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Jason isn't quiet when he storms the building.
There's a vicious smile on his face, and his eyes glowing an eerie green that illumuniates the white hallways. Or maybe, he should say the formerly white hallways, because they sure as hell wouldn't be the same by the time he's through here. Jason is redecorating in red.
And sure, Jason is firing shots off at random. Real bullets, too, and not just the rubber ones he uses while working with the Bats. These fuckers weren't getting any mercy from him, not today. Jason kills the goons and scientists without even a moment of hesitation, and he knows that he won't be regretting it later. He aims for the head and the heart, because this group can't be allowed to resurface. Not here, not ever.
Not when Jason has spent the last six months hunting them down.
How delightful, he thinks, that the Ghost Investigation Ward's last surviving base was in Gotham itself.
How fucking delightful.
Jason's been planning this for a long time now. He knows exactly how this is going to end: him walking away alive as this whole building burns into ashes.
He can't stop himself from grinning. He can't stop himself from laughing, either. Don't get him wrong, Jason is happy to be working with the family again. He'd missed Dick's jokes and Tim is growing on him, same with Cass and Steph, and well, he still has a complicated relationship with Bruce. He thinks that he always will.
But B is soft, sometimes too soft, and these people? They don't deserve to be treated with anything remotely gentle.
Price of human experimentation, unfortunately.
Really, they should have known better than to experiment on children in the Red Hood's territory. That's practically asking to get shot.
A woman, one of the scientists, slams into him from the side. She's crying, clutching at his jacket like a lifeline, and when she speaks, Jason barely understands the words. "You don't understand," she says, over and over and over, "It's dangerous, it's going to kill us all, you can't free it, you can't—"
Jason kills her just like the rest of them.
He walks faster now, though, because if there is something alive here, it needs to be dealt with. Jason doesn't doubt that the being is dangerous — this is Gotham City, who here isn't dangerous when they need to be? — but he knows better than to take her words at face value. Someone working at a lab involved with human experimentation doesn't get to tell him something's evil. Jason trusts these workers as much as he trusts the Joker's men: not at all, with a high chance of casualties.
Before he makes any decisions, Jason needs to know if this mysterious being was an ally, or another enemy he'd have to deal with.
And that means he has to find them.
Between wanting to off everyone inside, and having a new target to look for, Jason has no reason to be quiet. He doesn't even bother to try. Practically stomps through the hallways, whistling a random tune as he shoots any personel and uploads any data he comes across. Information isn't his specialty, but Jason's a good enough hacker to steal their files, and he can pass the rest off to Babs and Tim.
Maybe they can't use the info to arrest anyone legally, but like Jason said. The GIW should have known better than trying to take kids from under his nose.
When the lights start flickering, Jason knows he's going in the right direction. They aren't flashing at random, no, there's a pattern to it. Pauses and longer moments without light, and whoever their guest is, they apparently know Morse Code.
S.
O.
S.
S.O.S.
Jason grins. Thinks about the one scientist who had claimed their captive wasn't intelligent, sentient, and a dozen other words, all to justify their experiments. Well, jokes on him, Jason thinks, because from where he's standing, this fucker seems smarter than everyone else here combined.
Or maybe, these people really just were incompetent.
Either way, Jason wasn't complaining.
He keeps whistling, switching to one of Talia's favorite melodies. As he walks, the halls gradually get darker, narrower. Jason starts to find splotches of lazarus green on the floors and walls; hints of it, at first, and then larger splashes, until he finds it. A clear, hand-shaped mark, etched in green.
If it weren't for the color, it would look like a blood trail.
His expression doesn't change, but Jason feels the rage in his chest begin to stir. Jason— Jason's been trying to keep it chained near his heart, to keep it on a tight leash ever since the incident at Titan's Tower, or somewhere around that time. He's learned his lesson about assessing a situation before giving into the anger, and well—
The lazarus rage has already been fed plenty of blood today.
No jumping to conclusions, he tells himself, not until I find this person.
