Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Gotham underground was like a hydra , a beast with too many heads.

Every gang, every dealer, every wannabe mobster thought they were the one who could control the city, tame it, and live to brag about it.

Most ended up dead in alleys or rotting in Blackgate before they got anywhere close.

Except Red Hood.

Red Hood didn’t just survive Gotham’s underground—he owned it. Not officially, not in the way the old crime families had tried with their polished restaurants and slick politicians. Jason Todd didn’t do respectable crime. He did brutal, effective crime. He had no time to play pretend, no patience for boardroom meetings or fake smiles over overpriced wine.

He ruled through terror, loyalty , and an utterly bizarre set of morals that made everyone too confused to challenge him.

If you ran guns? Fine. He’d tax you.
If you’re smuggling stuff, carjacking—whatever. He’d let you live.
But if you tried to deal drugs to kids or hurt them in any other way, you were done.

And not “done” as in “you’ll get a slap on the wrist.” No—Jason had a reputation.

They said Red Hood once made a dealer eat his own supply.
They said he nailed another guy’s shoes to the floorboards of a collapsing warehouse.
They said he put one abuser in a coffin filled with glow sticks, duct-taped it shut, and left it under a nightclub strobe.

Nobody knew how much of it was true. But everyone knew this:

If Red Hood caught you hurting minors in any way, you weren’t going to walk away.

It was Tuesday night, and a trembling dealer named Tony the Rat was learning this the hard way.

Jason lounged in the corner of a dim warehouse, helmet glinting under a single hanging bulb. His boots were propped on a crate, his pistol resting casually in his ha like it belonged there. Around him, his men stood like silent shadows, waiting for their boss’s word.

Tony, sweating through his cheap hoodie, fumbled to explain himself.

“I swear, Hood, I didn’t know they were kids! Look—look, they came to me, okay? I didn’t—”

“Uh-huh,” Jason said, voice distorted and metallic under the helmet. He leaned forward, lazily spinning his gun by the trigger guard. “So, lemme get this straight. A bunch of squeaky-voiced brats with braces came up to you, asked for some pills, and you just thought, ‘Sure, definitely legal adults, no problem here’? That about right?”

Tony paled. “I—I—”

“Don’t answer,” Jason interrupted, standing. He shoved the gun back into his holster and picked up a piece of paper from the crate beside him. The paper had a big, bold title across the top: ‘Drug-Free Youth of Gotham Pledge.’

Tony blinked. “...what the hell is that?”

Jason snapped the paper open with mock ceremony. “It’s a pledge. Says here: ‘I promise to say no to drugs, stay in school, and not be an absolute dumbass who gets kids hooked on smack.’ You’re gonna sign it.”

“What?” Tony squeaked.

Jason tilted his helmet, as if confused why Tony wasn’t already reaching for a pen. “What, you don’t wanna promise me you’ll quit dealing to kids?”

“B-but—”

Jason didn’t let him finish. He grabbed the man by the collar, slammed him against a crate, and shoved the paper into his chest. “You will sign it, Tony. Because I’m feeling generous tonight. Because instead of breaking every bone in your body and mailing you to Black Mask in tiny little packages, I’m giving you a chance to repent.”

Tony’s hands shook so hard the pen nearly slipped from his grip. He scrawled his name at the bottom like his life depended on it—which, in this case, it did.

Jason let him go, patted his cheek with a gloved hand. “See? Not so hard. Congratulations, Tony—you’re a proud member of Gotham’s anti-drug campaign now.”

Jason slapped a neon sticker onto Tony’s hoodie. A bright yellow smiley face with the words: “I SAY NO TO DRUGS!”

Tony looked like he might cry.

Jason turned to his men, his voice sharp. “Spread the word. Nobody pushes on kids. I catch anyone else even thinking about it, and they’ll be begging me for a second chance to sign a little pledge.”

The men nodded immediately. Nobody dared laugh at their boss’s theatrics.

Jason kicked open the warehouse door and walked out into the night. Gotham’s skyline burned against the smoggy clouds, neon and shadows painting the city in its usual sickness. Jason stood there a moment, hands on his hips, breathing slow through the helmet.

