2014.04.16 - The Court of Owls: Unusual Allies

The truth of the matter was, Jason was getting nowhere fast. It was slowg oing, hitting up every scummy, miserable joint in Gotham, trying to shake down one thug and find a tidbit of info, only to move to the next and find the next link in the chain. By the time it was two am, he was in the right part of town -- he could feel it in his bones -- but he was sitting on a rooftop wondering if he'd get to the son of a bitch before the sun came up. If he'd shaken a magic eight ball, the result would have been 'Outlook Not Good'.

He tuned in his scanner, trying to pick up radio an cell signals, hoping to catch a hint of conversation that might lead him to his quarry...

Jason Todd isn't the only one out on the prowl tonight.

There's a certain trick to sneaking up on members of the Bat Family. It's a trick very few people can ever master; after all, they were all trained by one of the best. But in this case, the best is exactly who's doing the sneaking.

The synthesized voice is soft; a metallic hum that begins 5 yards behind Jason Todd -- accompanied by the sudden, brilliant glow of two eerie lights shining from the darkness. Gleaming like spotlights on Jason Todd's back as he speaks:

"Killing him isn't going to bring you peace."

The is a high caliber pistol now pointed up at those eyes. The Red Hood's draw is smooth as silk. It sounded like a Bruce thing to say... but tht was not Bruce's voice.

"Who the hell are you supposed to be?" he asked, a Robin's flippancy. "My therapist? Last I saw you werent't shy about churning up the froth, Hooter."

The Owl answers the question about therapy first; there is a deep sense of amusement that the synthesized voice fails to mask: "Something like that."

The eyes don't move, though. Not budging an inch. Just staring down Red Hood -- and that pistol -- with the fearless bravado of a man who knows fully well it's going to take more than guns to kill him. "Like I said: Killing him won't bring you peace. But it isn't peace you're interested in, is it?"

"He needs to die. He dies, a hundred thousand people live. It won't undo what he's done, but it will sure as hell put an end to it, won't it?"

The Red Hood is up on his feet now, stalking around him. "So who the hell are you suposed to be, anyway? Don't we have enough birds and bats in this city?" He was ramrod tense, forcing himself to relax enough for the potential of combat. He didn't really want to talk about why the Joker had to die: he just needed to finish the job, put him in the ground...

...and pray he stayed there.

Laughter. Low, slow, deep; rolling and rushing forth like a geyser from those gleaming yellow eyes -- which only move to turn, following Red Hood as he circles him. The laughter is dark, grim, and bitter -- it washes over Jason like a wave.

"An 'end' to it? Really?" the Owl says. "You think killing the Joker will put an end to this? And what happens when Killer Croc takes over his thugs? Or Black Mask? Or, God help us all, Harley?"

The eyes grow dimmer; the light dwindles, briefly. "When fighting cancer, you don't just cut out a clump and call it a day, Jason. You take out the whole fucking tumor."

THe safety is off with a click that eches in the night air. He's not sure what he likes less; the attitude, the laughter, or that this freak job knows who he is.

"First, you don't tell me what I already know. Second... second, that's a name you shoudn't have, buddy. Start talking, or I'll see if I can make an owl sing."

And then -- just like that -- the spotlights go out.

And come back on. Hard. A flash of brilliance; LEDs combined with a flash of infrared radiation -- a hot 'spike' of noise across multiple electromagnetic spectrums designed to briefly confuse most imagery systems. Combined with the hot white burst of lights, it's effectively a visual -- and electromagnetic -- flash grenade. Briefly blinding both normal vision and electronic vision.

In the instant of that hot white flash, the Owl... vanishes. Into the shadows. But his voice -- rumbling across the rooftop, projected from multiple points at once -- continues. Humming around Jason Todd.

"I'm not looking for peace either, Jason..."

The synthesizer has been deactivated. The voice that thrums around Jason Todd is not that of the Owl -- but someone else. A very familiar voice -- except different. Darker. Raspier. Harder. Filled with a cold, calculated rage.

"I'm out for blood."

The sudden shriek of electronics in his ears, the dimming of his lowlight helm goggles-- the Red Hood goes on the fritz. Dammit, he just pulled this one out of storage after the first one nearly got sheared off his skull by Amazo's eyebeams!

He cracks off a shot blind anyway, as his other hand pops the Hood's grip. He still has his Robin's domino in bloody red, a distinct 'fuck you' to anyone who might see him outside the the Hood.

There are still spots in his eyes, and now with no light, he has to rely on his other senses. His ears tell him there's a familiar presence on te roof with him, but his heart says its a lie. He saw Bruce. He Bruce, and he saw his replacement, and he saw Cass-- Batgirl-- who he's sure he'll fight before long.

