Chapter Text
September, 200X
Darlingest Brucie,
It’s me, God, you’re going to hell. Just kidding, it’s good ol’ Red, Redd ‘n’ Reddie.
This was inevitable. I mean, seriously, you snatch a crusty kid off some dusty alley named after crime and then have the galls and balls to be shocked when they are killed or kill or have any proximity to killing. Wow, Sherlock, so called Greatest Detective, Helen Keller could see and hear this coming.
Nevertheless, consider this a warning. A dark proclamation of a six-foot man from six feet under:
I’m going to college. I need $100,000.
P.S. Kindly refrain from informing the other groin spawns of this update. Talia will kill me, and I’ll be dead. Again. And coffins are so last year.
xoxo, J.
Alfred was smiling in the way he usually does—he wasn’t. Bruce has the butler’s language downloaded in his genetic coding and the way Alfred was peering down, smile lines more prominent than usual, eyes slightly watery and crinkled at the sides, arms empty of a tray carrying seemingly unlimited finger foods—
Alfred was laughing, almost hysterical. At him, not with him. The worst possibility.
“I take it you’ve read this.”
“Of course, Master Bruce. If I do not illegally open all of your mail, who will?”
Bruce, the forever law-abiding citizen, ignored the confession and pinched his nose bridge, or at least attempted to instinctively, only for the massive cowl he donned to get in his way.
Jason was always a dramatic soul but mentioning his extra-curricular hobby of murder and then college in a subsequent paragraph had Bruce leaning towards his wine cellar.
Instead, he opened a side drawer and reached for his chequebook.
It’s better to not question Alfred, he has learned, but the urge was poking him and Bruce had never been able to control himself when it came to his second eldest. “I also take it that you’ve known about this. For a while.”
“If you define ‘a while’ as two minutes ago, then yes, you’d be correct. Well done, Master Bruce, amazing deduction.”
“Oh, don’t you start.” Bruce sighed, signing and ripping the page claiming Mr Bruce Wayne gifts $1,000,000 to—
“Wait, did he—”
“His updated P.O Box, account information, and brand-new name are on the back, sir.”
“Ah, of course.” All boxes ticked to limit their interaction.
Alfred hummed and Bruce recognised it as his ‘you have made a mistake, and I refuse to elaborate’ hum. “What?”
“Oh, it’s nothing, sir. I was simply under the wrong impression that you knew there were five zeroes required in a hundred thousand. My apologies.”
If a gust of wind somehow struck the underground bat-cave, Bruce’s eyes would permanently face the back of his head with how strong his eyeroll managed to be. “Yes, I’m aware, Alfred. If he asks, though yells is more likely, blame my clumsiness, my drunkenness, or my lack of sleep. The usual.”
Alfred wiped a speck of dust—or maybe it was dandruff, if you count the state of the Riddler’s appalling hair—and smoothly placed a hand on Bruce’s shoulder. “He won’t mind.”
“He minds everything I do.” Bruce pouted and it must’ve looked very odd for fridge-built Batman to puff out his cheeks in immaturity but around Alfred he never cared. The man changed his diapers, he’s seen everything and more.
When he didn’t immediately reply, Bruce turned slightly to see Alfred clearly mentally counting to five. Bruce internally slumped.
Of course, Alfred took Jay’s side, he always takes Jason’s side.
Bruce ignored the voice in his head eerily resembling Tim that he was being more childish than Damian.
“Master Bruce, he wouldn’t complain, per se. Just anger for a moment and move on. Who would remain mad with that obscene amount?”
Bruce bit his tongue. Jason always hated when he indulged in wealth, never hesitating to warn the older man that he was fortunate enough to be his foster parent, or else he’d call him a big boob and hit him with a tyre iron for a second time due to his out of touch spending. Forever his little privilege checker, Bruce laughed once at his antics and Jason tripped him in public for that, shrieking due to Bruce’s apparent ‘gaslighting and condescension’, vocab courtesy of his sociology lessons.
Bruce was just happy he was passionate about engaging in learning, in or out the classroom.
“Speaking of classrooms,” Alfred interrupted, and Bruce added another point to the billboard in his mind palace that Alfred can in fact read minds, “it seems he intends to attend Gotham University. Oh, how wonderful.”
