I Also (mostly) Finished This!

I also (mostly) finished this!

The hardest parts were the hands and the hood. The robes in their entirety are like 12 different pieces. PowerPoint doesn't allow for elegant layering so it's a lot of holding my breath and hoping it works.

Textured version

Non textured version

Original - obviously I took some artistic liberties

More foliage-themed portraits 🍂🍃

See You Again

Chapter 1: The Coffin

Jason Todd x f!Reader

You were just a teenager when you lost your best friend, Jason Todd. Years later, your life is turned upside down, and you find your way back to him. He's changed. You've changed. But you wouldn't have it any other way.

[A/N]: Me? Publishing a Red Hood fic that's been sitting in my drafts for months? It's more likely than you think. Jason is such an interesting character and there have been so many takes on him and his story that I've lost count. All I can do is hope that I do his character justice, and that I can deliver something worthy to all of the Red Hood girlies (gn) out there!

Anyways, in this fic, f!reader is a researcher at STAR Labs Los Angeles for the Polestar program, a secret research operation investigating an ancient virus revived from the permafrost of the Arctic. She gets infected with the virus while trying to keep it from falling into the wrong hands—and that's when she meets the Red Hood.

Warnings: DC-typical violence

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STAR Laboratories Los Angeles

9:43:42 PM PT

The Coffin

You hated working in the Coffin.

The Coffin, as some of your coworkers called it—a cramped bunker of a cleanroom with thick concrete walls and vault-like hatches—was practically hermetically sealed from the rest of the world, and for good reason, too. 

The Coffin, STAR Laboratories LA’s so-called Sterile Research Unit, housed world-killers. 

They were all around you, housed in huge humming floor-to–low-ceiling freezers, in vials and Petri dishes. If one of those samples got out and contaminated the outside environment, you would have a huge, messy problem on your double-gloved hands. 

Located in the basement and separated from the rest of the facility by a sizable aseptics and decontamination unit, the only living things that shared the space with you were the dormant pathogens labeled and tucked away in the Coffin’s freezers. Chatter filtered through the radio comms unit on your lab bench, which you used to relay information with the rest of the researchers, your coworkers, involved in the Polestar study. 

“L/N, how are we doing down there?” A voice crackled through the comms. It was Dr. Davis, one of the senior researchers on the Polestar program.

“Hey, Davis. I’m happy to report that the Polestar vaccine prototype seems to be well on its way,” you reply, hearing the whoosh of your breath inside the respirator you donned before entering the cleanroom. “The vaccine seems to be pretty stable right now. I’ll continue to run tests.” You heard Dr. Davis’s hum of approval through the comms.

“Great to hear, Y/N. Just wanted to make sure you weren’t d—” It was an inside joke among the Polestar researchers that the Coffin was where bad researchers who half-assed their theses in grad school went to die. The sterile bunker was indeed a daunting place to run tests, with all of its doomsday-looking decor and freezers full of deadly viruses, but you had spent enough late nights in and out of decon to make the Coffin feel more like the world’s worst bathroom stall-turned-office cubicle.

“Dr. Davis?” You finally turned your gaze to the comms unit. “Dr. Davis, do you read me?” You could hear the faint sounds of commotion filtering through the comms; cacophony that should never be heard in a laboratory. “Is anyone there?” Someone started screaming—you recognized the voice to be Dr. Lee—and your heart jumped into your throat.

The sound coming from the comms unit suggested that the radio on the other end of the line had fallen to the floor. The speaker emitted more crackly yells. 

“ Doctor—” It was Dr. Davis. He was alive, but barely. The sounds of fighting rose around him. “Doctor—dammit, Y/N, do you hear me? Stay where you are and barricade yourself in the Coffin, they’re coming for the—” Dr. Davis’s voice cut out, replaced by garbled radio feedback. Right before the radio dissolved into static, you swore you had heard him howl in pain. You stared at the comms, heart thumping in your ribcage. You were beginning to sweat in your hood and coveralls and the respirator felt heavy on your face. You tore your attention from the comms to survey the frigid lab around you. The Coffin had been reserved by the Polestar program so you could test small lab animals to observe the virus’s behavior in living organisms and develop a vaccine for it, so most of the work laid out on the benches was Polestar’s. Cages sat in neat stacks, housing the lab rodents you had been studying. You could care less about the unbelievably expensive machinery or the infected rodents that could infect humans should they escape the Coffin, though; a dip into STAR Labs and the CDC’s research grants for Polestar would replace it all. Your eyes darted around the Coffin, eyeing the huge, heavy hatches that kept you encased inside the bunker. Whoever was outside, they’d have to get through aseptics and decon, which would keep them busy for at least a few minutes as they forced their way inside. 

