Gotham was a city built on the backs of its heroes and its criminals, and Batman had spent years trying to balance both. Yet, as the pieces of this new war began to shift, he realized something far more complex was taking shape—something he hadn't fully anticipated. And for the first time in a long while, he couldn't be everywhere at once.
In the darkened Batcave, Batman stood hunched over a desk, the eerie glow of the computer monitors reflecting off his mask. The files in front of him were thick—reports of strange alliances, increasing gang activity, and whispers of a new force in Gotham's underbelly. Kian Mathis.
At first, Batman had written him off as just another player in the vast criminal network of Gotham. But the more he dug, the more it became clear that Kian wasn't just another criminal mastermind. The man was ruthless, calculating, and methodical in his approach, and worse yet, he was gathering dangerous individuals to his cause. It wasn't just Gotham he was after; it was power on a much larger scale.
Deathstroke, Deadshot, and now whispers of the Red Hood. Batman couldn't allow such a force to gain momentum, especially not when it threatened to disrupt the fragile balance he had fought so hard to maintain. But he couldn't go after them all—not right away, not with the resources he currently had. He had his hands full with Kian and the chaos he was orchestrating.
He turned away from the desk and walked over to the Batmobile, resting his hand on its sleek frame as his mind raced through possibilities. The Justice League had its own priorities, their own global-scale threats to contend with. Superman was dealing with an emerging alien threat, and Wonder Woman had been caught up in a diplomatic mission to Themyscira. Even the Flash had been off-world, investigating anomalies that could impact the very fabric of time. Batman couldn't rely on them—he had to handle this himself.
But the truth gnawed at him: He couldn't do it alone. There were too many moving pieces, too many enemies aligning themselves against him. It was time to think differently.
In a low, gravelly voice, Batman spoke to the empty cave, as if it could hear him. "I need a team."
He paused, considering the words for a moment. A team. He had always preferred working alone, but this was a different threat—one that needed a different approach. The Bat Family had been invaluable in the past, but there were gaps in their abilities, and the time for individual heroics was past. He needed more.
The idea came to him slowly, like a puzzle piece falling into place. Young Justice. A team of emerging heroes, ready to handle the smaller threats while he focused on the larger ones. He had watched them from the shadows, seeing their potential but always too distracted by his own battles to take action.
But now, the time had come to form them into something more.
He pulled up a secure list of potential candidates, scanning through the names. Kid Flash, Aqualad, Artemis. And of course, Robin—the one who had been trained to fight beside him, the one he had let slip away. There were others, too—those with untapped potential, those who could rise above the chaos if given the right guidance. He could make it work.
As Batman prepared to make his first move, a low beeping interrupted his thoughts. He turned to the computer, where a new alert was flashing. It was from Alfred.
"Master Bruce, you may want to take a look at this," Alfred's voice crackled through the intercom.
Batman nodded, walking over to the screen. A new report had just come in. It was about Kian Mathis and the growing threat he posed. The files detailed more of his mercenary connections, his ability to manipulate Gotham's underground, and most concerning, his growing alliance with some of the deadliest individuals in the world.
"This is bad," Batman muttered, his eyes scanning the data. Kian wasn't just gathering power; he was systematically breaking down the structures of Gotham's defenses, using fear and control to bend people to his will. His reach was growing, and Batman could already see the pattern forming. Soon, it wouldn't just be Gotham. Kian had designs on the entire city—and potentially more.
Alfred's voice interrupted his thoughts again. "Master Bruce, if I may, perhaps this is a matter where the formation of a larger, coordinated effort would be in order. A group of individuals capable of addressing threats on a more tactical level, freeing you to deal with the more immediate dangers."
Batman straightened, considering Alfred's words carefully. He hadn't wanted to go down this path, not yet. But Alfred was right. He couldn't keep stretching himself too thin. His strength was in his strategy, his ability to see the patterns others couldn't, but even he had limits. A team wasn't just a luxury—it was a necessity.
He turned back to the computer, beginning to pull up files on the young heroes of Gotham and beyond. They weren't perfect, not yet, but they had the potential to be something more—if he could guide them, train them, teach them what it meant to fight for justice.
Meanwhile, Kian Mathis was deep in thought of his own. In the dimly lit war room beneath Gotham, he paced back and forth, his mind racing. His mercenaries had made significant progress over the past few weeks. He had solidified his control over several key territories, and Deathstroke and Deadshot were proving invaluable. The Red Hood, however, was still on the fence, hesitant to join forces.
But Kian was patient. He knew that Jason Todd wasn't like the others—he was a loose cannon, driven by rage and vengeance. But those emotions, those instincts, could be harnessed. Kian was a master at exploiting people's weaknesses, and he would use Jason's pain to his advantage.