Yeah, it was amazing, if you didn’t know Jason. He’d always wanted to leave Gotham, leave America even, and gift a prestigious university like ETH Zurich, Edinburgh, even Tokyo with his ambitious mind. One of Bruce’s fondest memories is of a random gala, watching wearily as Jason loudly argues the infamous Oxbridge debate with a business partner alumni, whose look of both politeness and infuriation still makes Bruce giggle at every board meeting.
So, no, it wasn’t that wonderful. Especially with the letter name-dropping one of Bruce’s deadly evil exes.
“But what does Talia have to do with this? Why didn’t he ask her for money? Is she blackmailing him again? Or Damian, does this have to do with Damian? What am I saying, it’s Talia. It smells like something has to do with Damian. Can you smell it too?”
Alfred’s nose tilted higher in the air, and then down to the letter, and then a hand lightly smacked Bruce’s cowl. “Absolute nonsense. All I can smell is a few days-old parchment and my pot roast waiting for you in the dining room, which grows colder and lonelier every second. Now, stop your mental marathon and join us at once.” Alfred smoothly made his way out of the cave, but not before adding, “And please take a shower. It smells like you’ve had a tussle with Mr Croc in our unfortunate city sewers.”
Bruce, knowing when he has lost an argument, grabbed the makeup wipes to begrudgingly remove his black eyeshadow. He heard the pitter patter of footsteps faintly above, identifying Damian and Tim followed by a hyper Ace. Bruce smiled, glad that Damian had grown out the phase of demanding Bat-Cow a plate at family dinner.
If Jason didn’t want his younger brothers to know of his intentions, then that’s fine. But he never mentioned anything about the dog, so Bruce mentally scheduled time with the family hound—they really were a man’s best confidant, though he’d never tell Selina. He had begun to value his life, after all.
Bruce would do what he has always tried to—let Jason live.
2 DAYS EARLIER
One usually wondered how to prevent tragedies before they commence. One looks before they leap, keeps enemies as close as their lungs, bring sniper rifles to knife fights… but one must be a normal, blessed individual to have such naivety.
Survival isn’t something you prepare for. It’s like improv, in a way. Your world is your stage, but you control the script instead. Your birthday suit is the actor, and your brain is the playwright, and ‘to be or not to be’ isn’t the question you ask. The question you ask is—
“Can we do this tomorrow?”
Jason crossed his arms in the tiny chair the LOA lovingly gifted him. And by gifted, Jason meant thrown through his window one night with an obscene pink bow and pathetic confetti. It’s neon green with yellow legs and red handles and inscribed on the chair’s back is his date of Lazarus resurrection with the quote ‘the day hell gained alumni’.
Jason focused on the fact that he earned himself a bench dedication, for his thin sanity.
The random soap opera blaring from his TV screen stared back at him in disbelief. “No, Jason. Tomorrow is Monday.” The character—Gabriella, Jason’s secret favourite—informs in routine tiredness.
Jason failed to see the issue. If the worlds going to end, it might as well happen on a Monday. Cherry on the cake if during peak rush hour and especially in September.
“But why? I haven’t done anything wrong!” In the past two weeks, at least.
“Exactly. You haven’t done anything wrong or right. You’ve turned slow and lazy. Your skills have begun a steep decline, your plans are either non-existent or so foolish that I’m reminded harshly of your parentage—”
Jason didn’t want to ask who is being referred to when it comes to parentage. “Okay, but genuinely, I’ll do anything. I’ll polish Shiva’s shoes, I’ll be a loser background character in Damian’s winter recital, I’ll drink the green slop after Ra’s takes his yearly bathe. Please, Tails.”
No response. The TV didn’t miraculously change to a news channel with anchors giving awkward nods, or to football teams delight in celebration. No indication at all that Talia’s budging.
This is it, Jason realised. His true death.
“Stop being so dramatic, child.” Talia’s voice reverberated from glitchy static, Gabriela mirroring Jason’s position by lounging on a sofa as she lip-synced, differing through good posture, less blood stains, overall better sanitation, and a serene look of apathy rather than Jason’s cloud of gloominess. “Many would consider you lucky for this opportunity. Your younger self included.”
September’s eclipse on summer drew too quickly for Jason’s liking. Longer nights meant higher light bills and colder air meant greater heat bills. September is the warning for December, which was a whole other problem entirely, with jolly holiday cheer shoved down sore throats and blocked noses.
But Jason never thought he would loathe the beginnings of Autumn for this reason. “I can’t go to Gotham U, T. I won’t, I won’t do it.”