“Oh, no, no, no,” you muttered to yourself as you swept glass vials and syringes around on your workbench into a cluster, creating a disjointed melody of clinking glass and metal. The rats began to turn restlessly in their cages. Your breathing picked up, coming out in short, shaky breaths as you ran from countertop to countertop, stowing away glassware still full of solutions and dumping solids into the trash—you’d get back to them later, if there was even a later for you. Screw how much that stuff cost by the gram, and screw how much time you’d spent synthesizing and isolating those precipitates.

No time to think about that , you thought to yourself as you rushed back to the workbench where your radio and the vials sat. You stared at the assortment of glass vials and syringes, panicking. They can all go in the freezer, right? Or the storage vault, or…

There was no time to think. You rushed to the freezer with trays full of vaccines and viruses alike in your arms, hurriedly punching in the code and scanning your retina to open the door to the walk-in freezer. The door unlocked with a hiss, and you silently begged the automatic door to open faster as you heard the sound of a squad’s worth of footsteps stomping through decon. Squeezing through the opening, you all but shoved the tray into the nearest vacant bottom shelf and sprinted out, hammering the button to shut the freezer doors.

You heard clanking against the entrance to the coffin, one, two, three…

A blinding flash of light followed by a deafening explosion shook the Coffin, and you instinctively turned away to shield yourself. You saw tongues of flame licking the entrance to the Coffin, flooded with red light. 

Oh, shit. 

How many of the substances stored in the Coffin were flammable? You hoped the explosion that blew the enormous hatch to the Coffin off its hinges and the flames that followed hadn’t reached far enough to hit the flammable substances storage unit. 

Behind the rubble of the hatch stood a cluster of black-clad figures, outfitted with bulky body armor and gas masks. They swept the Coffin with the muzzles of their rifles before stepping over the threshold and into the Coffin. You stifled a gasp and ducked behind one of the countertops, hoping that you weren’t spotted. Maybe you could find something heavy, like a fire extinguisher, and taken one out—

“Gotcha.” 

You couldn’t help the shriek that escaped your lungs as you whipped around, grabbing the nearest thing off of the countertops—a ring stand, luckily enough, and not something more expensive or fragile—and swung it in the direction of the voice. Your eyes widened as the heavy base of the ring stand failed to meet bone—and was instead stopped in its path by a strong, gloved hand around your wrist. Your hands shook as the hand’s owner, wearing a gas mask with round, reflective discs for eyes, lowered the ring stand with one hand and aimed the barrel of a handgun at you. 

“What do you want from me,” you choked out, your mouth feeling dry as you stared down the cold black barrel of the gun. The soldier chuckled, their voice—his voice?—deep and gravelly, muffled by the mask.

“Just your cooperation.” With a jerk of his hand, he lifted the ring stand, still attached to your hand, and forced you out into the open. “You know what we’re here for.” He wrestled the ring stand from your grip and tossed it away, the heavy thunk making you wince. He took your wrist in a crushing grip, and adrenaline shot up your spine. 

“I’m just a lab aide. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You replied quickly, not quite confident in your skills as a thespian (or a liar).

“Oh, yeah, Dr…” Still holding the gun in front of your face, they cocked their head to check your badge. “...L/N?”

Shit.

“You know how it is…the job market’s pretty tough for Ph. D.’s these days.” You chuckled nervously. “Seriously, though, I’m just here to wash glassware.” The soldier laughed coldly.

“You seem pretty calm for somebody staring down the barrel of a gun…I bet you’re smart. Bet you know a lot about all the super secret research in this shithole, too.” You couldn’t see it, but under his mask, his gaze settled upon something on the floor. “Maybe you could tell me a little about this thing right here.” You followed his line of sight and felt your blood go cold.

How could I have—

He nudged the syringe with the toe of his boot so that it rolled right to you. It took all you had to keep yourself from lunging for it. Your eyes caught the biohazard symbol printed on the label and you felt yourself die a little inside.

The Polestar virus was on the floor. The deadly ancient virus you had resurrected was in a syringe on the fucking floor. 

