Post by Jason Todd on Aug 28, 2010 3:38:07 GMT
[[ Open to anyone who might want to meet Jason sans-mask, be they hero, villain, or neutral. EDIT: Takes place just before the events of "Build a New Reality" ]]
My name is Jason Todd.
For the past five years, I've been on my own. No, wait. That's not entirely true. It's been more like eight, I think. Even when my parents were alive, I was always on my own, always alone. I had, and have, no friends. Never have, probably never will. Most likely it's for the best. I'm not exactly the "sociable" type. Don't play well with others, as my counselors and psychiatrists would say. Oh well. Better alone than surrounded by false friends or people that would just end up being afraid of me and leaving. Can't stand the plastic smiles of society anyway, makes me sick.
Heh, sidetracked. Where was I? Oh yeah, the last five years...
Since my parents were murdered, I've done nothing but work and train. It was all I could do to keep from losing my home and being forced into state care or a foster family. Been running my dad's garage as a cover and his weapons racketeering as my primary source of income. Hardly a wonder so many mobsters are involved in weapons dealing. It's easy. There are some high-name assassins and mob bosses who would pay top dollar for quality goods, and I've got an eye for quality. Still, they'd probably have me bumped off if they knew what weapons and gadgets I've been keeping to myself. I'm not stupid enough to let the really high-grade merchandise make it to the streets.
Almost afraid of what might happen should they find my personal armory. But that's the whole idea. They'd have to find it.
I'm not sure when I decided to take up strong-arming the mob. The idea came to me once I started seeing the Batman in the papers, tabloids, and on the TV. Then everyone kept talking about him. So many people supported him, idealized him, idolized him, wanted to be him. I remember thinking to myself...
"What a stupid way to live. Just going to end up dead."
Now look at me. Jumping from roof to roof nightly, freerunning through the Narrows and the Lower City, picking off petty thugs and pickpockets when I'm bored, and well...
It's been, what, a month almost? I've killed seven people, all major assassins and drug-pushers for Falcone and Maroni. I don't know many so-called "good people" who could say they'd murdered seven murderers as nonchalantly as myself. Doesn't change the fact that these people, who had all been arrested several times and always released because of Falcone's weight on the judge, had all killed about three-hundred between the seven of them, and now they can't do it ever again.
I call that justice. The cops call it murder. Wonder what the families of the innocent victims think?
The day I made my mask, made my helmet (damned thing is bulletproof...other vigilantes would be wise to follow this example. Bad guys like to aim for the head, after all), I honestly felt a bit stupid. Like, what could I do? I'm just a kid. I'm just going to get myself killed. Not sure what possessed me to actually go through with it.
Still...seven of the mob's heaviest hitters isn't a bad start.
It had been a damned long day in Jason's eyes. Online college courses and then exercise for the morning hours, and then he'd opened the garage around noon only to be greeted by a nice-sized row of cars waiting on him to get to work. By four o'clock he was covered in grease and grim and sweat, aching in every way possibly but, you know, the good way, and damned cranky. All he wanted was to shower and get a few hours of sleep before he hit the streets.
It had only been a month, but the strain was really wearing him down. He'd have to work out a better daytime schedule to keep from running on two hours of restless sleep a day. It was starting to show in his face, and his clients were getting suspicious.
Five-fifteen. Jason sighed, waving the last car off his lot and wiping some of the grease off his hands with the nearest towel. He'd just shut down and head inside, probably crash immediately, given there were no more interruptions.
He wasn't too fond of surprises.
My name is Jason Todd.
For the past five years, I've been on my own. No, wait. That's not entirely true. It's been more like eight, I think. Even when my parents were alive, I was always on my own, always alone. I had, and have, no friends. Never have, probably never will. Most likely it's for the best. I'm not exactly the "sociable" type. Don't play well with others, as my counselors and psychiatrists would say. Oh well. Better alone than surrounded by false friends or people that would just end up being afraid of me and leaving. Can't stand the plastic smiles of society anyway, makes me sick.
Heh, sidetracked. Where was I? Oh yeah, the last five years...
Since my parents were murdered, I've done nothing but work and train. It was all I could do to keep from losing my home and being forced into state care or a foster family. Been running my dad's garage as a cover and his weapons racketeering as my primary source of income. Hardly a wonder so many mobsters are involved in weapons dealing. It's easy. There are some high-name assassins and mob bosses who would pay top dollar for quality goods, and I've got an eye for quality. Still, they'd probably have me bumped off if they knew what weapons and gadgets I've been keeping to myself. I'm not stupid enough to let the really high-grade merchandise make it to the streets.
Almost afraid of what might happen should they find my personal armory. But that's the whole idea. They'd have to find it.
I'm not sure when I decided to take up strong-arming the mob. The idea came to me once I started seeing the Batman in the papers, tabloids, and on the TV. Then everyone kept talking about him. So many people supported him, idealized him, idolized him, wanted to be him. I remember thinking to myself...
"What a stupid way to live. Just going to end up dead."
Now look at me. Jumping from roof to roof nightly, freerunning through the Narrows and the Lower City, picking off petty thugs and pickpockets when I'm bored, and well...
It's been, what, a month almost? I've killed seven people, all major assassins and drug-pushers for Falcone and Maroni. I don't know many so-called "good people" who could say they'd murdered seven murderers as nonchalantly as myself. Doesn't change the fact that these people, who had all been arrested several times and always released because of Falcone's weight on the judge, had all killed about three-hundred between the seven of them, and now they can't do it ever again.
I call that justice. The cops call it murder. Wonder what the families of the innocent victims think?
The day I made my mask, made my helmet (damned thing is bulletproof...other vigilantes would be wise to follow this example. Bad guys like to aim for the head, after all), I honestly felt a bit stupid. Like, what could I do? I'm just a kid. I'm just going to get myself killed. Not sure what possessed me to actually go through with it.
Still...seven of the mob's heaviest hitters isn't a bad start.
----------------
It had been a damned long day in Jason's eyes. Online college courses and then exercise for the morning hours, and then he'd opened the garage around noon only to be greeted by a nice-sized row of cars waiting on him to get to work. By four o'clock he was covered in grease and grim and sweat, aching in every way possibly but, you know, the good way, and damned cranky. All he wanted was to shower and get a few hours of sleep before he hit the streets.
It had only been a month, but the strain was really wearing him down. He'd have to work out a better daytime schedule to keep from running on two hours of restless sleep a day. It was starting to show in his face, and his clients were getting suspicious.
Five-fifteen. Jason sighed, waving the last car off his lot and wiping some of the grease off his hands with the nearest towel. He'd just shut down and head inside, probably crash immediately, given there were no more interruptions.
He wasn't too fond of surprises.
))