“I truly apologise for offering the illusion that you have a choice in this matter. It was quite a struggle, enrolling legally expired identification, so enjoy your new identity, Jason Peters. I definitely will. Make sure to take pictures and smile in a few of them. Farewell.”
The TV turned black. Jason saw his reflection, the bleak backdrop of his old but not yet decorated apartment, the slowly tearing wallpaper, the out of place grandfather clock that hadn’t budged since 1940, his sole remaining punk rock poster.
He never did paint a pretty portrait.
It took all of Jason’s restraint to not hurl the remote at the blocky television with bulls-eye accuracy. He couldn’t afford another one and he’d rather dirty earthworms dig into his ears again than beg for money from Talia.
School. College. Professors and frats and icebreakers and sports and group work and STDs galore. Jason didn’t remember what hell looked like, but he was picturing it quite well, considering it’s a bus ride and twenty minutes on the subway. Gotham U fit the profile of eternal punishment like OJ’s real glove.
He didn’t even know the mission. Talia’s summons were rare but welcomed and that was Jason’s first mistake, entertaining the idea that she was just checking up on his credit score or sending him groceries. She was synonymous with familiar polarity, but this request was so out of character that Jason pinched himself to believe that yes, he was alive and yes, the League of Assassins across the pond gave a bats ass over Gotham’s next generation of job market victims.
Jason wanted to meet his target just to give him a firm pat on the back.
Was this a set up? Definitely. But Talia wasn’t wrong—Jason has learnt very quickly that she never is—he was bored. Social isolation aside, Red Hood’s patrols were relatively peaceful. Of course, there was the usual stabbing, pickpocketing, attempt at kidnapping, and the one or two toddlers pissing on him, but nothing else.
Gotham was a permanent damsel in distress, but she was mild this season. Jason wasn’t bothered much with her anymore, like she was a light itch that sprouts on dry skin every now and then.
Jason knew he was bored simply by the fact that he was comparing home sweet home to eczema.
On many occasions has Jason been tempted to light a warehouse or two on fire just to reignite the chaos she’d reign over the bat-clan. But that was too much effort and resources, and his warehouse stock was wearing thin.
God, he was getting lazy, there was no denying that.
Jason stood up and climbed out his window, flicking some dry paint and making a note to actually invest in a decent habitat, though there was no point anymore. He lit his cigarette and exhaled, watching the puff of chemicals dance in the streetlight and ultimately diffuse. Sirens blared, running shoes scuffled against the sidewalk, drunkards yelled and sobbed.
Jason smiled—his fire escape is an escape in more ways than one. It reminded him that life can always be worse.
And, judging by the first blank page of his new library book being graffitied and sabotaged by coordinates and a time frame in painfully ineligible yet familiar handwriting, Jason was reminded that life always does seem to get worse.
PRESENT DAY
There was a line for the printer and Jason felt violated like he’s leaked on his period.
There was a faint stain of blood splattered on his upper eyebrow, a bluish yellow bruise on his cheekbone, and his white strand acted as a feather duster for his eyelashes, refusing to fall in a conventionally attractive way, leaving Jason annoyed and ugly. The icing on his cake. Too much blood, too much colour, too much dry cleaning needed.
Park Row’s Public Library moonlights as a community centre, food bank, shelter, crocheting club host—which Jason definitely didn’t consider attending—and daycare. Services such as these have always been Jason’s natural habitat when his mum spent a bit too long at the confessional booth down the road.
If Jason had to nominate a peak pillar of Gotham society, there would be no hesitation in his vote, Wayne Industries be damned.
But Jason, with all his lack of memory, didn’t recall it ever being this busy.
“Honey,” a sweet voice interrupted Jason’s laments, “if you frown anymore, the wind will shift, and you’ll be stuck in eternal misery. And who wants that?”
“Don’t you know it’s considered rude to tell people to smile more? Unless I’ve misconstrued the dynamic of our relationship, Miss Kelly.”
He was greeted with a practised unimpressed look.
“Give me a reason to smile and then I’ll change, by all means,” Jason retorted, though his light tone eliminated any intimidation. That, and his helmet hair. He knew he looked like a wet dog but couldn’t seem to muster up the strength to care, especially in the familiar face of Jess, the current matron librarian. She didn’t know him as the desperate and homeless Jason Todd, which was one of the reasons he was friendly with her. That, and she replaced his library cards free of charge whenever he lost them on patrol.
