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unpredictableclone · 7 years

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Hoodlum | Chapter 2: Mother and Son

Summary:

Hoodlum: a person who engages in crime and violence; a hooligan or gangster.

Jason Peter Todd was born a hoodlum. His father was a one; like father, like son. Once a Crime Alley kid, always one.

He was born to be an enemy.

Or AU where Jason climbs his way out of hell which results to his resurrection.

Vaguely inspired by this song: Mom by Kumira

Word count: 904.

Chapter 1

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If Gotham was a person, she'd be an old whore. She'd reek of cigarettes, dirty laundry, and cheap perfume.

Her makeup would be done poorly, too much eyeliner that made her eye bags and dark circles emphasized. Her red lipstick would be smeared around the edges of her lips from the cigarettes rolling on her mouth. Her foundation would crease where her wrinkles were, along with the power she'd use to set it. Her blush would be a mauve pink that set nicely on her baggy cheeks.

Her voice would be low and hoarse, raspy from her tar coated lungs.

"Listen, kid." She'd probably say to Jason. "You look like shit."

Jason would smile at her and throw his head back to laugh. He'd tell her that she did too before reaching over to give her a kiss on her cheek.

"Gracias, mamá." Jason would say to her, a bright smile on his sun-kissed face, his sea green eyes gleaming.

If Gotham was a person, she'd be Jason's mother. She'd give him tough love and treat him like shit, but if he was never toughened up, he'd never survive.

If you were born in Gotham, you were born her soldier through and through. But nonetheless, Jason loved Gotham from the bottom of his heart. Perhaps he was a soldier infected with Stockholm syndrome. But he knew, he knew he was her strongest soldier, her most beloved son.

And so, after a long five years, the boy returned.

A part of him is shocked, another part of him unsurprised. The city is still ridden with crime, the Bat has done nothing in the last five years.

Of course, the Bat was a soldier too, along with his replacement, but they've never and will not ever know what the war was like. The Golden Boy and the brat weren't born as soldiers but were recruited into the war. Yes, though they all fought on the battlefield, they weren't born in it, never lived in it like Jason had.

Jason was the starving homeless children on the streets; he was the desperate and "baby faced" street corner prostitutes; and he was the hoodlums. Jason was the true son of Gotham, her true heir.

None of them; not Batman, not Replacement, not Nightwing, and definitely not Batbrat could understand what Gotham really needed or deserved.

Gotham has reminded the same, but he hasn't.

He's grown taller, three inches at the least, and he's gained 50 pounds of muscle since he's left the city-- or since he died, if you wanted to use a more accurate term. Any trace of childhood malnourishment vanquished.

His thick Kevlar padded boots take him into a dark alley, a typical alley you can find anywhere in Gotham.

Surprisingly, at this time of night there isn't anyone out in the streets-- and even if there were, no one questions anyone in the streets of Crime Alley.

The smell of cigarettes, sex, and drugs fill the air of Crime Alley; it's the smell of Gotham herself in the flesh. It's the smell of home.

He's met with a manhole cover. He kneels down towards it and his gloved fingers grip the edges. It makes a soft beeping noise as a small red laser scans his icy green eyes. He hears a small unlocking mechanism before he lifts the manhole cover up, the metal making clanging noises. He softly puts it aside and climbs in the manhole before recovering it. Click, click! The manhole cover locks.

He climbs down a couple of steps of the ladder before thinking 'Fuck it,' and jumps to the bottom. He don't got time to fucking go down each little step of the ladder. He's here for motherfuckin' business.

He lands gracefully-- no-- he sticks the landing! His knees bend a little and he regains his standing posture before looking around the safehouse.

It's small: right away he spots the bed; the crimson walls are caged, all covered in guns and swords; and if he walks beyond the bed, he'll be in the kitchen and there'll be a small bathroom on the right. It's small, but he doesn't mind. It's less cleaning to do, easier to organize his shit.

He walks towards the emerald satin sheets of the bed and spots a red helmet, one he could cover his whole entire head with, and a small piece of paper.

He picks up the small note.