He didn’t care if it looked ridiculous. He didn’t care if he sounded like an after-school special with a gun. If this city was going to have crime—and it always would—then he was damn well going to make sure kids weren’t sucked into it before they had a chance.

And maybe, just maybe, he’d annoy a certain Bat and his little army while doing it.

Jason chuckled under the helmet. Oh yeah. He already had plans.

Big ones.

The next day at Gotham Academy, Damian Wayne sat at his desk, blissfully unaware that his life was about to be ruined.

Chapter Text

Damian Wayne prided himself on three things:

1. His unparalleled skill with a blade.

2. His unmatched intellect and discipline.

3. His ability to suffer through Gotham Academy without murdering every last one of his classmates.

It was, without question, the hardest mission of his life.

Gotham Academy was filled with entitled rich brats who thought having the Wayne name meant free passes on exams and skipping gym. Damian loathed them all equally, though he tolerated a few—barely—like Maps Mizoguchi and her brother. Still, nothing could have prepared him for the level of sheer psychological torture that awaited him when he walked into homeroom that morning.

Because standing at the front of the classroom, arms crossed, helmet gleaming, was Red Hood.

His brother.

Jason Todd.

The crime lord of Gotham’s underworld, scourge of drug dealers everywhere—and now, apparently, guest speaker for eight grade health class.

Damian stopped dead in the doorway, every instinct screaming turn around, escape, fake your own death. But before he could, the teacher beamed like this was a perfectly normal thing to happen.

“Class, please welcome our guest speaker today! This is… ah… Red Hood. He’s here to talk to us about the dangers of drugs.”

The silence that followed was so thick Damian swore he could hear the collective heartbeat of twenty terrified rich kids. One girl in the front row visibly recoiled, clutching her designer bag like it would save her from the heavily armed vigilante.

Jason gave a little wave. “Morning, kiddos. Don’t do drugs, or I’ll shoot you.”

Half the class flinched.

Damian closed his eyes, wishing for the sweet embrace of death.

Jason wasn’t done. He paced to the whiteboard, grabbed a marker, and scrawled in messy block letters: “DRUGS = BAD.” Then he drew a skull underneath for effect.

“Now, I know what you’re thinking,” Jason said, tossing the marker aside. His voice was distorted by the helmet, but his grin was practically audible. “You’re thinking, ‘Wow, this guy looks like he’s murdered people.’ And you’d be right. But you know what I haven’t done? Cocaine. Because cocaine is bad for you. Know what else is bad? Weed, unless your doctor prescribes it, in which case, hey, I’m not gonna judge, or if you don’t do it to often.”

“Mr. Hood—” the teacher tried weakly, but Jason steamrolled right over her.

“You ever see those old ‘70s movies where some poor schmuck takes a hit of LSD and suddenly thinks he can fly? Yeah. Don’t be that guy. You can’t fly. You’ll just faceplant into traffic, and then Batman has to scrape your dumb ass off the pavement, and trust me, nobody wants that paperwork.”

A kid in the back raised his hand. “Uh… what about caffeine?”

Jason leaned in, pointing a finger at him like he was delivering gospel. “Kid, caffeine is one of the only drug I approve of. I wouldn’t be standing here without it. Respect the bean.”

The class laughed nervously. Damian wanted the earth to open and swallow him whole.

It only got worse.

Jason produced a stack of papers from… somewhere. Damian didn’t want to know. “Alright, everyone’s gonna sign one of these.”

He slapped them down on the teacher’s desk. The top sheet read: ‘Red Hood’s Official Anti-Drug Pledge.’

Jason’s helmet tilted until it locked squarely on Damian. The grin was practically radiating through the visor.

“Even you, little brother.”

The entire class froze.

Damian’s stomach dropped into his shoes.

Jason had not just outed him in front of his peers.

Except he had. And worse—nobody laughed, nobody questioned it. Because Jason hadn’t said Wayne. He’d said brother.And in Gotham, “brother” could mean a million things—foster, half, step, weird cult adoption. In Gotham, nobody wanted to dig too deep.

