Jason stood in the alley, boxed in on all sides. Four of Black Mask’s hired killers circled him, moving like they’d already written his obituary. Neon light flickered across their armor, each plate humming like they’d walked straight out of some cheap sci-fi flick.

He shifted his stance, crowbar loose in his grip, helmet flicking from one faceplate to the next.

The woman made the first move. Blades lit up in her hands, glowing like twin lightsabers. She slashed across his torso, fast and clean. Jason stepped back, but before his boots even hit steady ground, the staff-guy was already rushing from behind.

The staff hissed, both ends igniting into glowing blades. Jason cocked his head and muttered, “Great.”

He turned just in time to see the woman leap again, blades crossed into an X, aiming to carve him in two. Too close to dodge clean. He flipped back, but the staff came stabbing up mid-air to skewer him.

For a second, they thought they had him. Weeks of chasing the Red Hood, and this was how it ended. But Jason wasn’t prey.

He twisted in the air, crowbar out, metal crashing against the staff with a sharp crack. Sparks scattered, and the moment his boots hit pavement, he drove a steel-toed kick into the guy’s chest. The assassin flew backward and hit the wall so hard the concrete cratered.

No time to breathe. The brute stormed in, all muscle and armor, throwing a punch that could liquefy organs. Jason darted sideways, shoved off the wall with his forearm plate, and launched himself high into the air. Both pistols cleared their holsters before gravity could catch him.

Muzzle flashes lit up the alley as he rained bullets down. Sparks bounced off the brute’s armor like fireworks. Not even a dent.

Jason clicked his tongue. “Now that’s just fucking annoying.”

He’d tested the armor. It was solid. Too solid. Which meant close combat was the only answer, and he wasn’t exactly thrilled about that.

Then a glow caught his side eye. The fourth one, lean and quiet, lens glowing bright in the middle of his forehead. Jason’s gut twisted.

“Fuck.” He muttered, as gravity did it’s job to pull him down.

The blast tore through the air. Jason ripped his sword free, the League-forged metal gleaming as it caught the shot. He angled it just right, deflecting the beam into the brute’s shoulder. The big guy grunted, sparks flying, but he didn’t go down.

The hit rattled Jason’s arm, shoved him off balance. He snapped a grapple, line whipping out, and dragged himself back down hard onto the pavement. Boots slid across wet asphalt as he steadied.

But the circle was back on him. The instant he landed, another laser fired. He rolled, cutting sharp toward the staff and blade-users. He knew the cyclops bastard wouldn’t risk hitting his own team.

Brute and laser-boy hung back. The other two pressed in, weapons carving arcs through the dark.

Jason chuckled under his helmet. “You four look less like assassins and more like a busted-up Ninja Turtle squad.” He raised his crowbar in one hand, sword in the other.

And he wasn’t wrong. Twin blades. Tech staff. Laser head. Tank in armor. All moving in sync, like a freak-show unit.

They didn’t laugh. They attacked.

Staff lashed from the left, twin blades hacked from the right. Jason crossed his weapons, sparks flying as steel smashed against energy. His arms shook, boots digging cracks into the pavement.

He shoved hard, knocking the staff wide, and slammed his crowbar into the guy’s ribs. The hit landed solid, a dull crunch under the armor.

The woman cut in fast, relentless. Her blades became a blur, carving at him over and over, ringing against steel. Jason blocked what he could, every clang vibrating through his arms. She grinned under her mask, sure she had him.

“You’ve put on a decent show,” she said between strikes. “But this is the end. Stop struggling and accept that the odds are far beyond you.”

Jason laughed through his teeth. “Yeah… nah. Odds are kind of my thing.”

That’s when the glow hit his vision again—the cyclops charging from behind. Jason saw it too late. Blades in front. Laser at his back. No room to breathe.

He dropped sideways, fast and low. The woman’s blade still nicked him, carving across his shoulder. Hot blood spread under the armor, but he ignored it.

She lifted both blades for the finisher, confident he was hers. Jason didn’t wait. He crowded in close, grabbed her wrist, and smashed his elbow into her forehead. Bone cracked under the hit. 