'With love, Talia.'

He let's out a small chuckle, before grappling the crimson helmet. He takes another look around the room, and his blue green orbs spot a glass case. It's set nicely across the bed.

Inside it is a grey costume with a red hood logo and a red rubber helmet. There's a golden plate placed below the costume that said, 'The Red Hood'.

Talia must've found it back at the compound where he hidden it. He didn't put it in display like this, she did.

A glass case.

A trophy.

Like a proud mother, she places the costume in a glass case for others to see and to remember.

A smirk appears on the sun-kissed man's lips. His wavy raven hair and white strands curls in above his dark eyebrows, his icy green orbs filled with mischief and a cold calculating glint.

Gotham stayed the same, but he didn't. Batman wasn't enough to change her, Jason would. After all, he was her true son.

#Jason todd #talia al ghul #gotham #the red hood #the red hood fanfic #hoodlum fic #unpredictableclone #batman fanfic

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unpredictableclone · 7 years

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Hoodlum | Chapter 1: Father and Son

Summary:

Hoodlum: a person who engages in crime and violence; a hooligan or gangster.

Jason Peter Todd was born a hoodlum. His father was a one; like father, like son. Once a Crime Alley kid, always one.

He was born to be an enemy.

Or AU where Jason climbs his way out of hell which results to his resurrection.

Mentions of sexual and child abuse.

First fanfic I’ve written for a long while.

Vaguely inspired by these songs: Daddy by Kumira and Enemy by Seungrae

Word count: 3006.

Chapter 2

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'I'm sorry,' Is all the boy thinks of. 'Thank you.'

His gloved calloused hand reaches upwards, as he falls down the black hole.

'Alice,' He vaguely recalls. 'Alice in Wonderland.'

An invisible force, invisible arms and legs wrap around his body and drag him down. He shifts his shoulders and arms as best as he can, he can hear loud cracks-- broken ribs and broken arms.

He can feel a burning heat radiating off from the bottom of the hole-- his fucking ass is about to be lit on fire. On any other given day, he'd joke about it with Bruce and even Dick, if he ever saw them again.

"Bruce!"

His throat burns. Something makes it's way up through his esophagus and up to his tongue. His taste buds relish the iron flavor. He coughs violently before letting the blood leak out and raspy voice to scream once more.

"Alfred!" He screams out.

"Dick!" He's never called for Dick before, it's his first time. And not in that way, ya nasty.

Dick never comes home, and when he does, it isn't to visit him or Bruce. It's always to visit Alfred or maybe he's there to pick up some things he had forgotten. They spoke a couple of times, with the jobs they both have, it was only natural that they would have teamed up together at least once.

The boy recalls the first time he ever worked with the young man, Dick had been neutral at the least but afterwards Dick gave him his original Robin costume and number. Told him that if Bruce becomes too much for Jason, he would always be welcome to his apartment and talk.Another time that they worked together.

He clearly remembers what Dick had called him in a fond voice, "little wing," and then proceeded to cover his eyes from seeing the indecency of the situation. What Dick didn't know was that it wasn't new to him at all, but for some reason that simple small act activate a small warmth from the boy's chest.

He doesn't know why he calls for them. He doesn't want to know why. He misses them.

Dick. Alfred. Bruce-- I'm sorry. Thank you.

But he knows that they won't come. He widens his hazel green orbs-- the invisible force suddenly lets him go and he free falls to the bottom of the scorching pit.

His screams die out as he lands on his back, loud cracks exit his spine. His breath is knocked out of him; he's broken.

But he gets up anyways, his skin blistering from the heat. His back and legs are numb and stiff.

He doesn't know where is he, he doesn't know where's he's landed-- he needs to get back, back to Batman, back to Bruce, back to his dad.

"Jason?" A soft voice calls for him.

His heart drops, Jason turns his head actively, trying to figure out where her voice originated from.

She calls for him again and he picks up his green military boots in a quickened pace, following the source of her sweet voice.

Her voice is filled with concern and uncertainty, and he wonders what his mother, Catherine, is doing in this hole. He picks up his pace.