“Hmm, not sure how that got there—” Your words were taken from you when the barrel of the handgun made contact with the flesh of your chin, forcing your head back.

“Enough! Tell us where the virus is and maybe the actual lab aides won’t have to mop your brains off the fucking floor.” You grimaced.

“It’s right there,” You replied through gritted teeth. “In that syringe.” Keeping the gun’s sights on you, the soldier stooped to pick up the syringe. “It’s in a liquid suspension that was supposed to be for the rats. We were running tests—” You caught yourself rambling before you could divulge anything more damning. Maybe it was the gun pointed at your head and your life on the line, but you felt like your brain was out to lunch and had thrown out all common sense before it left. “—well, the bottom line is…just don’t break that syringe. The virus inside is viable and dangerous.” The soldier laughed again, this time more arrogantly.

“I don’t c—”

“I’d listen to her if I were you.” You, the soldier—everyone in the Coffin—turned to the source of the modulated voice. A huge silhouette passed through the sanguine lights of decon. The glint of the red helmet caught your eye first, then the red bat insignia splashed across the figure’s armored chest. 

Huh.

That posture—the way the helmeted figure stood to make himself look bigger—tickled the back of your brain. Your train of thought, however, was stopped short by your captor yanking your wrist and wrapping his free arm around you in a headlock. He trained his gun at the red helmet before you, who produced a pair of his own firearms.

“Don’t shoot,” your captor barked, and you realized what was in the hand that was clutching the fabric of your PPE. You struggled to break free, but the body behind you felt like a pillar with armor for cushioning. “Or she goes with me.” The helmeted Bat slowly lowered his weapons, which earned a smug huff from your captor, whose grip loosened on your PPE. You sighed in relief and started to extract yourself from you felt his arms quickly wrap around your neck again, making you cry out.

“No!” The helmeted figure called out. You heard the crack of the gunshot and the sound of the bullet meeting flesh. You felt warm blood—not yours—splatter on your face and trickle onto your coverall and you shuddered. You felt the soldier, impossibly heavy, slump over onto your body and slide to the ground. The gunfire of his squad mates erupts around you and you see the red-helmeted newcomer duck behind a glovebox and return fire. You dive for cover, watching the soldiers drop behind you. You see the red helmet emerge again to take out the last of the soldiers, engaging in hand to hand—these fighters seemed to be highly trained—and putting the occasional bullet through the weak points of their armor. The last bullet casing fell to the floor with a resounding ping! and you heard boots moving towards you once more. 

“Are you okay?” 

It hadn’t occurred to you why the soldier had held on so tightly to your PPE—you hadn’t felt the little prick in your collarbone when the gunfire had started. Dread pooled in the pit of your stomach as you slowly lowered your gaze to where the syringe stuck out above your clavicle, only dredges of fluid left, the black-and-yellow biohazard symbol turned up to the light like a bright and deadly flower. 

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[A/N]: We are hitting the ground running! Hope that was a good start to this fic.

Likes and reblogs are appreciated!

On the Scene

RK900 x gn!Detective!Reader

Lt. Hank Anderson and Det. Connor Anderson are on the scene of a grisly murder. They have some investigating to do, and not just into the scene of the homicide that you and Richard were first called to inspect.

A/N: phew! first real post in a while. DBH has a chokehold on me and I have no idea how it happened (I haven't even gotten the game yet—I'm waiting for it to go on sale). That being said, hope this isn't too OOC! I was inspired to write this by the one scene in A Study in Pink from BBC's Sherlock. I messed around with the scene so the dialogue isn't a carbon copy, though.

Yes, I settled on calling Nines Richard (I'm indecisive). Hank calls him Nines as a nickname of sorts.

warnings: implied sexual references, sorely lacking in beta reading

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Cold, damp nights like these were not entirely uncommon in Detroit. If anything, they were a part of the city’s branding. 

After all of his years in the God-forsaken city, Lieutenant Hank Anderson knew at least that much. 

His CD player blasting heavy metal, he slowed his aging car to a stop on the side of a residential street in a more tasteful stretch of Detroit. Police cruisers and personnel crowded the street already narrowed with cars parked beside the curb on each side. The house in question was cast in the blue and red light of the cruisers’ beacons, an adequate welcome for those who chose to step inside. 

Hank eased himself out of the driver’s seat and into the chilly air, groaning as his joints protested. His partner Connor, ever so enthusiastic when it came to work, exited from the other side and followed Hank with quick, precise strides until they reached the yellow holographic police tape set up around the crime scene. 

