#jason todd is a menace

[bludstein]

Thinking about Jason who is still legally dead, caught in 4k at Wayne Manor and act as if he lives there (technically he did). When asked about his similarities to Bruce's deceased son, he just smirks and says "yeah, I'm Jason's replacement. Bruce kept me around because we look so similar" and then chaos ensues because now Bruce is painted as a weeping father who still mourns deeply for his first adopted son but hid behind his playboy facade.

[arkangelo-7]

You know Bruce signed that check so fucking fast

[n0tsketchyy]

Headcanon that Jason goes to his grave to relax and absolutely scares the shit out of people

———

Dick: approaching Jason's headstone with flowers, and teary eyes "Hey Little Wing... I know we argued yesterday, and I—I just needed to come here like I used to. Sometimes I forget you're actually back."

The ground shifts slightly beneath him. Dick freezes.

Jason: casually pushing open his coffin lid and sitting up with bed hair and a stifled yawn "Could you keep it down? Some of us are trying to rest in peace here."

Dick: jumps backward, tripping over a nearby headstone and falling flat on his back. His scream echoes through the cemetery. "HOLY SHIT! WHAT THE ACTUAL—" clutches his chest "JASON?!"

Jason: stretching "Who were you expecting? The Joker?"

Dick: scrambling to his feet, voice cracking "WHY WERE YOU IN YOUR GRAVE?!"

Jason: climbing out and brushing dirt off his jacket "It's the only place in this godforsaken city where I can get some peace and quiet. Alfred's always cleaning at the manor, Tim's typing is incessant, and Damian—" shudders dramatically, "—exists loudly." gestures to the coffin "Memory foam. Added it last month."

Dick: still hyperventilating "That's... that's the most morbid thing I've ever heard."

Jason: shrugging "Says the guy who talks to my headstone when I'm not dead."

Dick: after a long pause "...Does Alfred know about this?"

Jason: "Who do you think brings me sandwiches?"

[panakina]

AU of Lost days where Jason blew up the Batmobile before Bruce got back to it, then left without explaining or revealing himself. Every few months he comes back to town and blows it up again just to really torment the man. When Batman stops using the batmobile at all, he spices things up by blowing up one of Bruce Wayne’s cars. Really make him sweat.

[ahfrickenfrick]

dick: i just think it’s really funny how you call tim pretender

jason: why

dick: roy and kori were MY friends first :(

jason: get over yourself

dick: and now tim has a speedster best friend too :(

dick: heh, guess you can’t beat the original blueprint 😙

jason: you really jumped from being upset to accepting that

dick: to be fair the one thing that bruce really taught us was to compartmentalize our emotions

jason: yeah that was really the only thing that has really stuck for me, huh?

dick: really pisses alfred off

[ilostmygenderalongwithmydignity]

I saw a post abt his goons thinking Jason is like super old because his outfit (w/ muzzle and hood) only shows his white hair, and while him being oblivious to that perception (like in that post) is funny as fuck, I think him encouraging it is equally funny.

Like, he casually goes “yeah, Batman and I were both trained by Agent A, but I take after him more than the Bat does” and all of his goons are like “holy fuck, does that mean they’re rivals bc of having the same mentor? No wonder Red Hood is scary as fuck.” But by “trained” Jason means “learned how to do household chores” and by “take after” he means “isn’t banned from the kitchen” and like, also he uses guns, but that’s not even what he’s thinking of until later.

This also means whispers of the terrifying “Agent A” start through Gotham’s underworld, and Bruce and Dick are losing their fucking minds and interrogate Alfred because “YOU NEVER MENTIONED A PRODIGY???” and Alfred is like “???” because they came to the conclusion that Alfred trained someone before working for the Waynes, and Alfred suddenly has to wrack his brain for every single person he ever encountered while in MI6, sweating because he has no memory of ever training any of them

[iydiamartinx]

THE TODD-LER PROBLEM

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader ft. batfam

divider by: cafekitsune & omi-resources word count: 2.9k synopsis: Jason gets hit with a magical regression spell during a mission and ends up… five years old. Still foul-mouthed. Still somehow armed. a/n: Don't ask me how or why I wrote this, it just happened... warning: This is utterly unhinged, its a crack fic

There were many things you expected when you opened your apartment door at 3 a.m.

Your boyfriend, Jason Todd, in full gear. Shrunken to approximately three feet tall. And trying to pick your lock with a paperclip. was not one of them.