He stopped pacing and turned to his wall of monitors, each screen flashing different reports and updates. His influence was spreading, but so was the attention he was garnering. Batman was investigating him. He could feel the pressure building, the noose tightening, but he wasn't worried. He had control over his people, and soon, he would have more.
Kian glanced at the encrypted message he had just received. His eyes narrowed as he read it, the corner of his mouth quirking upward.
It was a message from one of his operatives—an underground arms dealer who had been making moves in the black market. They had found something… something very dangerous.
Kryptonite.
Kian had heard rumors of the alien substance, the one weakness of Superman. It was an invaluable resource, one that could turn the tide in any battle with the Man of Steel. He knew he couldn't afford to ignore this opportunity. If he could control the kryptonite, it would give him an edge—one he could use not just against Superman, but against anyone who stood in his way.
He moved quickly, dispatching a team to secure the substance and begin analyzing its potential uses. He had to be cautious, though. Kryptonite wasn't something to be handled lightly. It had a price, and Kian wasn't sure he was ready to pay it.
Back in the Batcave, Batman stared at the monitors, a feeling of unease settling in his gut. He knew Kian was growing stronger, building an army of dangerous people. The Bat Family could handle some of the smaller threats, but if Kian was truly working with the Red Hood, the stakes had just gotten much higher.
He had no choice now. He had to build a team—a team capable of handling the emerging threats without getting caught in the crossfire of Kian's machinations.
Batman walked over to the communicator and keyed in a secure signal. The familiar voice of Alfred crackled over the line.
"I'm sending out feelers, Alfred. The young ones. It's time to see if they're ready."
Alfred's voice was tinged with a hint of approval. "Very good, Master Bruce. I trust you'll make the necessary arrangements."
Batman paused for a moment, his gaze fixed on the cityscape outside the cave. "This will be a different kind of war," he said softly. "But it's one I can't fight alone."
The rain had been falling steadily for hours, a heavy mist clinging to the rooftops of Gotham City. Nightwing, clad in his blue and black suit, moved silently across the slick surfaces of the buildings. His mind was sharp, every sense heightened as the city's pulse echoed in his bones. He had been tracking a low-level arms deal in the heart of Gotham's industrial district—a deal that seemed too clean, too organized for the usual Gotham thugs.
As he moved through the shadows, he noticed something unusual. The air had changed, the streetlights flickering slightly. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He wasn't alone.
Nightwing paused, crouched atop a rooftop, his eyes scanning the scene below. Down in the alley, a figure emerged from the shadows, clad in a red helmet and armor. Nightwing's breath caught in his throat—he knew that silhouette, that stance. It was the Red Hood.
What the hell was he doing here?
Nightwing's first instinct was to leap down, confront the vigilante, and demand answers, but there was something off about the situation. Red Hood wasn't here for the arms deal—it seemed like he was waiting for something. Nightwing studied the figure carefully, his mind racing. Red Hood had been a ghost for a while now, appearing in Gotham's underground but never quite tipping his hand. Everyone knew his name, but no one knew the man beneath the mask. No one knew if he was a friend or foe.
But Nightwing knew this: He wasn't going to let Red Hood run rampant through Gotham without understanding what his motives were.
With a silent leap, Nightwing descended, his feet landing quietly on the wet pavement. He moved fast, a blur of motion, closing the gap between them with expert agility. He was almost upon him when Red Hood's voice broke the silence, a gravelly, cold tone that sent a chill through Nightwing's spine.
"You're a little late, aren't you?" Red Hood sneered, his gloved hand slowly resting on the handle of a pistol at his side. "Didn't think Batman would send his little bird after me."
Nightwing didn't flinch. He stood tall, eyes narrowed. "What are you doing here, Todd?" He had to be careful with his words, never giving away too much. There was still a chance that Jason Todd—the original Robin—was behind that helmet. But he wasn't going to confirm anything yet. Not without more answers.
Red Hood laughed, a harsh sound that echoed down the alley. "So you know me, huh? Not that it matters. I'm not here to fight you."
Nightwing's gaze flickered toward the arms deal taking place across the alley. "Then why are you here?"
The Red Hood tilted his head, studying Nightwing with a piercing gaze that made the younger hero tense. "I've got my own plans for Gotham. And you're in the way."
Without warning, Red Hood's arm moved, and a blinding flash of light erupted from the barrel of his gun. Nightwing reacted instantly, flipping backward into a roll to avoid the shot. His heart raced as he narrowly avoided the attack, landing in a crouch with his escrima sticks drawn. The situation had escalated in an instant. There was no negotiating now.
"You're making a mistake," Nightwing growled, his voice low as he squared up, ready for whatever came next.
