DC: The Man And The Hood

A/N:

As you all must have noticed by now, this is a slow paced fic.

As most of us might know, there is a five year period time skip between Jason Todd's death and his metamorphosis into becoming Red Hood.

There is vaguely little to nothing on how he exactly spent those years, or how he developed his skills to the point where he is well known for his fighting prowess.

Among recent comics, Red Hood's new title proves he is better than anyone in the Bat-Family at one thing which caused Damian to acknowledge Red Hood as the superior tracker among the BatFamily, dubbing him with the title:—"Hunter."

Join me as we explore Jason's journey and his character development through those five years, and up to his return to Gotham City.

F.Y.I:— This isn't your DC 'classic' kind of narrative. It's an engaging slow paced fic with deeper insights into characters.

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[Jason Todd's POV]

Jason sat by the window in his dimly lit room, the moonlight painting soft streaks across his face. His dinner tray lay untouched on the nearby table, save for a piece of bread he'd nibbled on absentmindedly.

"This place is like a fortress," he muttered, his voice carrying softly into the stillness. His gaze lingered on the crescent moon hanging high in the sky.

"Meditating with that old geezer actually relieved some of the pent-up stress," he added with a faint, self-deprecating chuckle.

His room was simple, almost barren, with few personal touches. He glanced around, searching for anything to occupy his restless mind. His eyes landed on a corner of the room where a tall, ornate mirror hung. He hadn't noticed it before—it was tucked away, unobtrusive.

Curiosity piqued, Jason rose and approached it. His reflection stared back at him, sharper and more defined than he remembered.

His dark hair was disheveled from a restless evening, but one feature stood out, a streak of white cutting through the dark locks at the front.

"Have I always had that?" he murmured, running his fingers through the streak. The question lingered, but he dismissed it with a shrug. His attention was soon drawn to the suffocating quiet of his room.

"This is boring as hell," Jason muttered. He grabbed a shirt, slipping it over his toned frame as he made his way to the door. "Might as well look around before I lose my mind."

Jason cracked the door open just enough to poke his head through, scanning the dimly lit corridor. To his surprise, no guards were stationed outside.

"Huh. I guess I'm not a prisoner after all," he mused. He stepped into the hallway, keeping his footsteps light.

Jason wandered through the labyrinthine halls of the compound, passing guards stationed at intervals.

He noted two distinct groups: those in gray uniforms patrolling with firearms and another, more ominous group dressed in black with masked faces and traditional weapons strapped to their waists.

The masked ones intrigued him. They didn't patrol like the others; instead, they stood watch at specific points or moved with purpose, as if on important assignments.

"Special ops, maybe," Jason muttered to himself.

The sharp clash of metal against metal drew his attention. The sound grew louder as he followed it to a wide courtyard illuminated by torches. Jason leaned against a wall, crossing his arms as he took in the sight before him.

A child—no more than five years old—was sparring with two masked men. The boy wielded a sword with skill and precision far beyond his years, pushing back his opponents despite their size and experience.

Jason let out a low whistle, yet not all that impressed. "Damn, kid's got moves."

"You're impressed?" a familiar voice asked from behind him. Jason turned to see Talia al Ghul approaching, her steps graceful and deliberate.

Jason smirked, his attention still on the boy. "Not judging, but shouldn't a kid his age be dreaming of becoming an astronaut or something?"

Talia chuckled softly, her gaze fixed on the child. "For most children, perhaps. But Damian is not like most children."

Jason raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, I got that much. What's the deal? He some kind of child prodigy?"

Talia's expression softened with a hint of pride. "He's my son. And yes, Damian is exceptional. While other children play and dream of the future, he is already mastering the art of war."

Jason's brow furrowed. "Art of war? He's barely six."

Talia met his gaze, unflinching. "Age is irrelevant. The world is dangerous, Jason. He will be prepared for it."

Jason turned back to the courtyard. Damian had disarmed one of his opponents and was now holding his ground against the second, moving with startling agility.

"And what about the rest of you? Did everyone here grow up like this?" Jason asked, gesturing vaguely to the compound.

Talia tilted her head, considering the question. "Not everyone. Many here came to the League seeking purpose. Some were lost, broken, victims of war or circumstance.

The League gave them a home, a purpose—to make the world a better place, even if it must be done from the shadows."

Jason let out a low hum, skeptical but not entirely dismissive. "And the kid? He doesn't get a say in any of this?"

Talia's tone turned firm, though not unkind. "Damian understands his duty. He is destined for greatness."

Jason's focus returned to the boy, who had now disarmed his second opponent and was sparring barehanded against a third. "He's got talent," Jason admitted.

"Would you like to try?" Talia asked, a smirk tugging at her lips.

Jason blinked, caught off guard. "You mean fighting? Against them?" He nodded toward the courtyard.

"Why not?" Talia pressed. "You might surprise yourself."

