I haven't been able to get my mind off my experience from the other night, it troubles me whenever the image of that being comes to mind.
That demon whom I fought against in defence, there's no way I'd let myself be possessed by some bloodthirsty demon who wants total control over me.
There's absolutely no way I would give in to the alluring feeling of peace that gnaws at the back of my mind if I were to give up control.
My constant struggles at keeping a lid on the raw outburst I subconsciously wish to unleash on those who have wronged me, relinquishing control and giving in to those impulsive desires would feel like a huge burden is lifted off my chest and I might be able to breath a little easier.
But what about the bodies that would be piling up? What about the people I'd run through and the homes I'd destroy along the way?
It wouldn't be just a vendetta against Gotham's criminals, but aimless killings.
At least while I keep these impulsive desires at bay, I can channel that rage and have it serve as a driving force to help me fulfil my desires, my own way.
Although I can only remember fragments from that weird ass dream, it did remind me of what I needed to do, and fast.
I had woken up with a fuzzy memory of my time in that emptiness, that void.
The dream—if it was even a dream—left scars deeper than any knife could. Fragments of that void still haunt me, creeping into my waking hours like a sickness.
Purgatory. The word doesn't do it justice. It wasn't just emptiness—it was absence. A place where air existed but refused to fill my lungs, where every breath was a struggle against an invisible weight.
I used to think I understood death. The League taught me to wear it like a second skin. But this? This was different. This was knowing—truly knowing—the icy grip of the abyss. And now, I can't unknow it.
Ignorance is bliss.
And I am cursed with clarity.
The rage inside me isn't just anger—it's a wildfire, scorching through my veins, begging to be unleashed. I imagine how good it would feel to stop holding back.
To let the monster out and watch Gotham's criminals drown in their own blood. No more rules. No more restraint. Just justice, swift and brutal.
But then I see the aftermath—bodies in the alleys, innocents caught in the crossfire, the line between vengeance and slaughter blurred beyond recognition.
Is that who I am?
Or is that who it wants me to be?
As badly fucked up as my mental state was right now, it did have it's bright sides. It did help me remember the promises I made to myself from purgatory when I had died at the hands of Joker, saying I would do things differently.
No more bending to Bruce's hypocritical, self-imposed leash. Now I am free, I'll do things my way from here on out, I'll show him just how to deal with this city's scums.
That demon, that void, that near-surrender it sharpened my resolve. No more half-measures. Gotham doesn't need a symbol. It needs a reckoning.
And I'll be the one to deliver it.
Control. That's the key.
That's right, crime cannot be stopped or erased, killing only breeds more killing. Even if I kept on killing the heads of crime families, some nuisance could get up one day and make a vendetta against me, his life's mission.
That'd really suck.
But if I were to be in partial control of organized crime, I get to make the rules. That means no more civilian casualty.
That way the crime families can continue to function, without causing any sort of power vacuum in the underworld. That'd probably suck even more.
If someone ever harbors a vendetta against me, I would put them in the ground and they would no longer be much of a nuisance to anyone.
But if it were to result in a power vacuum amongst Gotham city's Underbelly, I'd have to readjust my chess pieces and subdue new useful pawns so I can seize absolute control that time around.
Anyone who ever dares to attempt getting in my way or refuse to accept my terms and conditions, they'd have to escort death for an eternal vacation.
It's an inevitable fact, but I'd definitely run into Bruce in full Batman—commando mode.
I'd need a alias, an identity. Well, that's simple enough. In order to make a statement that would torment Batman, something that he alone would relate to, a reminder of the monster he created.
Hahh!
I've got it, that didn't take so long. I just have to remind him of how much he has failed this city, by having him gaze upon his very first failure.
Joker.
He was Bruce's first failure, and that led to the creation of that mad man.
The creation of Joker.
His creation which has led to the end of so many innocent souls. I guess that's why he is brooding all the time.
Those souls might be clawing their way at him from the great beyond, pulling on him to hear their cries and avenge them. But he pays deaf ears to their cries and shoulder the burden instead of liberating himself of it by ending Joker.
Pathetic.
Well, good thing I am here now. I will avenge those poor souls and serve justice to the innocents who are potential victims once that mad man is either released or escapes Arkham.
