Chapter Text
As one of the few Gotham vigilantes only tangentially associated with the Bats, the Red Hood has grown accustomed to operating as an independent unit. In fact, he prefers it that way. Being a part of a team is, at best, a hassle; and, at worst, a ticking time bomb doomed to explode. (Outlaws excluded. There's two reasons for that: one, they're not actually vigilantes, they're outlaws; and two, at some point in time his perception of Roy and Kori shifted from 'teammates' to… something else he's not emotionally prepared to label at the moment. Anyway.)
But as a crime lord, he doesn't get the privilege of flying solo. It's unfortunately kind of impossible to keep this scale of an operation running without the occasional support of a few well-placed minions keeping the gears turning in the delicate machinery of his budding criminal empire.
He doesn't have to like it, this slight relinquishing of control that comes with outsourcing, just learn to live with it. A bit of a necessary evil, in this line of work. Truth is, not everything can be as glamorous as cutting heads and putting the fear of God in men. Sometimes being in charge of a good percentage of Gotham's criminal underground means sitting on your ass for several hours at a time to try and make sense of your financial affairs. And don't get him wrong, Jason understands the need to do horrid things to further his goals and ambitions, but there has to be a limit somewhere. He may not know the first thing about his freakish return from the dead, but he sure as shit wasn't put back on this Earth to do his own accounting.
Unsurprisingly, what starts with the simple kidnapping of one of Falcone's corporate lackeys to repurpose as his own, somehow morphs into an intense campaign to amass a small collection of reliable helpers. Next, he hires a couple enforcers to assist with his more elaborate heists and keep an eye on the streets during day shift. Then an actual doctor for the times he gets injured in places he can't comfortably reach himself and could use a hand with. Whenever he identifies a fault in his business, he sets out to fix it by acquiring a qualified expert to put in charge of the problem. Before he knows it, there's nearly a dozen goons milling about the discreet warehouse he's equipped as his near-permanent base of operations. People he trusts to some degree—not with his face, or his name, or any kind of personal information for that matter, but with just enough of himself to allow them to exist in his general vicinity without the glint of a knife or the threat of a gun to reassert his dominance.
And that’s how he finds himself one night, sitting in one of the conference room's ratty chairs with a cheap bottle of whiskey in his hands while a nasty cut on his left shoulder blade is being treated. It’s deep enough to require stitches, but not so much that he should worry about being out of commission in the near future. He'd be patching it up himself in the privacy of his own safehouse if it wasn't such an awkward angle to work with.
His on-site medic is a sweetly old woman named Tracy who used to work as a doctor in Park Row's free clinic but lost her medical license due to allegations of gross negligence manslaughter. Jason would probably be more worried about his own safety if he didn't know for a fact the patient in question had been involved in a human trafficking ring that was preying on street kids from the Narrows. It just so happens that some problems can only be solved with ruthless efficiency—and, perhaps, a lethal dose of anesthetics. It was actually that grim determination to do what it takes no matter the personal cost the reason why he hired her.
"Just a few more left, honey," Tracy again promises in a tone that's probably better suited for reassuring a very young child instead of the seasoned vigilante with a body count in the triple digits. But then again, that's probably what he is to her eyes. It's not like Jason can realistically explain to her that his refusal to take painkillers actually doesn't stem out of a misplaced sense of bravado, but an impromptu swim in a mystical pool of horrors that left him both slightly unhinged and moderately resistant to a vast array of medications and toxins.
Jason merely grunts an acknowledgement and surveils the rest of his crew. He tells himself it's meant to be a distraction from the sharp ebb of the needle piercing skin, but the part of him who's not in complete denial about his personal failings knows it's actually the ingrained compulsion for gauging potential threats. He has to remind himself—he trusts these people.
(To some extent.)
Still, it's a struggle. Logically, he understands that if his goons wanted to double-cross him they would have done so at the many points throughout their working relationship when he'd been sporting a lot more than a singular gash wound—but tell that to his hindbrain. Can't exactly shake off this deep-seated sense of paranoia. It's already a small miracle he lets Tracy peel off the bits of armor she needs to provide medical treatment, he muses as he takes a generous swig from his drink. Alcohol doesn't do much for him these days either, but it leaves a pleasant burn going down his throat and, at this point, he'll take what little joys he can get. Plus, it has the added bonus of giving him something to do with his hands. Idle hands make for restless thoughts, and in the case of former Bats with a newfound propensity for violence, itchy trigger fingers.
All this to say Jason is only half-heartedly listening while three of his most trusted enforcers valiantly power through one of the guys' GED study guide.