You blinked once. Twice. “…Jason?”

The tiny figure looked up, scowling, with his tiny leather jacket zipped to the chin and a modified red helmet under one arm. His helmet was clearly a custom fit because you were almost certain someone on the team had taken the time to resize his gear. Probably Tim. Or Alfred. Or Jason even himself after he’d been cursed into a fun-sized menace.

He tilted his head. “Took you long enough.”

You stared. “You’re three feet tall.”

“Yeah?” he snapped, voice high-pitched but filled with all the rage of a war vet denied his nap. “Well you’re late I've been knockin' forever! an’ I’m cold, and some guy in a sparkly cape turned me into a—” he waved a tiny hand wildly— “a frickin’ gremlin!”

You stared in mild horror.

“I mean child!” he corrected, stomping past your legs and into your apartment like he owned it. “A frickin’ child. I have to use a stool to pee. I’m livin’ in hell.”

“Excuse me—”

He pushed past your legs like an angry little linebacker. “Also, someone tried to feed me carrots at the manor. Carrots. Like I’m a damn rabbit. I had to escape.”

“Jason, are you seriously—”

“—And Alfred was this close to making me take a bubble bath.”

You raised a brow. “You love bubble baths.”

“Adult me loves them. Toddler me has dignity.”

You shut the door with a sigh, already regretting every life choice that had led to this moment. “Fine. One night. But if you pee on anything, I’m calling Bruce.”

30 MINUTES IN...

You stared at the miniature version of Jason Todd standing dead center in your apartment. You still hadn’t gotten over the fact he was now a child.

He stood with his arms crossed. Eyebrows furrowed. Scowling so hard his little nose scrunched up. The resized red helmet was sitting crookedly on his head, and somehow, somehow, he was still wearing a tiny leather jacket like it was battle armor.

“Jason,” you said slowly, kneeling down to his eye level, “where did you get the gun?”

His eyes narrowed, suspiciously smug. “Trade secret.”

“Jason.”

He pouted. “You left your sock drawer unlocked.”

You blinked. “My sock drawer doesn’t have—”

Realization dawned.

You groaned, standing up and rubbing your face. “You hid weapons in my sock drawer?”

“Of course I did,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “What if you got mugged doing laundry?”

You turned on your heel, already pulling out your phone. “Zatanna needs to reverse this spell immediately. How is his five year old self more dangerous than his adult one.” You muttered to yourself. 

From behind you, Jason stomped his tiny boot. “I am not five! I’m five-and-a-half!”

You didn’t even look back. You just sighed and started texting Alfred for backup.

And possibly restraints.

Or duct tape.

Maybe both.

ONE HOUR IN...

You found him in the kitchen standing on the counter—barefoot, wild-haired, and determined. His tiny arms were stretched high above his head, fingers pawing at the top shelf with the sheer willpower of someone who believed they could reach it if they just tried hard enough.

“What,” you asked slowly, “are you doing?”

“I want Oreos,” he said, like it was obvious.

“There are Goldfish crackers right there,” you offered, gesturing to the open box on the counter beside him.

He looked at you like you’d insulted his ancestors. “I’m not a toddler. I have standards.”

He took them with both hands, giving you a small, pointed sniff of derision—as if your earlier suggestion of Goldfish had been not just offensive, but a personally insult.

Then, without another word, he hopped off the counter and disappeared down the hallway like a sugar-fueled cryptid preparing for war.

TWO HOURS IN...

You finally managed to corral him in front of the television, queued up some harmless cartoon with talking animals, and tiptoed into the kitchen to make yourself a much-needed snack.

When you came back, the cartoon was gone and you found him watching John Wick 3 with unblinking intensity.

You stared in horror. “You are not allowed to watch this.”

He didn’t flinch. “Too late.”

You snatched the remote from the armrest. “You’re five.”

“Five an’ a half!” he shouted, voice pitching up in outrage. “An’ I know all ‘bout vengeance! I lived it! Lemme watch Keanu!”

“No.”

“I will bite you.”

“You already did!”

He smiled. “And I’d do it again.”

You lunged for the remote.

He let out a feral shriek. The sound pierced the air like a banshee’s war cry. There was a flurry of motion, limbs, and one elbow jabbed directly into your ribcage. The remote went flying.

Somehow… you lost.