"You want blood?" he snarls, even as he pulls his kris knife, gun in one hand, the blade held defensively in the other, "then come and get it, prick. I'm not afraid of you. Fucking parlor tricks don't impress me!"

"No," the voice agrees, continuing to hum -- everywhere around Jason. "They really never were that impressive, were they?"

Something lands on the ground to Jason's left. A brief flicker of light -- and then, nothing. The Owl's 'hood'; removed, thrown aside. And standing past it, on the edge of the rooftop -- stepping out from the shadows, six or seven yards away -- a silhouette of a man. No longer wearing a mask.

Bruce Wayne. Except older -- graying. A vicious, savage scar traversing his left eye, down to his lip; giving him a perpetual scar. Except he almost looks like he's smiling.

"Go ahead, Jason. Let it out. Try and kill me." This is his idea of therapy.

When his vision cleared, he saw -- but he did not believe. This was not true. This was not real. This was a lie, the ugliest of lies. This was a sick fucking joke, and he wasn't having anymore of it!

"Shut up!" he said, and unloads the clip without warning, "Shut up, you fake son of a bitch! Do you think I won't?"

He will; every bullet is a promise.

Fast. He was always so goddamn fast, wasn't he? A career spent fighting thugs with guns armed with only wits, speed, and all the non-lethal technology a billionaire can buy. And somehow, he always managed to win.

Despite his age, Bruce moves like lightning; he's already rolling to the right before Jason opens fire, slipping behind one of the rooftop's chimneys. Bullets tear deep, vicious gouges through concrete; chunks of masonry explode with each shot. Bruce twists; a flash grenade launches its way out from behind the chimney -- exploding only half a second later in a blistering, eye-scorching, ear-deafening blast of confusion and light. And then -- he's running out from the opposite side, straight toward Jason Todd.

Both his fists clenched. Grinning through that vicious scar -- his power armor beginning to produce that tell-tale whirr as it warms up.

It's not fair; Jason's already backflipping when he sees the projectile. The gun is abandoned, but his knife is carefully held in one hand. But the light does it's job; even as he brings up the knife to tear at the oncoming human train, he's getting hit by it. His leverage is gone, and all he stabbed was armor in all likelyhood.

Bowled off his feet, bell most assuredly rung, Jason rolls poorly, but ends in a wobbly crouch. There's blood on his face, from his nose. Another hit like that and he'll be down for the count.

The knife finds purchase -- but Bruce doesn't seem to much care. He's looming over Jason as he struggles up to his feet, reaching to grip the blade that protrudes from his left flank -- retracting it with a *snkt* from the armor. Tossing it aside with a clatter.

He might have hit Jason like a tank at the outset, but there's nothing quick or hurried about the way he approaches him now -- a silent, ruthless juggernaut; waltzing toward his prey. As if he has all the time in the world. As he approaches, he even powers down the strength-enhancing armor.

"You know what's really funny, Jason? Now? Looking back on it all? I can't help but find it all so incredibly stupid." Bruce's style is... familiar. Oh so familiar. The skillful feints, the misdirections, the sleek, graceful, devastating style. But gone is the restraint; gone is the sense that he's not aiming to harm, to break, to kill. The feint to the left, followed up by the elbow that slams for Jason's solar plexus -- and, should that land, the followup with the brutal, savage headbutt -- this is not the way a man who takes prisoners fight. This is the way a cold, calculated killer fights.

"Bats," Bruce says, laughing. "Bat-mobile. Bat-suit. Batarangs. What the hell was I thinking?"

Jason's able to parry some, but others? He takes. But he refuses to go down without a fight. He swings- he doesn't even care if he's breaking his fingers on this doubles armor-- he's gone numb with rage, feeling only the hate that's kept him alive the last few months.

But, sad to say, eventually he is a beaten young man in the hands of superiorly armed foe, a stronger fighter. He's limp and bloodied, but holding on.

"You loved it," he said, blood in his mouth turning his teeth pink. "You loved all the drama and spectacle. You thrived on it. Lie all you want, but part of you... loved the rage and the fear as much as the criminals you went after. You were just too much of a pussy to do what needed to be done."

Bruce shows no mercy. Not anymore. At first, Jason might even suspect he's out to kill him -- there's certainly no restraint in the blows that hammer down on the young man. What few blows Jason manages to get in on Bruce -- those that aren't deflected, aren't swatted aside -- they scarcely seem to register on the man.

"Maybe," Bruce agrees; Jason finally manages to score a shot across his face -- forcing Bruce back, his lip splitting. Grinning at the blood. A faint hint of pride, there. "Maybe I did enjoy it."

Bruce descends; there's a little of Bane to him, now -- he's older, his once agile, lean frame replaced with brute power and strength. Brute power tempered by an exceptional, thoroughly experienced technique. A technique tempered throughout the years, practiced upon the world's most dangerous criminals, assassins, and lunatics. Bruce isn't just beating Jason; each blow is setting up the next -- which is setting up the next -- constantly pushing him into the corner. Constantly setting him up for the next strike, the next hit. This isn't a fist-fight; it's a goddamn beatdown.

