Chapter Text
Well, Hooded Jay muses as he stares at his travel companion, they’re sure the smallest one I’ve encountered.
Of course, he’s not unfamiliar with them. Anyone who’s been in this business long enough knows about the League of Assassins’ Demon. They’d been making a name of themselves, in the quiet way that Weapons do.
He didn’t think the League was the type to rent out their Weapons, but here the Demon is, sitting across from Jay on the plane that’ll take him to his next set of handlers. Judging by the look of disdain aimed at him, clearly the Demon thinks themselves above him. Jay grins back, but since he’s wearing his helmet he makes his amusement known in sprawled body language and a lifted chin.
“Awfully far from home, Demon,” he comments, testing to see how much of a rise he’ll get. The first conversation is as much a source of amusement for him as it is a litmus test. What gets a rise out of the Demon? What’ll spark an argument, what’ll cause silence, what will invite a fight?
Jay has made an art form out of poking buttons and it’s his favorite game to play.
The Demon says nothing. Snooty bastard. They don’t even shift their weight. It’s like Jay never spoke.
Oh well. He loves a challenge. The silent ones are always so interesting when they finally crack.
“Aww, did someone get in trouble?” It’s a bit of a reach, but it’s not uncommon for an organization to rent out their Weapons as punishment; a sort of ‘this is what it would be like without us.’ Personally, Jay has never had to deal with it, but that’s because he’s more of a mercenary type anyways. “Made their handlers mad and got put in timeout?”
“Just because your handlers treat you with such little respect does not mean that I am shown the same dishonor.” The Demon doesn’t turn their head, still staring resolutely at the wall of the plane’s interior hold.
Jay grins. Gotcha. “Well, aren't you special? How much money are you earning your org with this ‘respectful loan’?” The Hooded Jay is worth a pretty penny, though he can’t imagine the League strapped for cash. Their Demon has always been hoarded like a dragon with gold–either someone’s paying a huge sum, or the Demon is bluffing.
“That is none of your concern,” the Demon says dismissively. Too bad that Jay refuses to be dismissed, especially by another Weapon.
He hisses in mocking sympathy. “Ooh, someone’s only worth a few hundred a week, I bet. Upset that your makers don’t think of you as valuable?” C’mon, he thinks. Show me the fire everyone talks about. You’re loyal, aren’t you?
The Demon doesn’t do anything so undisciplined as twitch, but they do turn to look at Jay. “It shows your lack of training that you waste your time in such speculations.”
Jay leans forward, though there’s not much give in his straps and the Demon is belted in on the other side of the cargo hold. “What’d you do? It can’t be just failing an assignment, everyone knows the League finds you too useful to dismiss you over something as little as that.” Realization strikes him. Underneath his helmet, his lips stretch in a delighted smile. “Oh, you compromised yourself, didn’t you? Let yourself get seen? By someone big, I bet.”
“I am not so poorly trained as to do such a thing,” the Demon snaps, and ooh, there’s the reaction Jay wanted. “I am simply here to show the strength of the League’s alliance with the Reach.”
“And I’m here because I’m bored,” Jay says back. It’s not a lie, technically–he is bored, and that is part of the reason he was sent here. “Sounds like you got the short end of the stick, Little Imp.”
“Hold your tongue, lest I use said stick to beat you,” the Demon retorts.
Finally, a Weapon that isn’t so beaten down and can actually fight. “Touchy, touchy.” Jay clicks his tongue. “You’re a fun one, Demon. I like you. Here, how about we start over.” He lounges in his seat as much as he can. “I’m Hooded Jay, he. Handlers call me Hood, but since we’re getting along so well, you can call me Jay. You?”
“You are fully aware of my title,” the Demon says imperiously, which is amusing, especially for a Weapon. “And it is far superior to yours. A common bird, really?”
“Take it up with the people who made me,” Jay says dismissively. He quite likes his title, actually. It sounds disarming, because people forget that jays are also corvids. Just like they forget he’s a threat until they’re lying dead on the floor. “Your trainers seemed to have big plans for such a tiny knife, naming you the Demon.”
“And I continue to live up to them,” the Demon says. They’re touchy once you get past their shields. And delusional, apparently, because no trainer will ever think a weapon is ‘good enough.’
Jay hums. “If you say so.” He’s glad the League never bothers with renting Weapons, insisting on making their own. Something tells him they wouldn’t find Jay’s attitude acceptable, which is a fucking crime, actually. It’s his charm.