Jason let out a dry laugh. "I doubt it. Unless you'd get some kink from watching zombie-boy here get his ass handed to him." He replied, referring to himself in third person.

Talia laughed lightly at his self-deprecation. "I haven't laughed this much in a long time. At least you haven't lost your sense of humor along with your memories."

Jason's expression turned neutral, her words sparking questions he wasn't sure he wanted to ask. "You knew me before all this?"

"Our paths crossed," Talia said casually. "But we weren't friends."

Before Jason could press further, the sparring match ended. Damian stood victorious, his expression calm despite his obvious effort.

"Be here at dawn," Talia said, turning to leave. "We'll begin your lessons."

Jason watched her retreating figure, her words echoing in his mind. He glanced back at Damian, who was now sheathing his blade with practiced ease.

"Lessons, huh," Jason muttered. "Guess I'd

better not disappoint."

****

The crisp morning air greeted Jason as he stepped into the courtyard, dressed in the dark training attire that Talia had sent over.

The fabric was light yet durable, a stark contrast to the rough, utilitarian outfits he felt more at home in. His boots made a dull thud against the stone ground as he walked, his eyes scanning the gathered group.

The training grounds of the League of Assassins were as unforgiving as their philosophy. The air was dense with the scent of sweat and sand, the ground beneath Jason's feet uneven and littered with worn patches where countless warriors had fought before him.

The sun hung low, casting long shadows that danced across the stone walls surrounding the arena.

Every face was obscured by a black mask, revealing only sharp eyes that seemed to size him up as he approached. The uniformity made them appear as a singular, cohesive unit—disciplined, focused, and utterly lethal.

Jason smirked. "Guess I missed the memo about the dress code."

A few of them exchanged glances but said nothing. The silence was unnerving, but Jason wasn't about to let it shake him.

Talia made her appearance, her presence commanding as always. She was dressed similarly but without a mask, though her air of authority set her apart. "You're on time. Good," she said, her tone neutral.

Jason shrugged. "Wouldn't want to keep the 'Assassin Academy' waiting."

Her lips twitched, almost forming a smile, but she quickly regained her composure. "This is no academy, Jason. This is survival. And today, you begin your training with weapons."

Talia led Jason to a long table in the center of the courtyard. Spread across it was an arsenal of weapons: swords, daggers, staffs, throwing stars, and more exotic tools of the trade.

"Each of these weapons requires practiced precision, discipline, and respect," Talia began, her voice steady. "You will start with the basics, the sword and dagger. From there, you will progress to more advanced weapons."

Jason raised an eyebrow. "Start with a sword? Shouldn't I be learning to crawl before I run?"

"You don't have the luxury of time," Talia replied sharply. "The League demands readiness. You'll adapt."

She motioned to one of the masked assassins, who stepped forward and handed Jason a simple, unadorned sword. It was heavier than he expected, the cold metal pressing into his palm.

"Your first task is to familiarize yourself with the weight, balance, and reach of the blade," Talia instructed. "Begin."

Jason swung the sword experimentally, feeling its weight pull at his arm. His movements were clumsy, the blade slicing through the air with no real purpose.

"You're overcompensating," Talia said, observing him. "Relax your grip. Let the blade do the work."

Jason adjusted his hold, his movements becoming slightly smoother but still lacking finesse. He could feel the eyes of the other assassins on him, their silent judgment palpable.

"This isn't exactly beginner-friendly," he muttered, wiping sweat from his brow.

"Mastery comes through struggle," Talia replied coolly. "Now, again."

After an hour of drills, Talia stepped forward. "Enough practice. It's time to test your instincts." She motioned to one of the masked assassins, who stepped forward with their own sword.

Jason squared up, gripping his weapon tightly. His opponent moved with practiced ease, their strikes swift and precise. Jason, however, was awkward and defensive, barely managing to block each attack.

The fight was short and brutal. Jason was disarmed within minutes, the tip of his opponent's blade resting against his chest.

"Again," Talia commanded, her tone firm.

Jason retrieved his sword, his jaw tightening. The second bout was no different—the assassin overwhelmed him with speed and skill.

By the third round, Jason started to find a rhythm. His movements, though still rough, began to flow more naturally. His old habits kicked in, and he started to anticipate his opponent's attacks. He dodged a strike aimed at his ribs and managed to counter with a swing of his own.

It wasn't enough to win, but it was progress.

Talia nodded approvingly. "You're beginning to adapt. That's enough for today."

Jason sheathed his sword, his arms trembling from exertion. "Great. I'll be a master swordsman by the time I'm eighty."

Talia allowed herself a small smile. "You underestimate your potential, Jason. With time and discipline, you'll surpass even your own expectations."