"--it was fun. But I'm done playing games. I'm ready to get serious, Jason." Feint, duck, dodge, SLAM.

"Are you?"

At least it isn't a crowbar.

That's not to say that by the time he's backed up against a wall, the entrance to the building they're standing th eonly reason he's even upright. He's been bounced and juggled, body bruied and batterd; he remebers what internal bleeding felt like... It was a lot like this.

"C'mon, old man," he wheezes. "I stopped playing games a long fucking time ago."

Robins are the flash in the pan, the misdirection for a Bat to see where they are, and not where Batman is. Well, Bruce has been very busy battering his former protege...

Jason's returned the favor. Sometihng very small has been tapped onto the power armor. A microcharge, shaped and ready to detonate. He palms the trigger.

"Both of us go home in bags, or none of us, Bruce. Pick."

Bruce doesn't notice it -- not until he sees the trigger in Jason's palm. He's just managed to slam his hand against Jason's torso, managed to lift him up against that wall, when he sees it -- his eyes darkening. Briefly flickering down, to where Jason had previously managed to score a blow against his torso. What did he--

--oh.

When Bruce looks back up to Jason, he's smiling -- the bloody lip giving him a sort of gruesome gleam. "Clever boy."

Then, softer, that smile still lingering: "It's tempting. To just go out like this. Neat and tidy -- downright elegant, really."

The response only illicits a sneer. Jason's disgust couldn't be ore plain in the curl of his lip, looking down his bloodied nose.

"You ever died, Bruce?" he asks. "Been beat to shit, then tried--tried to save the the day, only to watch the blast go up? There's nothing elegent or tidy about dying, Bruce. You can't do it with dignity or grace. Don't kid yourself."

Bruce's eyes darken; the lingering smile fades. "I watched a whole world die, boy. Every single person I ever knew -- I ever loved -- I ever hated -- burnt to cinder and ash. Don't talk to me about dying. Don't talk to me about failure."

But then, softer, his grip on Jason loosening: "Not too long from now -- maybe a year, maybe two -- there's going to be a war. A war to end all wars -- a superhuman war. Everyone's going to die, Jason. Unless someone takes action -- unless someone kills the people who need to be killed."

It is the barest respect that Jason tilts his head to the side, and spits blood to the concrete. His face is already purpling.

"Cry me a river, Batman." He licked his lips, red with blood, and said, "You watched because you weren't a big enough man to shelve your idealism. Now you come here, and you stop me when I could've found the number one on my hit list, and started to work my way down... The hell sort of logic is that, Bruce?"

Only Jason Todd would mouth off to Batman while dangling a foot in the air. No one else would dare.

"Because I need the son of a bitch alive."

Bruce's tone is harsh; angry. As if the very thought of not going down there right now and killing him himself is a subject of great personal anguish. "The only way this works is if I beat this world's Batman, Jason. If I replace him. And the only way I can do that is by playing against his weaknesses. The Joker's putting pressure on him. The McHeigh murder has him nearly catatonic. Even you are dredging up old ghosts, old wounds. But understand this, Jason Todd..."

Bruce Wayne's eyes narrow to slits. His grip becomes iron once more; his teeth grind. "When I'm done and through? When I've donned the cowl myself? I'm going to find the Joker. And I'm going to do things to him that will make the horror he brought upon this world look like a goddamn Carebear movie."

And again, Bruce's face splits into a grin. "Hell, you can help. I bet it'll be therapeutic."

"Fuck helping. Son of a bitch is mine," Jason said; he was unimpressed by the display-- Bruce made a lot of promises, checks his morality never let him cash. Jason would believe it when he did, in fact, see it. Until that moment, Bruce was all talk and very little play. Anybody could beat the shit out of the failure-as-a-Robin, anyone could talk a good game. Jason wasn't buying it until he had the Joker's corpse at his feet.

"Fine. You can kill him. But only after Monday," Bruce replies. He releases Jason, now; slowly lowering him to the ground. "You want to know the first thing I did after I gave up my one rule? Went to Arkham, walked into his cell, and shot him. Right between the eyes. You should have seen his face," he says, and perhaps there is something -- deeply unsettling about the smile Bruce is wearing now; the sort of expression you would never expect to see on his face when discussing shooting someone -- even the Joker -- in the face.

"If I can walk after Monday," Jason breathes; a beatdown from Batman was a hell of a thing. He figures that's the point, though. Tom let him know who is in charge. To keep him from going around this hard-as-stone Batman before the timer's popped on whateve bird he's got in the oven this time.

He moves his thumb off the detonator.