There’s a garbled hiss from the Demon’s voice modulator, and they are fully glaring at him, but don’t respond.
Hands raised in lighthearted surrender, Jay laughs. “Alright, alright, I get it.” He’s mostly got what he wanted from them, anyways. No need to make them want to actively kill him. “I look forward to being wielded next to you, Demon.”
The Demon sniffs dismissively, but their posture straightens, and they give him a nod. Which is probably as good as Jay is gonna get.
The guards lead Jay and the Demon through blank hallways (typical), and through a door. When the door locks behind them, Jay figures that’s their final destination.
The room has two doors, both closed, and four cells built into the walls, separated by walls instead of bars.
There’s a table bolted to the floor, and a man is leaning against it. Maybe a little older than Jay, but once he sees his face, Jay adjusts his assessment. Not a man. A Weapon. (Jay stays up to date on the other threats in the field, and it’s easier to identify Shrike than most other Weapons- because of the types of mission he’s sent on, there are a few photos of his face available to Jason’s organization.)
He’s pretty sure he’s worked tangentially to Shrike, once–his target happened to be a coworker of Shrike’s mark, and Jay remembers seeing the Weapon through his scope. Those eyes are pretty distinct, even with colored contacts in. Something about the shadows they hold.
Another Weapon stands further back, closer to a corner but still in view of the handlers. It’s in the tilt of their stance, deferential yet alert; how their head doesn’t move under their hood but their limbs have a coiled grace waiting to be unleashed. Jay doesn’t need to know who they are to recognize a tool when he sees one.
The grunts abruptly salute, catching Jay’s attention to one of the doors as it opens. What interests him more, however, is how Shrike flinches into his standing posture yet the other Weapon is almost languid in their rapid movement to come to attention.
Interesting.
The figure who steps through the door frame matches the description of the Handler given during the debrief: not tall, but rooted in stance, with a serious expression and cold dark eyes that lock onto Jay almost immediately.
“Weapons,” comes the low acknowledgement, which is more of a recognition than Jay has gotten with handlers before. “Demon. Hood.”
Jay tilts his head but otherwise doesn’t move, feet square and hands folded behind his back. The Demon flinches like they’re holding back from dropping to a knee–damn, does the League teach that? Fucking elitist pricks.
“Shrike,” the Handler continues–ignoring the twitch that incites–”Ghost. These two will be wielded alongside you.”
And holy fuck, the weight of Ghost’s attention is crazy. The sensation is akin to having a heavy blanket thrown over you. Jay grins behind his helmet. That’s fun.
“Don’t kill each other,” the Handler orders, and without any further instruction turns and walks out.
The guards leave after the Handler, and it’s only once the door has closed and locked behind them that Shrike moves. He shudders slightly, and looks up to meet Jay’s eyes- or his helmet- then glances over at Demon.
“Hey,” he says, and his illusion of normalcy is brittle at best, “nice to meet you. You’ll be staying here, probably. There are gear lockers on that wall-” he gestures to them- “that’s the bathroom, and the other door is to a training room. Ghost and I are in the two right cells, you can decide which of the others you want.” He follows his speech up with a weak smile.
“D’you often get others rented here?” Jay asks, striding over to the left cells to poke his head in each one. They’re both the same standard bare concrete with a mattress on the floor, but–in a true sign of luxury–they each also have the flattest pillows to ever exist and a single blanket. Seems like these people understand the utility of things like decent sleep and not having hypothermia.
The leftmost cell has a mattress that Jay is pretty sure is ever so slightly bigger than the other, so he throws his gloves and helmet in there to stake his claim. Debrief mentioned something about not giving a shit if they’re geared up so long as they’re ready within thirty seconds of being summoned. He can work with that.
Shrike is hovering annoyingly behind him. “If there’s anything I can do to help you, just let me know.”
Jay gives him the driest look he can muster. “What, are you playing hostess? We’re Weapons, not guests renting a motel.”
“Sure,” Shrike says, after a short pause, “but it’s important to trust your team members, right? For cohesion and stuff.”
Is this guy fucking for real? And here Jay thought he had a smidge of respect for Shrike, since the Weapon is infamous for being one of the only successful disguise specialists, but any water that held has long dried up. “Are you stupid or just naive?”
Shrike shrugs, with a wry smile. “Probably closer to stupid? I’ve been in this business for a while, so naive isn’t as likely.”