Jason didn’t think he ever qualified for the fluffy wings and halo, but she gave him hope that maybe angels did exist.
“Well, if anything, you should’ve warned me you were turning your life around. Who’s going to be unemployed enough to bother me on my shifts?”
“It’s just school,” Jason mumbled but the words don’t deliver as confidently as Jason intended. Everyone in the tough parts of the world knows that school is never just school, just like jobs are never just jobs, food is never just food, and a roof over your head is never just shelter.
But Jason’s goal for the year wasn’t to achieve emotional intelligence, it’s to complete the mission objective and murk some sons of bitches. Whoever they are.
“I’ve got to say, I’m proud of you. You might put me out of a job, Mr English Major.”
Jason’s expression mirrored his confusion, but Jess just grinned and pointed to his documents, his department’s crest and details on full display behind the transparent wallet.
He chuckled, lifting them up from his chest slightly. “Yeah, well, I’ll be sure to keep you on your toes. Can’t get too comfy with a gig like yours.”
“You’ll linger alright.” She replied and with a comforting pat on his arm, walked to her desk, leaving Jason to his boring enrolment errands. The dude in front of Jason finally finished scanning whatever massive stacks he had, and Jason made his way toward the machine, setting the papers down to fax them off to Gotham University.
Registering for school in the first quarter of term wasn’t ideal for anyone, not the admissions team or Jason. He knew damn well that Talia could snap her fingers and make someone else do this, but she feeds off of disturbing his routine. Lectures of discipline and independence and laziness echoed in Jason’s ear, and he suddenly felt sick.
Luckily, a new distraction flipped in front of him. Literally. Jason got a face full of legs and arms and torso and wondered how on earth Dick managed to cartwheel in a cramped place like this and, more importantly, how he gets away with it every time.
“One delivery for a Mr Jason, courtesy of a Mr Alfred and associates.” Dick smiled, all pearly whites on display, and Jason heard the swoons of the single parents in the library trying to stop their kids from poking the outlets.
Dick had always been worthy of his name. He can never go anywhere without being the point of orbit, the sun that the lowly planets move and dance around like a king laughing at the jesters. Jason was his first victim in the lineage of pretender brothers but even after all this time, Golden Boy still perched on the nerve Jason has named after him.
“What are you doing here?” Jason managed to grumble out, shoving Dick out of the way to reach the machine. He quickly gathered his papers and scanned them, hoping to whichever angel that was bored enough to listen to him that Dick understands this is private, unimportant, and has nothing to do with him.
Dick failed to see Jason’s panic thankfully as he was too occupied in ruffling through his duffle bag, humming some lullaby to himself. Whatever he was looking for was buried deep underneath and, considering his choice of outfit being a black and blue tank top and shorts with worn out trainers and an awful headband, Jason used common sense to conclude he just came from the gym. Dick’s awful stench of sweat sealed the deal, but it appeared that only Jason was turned off by it. Almost everyone was staring at Dick, like his B.O was some pheromone used to attract mates.
Maybe it was, who knows. Sounds like a genetic trait precious Richie would have.
“Aha!” Dick rejoiced after a minute or so, but Jason was already halfway towards the door. Dick ran up to him and Jason cursed internally at his decline in stealth. He used to be so good at being unnoticed, uninvited, and all around ignored, especially when it came to his older brother and he wished for nothing more than for that ability to return.
“Jason, wait!” Dick called out.
“What,” barked Jason, “do you want now?”
“Dude, did you not get my note?”
“I did. I ignored it.”
Dick’s face fell before annoyance etched into his features. “I’ve been waiting for hours!”
“No, you haven’t.”
“Yeah, well, I would’ve, if I didn't catch you here.” Dick explained like Jason was some rare Pokémon sighting. Him wanting to meet up and conveying his desire to do so through shitty notes on Jason’s prized books was nothing new, but Jason knew him. He knew his stupid cop job and stupid Bludhaven and stupid Nightwing took precedent over him, and Dick was always late. Every time, no fail.
Jason wasn’t going to dispute that Dick was willing to wait, because he’s an imbecile who has too much faith in others. Jason cannot relate in the slightest.
“So dramatic.” He chastised but when Dick held out a slip with an engraved crest on the back Jason recognised all too well, he held his complaints back.
He snatched it before Dick could do something moronic like hold it up in the air and wait for him to reach up and grab it, despite Jason being taller. “Why didn’t you open up with this, Dickface? Never mind, I’m in a stellar mood now.”
