Chapter Text
To burn the rot, you have to start at the core.
Tim was just eight when his dad bought him a basic chemistry set. It was to keep him quiet and not distract anyone from anything important. It really wasn’t anything special — just plastic tubes, fizzy powders and colour changing reactions. All harmless enough.
But something about it had hooked Tim. It was like those fizzles and simple colour changes had sunk their teeth into Tim’s brain.
He began digging through books, questioning why — over and over. Why was that changing? Why was it blue? Green? Purple? Why? Why? — He liked the reactions.
And this curiosity and interest kept him at the top of his classes, especially in chemistry.
By the time he was twelve, he had memorized the entire periodic table and could name most of the common reactions. His mothers scarily good memory came in handy, he could remember a lot. And his dad’s quick thinking helped with calculating everything at top speed.
Yet despite his heart and mind already being stuck in chemistry, it never stopped him from sneaking out and taking pictures of the bats. Deep down they were still a huge inspiration for him. Especially Jason — current Robin — because he was so funny, kind and smart. He had everything Tim wanted. It was partly jealousy, partly admiration. Jason was charismatic, yet nerdy, he didn’t get treated differently despite being adopted by Bruce Wayne. He always stood up for others, never cowered.
And that was how it was supposed to go…
Tim was supposed to grow up, become a chemist and run his parents company, watch his idol grow up.
But in a single day it all went down the drain.
27th April.
On that day the world received the news that Jason Peter Todd died at the age of 15. Due to smoke asphyxiation. And Tim received the news that both of his parents died.
Joker had not only killed Jason, but had also killed Robin. And the warehouse that blew up happened to be in the area nearby where Tim’s parents were working. And that mad man’s chemical bomb released so much pollution in the immediate area — his parents were caught up in the mess too.
Joker.
He had killed Robin.
He had killed Tim’s parents.
He had killed Tim’s Idol.
His favorite Robin. The one who fought with fire, who never held back. The one Tim had watched frame by frame, every wild punch and stupid risk engraved in his mind like scripture. His parents. The ones who gave that simple chemistry set. The ones who pushed him to be the top of his classes. The ones who said Tim would lead their company to greatness with his chemistry knowledge.
Gone.
Gone.
Gone.
And the explosion? Amateur. Sloppy. A Frankenstein’s mess of volatile compounds. Tim could reverse-engineer the formula just by glancing at the crime scene photos.
They had died because of something inelegant. Lazy. Sloppy.
And Tim never forgot that.
He swore he’d create an explosion so precise, so elegant, no one would ever forget it.
He swore the Joker would regret ever touching chemistry.
He swore he’d burn the rot out of Gotham — starting with the core.
With him.
He’d become the change Batman always talked about… but never had the spine to commit to.
×-×
He was barely fifteen when he finalized his rogue identity.
Redox.
A clever nod to chemistry — reduction and oxidation, destruction and transformation.
Like any rising villain in Gotham, he was forced to start small. Drug crimes, information manipulation, information leaks — simple stuff like that.
All that while he was working on his magnum opus. Or well… part of it. Step one of his plan was to reverse-engineer Scarecrow’s fear toxin, Ivy’s pollen and… Joker gas. He needed to dissect their components and understand their flaws.
That was what took the most of his time.
Turning himself into a trustworthy drug seller was the easiest part. It only took a couple of months.
And when he had finally finished step one. He could move to step two: making a strength serum.
But that wasn't the best part about step two. — it was turning the serum into an antidote for fear toxic, pollen and Joker gas.
He was vaguely aware that bats had antidotes to all of them, but they didn't have them combined in a single serum. And that serum certainly didn't give them any strength enhancing.
It was brilliant.
In the end the liquid was a bright red. One dose doubled someone's physical power for a full hour. The only downsides? Mild addiction and hangover-like symptoms. All while acting as a shield and temporary immunity to Joker gas, Ivy’s pollen and Scarecrow’s toxins.
It was the perfect shield disguised as a weapon. Gotham's rogues couldn’t touch his clients.