The hole he's stuck in is very large, there are tunnels and hallways-- like an ant colony, he thinks.

He takes a right, and then a left, and then another right.

A maze, it's a maze-- Pac Man, Jason suddenly recalls.

The closer and closer he gets to the voice, the closer and closer he gets to her, he runs closer and closer to the eternal raging fire of the pit.

He's burning, his skin is set ablaze-- oh god, the warehouse. He could feel the explosion and the fire, his mother's screaming-- the smell, oh the smell-- bile runs through the bottom of his stomach and out of his mouth-- it's the smell of his burning flesh. Freshly cooked. Freshly burnt.

"Jason!" Her voice breaks him away from his memories, a cold hand set on his sweating neck.

It's cold, cold like when he held her body when he had found her-- she was dead, Catherine, was dead and now he officially on his own now. Cold, cold like his first Gotham winter by himself where he realized that what he needed to survive could only be found if he spread his mouth and legs for creepy old men and women. Cold, cold like when he stumbled upon his mother's dealer being hold gunpoint in an alley one day and simply looked the other way when the trigger was pulled. Cold, cold like he was tied up and beaten to an inch of his life, and then blown up-- murdered in cold blood.

"Mom?" He calls back to her, his gloved hands gently grabbing her frail ones.

There are tears falling from her honey colored eyes, and she puts on a sad smile.

"What are you doing here?" She asks, her voice choked up, small sobs escaping her mouth. Her hand moves and caresses his face.

He replies with a small frown.

"Mom, what are you doing here?"

She ignores his question and pulls him into her arms. It's a stupid question and he knows. The things she made him do, the things she had done to him— they are sins that cannot be forgiven.

He's a head taller than her now and she could feel how muscular he has become over the past years. She sobs even harder, her heart is swelling so fast that she can't contain it. He's grown up so much, so much better than he could have, he's so healthy and—

"You're so young," She cries. "You're too young."

What is her little boy doing in hell?

He ignores her and tightens his grip on her hands. He began to gently drag her to the entrance. He'll fight him if he has to, if it's the only way for him and his mother to get the hell out. Before then, he was too young and too small to fight back, but he'll win this time— he'll beat him this time.

"We're leaving this place, mom." His voice is lower than she remembers.

He makes the last turn when something bigger and stronger than him pulls his back cape from behind and throws him into the air. His hand disconnects from his mother's. He could never drag her down with him.

Jason's body bounces from the cave-like walls, it reminds him of the caves of home. But this isn't home, it isn't home at all.

He lands on his stomach and pushes his arms to lift his body up. He looks at the perpetrator. He hears laughter and it's different from the one he last heard. He knows this voice, this laughter.

The boy knows exactly where he is now. The someone whom he thought to be Satan himself has come to greet him.

"You... You actually thought you were pure? You actually thought you could escape that life? What a load of bullshit!" The voice laughs again. "And how unbelievable for you to end up here instead of up there!"

The boy doesn't say anything to this man.

He's not afraid. He's had worse. He's already meet Satan before. He'll be fine. He will be fine. But in these green Kevlar padded tights, in this red armored shirt, the little golden 'R' he bears suddenly feels like a curse rather than a blessing. His legs tremble, but his back straightens.

"You can't fly, you've had broken wings to begin with." The boy shuts his hazel orbs. He knows. He knows that.

"Wait a second," The voice laughs again. "A street rat could never be a bird!"

He ignores him and looks up. There has to be a way for him to escape this hole, a way for him to climb up. A way for him to return to Bruce and Alfred.

"It's hilarious to see you and your mother here, brat."

The blood in the boy's veins boil and his muscles tense. Honey and green eyes burn as he looks at the pathetic excuse of a man, a father, right in front of him.

"It's nice to know that I dragged you and your mother down with me, Robin."

He ignores the name, and steps forward when he is immediately stopped by a large hand on his chest. Only one man had the right to call him that.

The boy looks up at the man. His dark hair pushed back lazily and strays curled away from his matching thick brows. His jawline is covered by coarse black hair and his dark eyes sunken. His tan skin rotten, his smile bare and taunting. He looks exactly like him.

