#the three M's of Vigilantism: mockery maiming and murder

[scaryscarecrows]

Up on the Van Top

AN: I HAVE BEEN SITTING ON THIS. FOR MONTHS. MONTHS. I hope you appreciate the self-control that required.

* * *

Bruce isn’t sure what he’s expecting when Gordon calls him with a curt, “You need to come to the Iceberg Lounge.”

It isn’t this, he’s sure. Nobody could expect this.

The Lounge is fine. It’s been decorated for the season, glistening baubles all but cackling about being bought with money obtained through illegal activities. It’s suspiciously empty, though that could be explained by the presence of GCPD.

Or not.

Oswald Cobblepot is tied from ankles to head in what appears to be ribbon. A big, sparkly red bow sits atop his hat. A…ball of reindeer socks…has been crammed in his mouth. He looks furious. It doesn’t help that there’s an envelope with ‘Batman’ scrawled on it taped to his chest.

There are two possible reasons for this, and Bruce is doubting it’s some new, holiday-themed vigilante introducing themselves, which leaves…

He reaches forward and plucks the socks free. Cobblepot makes a face reminiscent of an enraged terrier Bruce once saw on the internet.* He breathes deeply for a few seconds, nose wrinkling, and finally snarls, “Control your brats!”

No, it is not a new holiday-themed vigilante. Part of him dies a little inside.

Where did I go so wrong?

Bullock swallows a snicker. Gordon has a little more tact.

“Come on, Oswald. Let’s go.”

“Go? Go where? I have done nothing to warrant being attacked by that--that festive fiend--”

Gordon holds up a flash drive wrapped in polka-dotted washi tape.

“I got a present, too. Let’s go.”

Bruce tugs the envelope free before stepping aside. Gordon cuts the ribbon and guides Cobblepot towards the door. Bruce will follow in a few minutes-he has to know, now, what happened here-but first, card. Alfred’s stringent rule of ‘card, then present’ is deeply ingrained. He’ll know if Bruce ignores it--what’s that?

It’s a small box, wrapped nicely, with ‘Agent A’ scrawled on it. Ah. He’ll deliver that, then.

The card is blue, with a little silhouette of Santa’s sleigh going across it. The inside, on the other hand, is filled with that spiky writing he remembers so well.

I gotcha an angry bird, B! :D  <3, J.T.

Bruce has never been good at leaving things alone. Even things that he’s probably going to regret. So, of course, he follows Gordon to the police station, arranges for a private interview with Cobblepot, and swallows the Parent Voice that he used to use for parent-teacher conferences when he says, “What happened.”

* * *

Earlier that evening…

Honestly, this is probably the biggest spur-of-the-moment thing Jason has ever done. Or at least one of them. But…well…he was hungry. That’s how this started.

He’d been standing in the Circle K, looking for food. All they’d friggin’ had was Hot Cheetos, and honestly, after the Hot Cheeto Disaster of ’08, he’d seriously consider starving rather than touch one ever again.

(Oh, God. After everything, that incident still held the power to make him shudder.)

And then it was there, on an endcap, surrounded by candy canes and snowman-topped PEZ machines, that he saw it. Somewhere, Alfred wept. Dick felt a warm sense of…maybe pride. Bruce was probably suddenly stricken with the need to sulk on a gargoyle.

…well, a bigger need than usual. A primal urge, if you would.

And that’s why Jason now has a Santa hat and beard on over his helmet. It took a bit of superglue to get them to stick, but he did it, in the end. So here he is, crouched on a crane by the docks, empty bag in hand.

Penguin is late. The guys he’s meeting are here, but the man himself, petty bastard that he is, is nowhere to be seen--wait.

He hears a van. It’s a clunky, crappy sound. He knows that sound.

Ho, ho, ho, motherfuckers.

He straightens up, stalks to the edge of the shipping crate he’s settled on, and waits for the van to sputter to an almost-stop before stepping off the edge--

--and landing on the hood with a nasty-sounding CRUNCH! The driver blinks at him in confusion before things come together for him and he hollers, “WE GOT A PROBLEM, BOYS!”

Jason waggles his fingers at him, hops to the ground, and saunters towards the back, smacking his palm against the side of the van on the way. There’s shouting inside. He doesn’t hear Penguin, but to be fair, he didn’t expect him to show up in this piece of crap. Oz has self-respect.

