Chapter Text
He should had known better than to heed one strange missive on the league's ancient code, barely a few words long, that might, or might had not, come from Damian.
But it had been, what, seven years already? If by any chance, small it might be, it was him, Jason had to show at the meeting place. And do so alone.
Because even a decade since Jason left the shadow he understands the silent part of the message, the nuances of Nanda Parbat's archaic society are not something one can forget. Knows therefore, that he if shows accompanied, no one will meet him. That if he so much as breathes word of this to anyone, chances were none of them would get to meet their wayward kindoff brother again.
Had the writer, whoever it is, wanted the contents known to others, they would had been. That it came to Jason only, in the darkness of night, a luxurious piece of parchment left at the admittedly, miserable, kitchen table, of his last hideout that none should had known to find, said enough.
A secret, a call, and maybe a promise.
That it wasn't signed didn't matter either. Jason knew the elegant handwriting, beautiful enough to shame any academic; Damian.
It could be a trap. But it wasn't likely.
Had the league wanted him dead, there were other easier ways; say, same as the letter got delivered, they could had planted a bomb.
So no, this wasn't about his life. Maybe something else he did have, information, or resources, but both were things he was positive the shadow could gain on their own.
It was more likely this was another matter entirely. He wanted to hope it was Damian finally giving living sign, reaching out after no word for the last seven fucking years, even if, admittedly, from the strangest of corners. But Jason and him had not been all that close before his disappearance, Dick would had been a better choice for that. Hell, even Tim would be better, bad as their relationship had been at first. So...what was really going on?
Whatever it is, he's supposed to know when the time for the encounter comes.
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He arrives at the designated place, (a rundown warehouse near the docks), in the darkness of night, nothing to indicate the presence of anyone else besides himself… but the pressure at the back of his head that means he's being watched.
His right hand itches toward the holster at his thigh, but he doesn't grab for the gun. For now, at least, this is a peaceful encounter, and the assassins he suspects around, shouldn't have reason to attack him.
Inside, there is nothing but ruins; abandoned machinery covered in rust and vandalized by the kids of the neighbourhood, dust thick enough to turn any surface gray, and detritus covering everything from floor to walls…
Looking around reveals an old, rusty, staircase, climbing, half the steps gone, to what seems like the old offices of the factory. The unmistakable traces of boots on the dust over the steps, a clear invitation, if Jason has ever seen one.
The upper floor, when he steps in, is no better than the first, maybe even worse, with danger brought by sections of putrid wood floors likely to collapse under too much weight. But the mottled walls and broken shelves offer better shadows to hide in than the open space bellow, so Jason supposes he can see the appeal.
No one likely to enter the warehouse would spot them easily.
Then, a soft rustle of cloth, and a call;
"Todd"
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