“Rational expressions, my ass," Slug grumbles as he slaves over his printed worksheet. "There ain't nothin' rational about this shit."
Brick puts a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. "You got this, man. Just find the common denominator."
"Lowest common denominator," Butcher helpfully adds from where he's decidedly making a nuisance of himself by playing some form of japanese tap tap game on his phone. Jason has half a mind to stop him, but he's not about to start policing whatever hobby his goons throw themselves into during downtime.
"How the fuck do I do that?"
"Just multiply them, right? It's what we've been doing so far."
"You wanna get them all to x minus 1 to the power of 3," Jason corrects against his better judgment.
Slug lowers his head into his hands, his entire body language spelling defeat. "Why?"
"All your denominators have the same factor of x minus 1," Jason says. He honestly didn't expect to wrap up his night by moonlighting as a math tutor, but apparently life is a gift that keeps on giving. "So the lowest common denominator is the one with the highest exponent."
"Bitch," Slug replies in awe. "How do you even remember this? It's been ages since I've done any math."
Jason shrugs—at least, as much as he’s able to while Tracy’s still working on his shoulder. "Ain’t that long."
He's a little ashamed it takes him a full second to register the implications of what he's just said. But that's his mistake. He should know better than to even hint at anything that could connect to his personal life. Still, it’s a testament to the lifetime of rigorous training that rendered him hyper-aware of every muscle in his body that he doesn’t even flinch at the realization. For now, it's all he can do to keep calm and hope they don’t notice.
They absolutely notice.
"Yeah?" Skinny Joe prompts, aiming for a far too casual tone that's not even remotely convincing. It’s a good thing Jason only hired him for his forgeries, because his acting skills are terrible. "It's been around fifteen years for me."
Butcher lifts a hand to capture their attention, eyes still trained on his phone. "Seventeen."
"Twenty-two," Ciszewski absently provides from where he’s updating their notes on Black Mask’s on-going weapon deals and possible traffic routes. He's the only one still working at the time, and even in the midst of this shitshow Jason has to admit he's a little impressed with his lieutenant's work ethic.
One by one, his henchpeople cite a selection of numbers way higher than what could conceivably be understood as not that long ago, and Jason's naturally mistrustful brain jumps into risk assessment mode.
As an employer, Jason likes to think he's generally well-liked. If the Red Hood's whopping 4.5 average on the Rate My Crime Boss website is anything to go by, he's done a pretty good job at running this ship. Other henchpeople don't have access to such a robust medical package, plus paid vacations and sick time. Other henchpeople can't take a six weeks parental leave after the birth of their children. The goons working for Black Mask don't even have dental. Still, this blunder could pose a palpable threat to his status as head of operations: the last thing he needs right now is for the hired hands to start doubting his authority.
Time to put out some metaphorical fires, so to speak. "I was in a coma for a while there, so it feels like less."
It's a bit of a trade off, but Jason's more than prepared to make some sacrifices to defend his rightful place at the top of the food chain. He can volunteer this one personal detail that probably won't hinder his reputation that much in exchange of holding on to the other, slightly more detrimental one. Besides, it's a pretty solid argument. It honestly feels like one minute he's solving algebraic equations in ninth grade and the next he's making a name for himself as one of Gotham's most prominent drug kingpins. Life truly is a box of chocolates sometimes.
"And you didn't think it would be worth mentioning that to your primary care physician, hon?" Tracy asks from somewhere to his back. Jason grumbles something unintelligible in response; but she somehow hears it loud and clear, because Tracy has a talent for honing in on her patients' mulish remarks with razor-sharp precision. "In your line of work? With the amount of concussions you get?"
Now, Jason finds the accusation a little unfair. He doesn't get that many concussions—that's what the helmet is for. He's about to make his irritation known when one of his goons swiftly interrupts, therefore bringing his attention back to the more urgent matters at hand:
"Want to give us a number, Boss?"
Jason does not, in fact, want to give them a number. What he wants is to quickly extricate himself from the situation, preferably with his reputation intact, and then duck into the nearest safehouse to mindlessly vegetate for the next couple of hours. But that's not what he gets, because you can't have shit in Gotham.
It's time to count his losses. He's ready to let this one go, if it means putting an end to this conversation sooner. "Five," he settles for finally.
See, the life of a vigilante slash crime lord is often unexpected. Sometimes you're dead. Sometimes you're alive. Sometimes there's half a dozen henchmen staring up at you in a mixture of wonderment and horror as they realize the man on whose strategic expertise their criminal operation relies on is roughly half their age.