Part of Jay wants to poke into the opening, maybe compare stories from early on, but–well. He’s not going to lay down his whole hand to this guy just because he’s acting pathetic. “Still, I doubt Handler’ll send us out together. Pretty sure we’re all specialized differently.”
“Then why put us together?” Shrike asks, “we’d be able to take a wider range of missions as a team. Harder ones, too.”
Jay pushes past Shrike, set on investigating the facility. “Why keep your weapons in separate locations when they can all go in one armory?” Okay, so Shrike wasn’t lying–door number one leads to a utilitarian bathroom, and door number two opens into a training room, which actually looks interesting. “Doubt the Demon would cooperate with others,” he adds. “They're feisty.”
“They will if the Handler tells them to,” Shrike says, and then his eyes widen, and he barely manages to dodge some sort of projectile from the middle-left cell. Demon.
Jay bursts out laughing, because Shrike looks like a dumbass, thrown off his guard so suddenly. “Nice try, Demon,” Jay calls, turning to see those indignant eyes staring out the cell. “Shame he dodged.”
Shrike sighs. “I’d suggest we at least try to get along. I’ll settle for neutrality if I have to, but none of us will be properly functional if we have to watch our backs in here as well as out there.”
Big words from a thing without autonomy. “What, like you and no-face over there are besties?” Jay asks, jerking a thumb over his shoulder to where Ghost still hasn't moved from their location against the wall.
The side of Shrike’s mouth twitches, and not in a good way. “We cooperate. You should try it, it’s easier and more helpful.”
“I do what's necessary to get the job done,” Jay tells him. Which is true–he's damned good at what he does, it's what he's made for–but that doesn't mean he'll go quietly. “You won't have any issues with me compromising missions.”
Not like the little imp still glowering at everyone from their cell. The Demon is like a yapping dog, baring their teeth as if their attitude makes up for their size.
“Thank you,” Shrike says, like Jay’s cooperation is a choice and not something expected of him. “And… is there anything you’d prefer me to call you, when not on missions? Aside from your title.”
Is. Is this guy insane? The fuck is he trying to do here? Whatever it is, it’s a stupid decision. Surely there's monitoring here, surely he'll get corrected for such a misstep.
“Handler calls me Hood,” Jay says, cold and careful because he may like to stir the pot but he's not reckless. Corrections and retraining is never fun. “That works for me.”
“Okay, Hood,” Shrike says, watching him carefully. “If that changes, let me know.”
Telling Demon about his nickname on the plane was easy, because transfers never have monitoring. It's not like Weapons are going to escape when they're thousands of feet in the air, so there's always the chance to let your guard down. The fact that Shrike expects him to do the same here says something about him, or the handlers here, or how this place is arranged. Either way, Jay doesn't know enough yet to step too far out of line.
Dick has been on harder missions than this.
That’s what he keeps reminding himself, anyway. He wishes it would help.
For one, this isn’t a mission. This is Dick and Tim getting transferred into a wholly new room, and then two other Weapons showing up and apparently moving in with them. Great. Dick loves surprises, and changes, and seeing the Handler unexpectedly.
He’s managed to get all of the Weapons in the same general area, which took less skill and more waiting until they happened to be facing the right way, and they have to start talking tactics sooner or later.
None of them want to, but that’s why Dick is here.
That might be the only reason why Dick is still here.
He’s broken.
Not in the way that they broke Tim, of course, it’s completely different. But sometimes, (horribly,) Dick thinks that he’s more broken than Tim is.
Which isn’t true from a person’s perspective- Dick still thinks for himself, Dick still responds to his name, not that there’s anyone around to say it anymore. But from a Handler’s standpoint, it definitely is.
Dick has always taken orders well- he learned young. But introducing Tim to the mix had been a mistake, at least where Dick’s obedience was concerned. As Tim changed more and more, so did Dick, in the opposite direction. He snapped back. He refused orders. He pushed and pushed until finally, they pushed back hard enough to shatter him.
He knows he’s not as useful as he once was, and there’s no room for sentimentality in the Reach. He’s on his way out, and it’s entirely his fault, and then there won’t be anyone around to talk to Tim like he’s a person, or even like he has thoughts and feelings.
Dick can’t leave Tim alone. But he can’t stop flinching, either, or going away like Tim does, but even less responsive, or panicking, or any of it.
