prodigaljaybird: (Comics - Studious.)
The Mailbox of Jason Todd
prodigaljaybird: (Comics - Sideswept.)
PHONE

Please leave voicemail for Jason Todd here
prodigaljaybird: (Comics - Study.)
MAILBOX

Please leave mail for Jason Todd here
prodigaljaybird: (Comics - Back to business.)
The set-up's taken weeks, but the Red Hood is as patient as Jason is not, waiting and planning, gathering intel and distributing false data, wiring bombs and executing his plan to perfection. Five Lobos lieutenants, one captain, and in a stroke of luck, two high ranking Mad Men are all gathered in a small room of long abandoned warehouse 56.

The block is empty. The doors are shut. Inside the men are in varying degrees of inebriation, helped along by a little something Jason slipped into Aguilar's flask. Jason waits.

And waits.

And waits. And when he's completely satisfied, he sets the timer on the explosive charges and turns to leave, checking his outside feed one last time.

He's planned every detail to the last. Which is why it shouldn't truly be a surprise that fucking Allison Argent is in the alleyway outside.

"Dammit," Jason swears, looking at his timer. He could stop this, but any moment now, Allison's going to get the attention of the bangers inside, and Jason doesn't know when he'll get an opportunity like this again. "Dammit," he swears again, and flies swift and silent through the window into the outside air.

"Get out of here." The words ring clear and sudden through the night, for all that they're barely above a whisper. "I mean it. Go right now."
prodigaljaybird: (Comics - Dazed.)
He lost him.

Didn't he?

Does anyone ever really lose the goddamn Batman?

Pale and shaky, Jason casts another look over his shoulder. There's no one there, but then, that's what Bruce might want him to think. Perhaps he's slunk back into the shadows, perhaps he's watching, waiting for Jason to show his hand.

Well, here it is. He hasn't fucking got one, left his apartment like an idiot in minimal gear so he could meet Allison, a half dozen weapons and his gauntlets all that he has on him - a handful of nothing all that might stand between Jason and a deeper cut.

Lifting a trembling hand, he palms at the scar on his throat, only to rip his hand away again. If Bruce is watching, Jason doesn't mean to let him see him suffer. Darting down the next corner and then another, Jason doubles back, takes a second and third rooftop, then darts down another alley. His route is spinning, and Jason's spinning with it, eyes half to crossing and his cheeks green when he rounds another corner, barking in surprise when he runs into -

"Allison." Fuck. Bruce can't see her, can't know what she means, but she's here and if he's watching there's no escaping it. Jason tries and fails to school his expression into something less nauseated, croaking her name again. "Allison."
prodigaljaybird: (PB - Alone.)
He can hear Steve shouting through the wall.

Sequestered in his own clinic room, bleeding stemmed and consciousness returned, Jason could go. He's tucked under white sheets, not bound, hooked to a single monitor. Concussed, not dead, and even wounded he could be out of the Compound in seconds.

For the third time in his life, Jason's too afraid to move.

He's never heard Steve so much as raise his voice, never seen him afraid, but muddled though his memory is after being brained by the shield, Jason now recognizes that tightness in Steve's earlier expression as fear.

His view of the ceiling blurs and clears, blurs again, tears sliding in a steady stream down Jason's cheeks. If Steve's afraid, and Steve's angry...

Bucky might be too far gone. Jason had fought his way through a Soviet compound, unarmed and unaided save for what help an injured Bucky could give. But he can't save him from conditioning in his own head. Bucky told him once that the Winter Soldier was a ghost, so untraceably deadly that he was more myth than man. Tabula Rasa can't afford a threat like that. And Steve's afraid.

With a small, helpless sound, Jason closes his eyes. The tears keep coming.
prodigaljaybird: (Comics - Creep.)
Jason moves away from the hut at a jog, face masked in casual expectation for the day ahead while his heart threatens to beat right out of his chest. His steps are easy, eyes fixed only on the path, and the instant the trees swallow him Jason doubles back at a dead run.

Something's wrong with Bucky. Something is wrong, and even without knowing what it is, Jason has seen enough to know that when things are wrong with Bucky, people die.

He slips right through Steve's window, trusting that this man, at least, won't kill him just for startling him. "Steve," Jason calls, voice pitched just loud enough to carry inside these four walls.

God, please be home. "Are you here?"
prodigaljaybird: (PB - Wrecked.)
It's taken so long to find him that for the short moment Jason pauses to look, he doesn't trust his own eyes. There's sweat in his eyes, exacerbating an already present sting, perspiration running down his arms to fight Jason for his grip on the batline, but it doesn't falter, aim desperately sure and grip too tight to let him fall, but now.