Damian forced himself to stand, stalk forward, and snatch the pledge from Jason’s hand. His handwriting was rigid, furious, as he signed the bottom of the page. He shoved it back at Jason, daring him to push further.

Jason, of course, did.

“Good boy,” he said cheerfully, and slapped a sticker on Damian’s blazer.

A neon smiley face beamed up at him. The bubble read: “I SAY NO TO DRUGS!”

The class erupted into giggles. Damian considered homicide.

Jason spent another twenty minutes lecturing them with the worst clichés imaginable. He quoted lines from Reefer Madness, parodied Just Say No campaigns, and at one point tried to get them to chant “Hugs, not drugs!” Only half the class joined in, their voices trembling like they feared he’d shoot them if they didn’t.

By the time the bell rang, Damian was vibrating with fury.

Jason packed up his ridiculous pledge sheets, gave Damian a two-fingered salute, and strolled out like he’d just delivered the State of the Union.

Damian sat, rigid, every nerve on fire.

And of course, it wasn’t over.

That afternoon, walking home, Damian’s day somehow got worse.

Because waiting outside Wayne Manor were Tim and Dick, lounging by the gates like vultures.

They spotted him instantly.

“…What the fuck is that?” Tim asked, pointing at Damian’s blazer.

Dick clapped a hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking.

Damian followed their gaze downward—and remembered the sticker. Bright, cheerful, impossible to miss.

“I…” Damian’s voice was a growl. “…It. Was. Mandatory.”

Tim went red from holding back laughter. “Jason made you wear that? At school? As Red Hood?”

Dick was biting his lip so hard he might draw blood.

Damian ripped the sticker off with a savage snarl. “Do not speak of it.”

Dick wheezed, “You signed his little pledge, didn’t you?”

“Grandfather ensured I was highly immune to most recreational drugs before I hit double digits,” Damian snapped. “I have never abstained from anything in my life.”

Tim froze mid-step. “…wait. What?”

Damian stormed past them before he had to elaborate.

“Jason’s a menace,” Tim muttered.

“Oh, absolutely,” Dick said between wheezes. “And I love him for it.”

Chapter Text

The thing about Gotham’s underworld? It was a slow learner.

No matter how many times Red Hood burned dealers to the ground, smashed operations, or made examples out of idiots who thought “kiddie clients” were untapped gold, someone else always decided they could be the one to get away with it.

This time, it was the Vipers.

A mid-tier gang, not smart enough to stay off Jason’s radar, not dumb enough to usually step over his lines. Until now.

Rumor spread fast—some Vipers had been spotted slipping pills into lockers at Gotham Prep. A high school. Not even college kids. High school.

Jason saw red.

By the time the Vipers showed up at North High’s back lot, Jason was already waiting.

Helmet on. Guns loaded. And—most importantly—he wasn’t alone.

“Alright, troops,” Jason said, crouched behind a row of dumpsters with about eight teenagers staring at him in awe. Every single one wore a cheap red domino mask he’d handed out of a duffel bag five minutes earlier.

May Diaz,  (who had roped her brother and three friends into this madness), adjusted hers with a grin. “This is so much better than debate club.”

Her brother, Kyle, looked pale. “We’re going to jail. We’re definitely going to jail.”

Damian was there too. Against his will. Standing stiff as a board with his mask dangling from his fingers.

“This is lunacy,” Damian hissed, voice low but sharp. “You cannot possibly think involving children is an acceptable—”

Jason shoved a walkie-talkie into his hands. “Relax, Short Sack.They’re not fighting. Just recon.”

Damian stared at the walkie-talkie like it personally insulted him.

Jason clapped his hands together. “Okay, listen up. You guys are my eyes. You see the Vipers moving product, you radio me. Call signs are your mask colors. Don’t use your real names. If it gets messy, you run.”

Maps raised her hand. “What’s your call sign?”

