The Man And The Hood

[Jason Todd's POV]

I laid there for three days, unconscious, completely comatose—but strangely aware of my surroundings. It felt like I was trapped in a haze, my mind wide awake but unable to move.

Every day, I saw him. He was me, but different. His skin was burned, parts of his body charred and blackened as if he'd been from hell itself.

"You know what we must do, right?" he said to me, his bloodshot eyes glaring with a crazed intensity. There was madness in his stare, a twisted kind of obsession.

He hovered around me, pacing like a predator, before finally sitting down beside me. His breath was warm against my ear as he leaned in close. "I hope Bruce hasn't killed Joker yet… We must get our revenge," he whispered, his voice laced with venom.

Now, I couldn't tell if my mind was playing tricks on me or if we were two separate entities sharing the same body.

It was hard to admit, but a part of me was okay with dying. I'd accepted the idea, even told myself it was fine if Bruce took vengeance in my place. This whole life, this rollercoaster of pain and anger—it wasn't worth it anymore.

He was the part of me I didn't want to acknowledge, the angry side, the side I buried deep. No, he was more than that—he was my repressed thoughts and emotions, a manifestation of everything I couldn't process.

He disappeared for a moment, only to reappear at the window, his anger intensifying. "Even if Joker's dead, Gotham's parasites must pay for their sins." His voice was loud, sharp with fury, ranting on and on.

This went on for days—him disappearing, reappearing, spewing vengeance into my ears. It had been 72 hours, but now, I was awake.

For the first time in days, I felt my fingers twitch. Slowly, I clenched my fist, then my other hand. My legs finally felt like they were mine again. It was like my nerves had finally reconnected, the spark of life returning to my body.

I threw the blanket off and swung my legs over the side of the bed. My body felt so weak, like I had to build up the strength just to stand. It took all my focus, all my energy to make the next move.

I wasn't going to let myself fall back into that motionless state, not again. I wouldn't let that hallucination of me, all burned and twisted, keep rambling in my head while I couldn't move.

With every ounce of willpower, I pushed myself to my feet. I made it. One step forward. The excitement surged within me, and I tried for a second step—but my legs buckled beneath me, and I hit the ground hard, my head slamming into the edge of a wooden stool.

"Shit!" I groaned, vision blurry, my frustration boiling over as I slammed my fist against the floor.

Then, I heard the door open, the sound of hurried footsteps. A voice called for help.

The light above me dimmed, and my vision started to fade as they lifted me up, carrying me back to the bed.

The last thing I saw was the flash of eyes—eyes I couldn't quite make out. Maybe they were wearing masks, or maybe scarves were covering their faces, but their eyes—those I could see clearly.

And then, in the backdrop of the room, there he was. The figure standing in the corner, his wide, sinister grin staring back at me. His body was burned, just like the vision of me, but worse.

As I slipped into unconsciousness, his voice echoed through my mind—calm, assured, like a dark promise. "You can no longer run from this…"

And with that, the world went black.

****

Once again, I regained consciousness. Blinking slowly, I took a closer look at my surroundings, and the strangeness of it all hit me like a freight train. Everything looked unfamiliar, alien.

"Oh, shit. Where am I?" I muttered under my breath, my voice hoarse as if I hadn't used it in days.

I scanned the room, searching for something—anything—that might clue me in. Yet, even as I tried to piece things together, a bigger, more nagging question clawed at the back of my mind: 'Who am I?'

I racked my brain, desperate for a sliver of memory, anything to explain this situation. A fragmented flash struck me—masked individuals dragging me, their hands gripping me tightly as they hauled me into… this room? This bed?

The disjointed memory only left me more disoriented, and I found myself staring at the ceiling, the question looping in my head: Who were they? Why was I here?

Sitting up slowly, I propped myself against the bed frame, my movements sluggish as if my body was still catching up from a deep sleep. The room was spartan yet strangely luxurious.

I took in the carved wooden furniture, the faint flicker of a dimly lit lantern, and the faint scent of something herbal lingering in the air.

"Where the hell am I?" I muttered again, feeling a rising sense of unease.

The door swung open suddenly, startling me. A tall, older man stepped inside, his posture commanding, his green eyes sharp and piercing. He radiated an air of authority that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

He walked to my bedside without a word, his eyes locked onto mine like he was studying me. I met his gaze, refusing to look away, as if we were in some sort of unspoken staring contest.