“Hello, Lieutenant, Detective.” The duo was greeted by the stoic face of Richard, the DPD’s RK900 investigator android, who was just about as close to a brother that Connor, the RK800, had. His fair complexion was bathed in the flashing lights of the squad cars and spotlights that had been set up around the scene, but he seemed to pay no mind to the glare.

“Nines.” Hank grunted. “We’re here to see Detective L/N.” Richard raised a perfect brow, his expression set with feigned intrigue. 

“Why?” Hank chuckled.

“We were invited, why else?”

“Is that so?” A grin inched its way onto Hank’s grizzled face.

“I think they want us to take a look at some evidence. Think it might be related to our red ice case. That’s why you made the call, didn’t ya?” Richard cracked a small half-smile. 

“Right as always, Lieutenant. It seems like your investigative skills have stayed sharp after all these years.” Hank barked out a laugh as he and Connor crossed through the holographic boundary. Just as they passed by the RK900, Hank stopped abruptly, wrinkling his nose. 

“Lieutenant?” Connor inquired from beside him. 

“It’s nothin’, son.” It didn’t sound like nothing to Connor—not that he voiced that notion, anyways. From behind their turned backs, Richard’s LED flashed red momentarily. 

They were making their way up the front porch steps when you appeared in the doorway in your CSI jumpsuit and PPE, fiddling with your gloves. 

“Hey, Anderson, so nice of you to finally come.” You greeted the pair with a smile. “Careful with the evidence back there, don’t want to get it contaminated with Sumo’s fur or something. Richard thinks it might be of some help with your red ice case.” 

“You didn’t make it home last night, did ‘ya?” The smile disappeared from your face. That wasn’t the response you had been expecting.

“I’m sorry?”

“Tell me, L/N, did ‘ya at least get someone to feed your cats?” He watched your expression, brows raised with skepticism. “C’mon. You can do a little better than hiding that hickey under your PPE.” He gestured loosely at the collar of your jumpsuit. Your hand instinctively went to the bruise that you knew was blooming underneath the fabric. 

“What—”

“And you, Nines!” Hank called out to Richard, who was just crossing the front yard to join the conversation.

“Is there something you wanted to tell me, Lieutenant?” Richard’s expression and composure were practically free of tics and tells—one of the benefits of being an android, deviant or not, Hank supposed. Richard tilted his head with bemusement.

“Oh, don’t play dumb. Say, are ‘ya trying out some new scent for androids? Smells a lot like L/N’s deodorant if you ask me.”

“Y/N and I spent the night at the precinct,” Richard answered quickly. “We were looking over evidence early this morning when the homicide was called in. They offered me their coat when it began to rain because—”

“Yeah, ‘cause androids don’t like getting their clothes wet after just getting ‘em from the Cyberlife dry cleaners,” he drawled. “Funny that the knees of your slacks are so banged up, Nines. Maybe you should bring ‘em back.”

“Hank, whatever you’re trying to imply—”

“I know, kid, I know. Also, you two are on a first name basis now? Geez, did I miss something while I was on holiday?”

“Hank...” Your voice dripped with exasperation. “Just inspect the damn crime scene, will you?”

“Alright, alright,” Hank waved you off and stepped into the house. “But I’m expecting a wedding invitation by next spring, y’hear?”

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[A/N]: So, yeah, I don't know jack about DBH or BBC's Sherlock...well, reading the BBC's Sherlock manga counts as interacting with the source material, right?

Hope you enjoyed! Thanks for reading x

See You Again

Chapter 2: Polestar

Jason Todd x f!reader

You and the Red Hood escape the laboratory.

[A/N]: This is the second of the two chapters I had already written. I just started writing the third chapter and putting down my thoughts for the rest of the story...oops...

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STAR Laboratories Los Angeles

9:52:03 PM PT

The Coffin

“Well, that can’t be good.” You mutter to yourself, yanking out the syringe with a hiss. When your soldier had yielded, you thought you could slip away from him. But his sudden fake-out had shifted both of your positions, creating a window for the Bat to shoot him. The bullet had come so close to your face, you had thought you could feel it brush past you and embed itself in the soldier’s exposed neck. 

The bullet could have just as easily grazed you, even killed you, had you been just an inch too close. 