And of course, the rage doesn't fade away once he finds them, because why would it? That was never going to happen, and even the chance that it would is laughable. He's heard what the scientists have said, seen the bloodied tools and heavy-duty restraints and the plans, oh, the plans. He doesn't know who came up with them, but Jason would happily give them the long, slow deaths they deserve.
Jason doesn't find a monster. He doesn't find anything like the hysteric personel would have lead him to believe, in their desperation to stay alive.
Instead, he finds a — mostly — humanoid figure covered in that green blood, curled into a tight ball. They're in a glass cage, surrounded by more white walls, and Jason isn't even sure if an average sized human could comfortably stand straight in there.
But then they raise their head, glaring at him with bright, pupil-less eyes, and Jason is spitting out the nastiest curses he knows.
"I should have killed them slowly," Jason growls, "Shoulda took my time with them instead of a shot to the brain."
Because there's a fucking gash where their voicebox should be. A deep one, and the flesh there is a mess of blood and muscle. It's only years of training and a life spent in Crime Alley that prevent Jason from vomitting right then and there, and even then, it's a close thing. Jason can see their body struggle with each breath, and it makes it real damn hard to see their defiance as anything but bravado.
Jason shoves his guns in their holsters and holds out his hands. He does his best attempt to look non-threatening, despite the blood on his clothes and expressionless helmet. "I ain't with the GIW," Jason says, "And if you'll let me, I'd love ta get you out of that fuckin' box."
They tilt their head, revealing pointed ears that'd been hidden by their gray hair. Carefully, they raise their hands, forming trembling signs. "How do I know I can trust you?"
A reasonable question, Jason thinks, but not an easy one to answer. He has an idea, though. "I don't know how much this information is worth to ya," he says, and then he's unlatching and pulling off his helmet. "But the name's Jason Todd—" he flashes a toothy smile — "and I also happen to be Gotham's Red Hood, crimelord extrodanaire."
Something flickers in the being's eyes. It isn't hope, not quite, but Jason thinks it might be the start of it.
"That's dangerous info," they sign, hands shaking more the longer they're in use. "What's gonna stop me from using it?"
His grin doesn't change. "Ya could," Jason says, all practiced non-chalance and even keeled. No need for his new friend to see the brunt of his anger, or know how closely his identity is tied to the others'. "'I don't got any way to stop ya, and if I get my way, all the info that could be used to stop ya is gonna burn with the rest of this building. That's the offer, I trust ya not to out me and you let me get those restraints off of ya, and then we can go our own ways."
Or not, Jason thinks, because he's pretty damn curious who they are. He wants to know more about the person that the GIW named "PH-01", something he refuses to refer to them as, not when it's an experiment number and something beyond dehumanizing. Jason can learn their name naturally, dammit, without the help of a bunch of fuckers who have earned their place six feet under.
And, on a more clinical note, their injuries aren't the type that will naturally heal on their own.
Countless incisions, open wounds, second — if not third degree — burns, and that's not even mentioning what's left of their throat.
It's a long, long couple of minutes before he finally gets a response. Those piercing eyes look to the floor, and their shoulders slump as their entire body folds in on itself. "Behind you," they sign, still averting their gaze. "There should be a panel built into the wall, I don't know how it opens up, and the controls are there."
Jason has to stop himself from cheering. His siblings aren't on the line, so there's no one to brag to, and he doesn't want to overload his new friend. Acquaintance? Ally? Friend? Whatever. There's time to figure that out later.
After he finds the control panel.
His fingers trace the edges of the wall, feeling for any spot that was inconsistent with the rest. A hidden switch, a pressure plate, even a badly disguised button. The GIW, he's learned, are frighteningly competent at their specialty, but their skill at everything else is a mixed bag. Complicated firewalls, blocking unorganized files; near impossible to find bases, guarded by scientists who could barely throw a punch; top rate facilities housing science that would collapse if you thought about it too hard.