But that was just his nightly activities, during the day Tim was the teenage CEO of Drake Industries.
×××
Tim sat through the board meeting with practiced ease, legs crossed, pen tapping idly against his notepad. He nodded occasionally, pretended to jot something down — quarterly projections, market trends — but his mind was miles away.
He was running calculations in the margins. The prototype of step three was nearly finished. It was going to be a bomb from hydrogen gas. It was very explosive when coming into contact with water.
As for his signature? What better than red powder? He was already known in the streets for his red strength enhancing serum. It was a chemical calling card of sorts.
Mr. Johnson finished his report and glanced over. “Mr. Drake, anything to add?”
Tim offered a polite, practiced smile. “No. Let’s proceed with the current strategy. Thank you all for your time.”
The board members murmured in agreement, collecting their notes and filing out in a neat, oblivious line.
Tim rose last, adjusting the cuff of his blazer before walking to the floor-to-ceiling window.
His building wasn’t as tall as Wayne Tower — not yet — but it had a clear view of Crime Alley.
And from this height, he could see everything. The streets, shadows, corners.
His first test subjects.
The rats were already in the maze. They just didn’t know it yet.
×
“Batman, there’s been an explosion in Crime Alley,” Oracle’s voice broke through the comms, sharp and immediate.
Bruce’s gaze snapped to the bay computer, the map flickering with reports and sensor feeds. “Red Hood?” he asked, voice low but tense. “Or was he the target?”
Oracle hesitated for a moment, scanning through incoming data. “No indication it’s connected to Red Hood. The blast released a dense red cloud. Some kind of chemical agent? I can’t get a clear count on casualties through the haze, but the strike seemed focused on the Jokerz gang.”
Bruce frowned, eyes narrowing as he processed the info. “Could this be a message? Something to provoke the gang? Or… a warning?”
“Possibly,” Oracle answered. “But Red Hood doesn’t typically use bombs… at least, nothing this elaborate. Could be a new rogue stepping onto the scene.”
Bruce’s jaw tightened. “I don’t like unknown variables. Keep every channel open. Track every suspicious movement. I want real-time updates on all active players — Red Hood, the Jokerz, and whoever else is crawling out of the shadows.”
“Understood. I’m deploying drones and amplifying street cams now. We’ll get eyes on everything.”
Bruce exhaled slowly. “Good.”
×
Tim adjusted the respirator strapped over his face. It was sleek, black, voice-modulated. A pair of red-tinted lab goggles shielded his eyes. The rest of his outfit was intentionally non-descript — plain black, dusted in streaks of red powder.
He stepped into the heart of the chemical fog, unbothered. The cloud would settle soon enough, but he needed to see the effects up close, firsthand. He needed some data to see if the prototype was successful.
At the epicenter, he found what he was looking for.
The Jokerz member who’d triggered the bomb was alive — barely. Hydrogen burns seared across his arms, chest, and neck. Skin bubbled. Breathing ragged. But still alive.
That was the point.
If this one had survived, the others had too.
Tim kicked the thug onto his back. The man wheezed. Eyes wide, panicked. He drove his foot into the gang member’s chest, pinning him like an insect under glass.
He leaned in.
His voice, cold and distorted through the filter, cut through the silence. “Stop working with Joker. Or next time, my bomb won’t leave you just burned.”
He held the stare a moment longer, let the fear settle deep in the man’s bones and then kicked him aside and disappeared into the red mist.
A few blocks over, he ducked into a side alley where he’d stashed a crate of strength-enhancing serum doses. Time to deliver the next batch.
×
“Boss, there was an explosion on the east side,” the voice crackled through Jason’s comms.
He didn’t look up. He was in his safe house, halfway through cleaning a rifle, fingers moving with muscle memory. “Who did it?”
“No idea. Doesn’t match the MO of any known rogue.”
That made Jason pause. He set the rifle down, gears turning behind his eyes. “Target?”
“Jokerz gang, it looks like.”
Jason stood slowly. Now they had his attention.
“Investigate. Quietly,” he said. “Avoid the Bats.”
“You got it, boss.” The line clicked dead.
Jason stared at the rifle for a moment, then holstered it. If someone was making moves in his city, he needed to know who and why they were targeting the Jokerz. He needed to know if there was something deeper or if this was just a random move with no deeper motive.
×
It hadn’t taken long to find the warehouse. The place was blown open, structural supports cracked and twisted, but there was no sign of fire. No scorching. No melted debris. It was certainly unusual for something that was definitely an explosion.
It was as if the whole place was dipped in red dye. As he stepped over the collapsed doorway, eyes scanning the wreckage, his boots crunched on something finer than ash and dust.
A hum drew his attention upward. A drone hovered near the roofline, clearly trying to capture footage of the scene.
Jason pulled out his gun and fired. Not to hit. Just as a warning shot.
The drone beeped and peeled away fast, disappearing over the skyline.
He clicked his comm. “Report.”
“The Jokerz crew’s all unconscious. No fatal injuries. Definitely chemical burns, skin’s red and peeling, but there’s no fire damage around them. And the powder’s making it hard to tell if any blood was spilled.”
Jason narrowed his eyes. This wasn’t some random bombing. It was a message or a test at the very least. “Shoot each of them in the left leg,” he ordered flatly. “Mark them. If they’re hit again, we’ll know it’s deliberate.”
A slight pause. “You got it, boss.”
×
Tim sat in his basement workshop, already deep into designing his next bomb. The first experiment had been a success, but he knew better than to rest. If he didn’t strike again soon, people would forget his name. Gotham was so full of rogues and criminals that one bombing was nothing to them.
He wanted them to fear him. He needed to be a symbol of change and that meant being feared. Batman was feared at the start too, but then his novelty wore off…
To burn the rot, you have to start at the core. And Gotham’s core was the Joker — no question about it. Outside Gotham, people debated whether the man was truly insane or if his twisted philosophy held any truth.
But there was no debate. Joker wasn’t insane.
He was perfectly aware of every terrible thing he did. He was an actor, playing the part of madness.
His so-called philosophy? A lie.
His real goal was simple. To cause pain. To thrive on suffering. There was no moral ambiguity. No deeper meaning. He should’ve been dead the day he killed Robin.
Tim could understand why Batman couldn’t end him — it would break the man.
But Tim? He had no such restraint. He would kill Joker without a second thought.
For his parents.
For Jason Todd.
For every chemist mocked by that careless, sloppy explosion. And to prove once and for all that Joker was nothing more than a glorified nightmare.
Tim could kill him.
Tim would kill him.
He added the final layer of biodegradable film to the bomb. Everything was ready for the next night. Three locations marked — all set to blow.
×
Tim sat in his office, casually writing reports when a knock came at the door. His assistant, Tiana, peeked in. “Mr. Drake, there was a report of a rogue bombing nearby yesterday. Are you sure you want to work from headquarters?”
Tim glanced up without missing a beat. “It’s fine, Tiana. The bombing was a few blocks away, probably just some turf war.” He returned to his reports, masking the tension beneath.
“If you say so, sir. Coffee?”
“No, thank you. I’ll be leaving early for a business meeting,” Tim said smoothly, a lie he delivered like a pro. He just needed time to set up the bombs.
“Alright, Mr. Drake. I’ll make sure security locks everything up properly,” she said, then shut the door behind her.
Tim finished the last sentence on the paper, dropped the pen with a flourish, and slowly turned to the window. He couldn’t help but smirk. Yeah, it was a cliché villain move — sitting here, brooding over the city while plotting destruction.
But hey, it wasn’t his fault that from this skyscraper he had a front-row seat to the Jokerz gang’s playground in Crime Alley.
Not like he planned to build his tower right on the edge of Gotham’s rotten core.
Oh wait…
he totally did.
×××
The first explosion went off without a hitch. The second was set to blow in three minutes. The third was set to nineteen. Just enough of a pattern to make people desperate to find one, but not enough to actually solve it.
Let them scramble for patterns, for purpose. Let the Bats twist themselves into knots trying to figure out the message behind the madness. The punchline was: there wasn’t one.