Or. More self-respect than the suckers he hires.

He stops a foot or so away from the doors and waits. Now that the pounding’s stopped, it’s quiet in the van. Well. Almost quiet-there appears to be a hushed argument over who has to open the door.

Well? Come on! Are you men or mice?

Silence from the van, broken only by a whispered, “Rock, paper, scissors, shoot--I hate you. I hate you all.”

“Get out, bitch.”

“Screw you,” the first man snarls, and then he straight-up kicks the door open like this is some 90s white-man-learns-karate movie. “Come on, Red Hood!”

“Someone’s on the naughty list.”

Apparently figuring go big or go home, Naughty List shoots at him. He misses, because no Gotham Goon can shoot straight, but he tries. Which means, of course, that anything Jason does to him now is in self-defense and absolutely legal in every way.

Honest.

Even though the bullet would have missed him by a mile, Jason decides to boost Naughty List’s morale by hurling himself to the side...and hopping on top of the van. It’s like popping a pimple; there’s yelling, and then a stream of men spill out. Now that they’re all out, he grapples away to get a better look.

And also to scare them shitless, because what’s the fun in being nice?

“Is he gone?”

“Maybe he’s gone.”

“Holy shit, you scared him off.” Pfft, nah. “Dude, I’m sorry I called you a bitch.”

“Eh, no offense taken.”

Well, isn’t that nice. He resists the urge to give ‘em his Tiny Tim impression (probably not so good, now) and swings to the roof of the little office overlooking the dock.

“Check the area to make sure,” somebody says. “F’we bring his head to Penguin, we might get bonuses.”

Yeah, they might. Penguin’s got it in for him, a little, even if he did...sort of...apologize for asking about the bottle in his eye.

Sorry, Oz.

Well, if they’re gonna be all gung-ho about it…

He throws a smoke pellet into their midst and when they start screaming (and one of them is crying, Christ), leaps down after it.

“Doncha know the song, boys? Sing it with me, now...you better not pout, you better not cry, you better not shout, I’m tellin’ you why…” SCHWING! A head rolls and he has to dive to grab it and shove it in his bag. “Santa Hood is comin’...to toooown!”

By the time the smoke clears, there are three headless corpses, two crying mooks, and one horribly bloody machete. Jason tosses the machete to the ground and looks at the survivors. They’re unarmed. One of them is literally unarmed, meaning that his arm is lying on the ground, and the other one is bleeding from the side. Huh. He doesn’t remember doing that.

“I’m feelin’ the holiday spirit tonight, boys,” he says. “So tell ya what. You tell me where your boss is, and you can run right along to the emergency room.”

To the shock of none, the, uh, unarmed one rolls over immediately.

“He had a meetin’! With Dent, they’re at the Dos Amigos club downtown!”

“‘preciate that,” Jason says sincerely, hefts the bag over his shoulder. “You might wanna get that checked out. Looks like it hurts.”

Now. He has a present to give to Penguin.

THE END

*Tim sent Bruce a video of Mr. Bubz. Ask and ye shall receive the same.

[scaryscarecrows]

Merry Christmas, Ya Filthy Animals

Or, Jason Todd doing what he does best: being a dork and putting down creeps.

“Deck the halls with gasoline, fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la…”

Splosh! Splosh!

Jason will never replace his helmet. Let the internet nitpick him about ‘it’s not a fuckin’ hood, you dumbass!’ HE KNOWS. IT’S MORE PRACTICAL THAN A REAL HOOD. And besides, he has a hoodie. Is that not enough? Fine! Let them all die when he leaves for a more grateful city! See who’s there to save you now, you jerks.

Anyways. His helmet is the only reason he’s not gagging on gasoline-smell. He hates that smell, reminds him of the time Joker doused his cape in it-while it was still on him, mind you-and lit a match.

Fun times.

No matter. He flings the mostly-empty can to the side and inspects the room. It’s small, dark, and dingy. Exactly the sort of stereotypical pedo basement you’d imagine. There’s literally nothing in here but a light bulb and a mattress with…stains…on it. Oh, and a bucket, but that’s technically been upended, contents and all, over the room’s owner, who’s been trussed up like a Christmas goose and lain ever-so-gently onto the mattress, bucket wedged on his head.