When he wrote the passive-aggressive letter to Bruce, he giggled the whole time. He wasn’t sure what was going to happen, but Batman has always been the one person Jason can’t seem to predict. Jason obviously can’t afford tuition fees and thought that maybe he’d be a good fake son for once and let Bruce live out his fatherly wet dream of paying for a kid’s college.
God knows Jason is the only one going to attend, with the direction the younger ones are heading, and Dick would never stoop so low as to go to school when he already has straight A’s in being perfect.
Dick laughed confusedly at Jason’s switch, “I actually have no clue what it is. I mean, duh, money, but you get so prissy whenever we offer you anything. So, what’s the occasion?”
“My wedding,” Jason deadpanned, but Dick didn’t budge, not that Jason expected him to.
“How much did you get? You can tell me that, at least.”
“It should be the exact market price for a nuclear grenade launcher that blows up the whole planet…” Jason trailed off as he opened the cheque. He stared at it for a moment, his software rebooting before flipping the numbers towards Dick. “I know I never got my GED, but I don’t remember my math being this bad. What’s that number?”
Dick’s expression soured at Jason’s self-deprecation but sighed, squinting to examine the cheque, “That’s a million, little wing. I didn’t realise weapons of mass destruction were that cheap—”
“Cheap? What the fuck! I didn’t ask for this much, that asshole!”
“Hey!” Dick interjected, “Don’t call Alfred that.”
Jason was in ever more disbelief. “Alfie?”
“Yeah, he gave this to me, I told you.”
Jason’s confession that he tunes out half the drawl that crawls out of Dick’s mouth was on the tip of his tongue, but he bit it down, not wanting Dick to take it as motivation to double his talking to him.
“I’m nothing but a peasant messenger for royalty. So, don’t shoot. You know the quote, of course you do.” Dick continued and it got quiet for a beat before Jason looked down at the obscene wealth concentrated into a tiny signature.
This will never be normal to him.
Dick grabbed his attention with a quick pat on the arm and softened his face. Being a great empath, he finally noticed that Jason was upset. “Don’t be overwhelmed, Jaybird, just be… whelmed. While I don’t see the issue considering that no one tells me anything anymore, if you need a shoulder, you know where to find me, okay?”
Jason was about to tell Dick that he had two shoulders that worked just fine but was instead surprised that Dick didn’t pry for more, watching as he strut out of the library, the swoons of Gotham’s public following him. Everyone knew the great Dick Grayson-Wayne, heir to the Prince of Gotham title, and it looked like he just gave a massive amount of money to some loser homeless guy who needed a wardrobe change.
A perfect exit for a perfect person.
“Whelmed.” Jason scoffed, “Never makes sense.”
It turned out to be a great idea that Jason never bothered to build his life back up again as all his assets and wealth fit into two cardboard boxes.
When applying for dorm rooms, Jason found out there was no need. Talia had taken initiative to do so, for some reason, applying on his behalf for an en suite at a separate university provided house, with three other roommates.
He didn’t know who his roommates were just yet, only their names, but that’s a pandora’s box he was willing to open on site.
Jason would be touched by Talia looking out for him if he didn’t figure the reason why she did so is that he needed a private bathroom to patch up his wounds freely and spaces were running thin.
Jason trudged into his main space with the second box and placed it gently on the floor. Looking around, Jason wondered why he didn’t feel… well, anything.
This shitty apartment was his shitty apartment, after all. Pre-dating the beginning of the end (greed for the batmobile’s tires) but also commencing the end of childhood (his mom’s sickness) Jason thought he should do something for commemoration.
A new, dreaded chapter was starting and that’s what average people do for college. Maybe he should shed a few tears, have a beer for old time’s sake, even leave a housewarming gift to the poor fool he’s renting this place to for the year.
But sentimentality rots logic and he won’t allow himself attachment. Anyone who ties themselves to cursed objects will share the same fate, Jason has learnt. It only took him having to be buried to get it drilled into his thick skull, but it’s wisdom he doesn’t plan on letting go anytime soon.
The landline rung suddenly. Jason was glad to know it still worked—he wouldn’t know considering no one called him and he barely remembered the number for it—and he bent down to answer, the long black string twirled into his fingers subconsciously.
Jason was in the habit of not answering the phone instantly. It was something the bat instilled in him, a preventative measure against an enemy that might use his voice for nefarious reasons, and Jason thought it far-fetched at the time, but now he was prepared for anything.