It's only fitting I play at the irony. Drawing inspiration from that, I'd go with Joker's old M.O. as my fit.
So I'll take the Joker's legacy and twist it into something new. Something of mine.
Red Hood.
The name fits. A callback to the monster Bruce created, a reminder of the blood on his hands.
I can already picture his face when he pieces it together—the shock, the guilt, the dawning horror as he realizes who's under the mask.
I'm not patient enough for a slow burn. No, I'll feed him clues. Breadcrumbs. Let him chase me through Gotham's shadows, each step dragging him closer to the truth.
Jason Todd is alive.
And he's not the same boy who died in that warehouse.
The realization will wreck him. It'll be beautiful.
Maybe then he'll understand. Maybe then he'll see how flawed his precious code really is.
Or maybe he'll just keep fighting me, stubborn as always.
Now Bruce is reunited with his biological son, another victim initiated into his endless crusade.
God knows how many times I have tried at convincing him to see a better and more effective way to deal with crime in Gotham.
Now, it's time I gave him a live tutorial of how it's done.
Maybe he'd learn a thing or two and get the lessons into that thick skull of his.
Either way?
I'm done waiting for Gotham to change.
I'm done waiting to be avenged.
It's time to force the change.
Let's see if you can keep up, Bruce.
- - -
As Jason reviewed intel regarding the Joker for the past five years, he realized there was no way he was getting to him without breaking into Arkham.
That wouldn't be too difficult but it would be messy and not set the proper stage he had intended for him, Joker, and Bruce.
The only option he saw was to introduce himself into the underworld as he had intended. He needed to let them know there was a new player in town.
Joker needed to be lured out of Arkham without Batman's interference.
In order to accomplish this feat, certain conditions needed to be met and a couple near-impossible things needed to be put in place.
- - -
The abandoned textile warehouse loomed in the shadows of Gotham's industrial district, its crumbling brick walls and rusted steel beams a testament to decades of neglect. Dust motes swirled in the dim light filtering through broken skylights, casting eerie patterns across the concrete floor.
At the center of the cavernous space stood Jason Todd, his broad frame silhouetted against the glow of a single flickering bulb. His gloved fingers traced the edges of the massive investigation board before him, its surface a chaotic mosaic of violence, power, and betrayal.
Dozens of photographs were pinned in meticulous arrangement—crime lords, underbosses, enforcers—each face a piece in the deadly puzzle of Gotham's underworld. Some images were crisp surveillance shots, captured from rooftops and fire escapes; others were grainy, torn from police files or tabloid exposés.
Red strings crisscrossed between them like veins, connecting alliances, rivalries, and hidden weaknesses. The Black Mask's sneer, Two-Face's scarred grimace, Penguin's smug smirk—all watched him from the board, frozen in their arrogance.
Jason's brow furrowed, his green eyes focused on them.
Weeks of relentless reconnaissance had led him here, stalking Gotham's most dangerous men like a wraith. He moved through the city's underbelly with lethal precision, a ghost even among killers.
The League had honed his instincts; Batman had taught him patience. And now? He knew their routines—their bodyguards' blind spots, their mistresses' addresses, the exact moment a drug shipment would be left unguarded.
But the most satisfying part? He had done it all right under the Bat's nose.
A smirk tugged at the corner of Jason's mouth as he recalled the nights spent tailing not just mobsters, but the Dark Knight himself.
He knew Batman's patrol routes, the way he lingered on gargoyles, the subtle shift in his posture when something was amiss. And yet, Jason had slipped through Gotham's shadows unseen, a predator studying his prey—both the criminals and the man who had once called him son.
The warehouse was silent save for the distant drip of water and the low hum of the city beyond its walls. Jason's hand hovered over a particular photo—a crime boss who had escaped justice too many times. His fingers curled into a fist.
Soon.
Gotham's reckoning was coming. And this time, it wouldn't be wearing a cape.
Gotham City's underworld was a complex ecosystem of power struggles, alliances, and betrayals from within families and from their oppositions.
On the investigation board hung on his wall, he had detailed information which was to help him map out and strategically target his prey. He did spend many hours with Ra's who made his own version of the "Art of War" a necessity to Jason's training.
The major crime families and syndicates present on his investigation was as follows—
The Falcone Crime Family—The oldest and most traditional Mafia family, once led by Carmine Falcone.