It’s a beautiful picture. Brings a tear to the eye.

The room’s residents (fourteen year-old mother and her seven month-old son) have been ushered outside and to the safety of a neighbor’s house. The neighbor is probably calling the police, but they’ll be a bit. Jason’s got time to finish his holiday display.

The pom-pom on his helmet feels like it’s getting loose. He’ll probably need to replace it after this. That’s fine. He’s got a bag of them in his jacket, just in case one gets too blood-spattered. Santa’s a blood-free individual, y’know. Don’t wanna frighten the children.

(Although the fact that he kicked the door in yelling, ‘ho-fucking-ho’ has probably accomplished that tonight already. Oops.)

“Light a match and watch it gleam, fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la…”

Matches, matches…ah! Matches. He pulls the bucket off Naughty List’s head, grimaces at the, uh, slop on his face, and opens the matchbox.

“NO!”

Strike!

“Watch the creep go up in ashes, fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la…”

Uh…there, he thinks. The corner. It’ll go up quick, but it’s far enough from Naughty List that he can panic for a little first.

“Damn, I’m glad I played with matches! Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-laaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”

FWOOSH!

He’s not dumb enough to stay in here. He, uh, he might’ve, y’know. Left a bullet or two in strategic places.

Shame there’s no chimney, but oh, well. He skips up the stairs, pauses, and turns back around.

“Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”

The fucker ruins it by screaming. Some people just don’t have any holiday spirit at all.

THE END

[scaryscarecrows]

Counting Bodies Like Sheep

AN: Technically this is a snippet from 'Masks' (see Ao3 account), buuut it stands on its own well enough. Recommended mood music: A Perfect Circle's 'Counting Bodies Like Sheep to the Rhythm of the War Drums'.

Burned-out buildings are always creepy, but the crumbling shell of Sionis Industries is…really bad. Cubicles are crumbling, support beams are groaning, and everywhere you look sit remains of that panicked evening when everyone just fuckin’ ran for their lives-dropped mugs, phones hanging off their hooks, abandoned briefcases.

Mario Pepper wishes he wasn’t picked to come and sit here to make sure it didn’t get robbed at night, but the boss is twenty levels of pissed and it just ain’t worth it to go for the ‘I got a wife ‘n kids!’ card.

He takes solace in the shotgun sitting comfortably in his hands. The shotgun’s name is Babe (yup, ‘that’ll do, pig’, shut the fuck up) and it’s seen things. He shot this thing at Batman once. Missed, but still. S’the principle.

A piece of drywall strikes the ground and he turns sharply, eyes wide to try and see anything. There’s nothin’ there.

Why couldn’t they do this in pairs…

His walkie-talkie crackles and Bob’s voice comes over the line.

“Fuck, I’m bored.”

There’s a chorus of ‘shut the fuck up’ and ‘ain’t we all’. Mario snorts and meanders over to a glass divider that somehow survived the rocket.

Fuckin’ Red Hood. This is his fault. Whatever. Y’know what’s drivin’ that body count? Luck and stupid people. Mario’s got good luck and decent brains-made it all the way to eleventh grade, which is more than most of ‘em can say-and he’s lookin’ forward to takin’ that hood to the boss. He’ll prob’ly even get a promotion.

So c’mon, prick. Bring it-what’s that.

He squints, upper lip hitching up like a rabbit’s, and wonders who the hell drew a smiley face on the glass. And when.

He unholsters the walkie-talkie and snaps, “Which one of you fuckers is up here with me?”

“Uh.”

“What?”

“I’m not.”

Hilarious. Jes-us, and they call themselves professionals…they’re an embarrassment to the Henchman’s Guild. Y’know where they’re gonna end up? With Scarecrow, who’ll suffer ‘em for all of three days before dumpin’ their screamin’ remains in Gotham Bay.

Idiots.

“You guys suck,” he mutters, and right then there’s a cut-off scream three stories down.

Okay, this is bad.

A new voice comes over the line, vaguely mechanical, horribly cheerful.

“Shit, guys, I found a body on the thirteenth floor!”

Mario does not get paid enough for this, and he’s not going down there. Okay, so there’s a psycho in the building. The psycho can come up here. There’s one way in-the rickety stairwell-and Mario is just going to park his ass right in front of it, Babe at the ready, and blow him to Kingdom Come.