And there he was, not ten minutes later, curled in a blanket like a smug little gremlin, happily finishing John Wick 3.

You sighed, already pulling out your phone to call in reinforcements.

Alfred picked up on the first ring.

“Please tell me patrol is over,” you whispered, glancing warily toward the living room. “I need backup. Immediate. Preferably armed with sedatives and maybe a priest.”

There was the soft clink of a teacup on saucer before Alfred replied, calm as ever. “Master Grayson and Master Drake should be available in a few hours.”

You groan, “Anyone sooner?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” He said.

You hung up and returned to the living room.

Jason was kicking his feet now, reclined like royalty, humming the John Wick fight music under his breath. Every few seconds he’d mutter something like “yeah, get him, Keanu,” or “double tap, baby,” as if he were part of the director’s commentary.

By the time 300 started, he had risen.

He stood on the couch with all the solemnity of a war general addressing his troops, fists clenched at his sides. Then, with zero warning, he let out a piercing battle cry—“SPARTAAAAAA!”—and began hurling Goldfish crackers across the room like they were flaming javelins.

You didn’t bother trying to stop him.

You just slid slowly down the wall, sat on the floor beside the fridge, and accepted your fate.

THREE HOURS IN...

You were gone for five minutes.

Five.

You’d left him watching Love Island.

He’d finally—finally—fallen asleep, sprawled across the couch. The soft drone of British contestants filled the apartment, and for a precious, fragile moment, there was peace.

Just enough to sneak off for five minutes. That was all the time it took to use the bathroom and splash some cold water on your face in the vain hope that you could survive another hour of this gremlin-sized Gotham menace.

When you returned, Love Island was still playing on the TV and Jason was nowhere in the living room. 

“Jason?” you called out.

You heard a noise come from the kitchen

Your stomach dropped.

You rushed in, skidding to a halt just inside the doorway.

The drawer was open.

That drawer.

The one that held the scissors.

The duct tape.

Your spare burner phone.

And, apparently, your last shred of peace.

You turned around slowly—already feeling the weight of regret in your bones.

Tiny Jason stood proudly in your hallway wearing a cardboard chest plate, duct-taped shoulder pads, and your colander on his head.

He raised a wooden spoon like a sword. “I’m Red Hood 2.0,” he declared in a voice that was both too high-pitched and far too serious. “Call me… Lil’ Death.”

You stared at him in exhausted horror.

“…Where’s the rest of the duct tape?”

He gave a wide, toothy grin.

“In mah hair.”

Of course it was.

FOUR HOURS IN...

Alfred had finally sent backup.

It was Damian.

By that point, you didn’t care—anything to give you ten minutes of silence and the chance to remember what breathing felt like.

And for the first ten minutes, it was peaceful.

Too peaceful.

You froze in the hallway, a familiar sense of foreboding slithering down your spine.

Then came the scream.

“YOU LITTLE DEVIL!”

Tiny battle cries echoed from the living room, followed by the unmistakable clang of steel meeting something very much not steel.

You ran in to find Damian standing on your coffee table, sword in hand, while Toddler Jason swung at his legs with a plastic baseball bat wrapped in duct tape and thumbtacks.

“WHAT IS HAPPENING?!”

“He challenged me,” Damian snapped, breath steady as he parried a wild swing with the flat of his blade.

Jason bared his baby teeth, eyes gleaming with chaotic glee. “He tried to steal my Oreos and called me a baby!”

“Because you are,” Damian barked, deflecting another spoon-wrapped strike. “This is undignified!”

“I’m a toddler, you rich goblin!”

You slapped a hand to your forehead. “Jason, drop the bat.”

“NEVER!”

“Damian, he’s five!”

FIVE HOURS IN...

Damian was still on the windowsill, arms crossed, radiating hatred like a heat lamp.

He hadn’t spoken in nearly an hour. Not a single word since the incident—the one where he lost to a sugar-crazed toddler wielding a thumbtack-wrapped baseball bat and unyielding vengeance.

You knew that silence. Knew it too well.

He was plotting something. You just didn’t know what.

Not that you had time to dwell on it—because that was when backup number two finally arrived.

The door swung open and in walked Dick and Tim, both dressed down but wide-eyed, scanning the wreckage of your apartment like first responders to a war zone.

Jason—still pint-sized, still radiating the unholy combination of espresso and anarchy—lit up like a demonic Christmas tree at the sight of them.

“Well, well, look who finally showed up,” he chirped, spinning once in his little leather jacket and cardboard armour. “The Backstreet Boys of Disappointment!”

Dick froze mid-step. “I—what?”

Tim looked at you with the tiredness of a man who’d seen too much. “Is he still feral?”

“Worse,” you muttered. “He’s refueled. He ate three cookies and found my instant espresso jar.”

Dick’s eyes widened. “You gave him caffeine?!”

“I didn’t give him anything! He’s a damn toddler who still retained his lock picking skills!”

Across the room, Jason twirled dramatically and pointed at Tim. “Timmy,” he sing-songed, “wanna play hide and seek? I’ll hide… you seek therapy.”

Tim blinked slowly. “You’ve created a monster.”

You pointed at him with your coffee. “He was with you all when this happened.”

Jason pivoted toward Dick, eyes glinting. “Hey, Disco. How’s that permanent sidekick gig goin’? Still doin’ flips no one asked for?”

Dick narrowed his eyes. “You wanna go, tiny man?”

Jason smirked. “Bring it, Jazz Hands.”

And that’s all it took.

Two minutes later

Jason darted between them like a pinball on fire.

Tim lunged with a blanket like he was trying to trap a wild animal. Jason bit straight through it.

Not metaphorically—actually bit through it.

Dick went in next, trying to cut him off with a broad lunge, but Jason hurled a half-full sippy cup at his face with terrifying accuracy. It burst on contact. Sticky apple juice everywhere.

From the windowsill, Damian observed the descent into madness with narrowed eyes and smug silence. Like an evil cat waiting for the moment to pounce.

He chose his moment well.

With a cry of, “FOR HONOR AND BLOOD!” Damian vaulted from the sill into the fray.

He mostly landed on Tim. But the intent was there.

You stood in the doorway, clutching a first aid kit in one hand and your last shred of sanity in the other. It was unclear which would run out first.

Jason popped up from behind the couch like a goblin jack-in-the-box, eyes gleaming with the unholy thrill of chaos. In one hand, he wielded his modified bat like a sword. In the other, a full roll of duct tape, raised like a grenade.

“I DECLARE A BLOOD FEUD!” he roared.

Tim yelped and ducked just as the tape roll whizzed past his head and smacked into the wall with a dull thunk. “He almost took my eye out!”

“WHO GAVE HIM NEGAN’S BAT?!” Dick yelled, backpedaling fast as Jason swung in his direction with surprising force for someone who barely cleared three feet.

“He made it,” Damian grunted, trying to deflect the strike with a throw pillow.

The swing knocked the pillow clean out of his hands.

In the scramble to dodge the next blow, Dick and Damian collided—feet tangled, limbs flailing—and crashed to the floor in a graceless heap.

“WHO’S THE SIDEKICK NOW, SUCKERS?!” he cackled, arms thrown wide like a gladiator demanding cheers from the crowd.

On the floor below him, Damian and Dick groaned in tandem, still tangled in a heap of limbs and wounded pride.

You stood safely behind the armchair, one hand gripping your phone, filming the chaos. Might as well have some blackmail for later.

“You’re going to regret this when you’re big again,” you warned, deadpan. 

“I’LL REGRET NOTHING!” Jason howled, launching himself into Tim’s back like a rabid possum.

Tim shrieked, flailing. “GET HIM OFF! HE’S IN MY HAIR—HE’S IN MY HAIR!”

“He’s like a feral koala,” Dick muttered, as he untangled himself from Damian.

Jason clung tighter, teeth bared, voice giddy with power. “Say sorry for the replacing me and I’ll only ruin your eyebrows!”

“Are we seriously doing this now?” Tim, flailing, shouted, “I didn’t replace you! You died!”

Everything stopped.

For half a second, the air went dead silent.

“TIM!” you and Dick shouted in unison, horrified.

Jason’s response was to let out a piercing shriek of righteous indignation.

“YOU VOTED ME OFF THE ISLAND!”

“WHAT DAMN ISLAND?!”

From the floor, Dick wheezed, “We need to start a support group.”

Damian rolled his eyes. “You’re all weak.”

“I don’t see you winning against him, demon spawn!” Tim barked, still trying to dislodge Jason from his spine. “You surrendered three minutes in!”

“I did not surrender,” Damian snapped.

Tim finally managed to pry him off with a desperate twist and a shove, sending Jason rolling back onto the couch in a tangle of limbs and laughter.

Everyone froze.

Jason huffed, catching his breath where he lay sprawled on the couch. His curls were tousled, cheeks flushed, eyes glittering with unspent mischief. For one brief, shining moment, it almost looked like the storm had passed.

Dick rose to his feet slowly, warily, hands lifted in surrender.

“Okay,” he said, breathless but hopeful. “Can we finally all just… relax—?”

You took a cautious step forward, narrowing your eyes as you noted the look on his face. “Jason. What are you doing now?”

He turned to you slowly, far too slowly, a smile already creeping onto his face.

Dick glanced over, confused, just in time for Jason to pivot on his heel.

“THIS! IS! SPARTAAAAA!!!”

And then his tiny foot shot up and kicked Dick square in the jewels.

Dick dropped like a sack of bricks, letting out a high-pitched strangled wheeze as he crumpled back onto the floor.

“…Who let him watch 300?” Tim groaned, not even pretending to be surprised anymore.

You winced, trying not to look at Dick who was curled into a fetal position.

Jason raised his arms, victorious. “TONIGHT, WE DINE IN—WHAT’S THAT PLACE WITH CHICKY NUGGIES?!”

“…McDonald’s,” Dick croaked weakly from the floor.

Jason nodded solemnly, his reign unquestioned.

“McDonald’s.”

SIX HOURS IN...

You were exhausted.

The apartment looked like a toy store had exploded. There were still thumbtacks embedded in the coffee table, juice stains on the ceiling, and possibly a spoon lodged in the bookshelf. You didn’t want to know.

The others had practically fled—limping, muttering, and swearing.

And Jason? Jason had finally agreed to get ready for bed after a long, drawn-out battle of wills that involved one timeout, two bribes, and exactly ten minutes of him growling about how “Peter Parker wouldn’t last five minutes in Crime Alley.”

Now, he sat on the couch, arms crossed and sulking in a pair of oversized Spider-Man pajamas—the only ones you’d been able to find. His curls were still slightly matted from duct tape, and there was a Band-Aid on his cheek from another brawl he’d got in with Damian.

He glared at you over the rim of his sippy cup.

“This not over,” he mumbled darkly. “I know where you sleep. I’mma get payback.”

“Sure you will, Jason,” you said, trying not to laugh.

“I’ll put ketchup in your shoes.”

You tucked him in on the couch, pulling the blanket around him as he curled up like a tiny, angry cinnamon roll.

He muttered something else under his breath, unintelligible, mostly grumble. “…Night-night,” he muttered, already half-asleep. 

THE NEXT MORNING...

Jason woke up full-sized, shirtless, confused, and sprawled across your couch.

 He blinked up at the ceiling, brow furrowed, throat dry.

“…What the hell?”

You strolled in, far too cheerful for someone who had survived a toddler warlord just a few hours prior. You tossed your phone into his lap.

You strolled in, tossing a phone into his lap.

“Morning, Lil’ Death. I made a slideshow.”

He looked down at the photos. There he was—pouty, covered in crumbs, mid-battle with his brothers, wearing  cardboard chest plate held together with masking tape and colander strapped to his head like a war crown. One had him dead asleep with his face smashed into a pillow, cuddling a stuffed penguin.

Jason groaned into his hands. “Kill me now.”

“I’d rather show Bruce.”

His head snapped up. “You wouldn’t.”

You grinned. “Wanna bet?”

[multifanritz]

i had to explain what 'smh' means to my grandma the other day so now im thinking about bruce not knowing texting slang and jason giving him incorrect info.

Bruce: What does S-M-H mean?

Jason, grinning: It means 'So Many Hugs.' So you could text 'Love you smh.'

Bruce: Oh :)

-Later-

Dick: Why the fuck did Bruce text me 'I miss you smh'???

