DC: The Man And The Hood

A/N: I apologize for last week's inconsistencies, a couple of uncontrollable factors came into play.

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[Barbara Gordon's POV]

It's been barely a month since we lost Jason, and every member of the Bat-Family is coping with the loss in their own way. Some are more open about it, while others try to bury it deep, but the weight is unmistakable.

Jason's absence isn't something you can ignore, it lingers in every corner, in many unspoken word.

Alfred, as always, is the glue holding us together. He's been trying to console everyone with his calm, all-knowing words of encouragement, often starting random conversations just to distract us whenever he catches us staring off into space, probably thinking about Jason.

I know he's hurting too. How could he not? Although rebellious, Jason was like a grandson to him. But Alfred being Alfred, he puts on a brave face for our sake.

He refuses to let us all fall apart at once. Someone has to keep the pieces together, and it's no surprise that it's him. Still, I catch glimpses of it sometimes—the quiet moments when Alfred pauses mid-task, his gaze distant. I know he's thinking about Jason, just like the rest of us.

I've been visiting Wayne Manor more often lately. It's a strange comfort being here, even though the air feels heavier than usual. It's not like I can do much else—going out on patrol or punching my frustrations out isn't an option for me anymore. Not since the Joker took my legs, my freedom, and my identity.

That clown. He's already stolen so much from us. My dreams, my future as Batgirl, and now Jason's life. He keeps taking and taking, leaving nothing but pain in his wake.

Dick's been dealing with it the way he knows best, by throwing himself into the fight. He's been hitting the streets hard, putting every ounce of his grief into beating the crap out of Bludhaven's criminals.

I've caught him a few times scrolling through old pictures of Jason, the ones where Jason would surprise him with selfies while they were out in costume.

The candid ones where Dick is mid-sentence or caught off-guard, looking annoyed but secretly amused. Jason had that way about him, bringing a little chaos and laughter wherever he went.

I know Dick misses those moments, more than he'll admit. But he's Dick. He's always been resilient, the kind of person who finds his way through the storm. He'll be fine… eventually. Once he's finished grieving in his own way.

Then there's Bruce. Let's just say you don't want to be on the wrong side of Batman right now. Over the past few weeks, criminals who cross his path don't just end up in jail—they end up in the hospital first.

And not just with minor injuries, either. I'm talking broken ribs, shattered kneecaps, the works. No life insurance is going to cover that, and once they're patched up, it's straight to Blackgate or Arkham.

I think, deep down, Bruce blames himself for Jason's death. He's been pulling back from letting Dick take on the more dangerous jobs whenever he offers to lend a hand, assigning him to boring stakeouts and routine patrols while Bruce goes after the heavy hitters alone.

It's like he's trying to shield Dick from danger, but it's obvious what he's really doing. He's terrified of losing another son. The guilt is eating him alive, even though none of us blame him for what happened. But Bruce? He'll carry that weight forever.

I just wish he'd stop punishing himself. Jason wouldn't want that. None of us do.

And then there's me. Sometimes I feel so helpless. My days as Batgirl are over, thanks to the Joker, but that doesn't stop the itch to do something—anything—to help. Watching Gotham from the sidelines is torture.

I want to be out there with them, fighting back, making a difference. But all I can do is sit here in this chair, watching the people I care about crumble under the weight of their grief, unable to do anything to ease it.

Jason's death left a hole in all of us. He was more than just a teammate or a member of the family. He was this fiery, stubborn, reckless kid who had a way of leaving an impression on everyone he met. And now he's gone. And we're all just… trying to figure out how to move forward without him.

If that's even possible.

****

The next morning, Jason's body protested every movement as he trudged toward the training grounds. Every muscle felt like it had been put through a blender, but he clenched his jaw and pushed through the pain.

The League wasn't a place for weakness, and he had no intention of giving Ra's or anyone else the satisfaction of seeing him falter.

This time, the arena was lined with racks of weapons—blades of every size and shape, bows strung taut with expertly crafted arrows, staves, and chains glinting menacingly in the sunlight. Ra's stood at the far end, observing Jason with that ever-present air of calculated detachment.

"Today, you will begin your training in weapon mastery," Ra's announced. His voice carried authority, sharp as a blade. "A true warrior is not defined solely by his fists. The League has honed its techniques over centuries, each weapon an extension of the body and mind. You will start with the basics."

Jason glanced at the array of weapons. His gaze lingered on the swords, their polished edges gleaming like invitations to carnage. He reached out, his hand hovering over the hilt of a katana.

"Not that one," a young voice piped up behind him, sharp and dismissive.

Jason turned to see a small boy—barely five years old—standing with his arms crossed. His dark hair framed an unnervingly confident face, emerald eyes brimming with arrogance.

The boy was clad in the same training attire as the other assassins, though it seemed almost comical given his diminutive size.

"And why not?" Jason asked, arching a brow.

The boy smirked, stepping forward with the swagger of someone who thought they owned the world. "Because you'll just embarrass yourself. That blade is too advanced for someone as... unrefined as you."

Jason chuckled, his grip tightening on the katana. "Unrefined? Big words for someone who probably needs a stool to reach the weapon rack."

The boy's eyes narrowed, his smirk deepening. "I don't need a stool, toddler. I've been training with these weapons since before you were dragged out of the gutter."