Jason yanked her down by the ponytail and drove his helmet into her skull. The crunch was sickening. She went slack in his grip.

He didn’t even blink. He spun, hurled her body like dead weight straight into the cyclops charging in. They smashed together into a tangled heap on the ground. The glowing lens sputtered out, flickering weak.

The circle was broken as Jason straightened, sword and crowbar dripping with the blood which trickled down his shoulder. If not for his helmet, his slow but heavy breath would have fogged the cold night air.

And he wasn’t even close to finished.

– – –

[Jason Todd’s POV]

The hulking bastard stood across from me with a goddamn van raised over his head like it was nothing more than a mini fridge. His teeth bared, his voice carrying that smug confidence only idiots had when they thought size alone made them untouchable.

“You might be one tough bastard,” he growled, muscles bulging as steel groaned in his grip, “but you can’t possibly win against us.”

And then he threw the van.

The air screamed as a couple tons of metal came flying my way. My body moved before my brain caught up—I hit the ground in a dive, shoulder rolling hard across cracked concrete, sparks flying as the van smashed behind me. The explosion of impact rattled the street. Shattered glass and twisted metal rained down like hell’s confetti.

I came up on one knee, gun-hand twitching instinctively before I stopped myself. No—ammo wouldn’t matter against this slab of iron and meat. And sure enough, the brute was already charging me, a rhino in heat, his footsteps shaking the pavement.

“Jesus Christ…” I muttered, pulling from my belt. My fingers found the smooth surface of magnetic explosive disks. Cute little toys—Bruce taught me the craftsmanship, but I’d made them my own. I hurled three fast, each sticking with a metallic clack against his armored chest and shoulders.

The charges blew with a crack of light and thunder. Smoke ripped upward, swallowing him in a black shroud.

For a moment, I thought maybe that was enough. That maybe for once, something would go my way in this fight.

Then he stumbled out, smoking but still standing. Barely even scorched.

“Of course,” I hissed, because why the hell would anything ever be easy.

I didn’t back down. I never back down. I sprinted forward instead, boots slamming the ground, body screaming with adrenaline. I leapt high, fist cocked, and drove it into his faceplate. The force sent him staggering, his head jerking to the side with a metallic crack.

Didn’t drop him. But it rocked him.

And that was all I needed.

I kept moving, fists flying. Blow after blow after blow, fast and vicious. He swung back, wide arcs that could have taken my head clean off if I let even one connect. But I slipped them, weaving between his arms, my strikes drilling against his jawline, throat, visor.

Behind him, I caught sight of the other three—reforming their circle. The “Fearsome Hand of Four.” Cute name. Organized assassins, trained killers. I’d fought armies nastier than them, but still, the numbers game wasn’t in my favor. They were lining up to close in, and if they boxed me in… well, I wouldn’t walk away.

The brute roared, his arm swinging like a wrecking ball. I ducked low, my hand snapping to my back, and this time I didn’t hold back as my sword cleared its sheath with a hiss.

One clean motion.

I rose with it. Steel flashed, bright and merciless, cutting through reinforced armor like it wasn’t even there.

The blade sang, and his head separated clean from his body.

Blood gushed hot and heavy, spraying across my helmet’s faceplate in a fine crimson mist. The headless corpse dropped to its knees with a hollow thud, collapsing forward, limbs twitching. The sound echoed too loud in the ruined alley.

From the rooftops, I could feel eyes on me. 

Batman. I didn’t need to see him to know he was there. Watching. Probably judging.

‘What has Ra’s turned you into?’ I could practically hear it in his head. I didn’t give a shit.

The other three froze for a heartbeat. I saw it in their eyes—even through the masks, they hadn’t expected that. Four-on-one, armored, trained, with every advantage stacked on their side. And I’d just butchered one of them like it was nothing. I had to even the odds in my favour, maybe not even but at least give myself a bit more edge.

“You bastard,” one of them spat. Their voices wavered. “Now you’ve done it.”

