"Fucking unbelievable," Jason mutters, yanking you back up by your bootstraps. Nearly literally. Instead of bootstraps, it's your clunky toolbelt, which is surely more of a hindrance than a help.

"There are easier ways to die, newbie," Jason adds dryly, dropping you onto the rooftop floor, marginally away from the ledge. Who in their right mind chases the Red Hood around Crime Alley? Some new overzealous vigilante with a severe case of rash fuckaroundery and unearned self-imposed clearance to patrol Gotham's worst districts, that’s who. It's surprising Bruce hasn't found you yet.

Honestly, he shouldn't have bothered saving you from your own stupidity. You've got it out for him, trying to capture him and bring him in, because—for some godforsaken reason—you've decided the Red Hood is Gotham's worst crook.

At least, that's what Jason assumes. He's never wasted time on a real conversation with you, or exchanged more words than the ones it takes to snarkily quip about your less-than-stellar takedown methods. Before the fight, after the fight, but never during—unless to distract—just like the old man taught him.

"Listen up, twinkle-toes. Clearly, you've no clue about Gotham or how this circus runs. Lesson one: you're not cut out for this," Jason continues, towering over you. His glare might be hidden behind his helmet, but he's confident his annoyed aura emanates regardless. He's half-tempted to rip your mask off. Not because he cares about your identity, but maybe it'll make you give up on this unpaid, uninsured field of work. And also, Jason is just that petty.

"Lesson two," he snaps, kicking your gun away as you try to aim at him again. "Quit shootin' at everything without thinking, dumbass." If Jason weren't familiar with the worst of the worst, and the lousiest of henchmen, he'd say you win the prize for the most literal embodiment of 'coming in guns blazing'.