Jason paused, then gave a dramatic shrug. “Hood.”
He handed out the last of his arsenal: a box of water balloons filled with red paint. “If you see one of them dealing, tag ‘em. I’ll do the rest. Think of it like dodgeball, only instead of bragging rights, you’re helping me ruin a drug ring.”

One of the kids whispered, “This is the best day of my life.”

Damian muttered, “This is child endangerment.”

Jason ruffled his hair, ignoring the death glare that followed. “It builds character.”

The plan went off with terrifying efficiency.

The Vipers rolled up in a beat-up van, sliding out with backpacks stuffed full of little baggies. They strolled toward the back fence, casual, confident. Easy pickings.

“Red Mask to Hood,” a kid’s voice crackled over the walkie. “Targets spotted. Two backpacks. Heading east side.”

Jason smirked under the helmet. “Copy that. Paint ‘em.”

A balloon flew through the air, burst against a Viper’s jacket, splattering him in neon red. He cursed, spinning around—just in time for another balloon to nail his partner in the face.

The kids whooped from the rooftop.

The Vipers panicked. “The hell—? Who’s up there?”

Jason dropped in from above like a hammer, guns drawn. “Your worst nightmare.”

The fight was quick, brutal, efficient. Jason disarmed the first thug with a well-aimed pistol whip, kicked the second’s knees out, and drove both face-first into the pavement. The backpacks spilled open, pills scattering like candy.

Jason crushed them under his boot.

“School’s closed, assholes,” he said, tying them with zip cuffs.

The kids cheered into their walkies, victory sweet on their tongues. Damian, however, was radio-silent, already mentally drafting the speech he’d unleash on Jason later.

Jason ignored him. The mission was done. The kids had fun, the dealers were down, and—

“Red Hood.”

The voice dropped like ice into the alley.

Jason froze. He didn’t have to turn to know who it was.

Batman stood at the mouth of the alley, cape trailing like a shadow made flesh. His cowl angled downward, eyes white and burning.

The kids went dead silent. Damian stiffened.

Jason straightened slowly, holstering his gun. “B. Fancy seeing you here.”

“What the hell are you doing?” Batman’s voice was low, dangerous.

Jason gestured at the zip-tied Vipers. “Cleaning up your mess. Again.”

“With children.”

Jason’s tone stayed mocking, but his gut twisted. “Relax. They weren’t in danger. Just gave ‘em some masks and balloons. You should be thanking me for teaching ‘em civic duty.”

Batman advanced, fury radiating off him. “You do not use children in your war.”

Jason’s laugh was sharp, brittle. “Oh, that’s rich coming from you. You recruit Robins like a goddamn draft board.”

Damian flinched.

Batman’s jaw tightened. “That’s different.”

Jason ripped his helmet off, eyes blazing. “No, it’s not. Don’t you dare stand there and act like you’re the saint. You dragged me into this when I was even younger than them. You trained me to fight, to bleed, to kill—”

“I didn’t train you to kill.”

Jason’s voice cracked. “No, you just trained me to die.”

The alley went deathly still.

Batman’s mouth opened, closed. No words came out.

Jason shoved the helmet back on, fury boiling. “You don’t get to lecture me, old man. Not after everything. Not when I’m the only one out here making sure these kids don’t end up with a needle in their arm.”

The kids shifted, uncomfortable, sensing they were caught in something far bigger than themselves. Damian’s hands curled into fists, torn between defending his father and admitting Jason had a point.

Batman’s cape billowed as he stepped closer. “You’re crossing lines you can’t uncross.”

Jason squared up, defiant. “And you’re still blind to the ones you already did.”

For a long, taut moment, they stared each other down. The air crackled with history, pain, rage—everything they’d never said.

Then police sirens wailed in the distance.

Jason jerked his head at the kids. “Go home. Now.”

They scattered, masks abandoned, balloons forgotten. Damian lingered, torn, until Jason barked, “Go, brat.”

Reluctantly, Damian bolted.

Jason and Batman were left alone, enemies in everything but blood.

“You can’t keep doing this,” Batman said, voice like stone.

“Watch me,” Jason snapped, and vanished into the shadows before Batman could stop him.