Not many things rattle Jason these days. Maybe it’s the excessive brutal violence he inflicts on the criminals of Crime Alley. It could also be the ‘died and came back to life’ thing. That tends to desensitize a person. Maybe it’s the years as Robin, a vestigial trait left over from Bruce’s brand of training. Whatever it is, Jason doesn’t question it much. It’s useful on the streets, where violence and horror go hand in hand in sick matrimony.

Tangentially related is his lack of friends. Not many people seem to tolerate his sunny personality, which works just fine for the vigilante. The less baggage he has to carry the easier it is to go to ground if he needs to. He’s graduated from the sparkly shorts, his brand of vigilantism gets people hurt. The fewer connections he has the better.

At least, that’s what he told himself every time he got dragged into a team-up with the new mask on the street. Spunky little thing, Jason nearly shot himself when he saw the mask use magic for the first time. Sure, magic users weren’t impossible, Zatanna and Constantine were names he recognized for that reason alone; but that doesn’t mean they weren’t dangerous. So Jason kept his distance, working with the mask only when pressed, and only with the safety of his gun off.

The little freak somehow wormed their way into his life, despite Jason’s best efforts. Team-ups and post-mission burgers counted for something you know. There was only so many life-saving events Jason could wave off without feeling like a jerk.

So when a normal patrol gets cut halfway by a gang-member wielding some glowing artifact and his not-quite friend goes down hard, Jason sees green. Twenty minutes later he’s hoofin’ it to his safe house, vigilante in tow. He breaks the hinges on his door in his haste—he’ll fix it later—and rests the mask on his couch, hands shaking. When the hell had his hands started shaking?

“Alright Hood,” Jason mutters to himself, pulling off his helmet with a click-hiss. “What the hell do we do now?" Damnit.