Good. I wanted them angry. Anger made people sloppy.

They broke formation. Stupid move. Instead of coordinated strikes, they each lunged, desperate to be the one to put me down.

I slid my sword back into its sheath. They didn’t deserve the blade. Not yet. I pulled my combat knife free, grip tight, the steel glinting under dim streetlights. In my other hand, I raised my crowbar—my favorite kind of poetry.

If I relied on the sword every fight, it’d own me. It’d whisper that I needed it. That was the kind of thinking that turned assassins into monsters. I wouldn’t let myself become another Deathstroke. The knife and crowbar—that was enough.

The first to move was the woman with the twin blades. She crouched low, feline, her muscles coiled before she sprang. Her swords gleamed as she came in slashing for my throat.

I met her mid-air, crowbar clanging against her first strike. Sparks flew. My knife snapped upward in a precise jab, aiming for her face.

She twisted, head snapping to the side just in time. The blade skimmed her cheek instead of splitting her skull. Too close. Too damn close.

Her counter-swing came instantly, her second sword cutting toward my ribs. I wrenched my body sideways, free hand snapping back. The hilt of my knife cracked against her temple.

The blow wasn’t clean enough to put her down, but it rattled her. She staggered, eyes blurring, footing lost.

And that’s when I felt the other one at my back.

The staff-wielder. Silent, precise, like a true assassin. His weapon was a blur of steel with blades at both ends. He swung low, aiming for the tendons behind my knees. One slice there, and I’d be crippled.

I didn’t think, I felt it. Legs bent, body shooting upward in a tight leap, the blades cutting air beneath my boots.

I twisted mid-air and saw him, already spinning his staff, rotating it so fast it became a deadly cyclone. The ends glowed, some kind of charge building with each motion. The blur looked like a model of an atom, blades orbiting around him, deadly as any nuclear core as he swung it in all directions—diagonally, vertically, and horizontally.

“Cute trick,” I muttered.

He advanced, storm of blades ready to chew me apart. I hopped back, gaining space—but froze when I saw the glow behind me.

Cyclops. The bastard with the single glowing eye, charging his laser for a kill shot.

If I dodged back too far, I’d be fried. If I stayed in front, the staff would slice me open.

Cornered. So I did the only thing I could.

I stepped forward, knife snapping up. The blade met the spinning storm dead-on. For a split second, the clash screamed as my blade hindered his staff, steel against steel, sparks flying wild. His staff’s momentum died, my blade biting deep enough to stall him.

His eye widened in disbelief. Nobody was supposed to be fast enough to stop that.

“Surprise,” I growled.

Before he could react, my knee shot upward, slamming into his knee joint. I aimed to shatter it—but the bastard’s armor was tougher than I thought. The impact lifted me off the ground instead of breaking him.

Bad trade.

The second my boots touched down, his staff lunged. He turned it into a spear, stabbing forward, double-ended and merciless.

I spun. Sidestep left—barely dodged the first. Pivot, duck low—the second stabbed through where my chest had been a half second ago.

He snarled, frustration bleeding through. His staff swept low this time, aiming to cut my legs right out from under me.

Not happening.

I jumped high, body curling mid-air, then snapped out. My leg whipped in a roundhouse kick, boot slamming into the side of his skull.

CRACK.

The hit lifted him off his feet, sent him flying backward as his body smashed through a concrete wall with a boom of dust and stone.

My boots hit ground hard. And that’s when I realized the worst part—kicking him out of the way left me exposed.

Cyclops was standing steady now, laser eye fully charged, glowing white-hot like the center of a sun.

“Fuck.”

The word left my mouth as the beam ripped free.

– – –

A/N:—

It felt good writing Jason’s humor again in the midst of combat. Humor, in general, is often a way for people to shield themselves from the weight of their own struggles—a momentary escape. 

But with Jason, it’s different. His humor carries a darker edge, a reflection of everything he’s endured. It isn’t meant to ease the pain so much as expose it, turning his wit into something unsettling, and uniquely his. That’s what makes his humor an inseparable part of Red Hood’s persona.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep