The scroll lay unrolled on the stone table, its ink still fresh. The assignment was simple on the surface: Infiltrate. Extract. Eliminate resistance if necessary.
Jason Todd skimmed it without a word.
Talia stood near the edge of the chamber, watching him. "It's time."
He didn't look up. "Am I your weapon now?"
Her silence stretched just long enough to sting.
Then: "You are your own," she said with a faint, knowing smile. "I merely sharpen the blade."
Jason's fingers curled slightly on the edge of the scroll. The answer was smooth, rehearsed. It reminded him how well she played the long game. Every word from her mouth was both truth and manipulation.
Still, he nodded once, rolled up the mission brief, and left.
The target was a satellite compound in the Hindu Kush—an old League splinter cell that had gone silent. Talia claimed it was a simple test of field readiness. But Jason suspected more.
They wanted to know what the Pit had done to him.
If he had come back right.
He moved under cover of night.
Every step down the mountainside was calculated. Wind speed. Terrain density. Heat signatures. He adjusted his path without conscious thought. His mind processed the landscape like an algorithm, while his body moved like water between shadows.
He could have made the approach in half the time, but he didn't.
Too fast would raise questions.
Two sentries. One on the roof, the other just outside the entrance.
Jason assessed their routines in seconds. Fatigue in the shoulders. Inconsistent pacing. Minimal discipline.
Weak. But he wouldn't be flashy.
He struck with surgical precision—nonlethal takedowns, clean and quiet. The kind of combat Batman would approve of. The kind Jason Todd would have executed with practiced brutality.
He dragged the bodies into the brush and moved on.
Inside, the compound was cold and damp, partially powered. Broken monitors flickered on the walls, displaying static.
Jason paused.
The scene was wrong. Too quiet. Too empty. Like it had been emptied for him.
They're watching me.
This whole thing is a stage.
But he continued, playing the part.
He followed the data lines back to the central server room. Inside, the objective: a drive embedded in a secure console. He moved to extract it when—
Movement.
Too fast.
He spun, ducking just as a blade sliced through the air above his head. Three assassins dropped from the ceiling—fully trained, armoured.
This isn't a test of readiness. This is a trap.
He dodged under the first attacker's strike, used the momentum to throw one into the console, and swept the legs of the third. His mind calculated their timing, weight, and angle of attack in milliseconds.
Predict. Counter. Control.
Within 12 seconds, all three were down. Alive, but unconscious.
He stood over them, heart steady. Not because he wasn't afraid—but because he had prepared for this. Trained alone, studied harder than any assassin ever had.
They wanted to see how well he'd recovered.
They just got their answer.
He retrieved the drive and left the compound untouched otherwise.
By the time he returned to the League's stronghold, dawn had broken. He walked through the courtyard silently. No one approached him. Word of what had happened hadn't spread—yet.
Talia waited in the same stone chamber.
He placed the drive on the table.
"Well?" he asked, voice flat.
Her eyes searched his face. "You performed exceptionally."
He gave no response.
She stepped closer. "No pain? No confusion? No... side effects from the Pit?"
He held her gaze. "No more than anyone else who's died and come back."
Talia tilted her head slightly, her smile unreadable. "That is good to hear."
Jason nodded once. "I'll be training in isolation again."
"Of course," she said smoothly. "Your method suits you."
He turned to leave.
"Jason," she called after him, just before he reached the doorway. "You surprised them."
"I didn't mean to," he said without turning. "I'll do worse next time."