Though weakened after his death, his daughter Sofia Falcone has been trying to reclaim power, using a mix of old-world tactics and modern ruthlessness with a sprinkle of brutality.
The Maroni Crime Family—The Falcones' historic rivals, led by Sal Maroni until his death. Now, underboss Luigi a.k.a Big Lou, Maroni struggles to maintain relevance against newer, more violent factions, making it an easy target for Jason.
The Bertinelli Crime Family—Once a major force, now fractured after Helena Bertinelli which sometime later became the Huntress and turned against them. Remnants operate in the shadows, keeping the family relevant but not as strong as they originally were.
Black Mask's False Face Society—Roman Sionis, Jason's key card to getting access to Joker and helping him set the envisioned stage between him, Batman, and the clown.
Black Mask currently runs Gotham's most brutal modern syndicate, dealing in arms, drugs, and human trafficking. He's paranoid, vicious, and sees himself as Gotham's true kingpin.
He isn't one to turn face from a rivaling force which threatens his territory and position of power. This makes it too easy to control and anticipate Black Mask's actions and responses.
Just as assassins learn to use their opponent's weight, power, and momentum against them, Jason saw a path which led to his end goal. That was, bruising Black Mask's ego, then taking full advantage of that and making Black Mask play into his very own hands.
Then there was The Penguin's Empire—Oswald Cobblepot operates in a gray area—part gangster, part legitimate businessman. He controls the Iceberg Lounge and most of the black-market arms trade.
He had no business or reason to go after Penguin's empire. Their faction was on a different territory and did not play into his plans for Black Mask and those around his territory in Gotham.
Apart from those mentioned, there were other players that weren't relevant enough to Jason's plan but he still ran an update reckon on them so as to get a good grasp of the power struggle of the underworld and to know who was in elegance to whom.
These players were placed at the side of his investigation board with the title, Minor Players and were enlisted as follows.
The Dent Crime Family, Two-Face's unstable faction.
The Street Demonz, a brutal gang, and freelance mercenaries like Deathstroke who occasionally meddle in Gotham's underworld.
With his plan set in motion, the first phase required firepower—enough to wage a one-man war. The black market was an option, but it carried risks: paper trails, informants, and dealers with loose tongues.
No, he needed something cleaner, something that wouldn't trace back to him. A simple robbery would do.
Days before the heist, he surveyed a high-end tactical arms store on the outskirts of the city—one that catered to private security and collectors rather than law enforcement.
It had minimal staff, no on-site armed guards, and, most importantly, no direct surveillance links to the police. Just a basic alarm system and two men for the nightwatch, an older man and a middle aged man who did rounds every hour like clockwork.
He wore nondescript clothing—dark jeans, a hoodie, and a black ski mask—nothing that could be tied back to him. Gloves, of course.
No fingerprints. No DNA. He disabled nearby street cameras the night before, splicing the feeds with looped footage from earlier. Simple, effective.
He struck at 2:17 AM, just after the watchman's last patrol. Though the back door's lock was solid, it was picked in under forty-five seconds.
Inside, the store was a treasure trove—glass cases lined with handguns, rifles, and tactical gear. The alarm panel blinked silently near the entrance. He disabled it with a code he'd lifted from the laptop of a very careless manager, days prior.
Twin Desert Eagles— Heavy, brutal, unmistakable. He took two, along with six spare magazines. Perfect for sending a message.
Frag Grenades & Flashbangs— Useful for chaos, misdirection. He pocketed four of each.
C4 Charges—Small, remote-detonated. Insurance for when things went loud.
Steel Cable Garrote—Silent, efficient. For when knives were too messy.
Kevlar-reinforced torso armor for protection against bullets and blades.
He grabbed a couple other stuffs which should help him modify and customize his get up.
He moved swiftly, loading everything into a duffel bag. No hesitation, no wasted motion. The watchmen never even stirred.
By the time the cops arrived, he was long gone. The security footage showed nothing but a masked figure—no voice, no identifiable features.
The media called it a professional job, maybe a mercenary stocking up. The police suspected underground buyers, but they'd never connect it to him.
By dawn, his arsenal was secured in a hidden cache, ready for the war to come.
Now, the real work began.
Now, the Red Hood was armed.
Now, it was time to make his first move.
- - -
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