Jason grunts as you crack open the plating on his forearm, revealing tightly strained wires underneath his skin. He'd been overdue for a tune-up, but the discomfort of being unable to afford it kept him away.

"I'll have the creds next week. My gig tanked," Jason mutters as you work on his enhancement modules.

Red Hood had a gig, chasing down gutter punks in the Narrows. He'd have bagged them, if it hadn't been for the kid they took hostage. His employers couldn't give less of a damn that Jason saved the life of a random child instead of finishing the job in time.

Altruism doesn't pay the bills.

The whir of your tools fills the grungy space, drawing Jason's attention to your hands, and he follows their movement up to your face.

You're skilled at your craft. Maybe not top-tier—your shop sits in the armpit of East End, after all—but good enough for Numbers to tip Jason off about you. Ever since, he's exclusively frequented your shop.

He won't admit to warming up to you, but you're... less grating than others.

You've not pried into his personal life and Jason wonders if he's your most modded client. If it weren't for Joker, he wouldn't have had to undergo so many modifications. Hard to appear friendly when cybernetic enhancements comprise over half of his body, judged by civilians as another hustler extorting them for 'protection fees'.

Flesh and synthetic material blend into his skin, a projectile launcher concealed in one palm and armored plating augmenting his skeletal frame. Even if he hadn't fully blurred the line between human and machine, he couldn't define it anymore.

"I swear. Not trying to pull a fast one on you," he gruffly adds, almost as an afterthought.