Red Hood didn't answer, his own stance shifting into a more aggressive position. The two circled one another, sizing each other up. Nightwing's mind raced. There was no doubt in his mind now—this was Jason. He could see the way Red Hood moved, the fluidity and precision that came from years of training. It was almost impossible not to recognize the traces of the Robin he used to fight alongside.
But Jason was supposed to be dead.
No. Nightwing couldn't think like that. He needed answers. He needed to stop Jason from going down this path.
Suddenly, Red Hood lunged forward, firing his gun once more, the sound of the shot deafening in the narrow alley. Nightwing ducked, just barely managing to avoid the bullet that shattered the concrete wall next to him. The Red Hood pressed his advantage, drawing a sharp, serrated blade from his belt and slashing at Nightwing with brutal efficiency.
Nightwing barely managed to dodge, but the tip of the blade grazed his side, tearing through the fabric of his suit and drawing a thin line of blood. He gritted his teeth, determined not to let the injury slow him down. He raised his escrima sticks, spinning them expertly in a defensive stance as Red Hood continued to attack.
The fight was fast, brutal, and efficient—both combatants moved with the precision of seasoned warriors. The alley became a blur of motion as Nightwing parried and blocked Red Hood's strikes, retaliating with his own powerful blows. Each strike from Red Hood was fueled by something deeper—rage, pain, and the twisted need for justice. But Nightwing knew it wasn't the real Jason beneath that mask. Jason was dead, lost, and this… this was something else entirely.
Nightwing's heart raced, the adrenaline pumping through his veins, but he couldn't let himself get lost in the fight. He had to know who Red Hood really was—he had to know if Jason had truly come back from the dead or if someone else was wearing that mask.
"Jason!" Nightwing shouted in desperation as he blocked another blow. "This isn't you!"
Red Hood's helmeted face didn't change. He pressed harder, swinging the blade with even more ferocity. "You don't know me anymore, Dick. I'm not the boy you used to know."
That sentence hit Nightwing like a sledgehammer. The words dug into his chest, a painful reminder of what had been lost—the brother who had been torn away from him in a way that no one could ever understand. He had always blamed himself for what happened to Jason. But to hear that bitterness in Jason's voice, to hear how far he had fallen—it shattered something deep within Nightwing.
His moment of hesitation was just enough for Red Hood to strike. The blade caught him across the ribs again, this time slicing deeper, and Nightwing staggered back, his body responding slower than usual. Blood seeped from the wound, but he refused to retreat. He couldn't afford to. He couldn't let Jason walk away again. Not like this.
But Red Hood was relentless. He advanced again, the blade raised, ready to strike. Nightwing was out of options—he had no choice but to use his surroundings. He vaulted backwards, flipping onto a nearby fire escape and scaling it quickly, but Red Hood was right behind him. The two of them ascended the steel structure with blinding speed, their figures flickering in and out of view in the dim light.
Nightwing reached the rooftop just ahead, spinning around to face his opponent. He was breathing heavily now, each move feeling heavier than the last. He had to end this fight—he couldn't keep up this pace for long.
"You're not Jason!" Nightwing shouted, his voice tinged with both anger and desperation. "You've gotta stop this!"
Red Hood's head tilted slightly, and for just a moment, there was a flash of recognition in his posture—something familiar, something like hesitation. But it was gone as quickly as it came.
"Don't you get it?" Red Hood growled, his voice cold. "I'm done playing the hero. I'm done following rules that don't mean anything. Gotham needs someone who's willing to do what's necessary."
Nightwing shook his head, his heart aching at the words. He didn't want to believe it, but it was clear now. Jason was lost. And there was no saving him.
Red Hood surged forward, but Nightwing was ready this time. He dropped low, using his escrima sticks to knock Red Hood's legs out from under him. The Red Hood went down hard, crashing onto the rooftop with a grunt. Nightwing moved to strike again, but something in him held back.
The hesitation, the way Red Hood fought—he was trying to send a message. This was not the Jason he had known. This was someone else. Someone different.
Nightwing took a step back, catching his breath. "I don't want to fight you, Jason. But if you keep this up, I'll have no choice."
For a long moment, Red Hood didn't move, just staring up at Nightwing with cold, unreadable eyes. Then, without another word, he scrambled to his feet, retreating into the shadows of the rooftop.
Nightwing stood there, his heart pounding, as Red Hood disappeared into the night. His ribs ached from the shallow cuts, his side throbbing from the deep gash. But it wasn't the physical pain that hurt the most—it was the realization that the brother he had once known might be gone forever.
He reached for his comms device, his voice steady despite the chaos in his mind. "Oracle, get me a report on Red Hood. I think we have more than one mystery on our hands."
As he waited for a response, his thoughts swirled, full of questions. Was Jason Todd alive? Or was someone else wearing the mask? Either way, the lines between friend and foe had never been more blurred.
And for the first time in a long time, Nightwing wasn't sure who he could trust.