If he hadn't been dismantling them himself, Jason would call the GIW a cheap, poorly made replica of Cadmus.
When he doesn't find any obvious mechanism, he groans. "Of fuckin' course," he mumbles, not bothering to hide his irritation. "Couldn't get lucky with this, not even once, always gotta fuck aroun' and find out."
He kicks the door, just to make his point. And it's barely even a kick, and even with his steel-toed boots, there isn't even enough force to bruise. It's a way to vent his frustration, that's all.
Except—
The entire pannel moves.
It shifts a few inches backwards, clicking and creaking as it goes, before the whole damn wall lights up like a computer. The interface doesn't look too tricky to sort through, everything written as plain as day, without any additional protective measures. Jason would almost call it stupidly easy, if only because the GIW is too damn incompetent to think about potential break-ins and data leaks. Fuck, Jason has only been here for five minutes and he could tell you that their captive could read anything he'd like, given that the computer was active, of course.
If he thinks about that, though, the whole situation just seems crueler. The GIW either thought that his friend wasn't intelligent, or they just didn't care enough to hide their work.
Jason's betting on the second one.
It's not like it makes much a difference at this point, with the agents already dead or dying.
Fortunately, it isn't hard to find the controls for the cage. They're in a neat little square in the upper corner of the screen, where anyone could have found them and pressed them. Just one tap, and boom, dangerous being on the loose, ready to cause harm or do evil or whatever the scientists believed would happen.
Jason clicks it gleefully.
There's an odd hissing sound, like air escaping from being compressed in a box, and then there is something looming over him. Jason sees the shadow stretched tall against the white walls, and instinct is the only thing that prevents him from grabbing out one of his guns. For fuck's sake, he just freed the guy, and even if he hadn't, Jason doubts that bullets would do much damage.
He spins on his heel, stepping to the side with a dramatic wave of his arms. "Have at it," Jason says, gesturing towards the display. "Like I said, I'm burnin' this place to the ground, but you're more than welcome to purge any information ya find." A hint of cruelty slips into Jason's smile. "Fuck, I don' care if you wanna go back the way I came an' kick all the corpses a couple o' times."
Almost warily, the other floats down so their eyes are level with Jason's. It makes it hard to avoid looking at the gash of their throat, but it's not like Jason doesn't have experience with grisley injuries of his own. If his new friend doesn't mention it, then neither will he.
"It can burn," they sign, eyes flashing green. "I could fry the tech, in theory, but…"
Jason understands the unspoken words. "Conserve the power ya got," he says, and without another thought, Jason fires off three shots at the computer. It's beyond satisfying, watching the screen flicker and die. Still smoking, the gun is shoved back into its holster. "Now, I gotta say, I got one question before we make our way outta here, assumin' you don't hate the idea of company."
"Depends on the company," his friend says, sounding less wary than before. Benefits of not being in a tiny box, or something like that. "What's the question?"
"What am I supposed to call ya?" Jason asks, before the other's hands have even stilled. "I ain't callin' you shit from the GIW's files, but right now, that's all I've got."
A blink. A head tilt that isn't cute, it isn't. For a supposed 'destructive monster,' whose existence had gotten them torn apart and poked at like an experiment, Jason thinks they're quite pretty. Deep green eyes, body snake-like and lean, and a grin that looks sharp enough to cut through steel. He'd bet anything that they're intelligent, too, and with that sort of muscle, one hell of a fighter.
What can he say?
Jason's got a type, and dangerous is a key requirement.
"The files aren't completely useless," they sign, glaring at the still smoldering computer. "They call me PH-01, right?" Jason nods, and their expression twists into a bitter smile. "My name was Phantom, before."
His body reacts before his mind, lips curving upwards into a smile before Jason can think better of it. The name's a little bit on the nose, sure, and it reminds him of one of Dick's awful jokes, but Jason can appreciate sticking to a theme. "Pleasure ta meet ya, Phantom," Jason says, except that's not entirely true. "Wish it was under better circumstances, but ya know how it goes in this line of work. Not very often we get meet-cutes and coffee shops."