But now he's found him, Bruce's back to him in the jungle as he gathers wood for purposes Jason's wired too tight to understand. In all the hours he's spent searching, Jason hasn't figured out a damn thing to say, crawling out of his skin ever since he left Cass's side, the depth of it, the weight of it too much to untangle and put into anything like words.

He could die here. In the shape he's in, Jason doesn't have a prayer if Damian's lurking close by, but he doesn't give a fuck. Of all the things he's decided he can live with, live through, he's not sure this is one of them.

Leaving the trees at last, Jason hits the ground on legs almost too tired to hold him, but he stays upright, a croaked sound all that escapes him but for his labored breaths.
prodigaljaybird: (Comics - Domino.)
He hasn't come here since the snow melted.

Hasn't come here, in fact, since those fractured days following Bruce's arrival, feet bringing him here like they could step from sand and into memory, back to a time when Tim was here to tell him what to do.

Staring at the aging wooden structures of the outdoor gym now, Jason finds their delipidation sad. Stupid, for it's not his Tim that built it, but it feels like a legacy all the same. He should do something. Tear something of Tim's down again, but this time, with a mind to rebuild it. He doesn't have the tools, but -

"Hell, now's as good a time as any," Jason murmurs, crossing from the parallel bars and into the closest copse of trees. He lets a batarang fly before him, sharp edges catching the center of a trunk, and Jason arrives in front of it with his leg already outstretched. He feet catches the trunk just right, and with one short, sharp crack, the tree splits down the middle.

Felling trees for lumber might be easier with a saw, but it's not nearly as much fun.
prodigaljaybird: (PB - Surly teen.)
He thinks it might be the only non-woolen blanket in all of London, and Jason is in love with it.

He's in love with the wide couch he's found in the basement of the Compound building, too. It's not much softer than his bed at home, but it's new, showing him a view beyond the bedroom he's been cooped up in, and that makes all the difference. It's only been a few days, and yet Jason feels like he's been sick for weeks, his supposedly mild flu an exercise in seeing what can hurt the most: his throat, his head, or his entire aching body. It's misery, all the moreso when all his light cotton blankets at home have transformed into wool. Their itchy fibers are a torment to his overheated skin, but this...

Jason groans aloud, wrapping the soft blanket more firmly around himself. It's cashmere, he thinks, expensive and fine and calling his fevered thoughts immediately to Talia. He's glad she can't see him in it now, his breath too warm and humid against the silken threads, cheeks an ugly red where they protrude above the folds. He'd been watching something, a movie made of tiny negatives moved across candlelight by clockwork, but they must have run out, because the wall they'd been projected on is empty now.

Jason sighs and lays his head against the armrest of the couch. He'll muster the will to get up and start the film over in a moment. Just one moment more.
prodigaljaybird: (Comics - Slink.)
It's strange to be outside again after so long spent indoors; first the endless dark of Rapture, and then the shuttered quiet of his own bedroom. He's seen the sunlight in bits and snatches, trickles through the slatted walls of the hut and shining through the door, but no more than that.

It feels good. Warm on his face when Jason tips it skyward, comforting. It feels good to know that in spite of the whole world ending, the sun and sky, the trees, the island is still here.

And going on as normal, if the sounds that greet Jason as he shuffles down the boardwalk are any indication. That feels good, too, and Jason feels better for every step he takes. In many ways, he feels like he's been ill, like it was a fever that's kept him indoors and not his own insurmountable dread. He feels raw and worn out, too hollow, but under the sun again...Bucky was right. He feels better.

He has no aim for where he's walking. There are faces he wants to see, but even now, he's afraid to seek them out. What will they say to him, what have they heard, or worse, what if they didn't care to notice he was gone?

The familiar hurt turns in Jason's stomach, and he takes the path not to the Compound, but down to Robin's Gym. Outside of class, the place is like a graveyard, but the wooden structures are familiar and sunlit. As ever when he's here alone, Jason thinks of Tim, and he smiles a little. "Way to miss the fireworks, little brother."

[ooc: wide open to familiar faces~ find him at Robin's Gym or on the way there]
prodigaljaybird: (Comics - Overshoulder.)
Jason's tired.

It's been a while since he saw a cape on his tail, but that doesn't mean they're not there. It just means they're getting better, which is so much worse, and if he thinks about it any harder he might actually explode.

"Fucking...birds," he says, drained enough that even that takes an effort. He's secured the perimeter around Lux's treehouse, but who knows how long that will hold. Steph is probably still out there somewhere, and Damian definitely is. He's probably scowling at them from a safe distance even now, biding his time, waiting for Jason's guard to drop before winging closer, and Jason can't - he can't take much more of this.

"Are you sure?" he asks, sprawled on the bed and twisting his head towards Lux. "It'd only be a few explosives. I could rig this place and only the people we don't want creeping in would know about it."
prodigaljaybird: (Comics - Bitchface.)
Jason's lungs feel like they're trying to turn inside out.