He’s been in this role a long time, though. Which means he’s at least got knowledge that the Reach doesn’t quite want to let go of yet.
And, damn what happens to him, he’s going to make sure Tim is still seen as useful for as long as possible. And that means working with the new Weapons, which means, “We need to talk.”
Demon gives him an imperious eyebrow, while Hood pauses in his repetitive tossing of his helmet in the air to look at him from the corner of his eye. Did it land on heads? Dick thinks, semi-hysterically, but saying that would be a terrible idea.
Dick gathers himself mentally, and continues. He’s stronger than this. “We should probably go over our skills. Strengths, weak areas, that sort of thing. Nothing you don’t want to share,” he adds hurriedly as Demon reaches into their pocket, wary of a throwing star, “but just things that would be helpful if we end up working together.”
“Why don't you give us a glowing example, bird boy?” Hood asks, a smirk on his face like it's his default expression. It might be, for all he knows.
“Sure.” Dick mentally catalogues his thoughts- most trainers have already been briefed, and he doesn’t want to prove his worth here, he wants to talk to them like they’re people. “So, along with general thefts, assassinations, and the like, I’m often used as a scout or spy, and I tend to go undercover a lot, which means I’m pretty good at distractions, persuasion, and that sort of thing. I’m very flexible, and I work well under pressure.”
Weaknesses. Right.
“I… used to work well under pressure,” he admits, very aware of the risk he’s taking with the next set of information. “I can have an adverse reaction to some people, and my left shoulder isn’t as strong as it used to be.”
“Getting rusty?” Hood asks, staring at Dick like he's watching a juicy TV show.
“Not exactly,” Dick says, keeping his face as neutral as possible. “It happens under very specific circumstances.”
Hood clicks his tongue. “Must be quite the circumstances.” He tosses his helmet in the air and catches it on the tip of his finger like a basketball. “I'm trained muscle, basically.” There's a mean glint in his smile, before it fades away. “Ground combat is my main use, but I'm also competent in a variety of weapons and used as a distance sniper, sometimes.”
Suddenly the air around him changes, Hood straightening from his slouch and locking eyes with him. “Handlers know this, but I'm used best when aimed in a direction and set loose. Allies have to be carefully pointed out or marked lest they wanna get caught in the crossfire. So don't cross me unless you have a death wish.”
“Understood,” Dick says, grateful that Hood shared anything. He’s been expecting maybe one sentence maximum, but this is better. This is good. “We’ll make sure not to get in your way, then.”
“Smart.” Hood grins, this one looking a little more real than his other smiles. “Can't tell you how many idiots tried to fight me on that. It's manufacturer's design, I can't change it.” Then he shifts, looking over at Tim. “What about you, Ghost?”
Dick takes a quiet step closer to Tim, keeping his hands low and nonthreatening just in case. He seems to remember Dick most of the time, but it’s always good to be careful. “You wanna share, or should I?” Dick barely manages to cut any names or terms of affection out of the sentence- he’s not sure how Hood and Demon might react. He’ll risk whatever ire they have if push comes to shove, but if they can get through this conversation first, everything might be a lot easier.
Tim meets Dick's gaze, giving him an almost imperceptible nod. “Ghost,” he says, voice that odd sort of quiet that comes with a complete lack of intonation. “Scout. Sabotage. Infiltration. Stealth.”
Dick smiles freely at him. His little brother is still in there. Tim is so brave it takes his breath away- Dick wouldn’t blame him if he left forever, went wherever he goes and stayed, just to get away. But he’s so desperately grateful that he still gets to see Tim, gets to talk to Tim, sometimes. “Thanks, buddy.”
Shit, nicknames. He glances up at Hood. Hopefully there are more important things for the guy to be focusing on…
Hood's fingers tap on his helmet, his gaze locked on Tim, but he doesn't look like he's about to do anything. “Sabotage, huh? Interesting.” Then he leans back, loose and unbothered.
“He’s great with technology, too,” Dick adds, “I swear, he can make a bomb out of just about anything. And hacking, of course, comes with the whole technology thing.”
Dick knows that he’s rambling, but there’s panic rising in his chest, now that they’re discussing his brother’s abilities. Dick doesn’t care what they think of him, what they do to him, but if they don’t think that Tim is good enough, Dick won’t be able to protect him.
Dick is never able to protect him, not when it matters.