Or maybe there were too many. He couldn’t let them be prepared for anything. The more unpredictable he was the better.
Tim stood at the top of Drake Industries Tower, watching the first red cloud bloom like a toxic flower over Crime Alley.
His serum would be distributed today through a third party. His own hands now clean and trail cold. He couldn’t let them snatch him just because he was distributing his own drugs.
His name will soon come with fear and anxiety.
×
“Batman. Three explosions went off today,” Oracle’s voice crackled through the comms. “I’m still processing the data from yesterday, but the MO’s the same across all sites, chemical burns, red powder residue, no fire. All targets were Jokerz gang hangouts.”
Bruce’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the feed on the Batcomputer. “Any suspects?”
“We can rule out Red Hood. He was caught on Old Gotham street cams during the first two blasts, looking just as surprised as everyone else.”
“That’s one off the list,” Bruce muttered.
“Oddly enough, despite shooting at my drone yesterday, he’s been investigating too.” Oracle added. “So either he's playing a long con, or he’s in the dark like we are.”
From the shadows, Damian’s voice cut in — low and dry. “I think we should be grateful two of Gotham’s most unhinged Joker-haters haven’t teamed up yet.”
“It would spell trouble for all of us if they did,” Bruce replied. He turned back to the Batcomputer. “Oracle, cross-reference any new aliases in the last 48 hours. Look for unusual chemical purchases and street-level chatter on anything new.” Then to Damian “Suit up. We’re going to Crime Alley.”
×
Jason was already waiting, casually leaning against a rooftop wall, gun spinning in his hand like a coin. He didn’t flinch when the Bat and Robin landed across from him. “I thought we agreed I stay out of your way, and you stay the hell out of mine,” he said coldly.
“We’re not here for you,” Bruce replied. “We want to know if you have any intel on the bombings.”
“Why would I?” Jason snapped. “Not my circus, not my monkey.”
“They went off in and near your territory,” Damian cut in.
“Gotham’s a mess. That’s not new.” Jason shrugged. “Maybe someone’s finally cleaning house.”
“We want to cooperate on this,” Bruce said evenly. “Find the rogue together.”
Jason’s smile twisted under his mask. “Right. Cooperate. Like last time? When you left me in a warehouse?”
“Hood-” Bruce started, but his gaze snagged on movement beyond the edge of the rooftop. A shadow slipping through the alley fog.
“Robin. Tail that figure.”
“On it,” Damian muttered, already vanishing into the dark.
Bruce and Jason were left staring each other down, silence thick between them. So many words and emotions hung in the air but they didn’t dare to speak of any of them for a long while. Until the silence was shattered with a quiet “I tried to find you,” by Bruce.
Jason didn’t answer right away. He turned, looking over the city, the red haze still clinging to the skyline. “I’ll keep an ear out,” Jason said, voice low and brittle. “But don’t expect anything more.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned and disappeared into the shadows.
A second later, Damian’s voice crackled through the comms, tense and urgent.
“They just entered one of the red fog zones. I can’t follow, the powder is biting my eyes even through my domino mask.”
Bruce’s jaw clenched. “Fall back. Return to standard patrol pattern. Don’t risk long term exposure to it or being spotted.”
“Copy.” Damian's voice was tight, frustrated, then silent.
×
Meanwhile, Red Hood strode into one of his side operations, boots heavy against the concrete. A handful of his goons straightened as he approached, the air sharp with tension. “Report,” he barked.
They exchanged wary glances, then one stepped forward. “There’s a new drug hitting the streets. Strength-enhancer. Lasts about an hour.”
“It’s being pushed by a rogue calling himself Redox,” another added.
“Red-ox,” one mumbled, nodding.
“No — Re-dox,” someone else corrected. “Like the chemical term.”
“What’s the difference?” the first one frowned.
“Red-ox is just a bad soda. Re-dox is a chemical reaction — reduction and oxidation.” He paused. “Means something gets burned, boss.”
