#1 Flatline Fan

The batsignal lit up Gotham's sky, demanding the attention of the dark knight. It had been a slow night, no major rogue activity, so Batman pondered the reason for the call as he grappled to the roof of the GCPD. Commissioner Gordon stood there and waited.

"Jim," Batman greeted. "Is there something wrong?"

"Batman. To the point as usual." He blew out smoke into the cold night's air. Batman debated commenting on his smoking, but held his tongue. Gordon continued on. "I'll be brief. There's a John Doe in Park Row, looks to be a suicide. We ran DNA and there's nothing on the databases, no personal affects, no nothing. We're stumped."

"I'll check it out. Thank you, Jim."

"Don't mention it. You're doing us a favor, after that Red Hood guy took out half the morgues in Gotham we've been working with limited resources. Have you found him yet? He's been a-"

Batman disappeared into the night. He didn't need to hear anymore. He was fully aware of what Red Hood had been doing. Later investigations did show the morgues Red Hood targeted were used as fronts for organ trafficking, however his methods were far too destructive for his taste.

An unknown body found in Park Row, where Red Hood operates, almost immediately after Red Hood almost entirely took out the GCPD's ability to identify bodies. This was not a coincidence. This was the kind of game Red Hood played. The John Doe likely wasn't even a suicide, Red Hood just made it look that way. Batman made it to the apartment, identified it easily by the police tape covering the door, and ducked inside.

The apartment was neat and well organized. The walls and furniture were mostly bare, aside from a paperback novel on the arm of the couch and a half empty bottle of vodka on the kitchen counter. He turned the corner and was met with a wall ordained in weapons. Not just any weapons, no, these were League weapons. John Doe was involved in the League of Assasins. This being a suicide was looking more and more unlikely.

The bedroom door was ajar. The center of this mystery lay dead behind it. Batman carefully, quietly, pushed the door open and stepped inside.

It was dim, darker than the other rooms. At first glance, he looked like he was sleeping. The man was lying on his back on the bed. Upon further inspection, the bed was soaked in blood from the man's open wrists. A kris knife lay in the man's limp hand. It was a League weapon, he noted. More evidence to prove his theory. Batman couldnt make out his face in the darkness. He found the light switch and flipped it on.

No.

Jason.

Bruce stumbled back. He knew that face. Jason. It was Jason. His son. Dead. Again. Dead by his own hand. No. That couldn't be him. He would've left a note. He would've had to have the last word. He searched the room.

There. An old journal lay on the nightstand. Bruce recognized it instantly. It was Jason's when he was a kid. He must have broken into the manor to get it at some point. But when? He flipped it open to the last page and found a code alongside the remininates of a torn out page. He recognized the code instantly. He had taught him it years ago.

You can find me in the last place you loved me.

Bruce scrambled to figure out what he meant. He couldnt focus, his eyes kept trailing back to his son's all too pale face. He reached over and brushed the hair out of his closed eyes, willing himself to pretend he was just asleep. An argument from a couple days prior lodged itself in his brain.

"You only loved me when I was dead!"

Their last conversation. Bruce could still hear Jason's accusing tone. He took a shakey breath. He knew where to go. He knew where to find Jason.

The Gotham cemetery was eerie at night. Bruce used to find it peaceful. Tonight was anything but peaceful. He sprinted along a familiar path to a familiar grave.

Here lies Jason Todd.

He stopped at the headstone and found a torn piece of paper weighed down by a rock. He picked it up and held it in shakey hands.