After a long silence, he finally spoke, his tone calm yet firm. "Relax, Jason. I know this must be overwhelming for you, waking up in a strange place. You're probably wondering where you are right now. But rest assured, you are safe. You'll be taken care of."

His words made me freeze.

Jason?

That name echoed in my mind like a distant bell. Was that my name? It had to be. I replayed his words over and over, trying to make sense of them. I'm Jason.

I looked around the room again, this time with a different lens. The man in front of me must know me—must know something about how I ended up here.

"Wh-Who are you?" I asked, my voice cracking slightly as I squinted at him, trying to read his expression.

He raised a brow, surprised by my question. "You don't remember me?"

I shook my head. "I don't remember much of anything."

His expression shifted, concern creasing his features. He stroked his beard thoughtfully before responding. "I see. Then tell me, what do you remember?"

"Nothing," I admitted, frustration lacing my tone. "It's like my mind's completely blank. I've been trying to pull up something, but the only thing I can picture is…" I hesitated, wincing as a dull pain throbbed in my temple. "A clown's face. Just a clown. That's it."

The image of the clown lingered in my mind, disturbing and vivid. The more I focused on it, the more it made my head ache, like trying to force open a locked door.

"And nothing else?" he asked, his voice laced with a mix of both disappointment and curiousity .

"Nothing else," I replied, shaking my head.

He nodded, though he looked troubled. "I see…" He gestured toward the door with a sweep of his arm. "Why don't you come with me?"

"To…?" I asked, suspicion creeping into my voice. I wasn't about to follow this guy blindly, no matter how calm he sounded.

"To the dining hall for dinner," he explained. "You must be starving after nearly a week of sleep." He turned on his heel, heading toward the door.

I stood slowly, my legs shaky but holding firm. That's when I realized I was wearing a black robe—nothing underneath. I hesitated, feeling a bit exposed, but before I could say anything, the man stopped at the door and knocked twice.

A masked guard entered silently, his face obscured by a scarf.

"Yes, my lord," the guard said, bowing slightly.

"Fetch the boy some proper clothing," the older man instructed. "He must be feeling overwhelmed enough as it is."

"Yes, my lord." The guard bowed again and left as quickly as he had come.

The older man turned back to me. "There's a bathroom over there," he said, pointing to a door on the far side of the room. "Freshen up and get dressed. Then join us for dinner."

"Us?" I asked, my curiosity piqued.

"Yes. My daughter and I. We try to have breakfast together when time allows. I thought you might join us. Perhaps it will help jog your memory," he explained.

Before I could respond, the masked guard returned, placing a neatly folded set of clothes on the bed. Without a word, he disappeared again.

"Okay," I agreed reluctantly. The man gave a faint smile before stepping out of the room.

As soon as the door shut behind him, I wasted no time heading to the bathroom. The sight of hot water pouring from the faucet was a welcome relief.

I stepped into the shower, letting the warmth wash over me, easing my stiff muscles and numbing the chill I hadn't realized I'd been carrying.

The water felt like a reset, like the first step to piecing myself back together—whoever I was.

*****

[General POV]

Jason emerged from the bathroom, the towel slung lazily around his neck. He dressed quickly, his movements brisk and efficient, though his mind was a storm of conflicting thoughts.

He didn't want to leave the room—his instincts screamed at him to stay put, to avoid the people outside. But hunger gnawed at him, and curiosity about his circumstances was even harder to ignore.

Grimacing, he pushed the door open and stepped into the hallway. A masked figure stood there, silent and imposing. The guard motioned for Jason to follow, and with a reluctant sigh, he complied.

The halls of the building were cold and dimly lit, the walls lined with intricate carvings and tapestries that hinted at an ancient, almost mythical history.

Jason's eyes flicked around, cataloging exits and potential threats as they walked. His paranoia, though simmering just below the surface, felt justified. He didn't trust this place—or the people in it.

Eventually, they reached a large dining hall. It wasn't extravagant, but there was a sense of refined grandeur to the long, polished table and the dimly glowing chandeliers overhead.

Seated at the table were two people. One was the man Jason immediately recognized as "the geezer"—Ra's al Ghul, the man who radiated an aura of quiet authority.

The other was a woman whose familiarity stirred something in Jason's memory.

Her striking features, the sharpness in her gaze—Jason couldn't place her, but it was clear she knew him. Her dark eyes studied him with an intensity that made his skin crawl.