His dumbass coworkers, on the other hand…

“C’mon, boys, we got a job to do.”

The new voice laughs and there’s the sound of the walkie-talkie being dropped. Maybe Penguin’s sent someone? He hires weirdoes sometimes. Even Zsasz does work for him now and then.

He doesn’t think that’s Zsasz down there. He hopes it’s not Zsasz down there.

The support beams groan as the building settles and he takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and stares into the darkened stairwell. If Zsasz’s bald head appears, he’s going to take as many shots as he can before hurling himself out of the window. It’s better than what the guy’ll do to him.

There’s gunshots and it’s tempting, really tempting, to ask what’s going on, but he doesn’t want to tell whoever’s down there that they’re not all there. This is his only advantage and he’s gonna milk it for all it’s worth.

It’s quiet down there. Maybe they got him, or at least scared him off. They might be stupid, but when there’s five guys with guns, somebody’s bound to get a hit in, right? Right?

Thump.

WHAT WAS THAT-

He twists around. There is a duffle bag sitting in the middle of the floor. There didn’t used to be a duffle bag sitting in the middle of the floor.

Keeping his gun trained on the stairs, Mario inches over to it and gives it a little nudge. It doesn’t explode and he swallows, reaches down and unzips it.

Oh, God in Heaven-

There’s six heads in there. He knows those heads.

SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT-

He turns, intending to make a break for it, and catches a glimpse of red before he’s thrown into a singed desk. The desk breaks under his weight and Babe skitters across the floor, firing a bullet into the wall.

He’s fucked.

The Red Hood has a machete in one hand and a gun in the other. The machete’s dripping and Mario can smell the blood from here.

“No-”

“Shh.” The…whatever the fuck that is…moves closer, quieter than it has any business being. “It’ll only hurt for a second.”

SLICE!

[scaryscarecrows]

Happy Birthday, Roman!

AN: I just feel more people should appreciate that Rocksteady's Red Hood DLC takes place on Black Mask's birthday. Looking for more? I'm on Ao3, Wattpad, and ff.net.

“-his hood and give it to Black Mask for his birthday!”

Oh! He didn’t know it was Roman’s birthday. Well, gee, now he feels kinda bad, bustin’ in here, killing his crew and blowing his shipment to Kingdom Come. He should’ve at least grabbed a card at the dollar store on his way over.

It’s still his birthday, Jason reasons. It’s not midnight yet. He’s got…uh…an hour and a half before his greetings would become belated.

Two minutes. This can wait for two minutes.

He swings down a level, kicking the guard there square in the head and tackling him to the floor.

“Shit-”

“Shh.” He wrangles the guy into a very awkward hug and rifles through his pockets until he finds a phone. Okay…open…camera mode…oh, come on, what kind of crappy filter…there! Perfect. “Say cheese, Bob!”

“Fuck you-”

Click!

There. That turned out great. Well. Y’know. No selfie in the history of ever is a ‘great’ selfie, but they’re both in it and nobody’s got red eye.

…

Well. Or anything like red eye. THE POINT STILL STANDS. Everybody’s eyes are…

Bob looks great and Jason’s helmet isn’t throwing a glare in or anything. THERE.

Bob’s brains hit the floor a second before the rest of him and Jason starts scrolling through contacts. What would he be under, anyway? Boss? Blackie? Paycheck?

BM.

Bummer. Oh, the perils of accidental villain names…still better than Man-Bat. Who named that poor bastard, Ryder? No, Ryder, for all his faults, has drama in his soul. Somebody else named Man-Bat, he just knows it…oh, well.

He attaches the selfie, goes through the sound choices, and finds the Happy Birthday song. There.

Send.

He keeps the phone. It could be useful later. He’s just muting it when it rings and he…

He can’t help himself, he answers.

“Happy birthday, buddy! We on for drinks later?”

“I’LL BE DRINKING OUT OF YOUR SKULL YOU SORRY SON OF A-”

Never mind, he can get another phone.

He flings it, Sionis’s voice still blaring from the speaker, into a small throng of men below. They look up as it hurtles towards them, faces confused and slightly horrified, and it hits one of them in the forehead. He goes down without a sound.

“-LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD BITCH I SWEAR-”

They can deal with this. He sees a vent that looks very empty and sad.

THE END