow, deliberate—like a predator circling prey it had already decided was too small to escape.

His hand slid over his right shoulder, fingers curling around the crowbar strapped to his back. Every second stretched out longer than the last, and the air grew heavier with the suffocating weight of his presence.

My chest tightened as I struggled to breathe. Why couldn't I move? Why were my legs betraying me? Those thugs earlier managed to scramble away—even if it was a pathetic, sluggish retreat, at least they had motion. Me? I was rooted in place.

Maybe it was because I was closer, maybe it was because I could feel every ounce of bloodlust rolling off him like smoke. It was terrifying to realize that this suffocating pressure wasn't even directed at me fully, but I was still drowning under it.

The crowbar slid free, its metallic scrape sharp in my ears. He wasn't even rushing—he drew it slowly, almost mockingly, like he wanted me to feel each second dig into my nerves. My pulse hammered against my throat. Was this how others saw him? Was this what Gotham's criminals felt before he struck?

I clenched my teeth. No—if I was truly trapped, then I had only one way out. Pain. I could bite down hard enough on my tongue, shock my body into movement, tear myself out of the paralysis. But I hated that it had come to this. I hated that he made me even consider it.

WHAM.

The sound wasn't from the crowbar. It was the sudden collapse of pressure, vanishing as quickly as it came. My lungs sucked in air sharply, too quickly, and the weight slid off me, leaving nothing but a clammy memory on my skin. Goosebumps prickled up my arms, and sweat dampened my collar. My pride burned hotter than my fear.

"Relax, lil devil." His voice cut in, teasing, casual—as if the last thirty seconds hadn't been a nightmare. He lifted his hands to his helmet, twisting it off with a hiss.

I glared at him, scowling. "Oh, that's funny to you?" My voice cracked with annoyance, sharper than I wanted.

"Yeah." His smirk carried no remorse. He was always like this. Push you to the edge, then laugh when you scrambled for footing. That bastard would drag you through hell just to amuse himself. I was seconds away from biting through my own tongue, and he found it entertaining.

Jason turned, strolling toward the ledge with the same careless gait he always had. He dropped down, resting on the edge of the rooftop, legs dangling over Gotham's endless nightscape. "You know, for a kid born and bred in the League of Assassins, you're doing a pretty poor job at staying hidden during patrols." His voice was half-tease, half-critique.

My jaw tightened. How long had he been watching me? The thought made my stomach twist. Had I been patrolling for nights, thinking myself unseen, only to have him perched in the shadows, studying me?

"What was that?" I finally asked, forcing my voice steady, but my chest still felt uneven. I meant the suffocating bloodlust, though I didn't want to admit how shaken it had left me.

Jason didn't even bother looking at me. "Come on, Damian, you aren't that dense."

So it was intentional. He admitted it without saying the words, and that only made me hate it more.

Just what had he gone through to wield that kind of killing intent? What kind of scars did it take to summon that pressure at will, then tuck it away like it was nothing? I couldn't stop myself from wondering if I'd ever carry that kind of darkness—or if I already did.

"Can I ask a question?" My voice came quieter this time.

Jason squinted at me, a crooked grin tugging at his lips. "That's all you've been doing all evening."

I shot him a glare, but deep down, I knew he missed this—the constant banter, the little jabs. He acted like it was just to irritate me, but I could see the flicker in his eyes when he teased me. It was the closest thing he allowed himself to call affection.

"Is it about sex?" he shot back suddenly, grin widening.

My face heated instantly. "What? No!" I snapped, more defensive than I meant to be. I hated that he caught me off guard so easily.

"Good. Save that conversation for your old man when the time comes." His tone was dismissive, but I could hear the faint amusement behind it.

This bastard. My fists curled, and I wanted nothing more than to sock him just once, right in the jaw. Not because it would change anything—but because it would wipe that smug look off his face for at least a second.

"You seem calm for a guy with a bounty on his head," I muttered, trying to change the subject before he got under my skin further.

Jason leaned back slightly, shrugging like it meant nothing. "Yeah, can you believe Black Mask? Ten million. He must really underestimate me if he thinks that's all I'm worth." His grin held no fear, no tension.

More like he was entertained.


I studied him. Even with his memories back, even with the blood on his hands, he seemed unshaken. Maybe this really was who he was—Jason Todd, reckless and cocky, armor made of defiance and scars.

"I see you're still as cocky as ever." I sat beside him, my legs dangling off the ledge as well. Gotham stretched beneath us—silent, sprawling, ugly and beautiful all at once. "Mother told me about what happened with Deathstroke at Lian Yu."

His jaw tightened briefly, though he didn't turn toward me. "I did everything in my power to make sure Slade paid for what he did to Ra's al Ghul."

I blinked, unsure how to follow that. I had expected something else in his voice—but it was steady, almost reflective. The awkward silence between us deepened, heavier than before.

"Now you're this big bad Red Hood," I said finally, trying to break it.

"That about sums it up." He shrugged, brushing it off like it was just another mask. "Your dad doesn't know you've been looking for me, does he?"

I didn't answer. My silence was all the confirmation he needed.

Jason's eyes narrowed slightly behind the shadows. "You've spent most of your life in the League. Do you really agree with Bruce's definition of justice?"

The question cut deeper than I expected. My father's code had always been there, looming, binding. "I can't say I do," I admitted. "It goes against everything I believed in for most of my life. But… he makes the rules. And as much as I'd like to, I can't go against his no-kill rule."

Jason nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "That's good. Stick with it. You might find a better way to weaponize that code for he's to your advantage. Besides, kids your age should be worried about crushes and school bullies, not spilling blood."

I almost laughed at the hypocrisy. "Father said you were barely ten when you became Robin."

"Yeah, I'm not the best person to give advice on this sort of thing," he admitted, his voice dropping softer. "But from experience, I'll say this—be yourself.

Always. There's no shame in it. But when Bruce tells you to listen on things that could risk your life, do it. He means well, even if it doesn't feel like it."

That wasn't the kind of talk I'd expected from him. For once, he wasn't teasing, mocking, or baiting me. He was… honest. It unsettled me more than his bloodlust had.

"Unlike me, you might only get to live once," he added, staring down at the helmet in his lap.

"You don't have to worry," I said quickly, trying to reassure him—or maybe myself. "I'm always careful."

Jason chuckled, low and dry. "Pfft. Like you get to choose who you're matched up against. Or the odds of walking away alive." He slid the helmet back over his head, sealing his face behind that cold red mask.

"You're leaving?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.

"Yeah. All this chitchat is making me feel weird inside." His sarcasm was back, a shield for whatever softness had slipped through earlier.

He rose, turned toward the edge, then paused. "Meet me here tomorrow night. You might learn a thing or two." His voice carried the same cocky tone, but I caught the faint thread of sincerity beneath it.

Then, without hesitation, he dropped off the ledge—vanishing into Gotham's shadows like a madman with a death wish.

And I was left sitting there, the echo of his words ringing louder than the silence of the city below.

 

[Maverick_DaSupreme]

"Any news yet?" Roman Sionis asked his secretary, his voice sharp and restless, betraying the nerves he tried so hard to mask. He was pacing behind his desk, the dim office light glinting off the carved lines of his black mask.

"No," she answered simply.

"I thought one of those bastards would've killed him already! Or are they waiting till it's goddamn Halloween to make it dramatic?" Roman's shout carried across the room, his tone dripping with anger and desperation. His hands twitched as if itching to grab something to smash.

"I highly doubt it, sir," Ms. Li replied, her tone steady, almost bored. She had grown used to his tantrums, his outbursts no longer carrying the shock value he seemed to think they did. "If he were that easy to track, we wouldn't be caught in this endless back-and-forth with him."

"I put a bounty on that bastard's head," Roman snapped, slamming his hand against the desk. "So now it's either one of those greedy vultures kills him first… or he gets to me before they do."

"Well, you should've thought of that before making a move like that." The words slipped out sharp and honest, something she had been holding back for hours. But she knew she couldn't keep bottling it up. Her boss was reckless, impulsive—anger always dictating his hand before reason could temper it.

If he had just waited the hour and cooled off after that disastrous meeting, if he had returned to his office, she might've been able to talk him down. Instead, he'd gone ahead with his usual instinct to lash out first and think later.

Roman wheeled on her, fists tight. "What did you expect me to do? Hire another band of assassins? Comb through the market for washed-up mercs who'll charge me an arm and a leg for nothing but excuses? No! Absolutely not." His voice shook with the force of his reasoning, irrational yet—at least to him—utterly logical.

"Hell no," he continued, pacing now like a caged animal. "I'd rather put the money out there, let the whole city know there's someone willing to pay for that fucker's head. That way, all of them get to work, competing with each other. Eventually someone succeeds, gets a one-time payout, and I don't waste another dime on failure."

Ms. Li's face remained neutral, but her mind was weary. His logic was hollow, little more than a gamble with his own life as the stake. But he was her employer. All she could do was nod politely, pretending to agree with his warped sense of strategy. Fighting him on it wasn't worth the stress—or the risk.

Without another word, she left his office, the sound of the heavy door closing behind her a relief. She signed off work for the night, her body craving release from the long day. She needed a drink—something strong enough to wash away her frustration.

The city was damp with leftover rain, neon signs reflecting in thin puddles that clung stubbornly to the sidewalks. The prestigious bar she favored wasn't far, tucked into the corner of a polished street where expensive cars lined the curb and the sound of muffled jazz drifted from within.

Pushing open the heavy door, she stepped into warm golden light and low chatter. The smell of oak-aged liquor clung to the air. She made her way straight to the counter, sliding her coat from her shoulders and hanging it neatly over the chair before sitting down.

By the time she settled onto the barstool, a glass of whiskey was already placed in front of her, ice cubes clinking softly inside. She blinked at it, caught off guard. "I haven't ordered yet," she said flatly.

The bartender tilted his head toward the far end of the counter. "Oh, someone bought you that drink."

Her eyes narrowed. She rolled them almost immediately, already tired of men attempting the same predictable gesture. She was on the verge of rejecting it when she saw him—Randy. Or Jason, though she knew him only by the name he'd given. That streak of white in his dark hair was unmistakable, catching in the bar's warm light.

"Thanks for the drink," she said, lifting the glass with a measured hand.

"Of course," he replied smoothly, his voice carrying just enough warmth to feel genuine. "You looked like you could use one." His gaze lingered a moment longer, studying her with a quiet ease before adding, "Maybe a couple more."

She arched a brow at that. "You could tell?" Most people couldn't read her at all; she had perfected the art of appearing untouchable, unreadable. But here he was, cutting right through that armor with an offhand remark.

Jason gave a small shrug, leaning back casually. "You've got a different look in your eyes than last night. Like something's weighing on you. You seem… bothered."

It was unsettling, being read so easily, but she didn't let it show. She raised the glass and took a sip, her expression unreadable as ever. "Work has been annoying lately," she said finally, her tone even, her words stripped of emotion.

That was enough to start their conversation. They went back and forth as the night deepened, whiskey glasses refilled and emptied while the hum of the bar faded into background noise. She was surprised at herself—surprised at how much she enjoyed speaking with him. There was something unpolished, direct, and strangely calming about him.

Eventually, Jason glanced at the clock on the wall and sighed. "I'd love to sit here and talk all night, but I've still got a long night ahead of me." He stood, pulling his jacket from the chair and swinging it onto his shoulders with practiced ease.

"You're leaving already?" she asked, a hint of disappointment slipping through before she could stop it. She wasn't used to wanting more conversation.

"Yeah," he said with a half-smile, sliding his arms into the jacket. "Promised I'd take my kid brother somewhere tonight."

Her brows lifted slightly. "A responsible older brother, huh?"

Jason chuckled, a teasing spark in his eyes. "I don't know about responsible. But I do what I can." He locked eyes with her as he adjusted his collar, his smirk laced with a subtle charm. "See you around. Hopefully next time you're in a better mood."

And then he was gone, leaving her with a strange sense of emptiness she couldn't name. She sat quietly for a moment, sipping what was left of her drink, before realizing with a small jolt that she was—against her better judgment—attracted to him. That thought lingered long after he disappeared into the city night.

Meanwhile, Jason slipped out into the damp streets, his expression hardening as he ducked into a dark alley. His jacket shifted, and by the time he emerged again he was no longer Randy but Red Hood—helmet on, weapons strapped, moving with the calm confidence of a predator. He headed straight for the rendezvous point.

"You're late," Damian said sharply, perched on the rooftop edge with his arms crossed. His tone was sharp, annoyed, the kind of irritation that masked curiosity.

Jason waved him off casually. "Relax, kid. I was having a drink with a pretty girl."

Damian didn't even want to know. His frown deepened. "Moving on. Why'd you drag me out here tonight?"

Jason tilted his head, as if the question caught him off guard. "I don't know. Maybe to show off." Even his answer carried no real conviction, as though he hadn't fully thought it through himself.

"Show off?" Damian's eyes narrowed, skeptical. He didn't like vague games.

Jason pointed down at the street below, where a neon bar sign flickered against the darkness. "You see that place? Probably packed with idiots who know about the bounty. Idiots stupid enough to think they can claim it."

And without waiting for Damian's reply, Jason stepped off the rooftop. The kid's scowl deepened as he leaned forward to watch. Seconds later, Red Hood strolled through the front door of the bar, movements deliberate, relaxed, like a man walking into his own living room.

It took less than a minute before the bar erupted. Bodies came crashing through the windows and doors, thrown into the street with violent force. Screams followed, mixed with the sharp crack of furniture breaking. And then Jason walked out calmly, brushing glass from his jacket as if it were lint. A small mob of thugs and bounty-hunters poured out after him, weapons drawn, faces twisted with greed and bloodlust as they surrounded him under the pale streetlight.

The hunters had thought numbers would save them. That confidence shattered the moment Jason dropped the first two bodies. But instead of fear clearing the rest, desperation made them reckless. A bounty that high drew out men who had nothing left to lose.

Jason stood in the rain-slick street, chest rising slow and steady beneath his jacket, while the circle closed tighter. His pistols gleamed under the streetlights, barrels smoking faintly.

"Still here?" Jason taunted, holstering one gun and reaching behind his belt. "Fine. Let's make this interesting."

In a fluid motion, he pulled a small disk and flung it low across the pavement. It clinked once—then erupted in a sharp crack, spraying a flash of light and smoke. The hunters staggered back, coughing, blinded. Jason dove into the haze like a wolf in fog.

Damian leaned forward on the rooftop, eyes narrowing. His mind catalogued everything—smoke deployment, timing, angles. Father would have used it for cover and disengaged. Jason used it to slaughter.

A scream cut through the smoke. Jason had yanked one man into a chokehold, driving his combat knife deep between the ribs before kicking the limp body into another.

The smoke swirled around them like a shroud, broken only by muzzle flashes as Jason fired into shadows. The shots weren't wasted—Damian could tell from the pattern, from the way bodies dropped as the smoke thinned.

"Calculated chaos," Damian muttered under his breath. His chest tightened, a strange pang running through him. He hated admitting it, but it was genius. Terrifying genius.

The haze cleared just in time for the next wave to charge. Jason flipped a switch on his belt and tossed something metallic. A sharp click echoed—then a concussive blast sent hunters sprawling like ragdolls. One man's leg bent grotesquely beneath him; another slammed against a dumpster and didn't move again.

Jason strode forward through the wreckage, calm, deliberate. "You boys ever stop to think why no one collects this bounty?" His voice carried, low and cold. "Because every time, it ends like this."

A hunter scrambled to his knees, pulling a knife with shaking hands. Jason didn't even break stride. He snapped a grapple line to the man's wrist, yanked it hard enough to tear ligaments, then reeled him in only to drive a boot straight into his skull. The crack echoed down the alley.

Damian's hands curled into fists. Every move screamed dominance. Jason wasn't beating them alone, he was breaking them. He was teaching. Every snap of bone, every scream of pain, it was psychological warfare aimed not at the ones lying in blood, but at the survivors still clinging to their courage.

And Damian could see it working.

The last few hunters hesitated. Their weapons shook. Some even backed away.

Jason holstered his pistols, deliberately. He wanted them to see it. To think he was giving them a chance. Then he reached into his jacket and drew out a crowbar. The sight of it alone made some freeze like deer in headlights. Jason twirled it once, casually.

"Now," he said, his voice heavy with cruel amusement, "let's see how much you really want that money."

What followed wasn't a fight. It was an execution line. Jason smashed knees, shattered jaws, and left grown men screaming for their mothers. The sound of metal hitting flesh rang out in the alley like church bells, relentless and rhythmic.

Damian's heart thudded harder than he expected as he watched. His training told him this was excess. Sloppy. Wasteful. But his gut… his gut told him it was power. Raw, undeniable power. A presence that no cape, no code, no emblem of justice could ever match.

And for the first time, Damian felt the edges of doubt creep into his mind. His father taught control. The League taught precision. But Jason Todd—the Red Hood—showed him domination.

And maybe, just maybe, there was something in him that wanted that more than either.

When the last hunter lay broken and whimpering on the pavement, Jason let the crowbar drop with a clatter. He stood over the wreckage of men, chest heaving slightly, rain dripping red from his gloves. Then, almost instinctively, his helmet tilted up—toward the rooftop.

Damian froze.

Jason didn't speak this time. He just stared, the glowing eyes of his helmet locking with Damian's. No words. No taunts. Just a silent challenge, heavy as the night itself.

Damian swallowed hard. And for the first time in years… he felt small.

- - -

pàtreøn.cøm/Da_suprememaverick