[killerplink]

reader going for jasons balls each time 😭. lowkey i want to know howd he react if she landed the blow. like would he double down in pain or suddenlg still and just stare at you

LMAOOO I'm cackling 😭 honestly?? if she actually managed to land the shot (somehow. miraculously. maybe he let her), Jason would absolutely go full drama queen with it 🤭

like man goes down, hits the floor with the weight of a dying shakespearean hero, groaning dramatically, clutching himself like he's just been mortally wounded in battle 🥲

and now reader's panicking, kneeling beside him like "OH MY GOD I DIDN'T MEAN TO I THOUGHT YOU'D DODGE—"

he'd be like "you really just kicked me in the balls, huh? that's how you show love now?"

and he's still groaning like he's on his deathbed, but then grabs her wrist the moment she tries to check on him and yanks her down on top of him with this evil little grin, all smug and low voiced, like "you better start makin' it up to me, doll... this is gonna require a lot of kisses."

she's like "YOU WERE FAKING?!" and he just shrugs "I was improvisin'. you're the one who committed war crimes."

and now they're just rolling around on the floor, her squealing while he wraps his arms around her like a whole bear trap and refuses to let go. she starts slapping his chest and calling him an asshole while he laughs and pretends he's still dying BHAHAHAHAHA

10/10 chaotic training session. no lessons learned except don't trust that man with dramatics because he learned from Dick lmao 😭

[ja50nt0ddwa5h3r3]

Jason’s gun casually pointed right at Bruce’s head-

[arkangelo-7]

Bruce *getting shot at by Red Hood*: Jesus Christ!

Jason Todd, recognizing the potential for the best identity reveal of all time: Not quite, motherfucker.

[n0tsketchyy]

Jason started a side business as Gotham's most feared mediator. His success rate is 100%, mostly because people are too terrified to continue arguing.

Random Gotham Citizen: ranting My neighbor keeps playing music too loud—

Jason: What kind of music?

Citizen: Does it matter?

Jason: If it's good music, I'll ask them to turn it down. If it's bad music, I'll make sure they never play music again.

Citizen: ...it's country pop?

Jason: cracks knuckles Oh, we're gonna have a conversation about their taste AND their volume.

———

Steph: I heard you mediated a custody dispute between two villains over who gets to keep the hyena.

Jason: Harley won. Obviously. But now the hyena is trained to growl every time it hears Pitbull music.

Cass: Scary. But effective.

Jason: Put that on my business card.

———

Bruce: reading an official letter from the GCPD “Red Hood has resolved 34 neighbor disputes, de-escalated 11 road rage incidents, and mediated a PTA meeting that was about to turn into a fistfight over bake sale proceeds.” Jason. What are you doing?

Jason: kicking his boots off They weren’t resolving it themselves. I’m empowering the community.

Dick: By threatening to shove subwoofers up their—

Jason: Allegedly.

Tim: To be fair, noise complaints in Crime Alley are down.

Jason: Thank you, runt. See? Tim gets it. 

Tim: I didn't say it was legal. 

Jason: Details, Timmy. Details.

Damian: Fear is a valid deterrent. I approve. But next time, invite me. I wish to deliver an informed lecture on dubstep.

[ja50nt0ddwa5h3r3]

Let’s see… Jason Todd, Jason Todd, Hazel Levesque, and Jason Todd. dId I mention Jason Todd?

characters who dig themselves out of their graves (whether literal or metaphorical) are at the top of the list. nothing beats a character who should have died but didn't and comes back to haunt their own life and the world around them, benevolent or violent it doesn't matter, it's enthralling either way

[kuronekoartsblog]

Had this idea a month ago, it was supposed to be fully animated at some point but… 😬 didn’t work out lol

Had to pull out after effects for this one pls appreciate my death wish

[cardinalcheerio]

Tim: Hey dick?

Dick: yeah?

Tim: Sooo... if someone were to hypothetically steal a sculpture called "The Hand". Would they call the heist, "The Hand Job"?

Dick *grinning and searching sculptures*: be a worse crime not to name it that

[blaqcats-fics]

been thinking about jason being petty towards bruce. like, oh, you spend time with your other kids, but not me? tire privileges revoked! it would be over stupid shit too.

like there’s one time bruce decides to take damien to the movies, and jason is just beside himself.

like the conversation would be like:

JASON: So, let me get this straight—you took Damian to a movie.

BRUCE: He asked.

JASON: Oh, and I wouldn’t have wanted to see Kung Fu Panda 4 with you?!

BRUCE: You were busy.

JASON: Busy taking down a cartel. Which, by the way, I learned from you. I deserve quality time!

BRUCE: Jason—

JASON: No. No excuses. You’ll learn.

Jason storms off. Five minutes later, an alert pops up on the Batcomputer.

BATCOMPUTER: Warning: Batmobile rear tires have been removed.

BRUCE: …Jason.

Cut to Jason outside, rolling two Batmobile tires away, cackling.