"Damn," Butcher eventually breaks the silence. "And here I thought you just had a baby face."
As a former Bat, Jason has perfected the exercise of emotional restraint down to an artform. But it’s at this moment that he actively has to stop himself from reaching for the familiar weight of a weapon just to force some semblance of normalcy back into his life. He's aware of his weak spots—namely, that his immediate reaction when put in a situation he's not fully in control is to lash out like a wounded animal. A valid instinct, but unfortunately not very conducive to de-escalating conflict.
"Just how old are you, man?"
"Old enough," he snaps, chin rising up in defiance. He honestly doesn't know the answer to that—you know, on account of his being dead for an indeterminate amount of time. He thinks he's twenty, maybe twenty one with a little wishful thinking, but definitely no older than that. And he's not about to admit that to his goons, thank you.
"Old enough to what?" Skinny Joe asks, eyeing the bottle Jason’s brain has quickly recategorized as a makeshift projectile weapon with little subtlety.
Die at the hands of a psychopath, Jason doesn't say. Dig his way out of his own grave. Make a series of poor trauma management choices that may or may not have been fueled by a broken heart drowning in righteous rage. Attempt to kill and/or permanently maim an assortment of relatives. The list goes on.
"Behead eight men," he answers with practiced ease. Then, just because he's feeling specially petty, Jason downs the rest of the bottle in one go, never once breaking eye contact. "Blow up thirteen police cruisers with a grenade launcher. Commit mass murder. I mean, take your pick."
"Wait, we have a grenade launcher?"
"No, I have a grenade launcher." It was a birthday gift from Roy. "You guys have Glocks. Do we have a problem?"
"No, Boss."
"Cool. Then do me a solid and shut your mouth, yeah?" he barks out haughtily. It's not always his temper gets the best of him while interacting with his goons—but then again Tracy is still out of his field of vision while actively stabbing him with a sharp object, so he feels himself a little justified to be on edge for the time being.
What follows is a second of peace and quiet in which Jason believes he finally has the situation handled. Regrettably, it doesn't last very long.
"It's just that," Slug lets out a little abruptly. "I keep thinkin'."
"Don't hurt yourself there."
"You're the best at what you do." And what he does ain't nice—yes, they've all heard it. "But you ain't get that skilled overnight."
Jason rolls his eyes, a gesture that goes completely missed on account of the domino. "Point being?"
"Can't have much of a childhood, that's all I'm saying."
If Jason were a lesser man, he'd be banging his head against the wall right now. But you know what? This is fine. If Roy's sponsor can be a man-eating crocodile, then it's about time Jason received some much needed mental health support from an unexpected source too. Let's have an off-the-cuff group therapy session where they can all hold hands and talk about their feelings. That's exactly the kind of team building exercise he'd just love to participate in with his goons.
"How old were you?" Brick prompts with an uncharacteristic gentleness that abruptly halts Jason's silent hysterics.
He could lie.
He doesn't see the point in doing that, though. "Twelve."
After that, there's a sobering silence. It's not long until Tracy wraps up the last of the stitches and finally lets him go with a gentle pat on his uninjured shoulder. The slight furrow on her brow suggests she's gearing up to say something, but for now she wisely keeps quiet. She's probably learnt to recognize the telltale signs before Jason's civility depletes and he resolves to start biting people.
"Hey," Brick calls, casting him such an earnest look he can't help but shift uneasily under its weight. "It was a cult, wasn't it?"
Jason scoffs. "No, it wasn't a—" but he can't bring himself to finish that sentence because, if he thinks about it, there might actually be some truth to it. "Okay, maybe one cult." Unless you consider the Gotham-based clandestine faction who systematically trains crime-fighting zealots somewhat cultish, too. "Two," he amends after a beat. (Three, depending on continuity.)
Brick nods, like this is all just normal. Like finding out your boss used to be a child soldier indoctrinated from early youth into a life of risk and violence is just a casual occurrence. And it probably is in Gotham. Doesn't make it any less fucked up, though.
"Alright," Ciszewski resolves with a resounding clap of his hands. "Flip the whiteboard out. We're giving you your childhood back."
“You’re doing what,” he manages to slip in before the room erupts into a flurry of movement as his crew rushes to sit around the large conference table.
That's all the cue he needs to get the hell out of dodge. A bit unseemly of the Red Hood—but it doesn't matter as long as he can convince himself it's not so much fleeing as making a strategic retreat until he can work out a suitable counterplan.