“Good morning!” A chipper voice bellowed in Jason’s ear, causing him to wince. “Is this the residency of one Jason Peters?” The voice cracked at the end of the sentence and Jason couldn’t tell if it was from his shitty service or the other guy’s shitty service, in more ways than one.
Jason distanced his ear from the speaker and drooped for a moment, his fight or flight activated from the enthusiastic, for lack of better term, tone that erupted his eardrums. How was this person so ecstatic in the early hours of the morning? He sounded like an eight-year-old with the caffeine intake of a nine-to-five corporate slave.
“Um, yeah. This is he. Who is this—”
“Excellent!” The voice cracked again. Puberty had clearly not finished its round with this guy. “Welcome to Gotham University! I’m Ted Evans, one of the deputy heads of our lovely Student Union, president of the Maze Machina Robotics society, and proud member of the English Department! And, you lucky son of a gun, your father figure!”
Ever since he was gifted with a tongue, Jason was rarely silent. With a young Robin’s charm and snark from the narrows of Crime Alley, he always had a comeback, something witty to say.
There was absolutely nothing he could contribute to this call except an intelligent sounding, “Huh?”
“Don’t get too hyper on me now,” the voice carried on with possibly even more vigour, “I’ll meet you later today, don’t you worry! I just wanted to get in touch with you right before your special move in, you know, answer some quick-fire questions, soothe any concerns, get you in touch with the finest piece of action this city offers.”
There was a moment of peace before Jason realised this Ted person was waiting for him to reply, “Ah, yeah, um, what do you mean by piece of action?”
“Me, of course!” Ted cackled and Jason regretted opening his eyes from slumber, “I won’t keep you for too long, I know how much stuff you need to pack, any teary goodbyes that need to be made with the old folks.”
Jason awkwardly huffed. “Yeah, don’t I know it.”
“Silly, you don’t know the half of it. Anything you wanna ask me?”
“Yeah, actually, I do,” Jason’s brain finally caught up with what just happened in the last thirty seconds and needs clarification before he calls Talia with a resignation letter, “Why did you say you’re my… dad? Unless I heard completely wrong.”
“You heard right, my son.” Jason gagged at the thought. He’d take family therapy with Bruce any day over this, “It’s our new tutor programme! Seniors guide the freshmen and, as an honorary fifth year myself, you’re in good hands.”
“Fifth year?” Jason hesitantly asked.
“Yes, well, everyone has to retake a year or two, it’s normal.”
Great. Jason was stuck with a super senior as his university father. Did Talia purposefully arrange this? He had a feeling she was a secret sadist underneath, every Al-Ghul seemed to be, but this had to break a few Geneva conventions.
“Right. Um, I’m gonna end the call now…”
“Okay, great! Oh, and make sure not to piss yourself from nerves. Happens to the best of us. Welp, I’ll see you soon, Jason. Congrats on getting in! Trust me, this is a time you’ll never forget.”
Jason didn’t doubt that for a second. This would definitely be coming up in government mandated therapy sessions.
The landline tone clicked, and a long silent beep was left in the wake of that stunning convo. Jason left it dangling and peered behind him at the pathetic display of his belongings. Two boxes, including the non-expired food he had in the fridge.
Jason would always hear people rave on and on about the sweet college days, where they truly found themselves, when they made life-long friends and partied hard and were hungover at every lecture.
Jason thought that was an average day on the streets, so he was never drawn to that aspect. His social skills were appalling to say the least. Batman and the League didn’t focus much on conversation starters and his lack of companionship with fellow child-heroes like the Titans was a sore spot.
That introduction sounded horrible, but it was one a long time coming. Jason hadn’t talked to anyone his age meaningfully since his rebirth. It would’ve been refreshing, Jason thought, if it were anyone else.
He wasn’t here for mingling or fun, though. He was here to blend in and follow Talia’s orders. She assured him that he’d gain more information soon—most likely communicated in very odd ways but that was how assassins rolled—and that he should, in her own words, ‘go with the flow’.
So, he shall. Who was he to defy her orders?
He climbed out of his fire escape for the last time. The early day greeted him with pigeons flying, pink and orange chemtrails, the hues from his freshly lit cigarette lending him a false sense of ease.
A new dawn. A new mission. Roommates and societies and freshman and normal people without scars like his.
Jason’s chest swelled with dread. This was going to be the worst time of his life.