"I'm not surprised to see you here." The boy says, before his lips curve upwards. "It's nice to know that you're at the place I sent you to."

The boy taunts back out of spite.

"You little shit." The man laughs.

A fist comes straight for the boy's face, but he knows better. He gently moves out of its course.

"Whoa, there," The aged man laughs. "You sound and move just like the Bat!"

His eyes scan the room. Four men and three women; all of whom he knows. His mother's dealer, his father, his first john, and another john whose number he can no longer remember. His mother runs to side as his real mother stands before him, and the woman who pimped him out watches.

Seven, he counts. Seven, he counts. His seven sins.

He hears footsteps, more sinners appear. He recalls the majority of them as his past johns and criminals that he helped imprison with Batman.

He shuts his eyes as they all jump on him, some one by one and others all together. His arms and legs are pulled and twisted from all directions as the blistering sensation spreads throughout his body. He screams and screams.

A crowbar slamming into the side of his face, his ribs, his legs. Just 'whack,' and 'whack' and 'whackwhackwhack--'

'--So this is how hell feels like,' He thinks to himself as another part of him calls out to his family, calling for help.

His throat runs dry faster than he wants it to, and all he could hear is cracking-- his bones cracking-- and the only order is could smell is the burning of his flesh and the strong iron of his blood. He tastes the saltiness of his tears, his metallic blood, and the spew of his last meal mixed with his stomach acid.

They're holding down his body, they're pushing down on him, pulling him apart, kicking and punching him; he feels himself sinking further and further down hell. Both his mothers, Catherine and Sheila, are dragged and beaten down with him. He could feel them trying to over his body from the perpetrators, but he has grown too big for them to completely do so. Their cries and screams become one with his.

"Stop! Please stop!" He could hear them plead. "He's just a boy, he's just a little boy!"

If he never sold himself, perhaps he'd never be down here. If he died with his mother, either Catherine or Sheila, perhaps he'd never be down here. If he never was his father's son, perhaps he'd never be down here.

His father was a hoodlum; like father, like son. His father was sent to hell; like father, like son.

But Jason was sure that he'd never end up here. But he wasn't his father. He could never be, the blood bond was not there. Bruce was not his real father, no matter how much Jason wished for him to be. That perhaps somehow, Sheila and Bruce had some connection and got drunk one night and ended up having a one night stand. That perhaps somehow, he could have truly been saved; saved from the abuse from Willis, from the johns, from his madam, from the cold and life sucking Crime Alley, and from the Joker.

'I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Bruce. Thank you.'

The masked boy could feel his body go limp-- limp? Limp?! He wasn't a quitter-- Bruce, Bruce raised him better!

Robin, Boy Wonder, was Dick Grayson. Robin, Boy Terror, was Jason Todd.

And he'd be damned if he didn't fight back, if he didn't show them how terrible he was! That's right, he was a street rat with fake wings, pretending to be a bird, pretending to be someone he wasn't, but he was better than this. He was better than his father.

Bruce raised him better than this!

"Oh, fuck off!" He roars from the deepest and loudest voice he could get and it shakes the very walls and floors of hell.

Crack, crack, crack! Goes his bones. He gently tears off Catherine and Sheila and roars once more.

"Fuck off! Fuck off, you bastards! " He howls. His muscles are torn and feel as if they were that wet cloth that Alfred uses when he cleans his wounds for him; twisted in opposite directions. He can hear his muscles tearing apart, ripping away.

He bellows and lifts himself from the stone floor. He grabs the first person he sees, his first john. His fists connect with his pathetic pale face, his lanky figure flies a foot away from Jason. He doesn't stop for a second before throwing his fists to the next person in line; his father, the other johns, the dead criminals. The blood flowing inside of him is hot and boiling, his heart pumping like a loud drum.

He used to be afraid of them, too weak to win against them, but Bruce raised him better. Bruce taught him to be better, faster, stronger.