Of all things, the words manage to pull a tiny laugh out of Phantom. There's no sound to it, just a flash of bright teeth and a grin, chest moving just a bit easier than before, but Jason is proud of it, nevertheless.
"Crimelord and literary critic. Isn't that an interesting combination?" Phantom signs, expression twisting into something more lighthearted. It's a good look on them. "You seem like a fun person to be around, Mister Hood."
"Ask me once we're out of here, and I can show ya the call-sign Black Bat uses for me," Jason says, almost absently. "Probably easier than spellin' out the full name all the time, and ya need to conserve your energy if you're goin' ta recover from what these fuckers did to ya."
And then Jason realizes something. He doesn't intend to force Phantom to stay with him, not on his life, and he sees it the moment they go still. They don't even look like they're breathing, and fuck, the last thing Jason wants is for them to think they're being forced anywhere. If Phantom never wants to set foot in Gotham again, Jason wouldn't blame them.
"Hey, hey, hey," Jason says, not unlike how he speaks to spooked victims, "Take it easy, Tommy. You're welcome ta leave Gotham as soon as we're outta here. BB is just scarily fuckin' good at knowing when one of us did a solo mission and stakin' out the place on her own. Older siblings, ya know?"
Slowly, with every breath they take, some of the tension drains from Phantom's lithe frame. "You call the other vigilantes your siblings?"
Well, there goes that little secret, Jason thinks, but he isn't particularly bothered by it. "Yup," he says, popping the 'p'. "Annoyin' ones, too. Always gettin' into my safehouses and raidin' my supplies. They're a bunch of fuckin' menaces, but they'd be here, too, if they knew about this place. Might have been a bit cleaner, but that's their problem, not mine."
The last of the tension fades away as Phantom lets out a soundless sigh. "I'll try meeting Black Bat, if she's outside the base. No promises that I won't just turn invisible and fly away. Once we're out of here, I should be able to fry these power dampeners." They pointedly shake their wrists, clearly showing off the faintedly glowing bands that, somehow, Jason had not noticed.
A small detail in the long-run, but glaringly obvious to him now.
"Give me the word," Jason says, as sincerely as he can manage, "and I'll find a way to fry them before we're even out of here. As much as I'd love ta invite ya home and offer help healin', I wanna make sure you can leave without my help."
Phantom gives Jason a long, hard look. Their eyes are narrowed, brows furrowed and pinched. The muscles in their throat tremble, as though they tried to swallow, but instead, it only draws attention back to the grisly wound. It's obvious that they're looking for something, but the details of their search? Jason isn't privy to them. Doesn't want to be, because it's none of his damn business what people see in him.
Not being bothered by the look doesn't make it any less unsettling, though.
Phantom's eyes, pretty as they may be, are fucking creepy when they want them to be.
Jason is expecting a wary reply, when they finally do speak. Another question, maybe, asking for one more reason to trust the Bats. A dismissal wouldn't be too out of the question either, given Jason's bold proclamation. Fuck, if he were in there shoes, Jason might not even reply at all.
Instead, they offer him their hands. Hesitantly, slowly, cautiously. Even through his gloves, their wrists feel like bird bones in Jason's hands, and he forces himself to be gentle. Too gentle, maybe, but Jason knows exactly how easily bird bones break, and he refuses to be another person to hurt Phantom. It's a long list, he's sure, and hopefully, the people on it will never have an opportunity to hurt anyone again.
If they do, well.
Jason has more bullets than they have second chances.
"I'll be careful," Jason says, keeping his voice low. "I'm pretty good at fixin' shit, I swear to ya."
He isn't just talking about the cuffs. Judging by the faint smile on Phantom's face, they know it, too. And he's certain of it now, there's hope in those haunting eyes.
If Jason gets his way — and he will fight to get it, even if he has to raid a hundred more of these damned bases — they will never be without it again.