Jason exhaled heavily, wiping the sweat from his forehead. Despite the bruises and the fatigue, he felt a flicker of satisfaction. It wasn't worth much but he was getting better—slowly but surely. And for the first time since arriving, he felt a strange sense of purpose.

****

The morning greeted Jason with no fanfare, only the dull ache of his muscles from the previous week's training. As he pushed himself out of bed, the soreness reminded him of every failed block and strike. He muttered under his breath, "Nothing like waking up to feel like a truck hit you."

A quick, cold shower did little to ease the tension in his body, but it woke him up enough to throw on the dark training attire that had been left at his door again.

He glanced at the mirror as he tightened the straps on his boots, catching a glimpse of the faint shadow under his eyes and the white streak in his hair that refused to blend into the rest of his dark locks.

"Let's see what fresh hell they have planned for me today," he muttered, heading out of the room.

Upon arrival, he noticed courtyard was already alive with activity. The masked assassins moved with precision, their blades cutting through the air in synchronized patterns.

The sound of metal on metal rang out like a macabre symphony, the rhythm punctuated by the dull thuds of fists meeting flesh.

Jason stepped into the training ground, his boots crunching against the gravel. He didn't have to wait long before Talia appeared, her presence as commanding as ever.

"You're late," she said, though her tone lacked true reproach.

"Or maybe you're all just early," Jason shot back, cracking his neck.

She smirked faintly. "Today, you'll be sparring without weapons. Hand-to-hand combat is the foundation of your training. Master your body before you master your blade." That phrase earned her a sarcastic look from him.

Jason rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the stiffness in his joints. "Great. Because yesterday wasn't brutal enough."

Talia signaled one of the masked assassins to step forward. This one was lean but muscular, their stance radiating confidence.

The assassin moved like a shadow, their feet silent on the gravel. Jason barely had time to brace before a fist shot toward his face. He ducked instinctively, the air whooshing past his ear as he narrowly avoided the strike.

"Good reflexes," Talia commented from the sidelines.

Jason didn't have time to feel smug. The assassin's next move was a lightning-fast kick to his ribs, landing with a sickening crack. Pain exploded in Jason's side as he stumbled back, clutching his torso.

"Okay, that's how it's gonna be?" Jason growled, straightening up.

The assassin didn't respond, instead rushing forward with a flurry of blows. Jason managed to block two punches, his arms screaming in protest, but the third hit his jaw with enough force to snap his head back.

Stars danced in his vision as he staggered, spitting blood onto the ground. With a sudden taste of metal in his mouth, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a smirk tugging at his lips despite the pain. "You hit like a pissed-off gorilla."

The assassin's only reply was another attack, this time aiming low. Jason anticipated it, stepping to the side and throwing a punch of his own.

His knuckles connected with the assassin's shoulder, the impact reverberating through his arm. It wasn't a clean hit, but it was something.

The assassin recovered quickly, grabbing Jason's arm and twisting it behind his back. The pressure on his shoulder was unbearable, but Jason gritted his teeth and drove his heel into the assassin's shin. The hold loosened, and Jason broke free, spinning around to face his opponent again.

After a brief break, Talia ordered Jason to fight another assassin. This one was stockier, their movements less fluid but more powerful. Jason was already exhausted, his body screaming for rest, but he stepped into the ring without hesitation.

This time, something clicked. As the assassin charged, Jason didn't just react—he anticipated and moved at his own pace. His body moved on instinct, ducking under a wide swing and delivering a sharp elbow to his opponent's ribs. The satisfying thud of impact spurred him on.

The assassin retaliated with a punch aimed at Jason's temple, but he blocked it with his forearm, the force rattling his bones. Ignoring the pain, Jason followed up with a knee to the assassin's gut, driving the breath of air out of them.

"Better," Talia remarked from the sidelines, her voice calm but approving.

Jason didn't let up. He dodged a clumsy jab and countered with a swift uppercut, his fist connecting with the assassin's jaw. The crack of bone meeting bone echoed through the courtyard, and the assassin stumbled back, dazed.

For the first time since he'd arrived, Jason felt a hint of pride. He wasn't just surviving—he was somehow fighting back.

By the time the training session ended, Jason was covered in sweat and bruises, his knuckles raw and bleeding. He leaned against a stone pillar, trying to catch his breath as the adrenaline ebbed away.

"You're doing quite well," Talia said as she approached.

Jason snorted, wincing as he adjusted his stance. "If by improving, you mean I'm getting my ass handed to me slightly less, then sure."

Talia smirked. "Pain is a teacher, Jason. And you're a quick study."

He glanced at his bruised hands, flexing his fingers. Despite the pain, he felt stronger, and with a more focused train of thought. "So, what's next?"

Talia's smirk widened. "Tomorrow, you will try this one more time then we'll see how you fare against multiple opponents."

Jason groaned, letting his head fall back against the pillar. "Can't wait."

But beneath the sarcasm, a part of him was eager.

*****

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