He takes a rattling breath through his teeth, gives up and curls his lip, lets the air blossom full and sweet in his lungs. It serves to stay the faint buzzing between his ears, but he's still dizzy, frustration and rage and a hurt he's too keyed up to realize is childish warring in his head and heart.

Fucking Batgirl. Fucking Robin. It's bad enough that Tim is gone and they're on the island instead, creeping in his periphery far more often than his temper can endure, and now she's in his class? Both of them, with Bucky? Jason could have pulled the parallel bars down with his bare hands this morning. He settled for oneupping her in every exercise he could, and in cardio, running harder, faster, better, pushing himself to the point of exhaustion and then harder still.

He can't tell if she's impressed or not. He doesn't care, and it doesn't mean a damn thing that he keeps looking at her, that he can't hold any expression on his face that isn't a sneer or snarl. She can't touch him in class, not in combat or in quality, and if she thinks she can come in just to spy on him, to see if he's 'doing anything she has to stop,' she's fucking wrong.

Fury renewed, Jason unfurls his hands and takes a step over the sand, eyes on Steph where she's detached from the rest of the dispersing students.
prodigaljaybird: (Comics - Burn.)
A day later, Jason's learned enough of his new power to keep control, at least to the point that he won't hurt anyone by accident. Gone is the fear of yesterday, and in its place is a delirious kind of purpose, the power in Jason so raw, so unchecked, and as of yet unwielded against an appropriately worthy foe.

He could bring down buildings if he wanted to, and not by blowing himself through him. He could pull down trees, scream holes in the fucking mountainside. He can shout so loud he can lift himself from the ground and keep going, but it's not to the neighborhoods Jason goes, or to mountain peaks, or to freedom on the winds. He plunges himself into the deeper parts of the forest, climbing towards the water tower and to the monstrosity that lies within its shadow.

The enormous golden horn, shining dimly in the dappled sun, beautiful and terrible, dented by steel and arrows and desperate hands. Katniss' Cornucopia. Jason hates it almost as much as she does.

He stares at it, reaching for old staples, for the anger inside him that's always raging so near to the surface. Rarely has he had the opportunity to let it out, and even more rarely on so worthy a goal. So intent is he on the horn, on its golden bow and hateful arch, that Jason hardly notices when he's no longer alone.
prodigaljaybird: (Comics - Break.)
Jason hasn't slept a night through since he was fourteen years old. It's nothing new, half his nightmares so familiar they happen almost by rote, though there's a few that still manage to terrify. He goes to bed in tired expectation, feels his body sleep and his brain light up. The fighter in him smiles and welcomes the chance to meet each falling crowbar with something better than child-sized fists, meet them with guns and blades and bombs, and in his dream Jason doesn't start screaming until the shadows grow long and bat-shaped.

He falls asleep in silence.

Jason wakes to his own gasping breaths in bed and the earth shifting beneath him.

"What the f - " he starts, but the world only shakes harder, something in the movement focused, personal. It's shaking his bed harder than anything, and Jason reaches out against the attack, seizes the gauntlet beneath his pillow and wishes it was a gun.

"You'll fucking wish - " he bellows, but as soon as the words leave him he feels himself forced violently back, propelled from his sheets and right into the air. His heart races - his bed's so close to the wall, he's gonna hit and there's no time to twist, nothing to grab, nothing to stop him and it's too fucking late to -

Jason's body flies through the bamboo with a mighty crack and is caught by the ground, coming to rest a dozen yards away with great rivets of earth in his wake.

There's a million things he should be doing. Lying there stunned feels like the best start.

[ooc: open to all in game, posted privately for preplay~ Jason just blew out the side of his hut, still in the boxers and tank top he went to bed in. His power is the sonic scream.]
prodigaljaybird: (PB -  Alone in the dark.)
It's strange to think that the first time Jason ever saw a photograph of Tim, it broke his heart.

He'd give anything to see him now, even if it's just a photo. All those pictures Tim got that day in the rec room, they're all of Bruce, of Dick. None of Tim. All those photos on the camera he carried around with him everywhere, Jason can't even develop them, but even if he did, he doubts Tim took any of himself.

He's eighteen today. Supposed to be older than his little brother, but Tim turned eighteen last month. Turned eighteen and disappeared before Jason was even done ribbing him about it.

He'd ask for a picture, he thinks, if Tim was still here to ask for a birthday present.

Instead he brings two pieces of the cake Bucky got him and sits them both on Tim's porch, sits himself there afterward. It's been a ritual for a while now, telling Tim about his day. No reason to stop that Jason can see, even if Tim's gone.

