hand to hand combat
All of that intellect tends to go to the wayside when Jason’s emotions get the better of him. Quick to anger, and ruthless, he often shelves his better judgment for the immediate satisfaction of retribution and violence. Sometimes it ends in his favor, sometimes it doesn’t.
marksmanship & use of lethal force
a weakness of the heart
maybe its kind, to be cruel
Gotham is never kind to anyone, from the wealthiest prince to the lowest street urchin, she did not differentiate her tragedy, and yours was no different. Born to a mother who was more concerned of where to get the next greatest hit, and a father who tried to trade you to pay off a debt, you were never meant for great things. Your father reminded you of that when you were five, the first time he left a bruise on your face and brandished a gun. Every single day he let you take another breath was a blessing, so you had better count em.
You’re born into a world of pain, of pickpocketing and running. Of nights without heat, of late night raids from police and thugs alike, the taste of blood in your mouth and bruises on fat little cheeks. Gotham forges you in her fires, and you know, deep down, that you’re lucky if you raise from the ashes of it all.
At eight, when things already feel like they can’t get worse, your world falls apart. There’s been an empty space in the indent of where your father used to be, and while it feels like a reprieve, there’s another suffocating weight that takes his place. You’d almost take the yelling, the hitting and the threats over the murmurs of your mother. Of the scent of a burning spoon, and dry heaves that keep you up at night. You’d rather have his tyrannical rage than the deafening silence of death in your doorway. But you can’t have what you want, and Gotham just takes and she takes and she takes.
It’s the middle of winter when you find yourself sleeping in an alleyway for the definitive future. A small cardboard box crunched under your back, and a cup of change to try and fill your stomach. It’s a woman in a nice dress who convinces you to follow her to a church shelter, it’s a man in a suit and tie that splits your lip and takes your cup. It’s a hard lesson to learn, and one that will take a few more strong betrayals before it settles in. Trust no one, all they’ll do is take and take and take. You manage to eat expired food that gets tossed out of a diner on Finch. It makes you sick for the next four days, but you wonder if it was worth the full feeling you had for a night in the cold.
Streetwise for eight years, you learn not to look a gift horse in the mouth when you see it. Crime Alley is neck deep in kids fighting for a claim, some small piece of concrete to call their own. You are no different, and you’re seeking out a way to prove yourself. The more noses you break, scars you leave, the more they respect you. The less Gotham seems to want to wrap herself around you and squeeze. That’s all you want, after all, a little bit of air. Some breathing room, so you can try and get yourself out of this hell hole. Off of the streets, off of your knees.
The security system is impressive, but you’ve listened to enough goons, and enough stories to figure out how to bypass it. The tires themselves are worth a fortune, but the notoriety of stealing them is worth more. After all, who’s going to buy tires that were on the Batmobile? Probably no one, but everyone will think twice before fucking with the kid who stole them.
You have the fourth tire off when you hear it. The snap of leather cutting through the air, then you see it, the blur of a shadow. A menacing tower standing in front of you, all fire and brimstone, judge and jury, snapping a hold of your red hoodie and dragging you off your feet. You debate swinging the tire iron, but wise words swirl around in your head and make you pause. Don’t give a man your hands to slap you with. So you drop the iron, and stare him down instead. You aren’t afraid of anything, except maybe death, if you’re fight for survival is any indication. Batman doesn’t kill, so really, what’s the worst he could do.
The worst is apparently a warm meal, and an offer you can’t pass up. The chance to get out of the grime of the streets, to be free from a life of poverty and crime; To redirect your path to one of helping others, of saving those who need it. The offer is Robin, and you think you’d be dumb not to take it. A life that allows you to live, to learn, to fly.
It’s the best thing to happen to you, even though you don’t really understand Bruce and the manor, even though it gives you a weird anxiety to ask Alfred to do anything. You’ll learn, it’s said like a promise, and the compromise is that you do your own share of the cooking and cleaning. Pay your way because you know nothing is for free. You and Bruce argue, a constant stream of frustrations from both. You’re violent, you’re brash, you’ve got everything to prove to the world and a chip on your shoulder the size of a crater. You’re not a very good Robin, and the sinking weight of disappointment settles in before it all goes to shit.
Fifteen months. Fifteen agonizing months. That’s what you spend under the floor of Arkham, that’s what you spend in the rotating company of a madman with a cackle that drowns in your ears. Fifteen months where you wait, where you promise yourself he’ll come. Batman doesn’t leave his Robins, his family. Right? It’s a photograph that breaks your resolve, a bright-eyed and smiling boy dashing across rooftops. A golden R on his chest that’s covered in copper and crimson on your own. It’s fifteen months before you break, and the sweet release of death is the gift you get for your trouble.
All that’s left of you for them to find is a costume on the top of Mercy Bridge. A handwritten note, and a videotape.
Who knew that being reborn could be so painful. The burn of a first breath, of wounds knitting together, bullet wounds tightening and flesh made new. The details of the impromptu resurrection are a bit blurry, as is the escape that you endeavored on. Broken psyche too tampered to even begin to consider returning to the Manor. After all, your place was taken, stolen. You had been left. as the powers of the pit slammed through your veins, as your teal eyes saw only red, you left. Stored yourself on a boat headed for Santa Prisca. A new beginning, a new life. But you’d return to Gotham, when the time was right, when you were prepared. You would make Batman pay, you would steal the city that was your home, that had forged you, and you would lay claim to what was rightfully yours.
Rags to riches to rags again. You learn to survive on the humid streets of Santa Prisca, grateful for the humidity, the way it wrapped around you and chased away the chill of the asylum. Thick brush chasing away visions of white tiles and howling laughter. It’s actually surprising how quickly you manage to gain your footing. Your newfound anger is used to your advantage, impressing local drug lords and gaining their trust. After all, you’re fast, you’re smart, you know what they want and you’re willing to help them get it. Little and non-threatening. You take the skills they offer, and think nothing of the bullet you put into their back as you drain their accounts and move on to the next source of knowledge.
A bomb maker in London, an arms dealer in Russia, an all too willing ally in the daughter of the demon’s head, you take from all of them what you can, the knowledge, the power, the finances. You watch, and you wait, and you prepare for your return. The opportunity raises itself unexpectedly, and in a form you weren’t expecting.
Gotham is attacked not once, but twice. Once thanks to the attack of Kryptonians, and the other thanks to Bruce’s own ego. It leaves the underworld in limbo, gang leaders dead, territories altered. While the world is worried about aliens and a global takeover, Gotham’s underworld is rallying against the bat. You seize the day, and make your way back to your old home. In the dead of winter, the Red Hood makes his presence known, a bag full of heads and a damning ultimatum. They will join you, follow your rules, or they will die. The Bat? He’ll get his chance, his moment to revel in the reality of what he has created. But not before you take Gotham from him, not before you seize power in Gotham. Not from the pipedream Bruce always dreamed Gotham would be. But for what she is. A heartless creature, with a cancer that can never be killed, only managed, treated, exterminated when it gets too large, too lethal. Bruce might not be able to see it, but you can, and you intend to keep your city alive as long as you can.
ooc name Fox
timezone - 5 gmt
original earth prime earth