Jason’s expression darkened under the helmet. “Yeah,” he muttered. “And something else gets changed forever.” He turned, walking off, a gnawing suspicion already forming in his chest. If this rogue was targeting Jokerz and flooding his streets with chemical enhancers, it wasn’t just some passing turf war.
It was personal.
Red Hood didn’t tolerate drug ops in Crime Alley, not without his permission. And definitely not without consequences.
Whoever this “Redox” was… they were going to get a visit.
×
“Got confirmation from Red Hood. The rogue’s name is probably ‘Re-dox,’” Oracle said, her voice cutting through the comms.
“Any suspicious chemical purchases that match the bomb residue?” Bruce asked, eyes on the Batcomputer.
“A few. Mostly industrial cleaning supplies or pesticides. One company stood out, but it’s a stretch… Drake Industries. They mostly manufacture pharmaceuticals and medical tech. Doesn’t fit the profile.”
“Drake Industries still exist?” Nightwing chimed in. “Thought they folded when Jack and Janet Drake died.”
“Nope. Their son, Timothy Jackson Drake, inherited everything. Took over the board from behind the scenes,” Oracle said.
Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “How old is he?”
“Fifteen. Turns sixteen soon.”
“Probably just a clueless kid. I doubt he’s tangled up in the rogue scene,” Damian muttered.
“Damian,” Dick chided, “don’t insult people you’ve never even met.”
“It’s not an insult. It’s an observation. Odds are, some investor or nanny is pulling the strings behind the scenes. Using the heir like a sock puppet.”
“I don’t think so,” Oracle cut in. “I’ve seen him at the library back when he was still in high school. Top of his classes. His parents trained him to think critically and question everything.”
“Sounds like he’s just another quiet prodigy,” Dick said. “Gotham churns those out like clockwork.”
“Destroys them like clockwork too,” Damian added, pessimistically.
“Enough speculation,” Bruce said firmly. “We focus on Redox. Oracle, dig deeper. We need names, patterns, purchases. Anything.”
×
Tim sat in his basement workshop, carefully securing the last vial into place. The rows of chemical agents gleamed under the low industrial lighting. Everything was going perfectly.
All three targets had gone up exactly on schedule. And his name — Redox — was spreading like a virus. Yesterday, one person whispered it. Today, twelve people feared it. Just on a slightly larger scale.
He’d give the Jokerz a break for now. Not out of mercy. Never that. He needed time to refine the powder. Make it linger longer. Look brighter.
So they all remember the red. That was step four of his plan.
×××
"A new rogue is terrorizing Gotham with dramatic chemical bombings. ‘Should we be worried?’ locals ask. So we reached out to Police Commissioner James Gordon, Gotham’s leading expert on rogues and vigilantes, for answers."
The camera cuts to a live shot of the reporter standing beside Commissioner Gordon. “Commissioner, should Gotham’s civilians be concerned?”
Gordon adjusts his glasses, expression serious but calm. “So far, the pattern suggests this rogue is targeting members of the Jokerz gang exclusively. The red powder? It’s theatrical, designed to cause panic, not real harm. It might sting your eyes, but rinse with clean water and you'll be fine.”
He pauses, then adds with a touch of Gotham-worn sarcasm “Same advice as always: don’t buy drugs, and stay inside after dark. It’s Gotham. That’s just common sense. And—”
Tim turned off the TV, the screen going dark mid-sentence. He rose from his chair, smoothed down his jacket, and left his office without a word. Tiana offered a polite nod from her desk as he passed. He returned it.
The meeting room was quiet when he entered, sterile and cold under the overhead lights. He moved to his usual seat — the one at the end of the long table, where he could see everyone, everything. He set down his folder of reports, spine straight, gaze sharp.
One by one, the board members filtered in, shaking hands, murmuring about stock projections and overseas contracts. The usual corporate lull.
Then something caught Tim’s eye. A faint smear of crimson dust on the sleeve of a blazer. Red powder.
His red powder.
Tim didn’t react outwardly. He simply watched covertly and surgically, as the man took his seat, completely unaware.