“Useful,” Hood remarks with a tilt of his head. “My trainers never taught me. Might take you up on one of those bombs, Ghost.”
That topic cuts off quickly as the fourth member in the room decides to speak.
“I am skilled in many areas,” Demon says, “but I specialize in stealth, infiltration and assassination, as well as battle strategy. I am trained with most bladed weapons, but proficient in almost any others as well.”
So, he overlaps with Tim a bit, except for the technology. That’s good- the more unique skills Tim has, the more likely it is that they’ll keep him around. At least they’re not replacing him. That’s good.
“And weak points, Little Imp?” Hood pokes, teasing but with bite behind it. “C'mon, Handler already knows from your manual, it's only a matter of time before we learn, too.”
Demon sniffs dismissively. “I occasionally strategize faster than my handlers can give orders. So as to see the mission done properly, I sometimes must take liberties.”
Oh, a loose cannon. Not great, but as long as nobody else on the team follows Demon’s lead, it should be fine.
“Is there anything you’d like me to call you other than Demon?” Dick asks them, and they stare at him like he’s insane, and they’re worried the condition is contagious.
After a second of that, Demon turns to Hood. “And what are your titles, Hood? Or are you too ashamed to share them?”
“Not ashamed,” comes the immediate counter, “just not stupid. I've been passed through enough hands to know some don't enjoy any bit of…distinction.”
“Isn’t it already in your manual?” Demon taunts.
Hood points at him. “I like your fire, Demon. But just because something is in my manual doesn't mean the new handler will agree with it. Take it from a veteran: learn your wielder before you try to be a double-edged sword.”
Well, Dick isn’t quite sure what the hell Hood is trying to say, but it sounds right. It seems like Hood and Demon already have some sort of understanding.
“I don’t need advice from you,” Demon says, but their tone isn’t as biting as before.
Hood shrugs. “Probably not. But while I can't say there's a title I prefer, I will say that my full callsign is Hooded Jay. It's too long for the field, though, so mainly I'm just Hood.” For all intents and purposes, he's doing no more than giving straight facts, but Dick is quickly learning that talking with Hood is like trying to untangle a long cord. Every time you think you've got a strand free there's something hiding under it.
He can’t say there’s a title he prefers, but his handlers call him Hood. Even though he’s already told them that, he made sure to say his full title. “Okay, Jay,” Dick says, and hopes he’s not making a mistake.
“Huh,” the Weapon says. “Maybe you aren't as stupid as I thought.”
Jay it is, then.
“Thanks,” Dick says dryly. He glances over at Tim, just checking in. Not that he can usually tell what Tim is feeling unless it’s strong or he’s actively signalling Dick, and he doesn’t do that often anymore, but it makes Dick feel better to check.
Tim’s focused directly on Jay, staring him down. Jay doesn't falter, looking unimpressed. “What, is your blank-ass doll face supposed to be intimidating?”
Shit.
Dick doesn’t want to start a fight, and Jay is smart enough to notice that Dick is protecting Tim if he does, but fuck if Dick is going to let anyone be mean to his little brother when he can stop it.
“He’s wearing his kit,” Dick says, keeping his tone as even as he can, “he likes to be prepared. That’s not a bad thing.”
Jay sneers. “What, the dead thing can't talk for itself? Needs permission even when the handlers aren’t around?”
“He doesn’t need permission,” Dick snaps back, “especially not from me.” Dick wishes those words didn’t feel like lies. If he had to fully order Tim around, he thinks it might break him. “Maybe you’re just not worth his time.”
Instead of getting aggressive, Jay grins like a cat who caught the canary. “I was wondering if you were all bark and no bite.”
“Not in this line of work,” Dick responds, already exhausted by the energy it takes to keep track of all these new people and the threats they bring.
Jay hums, crossing his arms. He's still got that smug grin on and doesn't look like it'll change any time soon. “Good, because I don't respect pushovers, Weapons or otherwise.” Then he looks over to Tim. “Maybe one day I'll be worth your time. It'd be fun to talk grenades and shit.”
Tim stays silent, but his eyes slide off Jay in the way Dick has learned means he's judged them not a threat. Huh.
“I think you might get there,” Dick says, still watching Tim. He’d honestly expected Jay to blow up about that too, but this whole conversation has taught him that he generally has no way to predict what Jay will do in any given situation.
Dick has the feeling that he’s going to need to catch up quickly, or everything might just go to shit.