His body doesn't stop moving, he's flying in the air, kicking and punching. The blood in his veins are in flames, his skin blistering and bursting as he fights. These bastards, these assholes, all of them deserved to die! They deserved this hell, this punishment, and they deserved more pain. Fuck these guys! Jason doesn't stop until his gloves are drenched in red. They all go down one by one, bloodied and defeated until there's only Sheila, Catherine, and him alive and standing.

Batman never taught him to kill, but it didn't matter since they were already dead anyways. So fuck it anyways. Fuck these guys.

Something twitches in his soul, in his heart, an instinct. A single golden feather softly floats down in front of him. His tired arm reaches out to it. The second he touches it, the golden color withers into ash and fades.

He could grow wings and fly Shelia and Catherine out.

His hazel orbs look over to his mothers, a painful expression sat on their faces. Catherine opens her arms to him and Jason walks over to her. Shelia rubs his back as Catherine guides him to the wall of the cave and they both gently lift him up.

He does not have wings. He cannot carry them out of this pit. A street rat could never grow wings; it is not in their biology.

He trapped here; they are trapped here. His hand slips, but his toes that resided in his green military boots stuck on to the wall, he was getting higher and higher.

Bruce didn't raise no quitter, and so Jason keeps on climbing.

The blistering heat cools as he climbs higher and higher, his body getting sorer and sorer, and he wonders if he will even make it out to the top.

But Jason wasn't a quitter.

Tired, exhausted, and quenched; he keeps on climbing. Bruce took him rock climbing once. He had fallen down multiple times but Bruce had always been there to catch him. Bruce encouraged him to do it again, to never give up.

His thighs and biceps are giving in now, heavy and strengthless, but he has to keep on going. He's going to get out. He's going to live. He's going to live, he's going to return home, he's going back to Bruce and Alfred and Dick. The world fucked him over and he'd be damned if he didn't do the same to the world.

Entireties pass by, he's worn out. He wants to go home and sleep in his bed. He wants to snuggle himself in the red satin sheets and thick blankets that lie on his bed. He wants to dunk his heavy head on the fluffy pillows that he begged Bruce to buy for him, and he wants it to envelop around his sore neck and give him peace.

He wants for Bruce and Alfred to bid him goodnight before he heads off to bed. He wants to wake up refreshed and to head to the kitchen to help Alfred like he usually does and eat breakfast with Bruce as he reads the morning paper and blab to him about his vivid dreams that he had the night before.

He wants to get ready for school and go to class to see his AP chemistry teacher, Mrs. Hei, and listen to her lessons with her down-to-earth and laid-back personality.

He wants to go see his counselor, Mr. Bodin, who's bright, joking and understanding personality guided Jason's academic and personal decisions; his second mentor and second father, secrets told to him that he could never tell Bruce or small insecurities he could never bother Bruce with. He wants to tell him about a new book that he had found in the Wayne Manor Library and suggest it for their book club to read next.

He wants to see his school therapist, Mrs. Nadia, who's understanding and compassionate personality helps Jason who treats him like a friend and an elder sister figure.

His green tattered fingers grip onto the small curves and indents of the walls. He does not have wings but he will climb his way out of here. He will climb back home. He will return to Bruce and Alfred, and he will finally try to connect with Dick and maybe Bruce will allow him to join the Teen Titans.

He's gonna go to graduate as valedictorian from Gotham Academy and he's gonna get a full ride to Harvard. He's gonna grow up and become his own hero, like Dick had, and he's gonna return home to see Alfred and Bruce on weekends and holidays. He's gonna grow up, he's gonna grow up, he's gonna—

It doesn't matter anymore. He's dead.

Jason wakes up in the dark, gasping for air; his body bloodied and broken, confined in a small space.

Bruce was not a quitter and neither was Jason.

Like father, like son.

#Jason Todd #Bruce Wayne #alfred pennyworth #dick grayson #my son deserves better #the red hood #batman and robin #hoodlum fic #i dont know what im doing #pls give me feedback #no flames tho lol #fanfic #batman fanfiction #unpredictableclone #Willis todd #catherine todd #sheila woods

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