The meeting began. Words flew across the table, meaningless noise. Tim tuned it out. He focused on the man. Casual suit, well-groomed, practiced smile. But there, just below the collar, a patch of skin. Shiny, pink, raw.
Hydrogen burns.
Tim's heart didn’t race. His expression didn’t change. But inside, something was starting to boil, like the temperature in the room was a few degrees warmer. That man wasn’t just a corporate puppet.
He was Jokerz. One of them had made it into his boardroom. Into his tower. Into his den.
Tim’s lips curled — not quite a smile, more like the twitch of a predator spotting prey, one tasting blood in the water.
That man would be gone by the end of the week. He didn’t need Jokerz filth in a suit playing pretend within his walls. Corporate puppets were a dime a dozen. He could burn one and have three more knocking for the job.
By the time the meeting adjourned, the others none the wiser, Tim had already sketched out the plan.
×
Jason turned the small vial in his gloved hand, the liquid inside a blinding, almost radioactive red. If color could scream, this one was howling. Redox’s, no doubt about it.
The rogue had a flair for branding — obnoxious, maybe, but effective. He briefly considered shipping the serum off to Oracle for analysis, but something held him back.
He needed more. Suppliers. Patterns. Leverage. And maybe, just maybe… a face-to-face. If Redox wanted to play in his territory, he’d have to pay the toll.
And maybe Jason needed to go on a hunt for suppliers. And he had just the person to tell him where to find a supplier.
He picked up the man he recently almost knocked out, “Tell me where you got this serum” he demanded and the man folded almost immediately, like a wet tissue.
×
Jason stalked through the skeletal remains of an old warehouse near the Narrows, not one of his, which already said enough. No squatters, no kids, no eyes. Just crates. A small kick to one produced clanking and upon opening it he found it full of the glowing vials
Jackpot.
A low voice groaned from behind one of the crates. Jason moved fast, gun raised, until he found the source, a young dealer, barely twenty by the looks of it. He was lying next to the crates, clearly taking a nap during work hours. "You're one of Redox’s runners," Jason said flatly.
The dealer's eyes widened, suddenly wide awake. “I–I don’t know what you’re—”
Jason kicked the crate beside his head. “Try again. That red sludge you’re pushing turns thugs into wrecking balls. You don’t just stumble into that kind of product.”
The guy swallowed hard. “I just do the drops. I don’t even meet him… not really. He sends instructions, payment hits crypto, that's it. Sometimes drones pick up, sometimes couriers."
Jason's eyes narrowed. “Where’s your next drop?”
The teenager hesitated. “Uh—”
Jason raised his pistol, calm and slow. “Wrong answer.”
The dealer panicked. “Midtown! South rooftop of the Pennyroyal Hotel 10 PM! Please, I’m just in it for the cash!”
Jason stepped back, lowering the gun. “Then let’s hope you haven’t run out of luck.”
×
Jason stepped onto the rooftop. It was empty and too clean. Like someone had scrubbed the place down with bleach and paranoia. He clicked his tongue, annoyed. “Amateurs don’t clean up this well.”
His eyes scanned the ledge, the vents, the corners and then he saw it. A phone, face-up on the concrete. Still lit. Still on a call.
Trap? Probably. He picked it up anyway. A voice came through, heavily modulated and impossibly calm. “Hello, Red Hood.”
Jason didn’t flinch. “Redox. Cute stunt. I was hoping we could talk without the theatrics.”
“You are talking to me. Consider yourself lucky, most don’t get this far.”
“Most aren’t me.” Jason smirked “You know selling in my territory makes you either stupid or suicidal, right?”
“Neither,” Redox replied smoothly. “My serums are clean,” the voice replied, clipped and confident. “They come with overdose warnings. Only lethal if the user’s too stupid to read.”
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” Jason said, stepping toward the ledge. “Selling anything in my territory without my say.”
A beat of silence. “You’re one to talk, naming yourself after Joker’s old alias? Ballsy move.”
Jason let out a dark chuckle. “Touché.” Then, quieter, more deliberate “But I’m not him. I kill the monsters.”
“So will I,” Redox said. “I will just do it with chemistry.”