"Dragged out of the gutter? You're bold for a kid who probably still needs a bedtime story," Jason shot back, though his tone remained light, refusing to let the boy's arrogance get to him.

Ra's interrupted the exchange with a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Jason, meet Damian. My grandson and the heir to the League of Assassins."

Jason blinked, momentarily thrown. "Your grandson?" He looked Damian up and down, taking in the boy's confident stance and piercing gaze.

"Well, that explains the attitude." His mind then flashed back to the night Talia introduced her kid, the one he saw training at the courtyard about a week ago.

"Unlike you, I don't need explanations," Damian said, brushing past Jason and walking toward the centre of the arena.

"Perhaps you should focus less on talking and more on not embarrassing yourself in front of Grandfather." He added.

Jason raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Instead, his attention shifted to the two assassins who entered the arena, both fully armed. They surrounded Damian, their movements calculated and precise.

Jason crossed his arms, intrigued. "What's this, babysitting duty?"

Ra's glanced at him. "Hardly. Watch closely, Jason. You may learn something."

Jason watched as Damian sprang into action. The boy moved with an efficiency that belied his age, darting between the two assassins with a blade in each hand.

His strikes were sharp and precise, his small frame making him a difficult target. One assassin swung a staff toward him, but Damian ducked effortlessly, countering with a quick slash that disarmed his opponent.

The second assassin came at him with a flurry of strikes, but Damian deflected each one with almost casual ease. Within moments, both assassins were disarmed and on their knees, Damian standing over them with a triumphant smirk.

Jason let out a low whistle. "Alright, I'll give you this—kid's got moves."

Damian wiped the blades clean and sheathed them before turning to Jason. "Of course I do. I'm Damian al Ghul. And you, whoever you are, will never match me."

Jason smirked, stepping closer. "Maybe. Or maybe one day, you'll look back and realize this 'unrefined' guy you're talking to is the one who kicked your ass."

Damian's eyes narrowed, but before he could respond, Ra's clapped his hands, signalling the end of the session.

"Jason," Ra's said, motioning to the weapon rack. "Choose your weapon. Let's see if you have the discipline to wield it."

Jason grabbed a staff, its weight feeling unfamiliar but manageable in his hands. As he walked toward the centre of the arena, he glanced back at Damian. "Hey, kid," he called. "Stick around. You might learn something from me."

Damian scoffed, turning on his heel. "Highly doubtful."

Jason chuckled, shaking his head. "Cute kid," he muttered, stepping into the arena and preparing for the gruelling training ahead.

Jason stepped into the arena, gripping the staff tightly in his hands. The weight felt unnatural, but not unwieldy.

Across from him stood one of the League's seasoned instructors, a towering man with a scar running down his left cheek. The instructor twirled his own staff with ease, the movement smooth and intimidating.

"Begin," Ra's commanded, his voice sharp and unyielding.

The instructor struck first, closing the distance in an instant. His staff came down in a brutal arc aimed at Jason's shoulder.

Jason barely raised his weapon in time to block, the force of the blow reverberating up his arms and nearly knocking the staff from his grip.

"Hold your ground, Jason," Ra's called out, his tone calm but expectant.

Jason gritted his teeth and shifted his stance, planting his feet more firmly in the sand. The instructor didn't give him a moment to recover, following up with a series of quick jabs aimed at his ribs and legs.

Jason dodged the first two strikes but miscalculated the third. The staff struck his shin with a sickening crack, and he stumbled, hissing in pain.

"You're overthinking," Ra's observed, his voice cutting through Jason's haze of pain. "Stop trying to predict his moves. React."

Jason growled under his breath, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. His knuckles whitened as he tightened his grip on the staff.

The instructor came at him again, but this time Jason stepped into the attack, deflecting the blow and countering with a wide swing aimed at the man's midsection.

The instructor blocked it easily, but Jason noticed something—a flicker of acknowledgment in the man's eyes. For the first time, Jason wasn't feeling completely outmatched.

The fight continued, the instructor pushing Jason harder with each exchange. The strikes came faster, more brutal, testing Jason's endurance and resolve. Each blow he blocked sent shockwaves through his arms, but each time, he recovered a little quicker.

As the fight wore on, something shifted. Jason stopped trying to match the instructor's technique and instead leaned more into his instincts.

When the instructor swung low, Jason leapt back with a fluidity that surprised even himself. When the instructor aimed for his head, Jason ducked and jabbed his staff upward, catching the man in the ribs.

The strike wasn't strong enough to do any real damage, but it was enough to create an opening. Jason surged forward, his staff a blur as he unleashed a flurry of strikes.

The instructor blocked most of them, but Jason's aggression forced him to take a step back—a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

"You see?" Ra's said from the sidelines, his voice laced with approval. "When you stop hesitating, you begin to see the rhythm of the fight."

Jason didn't reply. He was too focused on the instructor, whose expression had shifted from calm indifference to guarded respect.

The man came at him again, faster this time, his movements a blur. Jason's instincts screamed at him, and he reacted without thinking, sidestepping the attack and spinning his staff in a wide arc.

The strike connected with the instructor's shoulder, and the man grunted, stumbling slightly. Jason pressed his advantage, following up with a quick jab that caught the instructor in the stomach.

.....

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