You shifted your gaze to the figure in the red helmet. You hadn’t gotten the chance to examine them up close—they were tall and heavily built, even with armor on, and sported a weathered brown leather jacket that covered the huge red bat symbol emblazoned on their chest plate. “You’re Red Hood, right?” 

“That’s me.”

“What are you doing in LA? Aren’t you supposed to be from Gotham?” The Red Hood let out a modulated chuckle. You thought this would go down as your weirdest day on the job, making one of Gotham’s most ruthless crime fighters chuckle.

“I wanted to check out the warm weather here in Cali.” Something in Red Hood’s tone and posture shifted. “Now, what’s going on with that syringe?”

“Ah. Well, this was supposed to be a dose of a certain virus for the lab animals we’re testing on,” you explained.

“And this virus, it’s…”

“The Polestar virus,” you sighed. “Unearthed from somewhere deep in the Arctic, inside some early human mummies who carried the virus.” You let out a weak chuckle. “We knew it had the potential to be sold on the black market as a bioweapon should it fall into the wrong hands, but we weren’t aware that the risks were so high. And now, the virus is in my system.” 

“Are you feeling anything right now? What are the virus’s symptoms? What’s its incubation period?” His modulated voice was surprisingly soft, yet urgent.

“This virus is bad news. We found that it’s pretty fast acting, and…” You spared another glance at the syringe in your hand. “...the symptoms aren’t pretty.” 

“How fast?”

“This dose is meant for a test subject that’s a fraction of my body mass. I’ll be dead in two or three hours, give or take.”

“And the symptoms?” 

“Necrosis. A new kind that we haven’t named yet. The virus consumes soft tissue and leaves behind a metallic residue. We believe it’s because the virus leaches metals and minerals from the body and aggregates it, beginning with the extremities.” The Red Hood reached forward cautiously, as if he was afraid of startling you. He gently pulled back the fabric of your coveralls that the soldier had so unceremoniously ripped open and ghosted his gloved fingers over where the needle had once been. The blood vessels around the wound had already become blackened and distended.

“We have to get you to a hospital.” You shook your head.

“We can’t. This research isn’t public knowledge.” You hoisted yourself up, tucked in your coveralls, and adjusted your respirator like nothing had happened. “I’m already a target as it is.” You stepped over the black-clad form of one of the soldiers Red Hood felled.

“Are there any treatments?” You picked your way through the Coffin to the freezers.

“They’re still in development, but the vaccine should slow it down.” You punched some numbers into the keypad and put your index finger to the scanner on the door and the freezer doors eased open automatically. You strode over to the shelf where you had hurriedly stashed the vials and syringes, the glass and metal clouded from the cold. The vaccine was crystal pink, you realized, like the color of the phenolphthalein titration you had done back in high school. You had handled both the buret and the Erlenmeyer flask because Jason couldn’t get it right, and in return, he had done all of the calculations for the lab report. Turning over the vials in your hand, you wondered why you were reminiscing about Jason during this time. The thought made your heart squeeze a little bit. 

Jason Todd had been gone for so long. The hollowness that Jason’s absence had carved out of you seemed to sigh achingly. Years on, that hollowness was still there, not as hungry as it had been at first but smaller, still present. It still gnawed on your consciousness from time to time, on his birthday or on the day the Joker took him from you.

When you returned from the freezer, Red Hood was preparing a large metal-lined briefcase that he had taken from the incapacitated—dead?—men on the ground. He had already filled it partially with devices and weapons he had taken off of the soldiers.

“Are those the virus samples?” He inquired.

“Yeah,” you replied. “Vaccines, too. They’re labeled as such, and the vaccines are pink while the virus suspension is cl—”

“Pack them up. We have to get out of here before the police come.” His request startled you.

“Are you serious? This is property of STAR Labs and the CDC—”

“That’s been compromised. Neither you nor the samples are safe here. The police will be of no help, and they’re gonna keep sending people after you and those syringes unless we get you somewhere safe.” He gestured at the tray in your hands. “You need treatment, too. Somewhere they can’t find you.” You sighed heavily, setting the tray on a countertop.

“You’re right. I’m carrying the virus right now, and I’m dangerous. STAR Labs is probably gonna terminate me and the CDC will whisk me away or something. People come after me. But I can’t compromise the Polestar program.”

“It’s already been compromised. Now pack that shit up and let’s get out of here.” You flitted around the Coffin in search of something to store the samples in. You were scooping ice into a Styrofoam case when your comms unit fizzled to life again.