He tells him that it doesn't feel any different being eighteen instead of seventeen, that they both grew up a long time ago. He tells him that it doesn't hurt anymore that Lux isn't pregnant, because what kind of dad scares a mom so much she can't get her period? Tells him that he spent two days as a twelve year old, and hasn't been able to look a lot of people in the eye since. That he thinks he could laugh about it, if only Tim was still here to laugh with him.

That he hopes, if Tim ever returns, they learn not to hate each other again. That he loves him, and he wishes he'd said so properly when he had time.

Jason eats his piece of cake, and it's delicious. He doesn't think about eating the other.
prodigaljaybird: (PB - Disheveled.)
It's been two weeks since Lux gave him the news. Two whole weeks, and Jason's been able to think of little else, all his thoughts consumed with what might be. He thinks, after a lot of deliberation, that he hopes it's a girl. A boy would be great, too, and Jason would love a little boy with equal fervor, but when he looks at Lux, with her soft hair and her beautiful blue eyes, he just. He can't stop thinking about how beautiful her daughter would be, with all of Lux's kindness, and maybe some of Jason's energy.

Either way, the kid willl be a handful. He's learned that much sneaking books from the shelf, about what to expect when expecting and afterwards, what babies need, what toddlers need. Holy shit, Jason can't wait for when the baby can talk, he's going to do nothing but read it stories, the kind he always wished his own mom had had time to read. Make it sandwiches with the crusts cut off like Alfred made. Tell it things, everything, the way everyone always refuses to do for him. This baby will want for nothing, the truth least of all.

And clothes. Surveying the pile he's secreted away in his old cave, Jason thinks he might've taken too many babyclothes from the box, but that's all it will give him.

With an inward shrug, Jason deposits his latest finds - a bib that reads #1 Baby and a onesie that proclaims Jason the greatest father in the world - and exits the caves quickly, startling to see a familiar face as he emerges.

"Oh," he says, pausing, but he brightens. "Hey!"
prodigaljaybird: (Comics - Circling.)
"Fuck."

It's an odd thing to be upset about, coming home in the wee hours of the morning to find a light in the hut already on.

It's not like Bucky doesn't know he sneaks out most nights. And it's not like Jason doesn't know he knows, but still, he tries to do the things that will make Bucky respect him, still subconsciously afraid that he'll fuck it up somehow, that Bucky will decide what Bruce did and cut him loose, and Jason doesn't want to fucking go, not again. So he does dorky things like his homework, like going to some classes he'd really rather cut, like pretending he's not living in sin or whatever half the time with his girlfriend.

But if the light's on, the jig is up, and shit, what if Bucky actually wants to talk about it this time, what if this is it, and Jason slows to a halt on the front porch, heart hot and rising up in his throat.

Maybe he should lie. Pretend there's some bullshit emergency that called him away, but Bucky'd know. He should just go in. Be brave, at least, if he can't be good.

"Uh," he says, too loud in his nervousness when he shoves through the door, "hey, I just - "

Jason stops dead. Bucky's nowhere in sight, but in the lamplight Jason can see broken bits of furniture through his open door, and at the table, a woman Jason's never seen before.

That she's stunning doesn't give Jason even a moment's pause. Whatever gorgeous body she might possess is secondary to the fact that it's wrapped in nothing more than one of Bucky's shirts, that she's sitting at their table, drinking out of Bucky's cup, and there's every evidence of a fight.

Jason's a faster draw with his right hand than his left, but that doesn't stop the batarang from popping between his fingers in half the blink of an eye.
prodigaljaybird: (Comics - Studying.)
Not for the first time, Jason thinks that if it weren't for Bucky's hardass cardio class, he'd be crawling out of his skin by now.

He's gone back to his grave no less than three times, stood under the shadow of that enormous fucking monument. Brought no less than three times the amount of explosives it'd take to blow it up, too, but he hasn't done it. Not yet.

But he's going to. Sometime when...when it won't make things worse. When it'll mean something's over, not just beginning, not the start of some new anger inside of him that he'll want to keep feeding, need to keep feeding. Sometime when the sound of it, the violent burst of it won't make Lux cry.

He itches for it, expression dark more often than not, brow drawn down and mouth a thin, flat line, sneakers traded back for his heavy boots, beating hard against the jungle floor when he walks away from his hut. He doesn't realize he's headed for Tim's until he gets there, more wound up than when he started walking, and he thinks...he should probably leave. That he's no good to people when he feels like this, not to the ones he can't punish, and he's punished Tim enough. But he can't take this shit back to Bucky, and he's not taking it to Lux.

Exhaling as evenly as he can, Jason sinks onto the edge of Tim's porch, sits quietly, and tells himself he's resting, not waiting. If his brother's got any luck left, Jason'll be gone before Tim ever looks out the window.

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Jason Todd

September 2014

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