"Oh, welcome," Ra's said, gesturing toward a chair a few seats away from him. The gesture was calculated—close enough to engage in conversation, but distant enough to avoid crowding Jason's space.

Jason hesitated, his gaze flicking over the table. The smell of the food was intoxicating, his stomach growling loudly in response. Embarrassed but too hungry to care, he pulled out a chair and sat down, his movements slow and deliberate.

A plate was placed in front of him, the food steaming and aromatic. His stomach growled again, louder this time, urging him to dig in. He picked up a spoon and took a cautious bite.

The flavor was rich and satisfying, but Jason's mind remained sharp. He ate slowly, instinctively watching the others out of the corner of his eye. Trust was a foreign concept here, and he wasn't about to lower his guard.

Ra's allowed him to eat in silence for a while, his piercing gaze never leaving Jason. Finally, he broke the quiet. "How do you feel?"

Jason paused, swallowing his food and placing the spoon down. He stared at the plate for a moment, gathering his thoughts. "I feel… hollow," he said finally, his voice flat and devoid of emotion.

Ra's tilted his head slightly, as though analyzing the weight of Jason's words. "Hmm… I see."

Jason's gaze flicked to the woman at the table. She hadn't said a word yet, but her presence was palpable. He caught her watching him, her expression curious but guarded.

"This is my daughter, Talia," Ra's introduced, his tone light but tinged with pride. "She is the one who found you. You were lying in the cold, on the brink of death. It is thanks to her that you are alive to sit here today."

Jason tilted his head slightly, studying her face more closely. There was something achingly familiar about her, but the memory danced just out of reach.

"You don't remember anything?" Talia asked, her voice calm but edged with suspicion. Her dark eyes narrowed slightly, searching his face for any flicker of recognition.

Jason stared back at her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Instead of answering, he turned his attention back to Ra's. "What happened to me?"

Ra's leaned back in his chair, his expression grave. "You were met with an unfortunately traumatic experience which assured everyone you were dead. Infact, you were dead."

Jason raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching into a faint smirk. "Okay-y," he drawled, his tone dripping with disbelief.

"He's not joking," Talia interjected, her voice sharper now. There was no trace of humor in her expression.

Jason chuckled dryly, shaking his head. "Right. So what's the punchline? Because last I checked, dead people don't sit around eating dinner."

Talia sighed, her patience thinning. "You were dead," she said firmly, "and my father brought you back with the help of the Lazarus Pit. It's a sacred ritual, one that is not without risks."

Jason's smirk faltered as her words sank in. His hand instinctively went to his temple as a sharp pain suddenly pierced through his skull. He winced, groaning as he leaned forward, clutching his head.

"What's wrong?" Ra's asked, his voice calm but tinged with concern.

Jason waved him off, gritting his teeth. "I… I'm fine," he muttered, though the pain was anything but. It felt like his head was splitting open, memories flashing and fading like broken film reels. "Just light-headed for a second."

He kept his head down, breathing deeply as the pain began to subside. But when he opened his eyes, there was a subtle shift in his demeanor—a quiet, simmering anger that hadn't been there before.

Ra's exchanged a glance with Talia, the unspoken tension between them growing. They both knew that whatever Jason had been through, the real fight was only just beginning.

Jason wiped his mouth with a napkin and let it fall to the table, landing upon a gleaming fork. He sat still, his face hidden behind the curtain of his unkempt hair.

"Thank you for the meal," he muttered, his voice low, laced with an edge of bitterness.

"But I don't think I can manage this much food. The news of being brought back from the dead…" He trailed off, his hand slowly reaching under the napkin as he added, "…has a way of killing one's appetite."

Ra's al Ghul, seated at the head of the grand table, watched the young man intently. "I see," Ra's said thoughtfully, his tone measured.

"Do not fret, young Jason. With time and discipline—perhaps a few mental exercises—you will regain your full strength and memories. Resurrection can be…"

Before Ra's could finish, Jason's hand shot out, clutching the fork hidden beneath the napkin. In one fluid motion, he hurled it across the room, the sharp prongs aimed directly at Talia al Ghul.

She was mid-bite, her guard lowered as she dined casually at the far end of the table.

"Daughter," Ra's said with eerie calm, not moving from his seat.

Talia barely glanced up before her hand snapped out, catching the fork between her fingers just as it was about to strike her throat. The steel trembled in her grip for a moment before she dropped it onto the table, her eyes narrowing.

But the distraction had served its purpose.