Jason’s fingers tightened on the phone. “I don’t want a war, Redox. If your drugs are clean, and your targets stay scum… maybe there’s room to talk.”
×
Tim sat alone in his basement lab, legs kicked up on the desk. Hand hovering over the call-end button on the secure burner phone.
He'd expected Red Hood to show up eventually. Honestly, he was surprised it took him this long. His first prototypes hit the streets just after his fifteenth birthday. Now, nearly sixteen, the city finally started whispering his name.
As Red Hood’s voice echoed through the speaker, all grit and threat and that half-growl people liked to use when trying to intimidate someone. Tim tilted his head, just a little. “So dramatic,” he muttered under his breath, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
Jason offered cooperation. Tim let the silence stretch a second too long, just enough to make it uncomfortable. “I’m not opposed to working together,” he said through the modulator, tone maddeningly calm. “But trust is earned. And you haven’t earned mine.”
Jason started to respond, but Tim ended the call mid-sentence. He dropped the burner into an acid bath without ceremony and leaned back in his chair, letting the chemical hiss fill the silence.
“Let’s see how badly he wants to talk,” he said to himself. He wasn’t stupid, Red Hood would come sniffing again. Maybe angry, maybe curious. Maybe both.
But Tim wasn’t here to play anyone’s apprentice or join forces just yet. He first needed to know that Red Hood's motives against Joker and Jokerz were just as strong as his. He didn't want to be slowed in his quest for revenge by someone wearing Joker's old alias.
×
The line went dead.
Jason stared at the phone, jaw clenched. Then he crushed it under his boot. “Alright, asshole,” he muttered. “Now you have my full attention.” He took a deep breath.“Trust? I’ll show him trust, when my gun’s jammed against his skull.” He said in anger before calming down.
Redox wasn’t the worst villain Gotham had seen. He targeted Jokerz. No deaths. No civilian casualties. Not yet. He remembered about the serum vial. He should probably give it to Oracle to test.
×
Tim sat on the floor of his bedroom, sorting through old printed photos of Batman and Robin — specifically the Jason Todd era.
He didn’t like to admit it, but he’d idolized the Robins growing up. Both Dick Grayson and Jason Todd. They were everything he wasn’t — vibrant, visible, brave, charismatic. Colourful, yet stealthy. Loud, yet focused. Joyful... or at least they had been once.
Well… maybe not Dick. Dick was chaos in motion, all fire and flair, vengeful in his own way. But he was kind to kids. Always.
And Jason... Jason had been a good kid. A street-smart teen whose biggest crimes were pickpocketing and sneaking cigarettes behind corners. Nerdy in school, always stood up for others.
Tim sighed and leaned back until he was lying flat on the carpet, arms splayed, photos spread beside him.
He was around the same age now that Dick had been when he gave up the Robin mantle.
And what had Tim done with his time?
Blown up warehouses. Scarred Jokerz gang members. Spread an enhanced strength serum that happened to be immune to most rogue toxins. Not exactly Saturday morning cartoon material.
He stared at the ceiling. His parents were dead. He was the CEO of Drake Industries. A high school dropout. Barely sixteen.
To some, it might’ve sounded like a prodigy’s dream — fame, power, independence.
But to Tim? All he’d ever wanted was to be seen. To be acknowledged. Not for the company he inherited or the projects he built. Just… seen.
His parents had been too busy with work. His teachers too distracted by his test scores. Everyone else only noticed him when they wanted something from him.
Maybe that’s why it had felt so different when he’d fallen off that rooftop and Robin caught him.
Just for a moment… he hadn’t been invisible.
He hadn’t been a ghost trapped behind a boardroom desk. He was a kid who mattered.
Maybe that’s why it hurt even more when Jason Todd had been blown up in such a sloppy, amateurish bomb. Tim had only been twelve back then, but even he could’ve designed something quieter. More precise.
He rolled onto his side and stared under the bed. No monsters lived there, only an abandoned chemistry set from when he was a child.
He caught his own reflection in a dusty glass vial.
Dead blue eyes stared back.