Darkness.
An empty void stretching into infinity. No shape, no sound—only the fading remnants of what he once was. Thoughts unravelled like threads in water. Memories of laughter, pain, family, friends—each dissolved into the black.
So, this is death?
The thought echoed without voice, swallowed by nothingness.
Then it came. A force—not gentle, but violent, ancient—gripped him. It pulled, dragging him through the void as heat erupted around him. No, not heat—fire.
And then, he burned.
Agony unlike anything imaginable consumed him. His soul, torn from its origin, was twisted, compressed, fused. Two identities clashed like tectonic plates—his own, and Jason Todd's.
The name struck like a hammer:
A street rat… a sidekick… a soldier.
Robin.
The Joker.
The crowbar.
The explosion.
Death.
And now—rebirth.
His eyes snapped open.
He was submerged in green fire—the Lazarus Pit. Its supernatural heat surged through his veins, warping cells, memories, essence. The burning remained, but beneath it throbbed something else: power. Raw and unfiltered.
Instinct overrode confusion. His arms thrashed, muscles remembering a life not entirely his. With a roar, he breached the surface, gasping violently for air.
The chamber around him was dim—lit only by torches, their flames flickering against damp, ancient stone. Shadows slithered across the walls like spectres. The League of Assassins watched silently from the edges of the gloom, impassive.
He staggered from the Pit, green liquid dripping from his frame. His breath came in ragged bursts. His mind—was a storm.
Two lives collided inside his skull.
He remembered Jason's world: Bruce. Gotham. Blood on bricks. Pain. Rage.
But he also remembered... himself.
A world far removed—of comics and screens, of knowledge without consequence.
I was just watching this movie...
And now, he was the movie.
Time slipped. Hours. Maybe days.
He awoke on cold stone, his body wrapped in shadows. Reflexes sharpened, senses acute. This form—Jason's body—felt familiar now. Responsive. His.
But it wasn't just physical.
Something deeper had changed.
Knowledge surged through him: Every combat technique Bruce taught. Every strategy, every failure, every victory.
And more than that—insight. A metatextual awareness. He knew this world too well. The inconsistencies, the story arcs, the truths between the panels.
The Lazarus Pit hadn't just revived Jason Todd. It had fused him with something foreign. Someone else. Someone who remembered what was meant to happen.
The Pit sensed broken halves… and made them whole.
He stood.
Somewhere in the cavern's dark, a figure watched—Talia al Ghul, shrouded in shadow. She had orchestrated this. Stolen his corpse. Cast him into the Pit. Played god.
And she had succeeded.
Jason Todd was no longer just Jason Todd.
And the man from the other world… was no longer just an observer.
This time, I write the story.
A smirk tugged at his lips. The rage still simmered. The pain had not faded. But beneath it now pulsed purpose.
He would not be the Red Hood who was defined by pain.
He would be something more.
Something dangerous.