“This is the LAPD, we’ve been alerted of a break-in at STAR Labs. We request that all STAR Labs employees still in the building evacuate immediately. That is an order. Repeat, that is an order.” 

“Shit, we gotta go,” Red Hood muttered. You grabbed your comms and tucked the Styrofoam case awkwardly under your arm and followed him out of the Coffin and into the ruins of decon and aseptics—you had been in the Coffin for hours, and the sight of the wreckage and your coworkers in aseptics now slumped over their devices made your stomach drop. “No time for sightseeing. Hurry up.” You pushed yourself into a full sprint, stumbling in your PPE along the concrete and corrugated steel of the basement. You followed the Red Hood into the emergency stairwell. Peering through the glass of the door to the ground floor, you saw SWAT officers milling about.

“SWAT team, start sweeping the second floor.”

“Shit—” You and Red Hood hurried up the stairs, the contents in your arms rattling in its Styrofoam case.

“Guess we aren’t leaving that way. Know any other escape routes in this building?”

The top floor—your floor. The Polestar program’s home.

You didn’t want to know what kind of destruction the soldiers had left in their wake. 

“Top floor. Only way out would be the roof,” You answered.

“Roof it is.” After climbing some more flights of stairs and monitoring your comms unit for any more activity, you decided to wrench open the door to the sixth floor, breathing laboriously—when was the last time you had done this much cardio? You led the Red Hood over to a service elevator—not accessible without clearance, you explained to him—scanned your ID, and pulled him in. Once it reached the top floor, the elevator dinged and opened its doors, the hallway blessedly clear. You and Hood skulked down the corridor, which ended with the door to the Polestar offices. Hood opened the door and swept the room for hostiles before waving you in.

Your heart sank when you saw what had become of the Polestar lab.

“No…” you whispered. The laboratory had been completely wrecked. Glass fragments and papers were strewn on the floors. Pieces of equipment were left broken and overturned, spilling their contents among the mess.

Then you saw the bodies. 

You caught sight of Dr. Davis’s crumpled form on the floor, next to the comms he had used to warn you of the impending disaster. The comms unit looked like it had been crushed underfoot, exposing wiring and circuitry among shards of its outer plastic shell. You made a step towards Dr. Davis’s body, but froze when you saw the red stain on his back and the blood pooling onto the floor. 

“They…” You felt Hood’s gloved hand on your shoulder, gently guiding you away from the destruction. “...they killed everyone.”

“I’m sorry.” 

“This is…this is horrible. Unbelievable.” Your pulse quickened with your breath. You felt the tears begin to form, and your vision grew misty. “I can’t believe it. They killed everyone.” You thought you had known grief and death. But this was different—seeing your colleagues slaughtered, their blood drying before you, made you feel faint. And yet, you felt wholly ablaze with 

“Hey…” Shouts sounded from the stairwell. Your chest felt tight and your head was turning fuzzy. “...hey, hey. We gotta move.” The hand on your shoulder was not so gentle anymore, insistently pulling you toward the gaping hole in one of the windows. He handed—more like shoved—the briefcase he was holding into one of your hands and produced a terrifying-looking grapple gun from somewhere on his utility belt. “Don’t drop it,” was all he said before he wrapped an arm around your waist. Your arms instinctively flew around his shoulders, holding onto him, your Styrofoam box and his briefcase for dear life, and then you were airborne.

You squeezed your eyes shut as you soared over the street, which had become choked with squad cars and assault vehicles. You gasped in surprise when you felt yourself change direction as Hood gently and skillfully hoisted you over the ledge of a neighboring building’s rooftop.

“The first time is always the worst.”

“That’s implying that this isn’t the last,” You heaved out. “Holy shit. Did they see us?”

“Don’t think so. We’ll wait here, I’ll…” You didn’t hear the rest of the vigilante’s statement. The adrenaline from the jump was beginning to wane and you felt the burden of the virus and the sights you had stumbled upon while escaping the laboratory coming on again. 

“Hey." Red Hood moved to catch you as you slumped over. “Hey, can you hear me?” Illuminated by the city lights, he caught sight of your badge from where it hung on your PPE. Your name was printed in neat black font next to an unmistakable portrait. 

Under his helmet, the Red Hood’s breath caught in his chest.

“...Y/N?”

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[A/N]: That's all I've got for now. Hope you enjoyed! x

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