The Roar Under the Skin🐻ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ EP1
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The biting Alberta wind sliced through Jason Todd’s coat like needles. The sky was a dull gray blanket—no moon, no stars—and the snow crunched under his boots with every steady step. He’d slipped into Edmonton two nights ago, using a forged passport and an accent that was Brooklyn more than Canadian, just enough to blend in with truckers and grease monkeys in rusted bars where cheap whiskey and gun deals were the currency of the night.
Jason stopped outside an old warehouse on the edge of the industrial park. No one came here after dark. Only trucks with fake plates and guys who didn’t wear gloves—too afraid to leave blood prints.
“There you are, you son of a bitch,” he muttered, lighting up his modified phone. A thermal scan confirmed at least six men inside. One was broader — probably that Durand, an ex-Canadian army vet turned arms dealer, shipping Russian assault rifles to gangs in Detroit and New York.
Pulling the red mask over his face, he felt his breath fog up the inside. As always, adrenaline surged—not from fear, but from purpose.
He moved with the precision of a scalpel, using the shadows as his ally. At the first blind spot, he threw a knife that sliced through a guard’s Achilles tendon. The muffled scream vanished into the cold and the dull thud of a body hitting snow.
The second guard tried to draw his weapon, but Jason was already on him. A swift takedown, the gun snatched away, disassembled with two sharp clicks, and tossed aside. A blow from the butt smashed the jaw before any calls for help could start.
Inside, the others still didn’t know death was walking through the warehouse with combat boots. The hanging lights looked like silent guillotines. The air reeked of motor oil, gunpowder, and stale coffee.
Jason slid across a steel catwalk and dropped silently. At his feet, crates stamped with the logo of a Canadian mining company hid automatic rifles, grenade launchers, and ammo shipped from Eastern Europe.
“No way...” he whispered, spotting a crate sealed with a Gotham logo. LexArmory.
This wasn’t just Canada. This was coming home.
He pulled a smoke grenade and tossed it into the aisle. The pop was sharp, followed by chaos—voices shouting, wild gunfire, shadows scattering. In the cloud, Jason was a ghost. Striking, disarming, leaving twisted bodies behind without killing... yet. Only Durand was left—The bastard had fled through an emergency exit.
Jason chased him into the snow. Shots fired into the air. Curses. An engine roared.
The truck lurched forward, slipping on ice. Jason ran alongside, vaulted a fence, and jumped on the cab roof. A fist crashed into the windshield, shattering glass. Durand lost control. The truck spun and smashed into a pole.
Jason dragged him out of the wreckage. Blood smeared across the man’s face. Eyes wild.
“Who’s supplying Gotham’s shipments, Durand? Who’s buying in Detroit?”
“You’re not from around here…”
“No. I’m the one who’s gonna freeze your balls off if you don’t talk. And believe me… Gotham’s warm compared to what’s coming.”
The storm had begun. The flakes fell furiously, as if the sky wanted to bury the scene under a silent white shroud.
Jason hauled Durand through the frozen mud to a nearby outcrop—a huge stone jutted from the earth like an early gravestone. Using a chain from the truck, he bound him tight, wrapping torso and legs like cattle ready for slaughter. Arms free, barely.
Durand shivered—not just from cold.
Jason crouched in front of him, eyes gleaming behind the red mask. He dropped a metal flask into the snow just out of reach.
“See that? That’s good bourbon. Was gonna celebrate a quiet night without shooting some idiot. But look at us. Another night ruined by a Rambo wannabe.”
He rose slowly, clicking his tongue.
“Listen, Durand. I’m one of the good guys... but my brain’s twisted. Means I don’t have rules tying my hands. No boss telling me ‘don’t torture him,’ ‘don’t freeze his fingers off.’ No. I decide.”
Jason leaned closer, breath steaming the man’s face.
“So here’s a simple deal. I let you live. Not ’cause I pity your pathetic existence, but because I need answers. You tell me everything. Who’s sending the guns, who’s buying, how they cross the border. And I… don’t let you die chained to this rock like an animal. Deal?”
Durand looked around, sweat running despite the cold. Fear’s hotter than a fever. He saw forests, snow, endless night. No one would come. Jason wasn’t joking.
“Alright… alright...” he croaked, cracked lips bleeding. “The guns come from Eastern Europe... by sea. Used to dock at Halifax, now it’s Churchill—less heat. From there, they move by train, hidden in grain shipments. Manifests forged by a shell company... NorthArc Shipping.”
“And the Gotham contact?”
“Don’t know his name…” Durand gasped. “They call him the Raven. Never shows. Only leaves orders. His messenger is a guy from New Jersey. Dark-skinned, neck tattoos. Goes by Vico.”
Jason crouched again, hand almost brotherly on Durand’s shoulder.
“See? Not so hard. Didn’t even have to pull a fingernail.”
Durand exhaled, relief flooding his face.
Jason stood, turned on his heel... then paused.
He pulled a red flare from his pocket. Lit it. Smoke hissed in the blizzard like a fire signal among demons. He threw it near Durand, close to the flask.
“That’ll draw some night driver. Maybe a ranger. Or a bear. Who knows.”
“Hey! You said you’d let me live!”
“I did. Whether you survive twenty minutes of hypothermia and bad luck is up to you.”
He mounted his black bike hidden among the trees and fired it up with a low growl.
Before vanishing into the storm, he dropped one last line over his shoulder:
"See you later, Durand. If the wolves don't get you first."
The roar of the engine cut through the Canadian night like a rusty saw. Jason raced south on Route 93, cutting through the Rockies. The wind whipped around his leather coat, the snow stinging his helmet like icy needles.
Around him, the world was a brutal postcard: trees blackened by cold, mountains like sleeping giants, a twisting road reluctant to let him pass.
His comms were open, hacking local signals including the Royal Canadian Mounted Police’s. His scanner caught private frequencies like he was back in Gotham.
“...located at 02:45 hours. Male identified as Jean Durand. Mild hypothermia, no major injuries. Was chained but partially freed himself. Found a flask... high-proof bourbon. Claimed to have been ‘visited by an angry angel’...”
“...no casualties. No other leads. Possible gang dispute but no formal reports. Preliminary case closed. Overall, a quiet night.”
“Yeah. Left you alive, drunk and talking to ghosts. Stay put, Durand. This is just getting started.”
He throttled up. The makeshift GPS showed four more hours to cross the border into the U.S. He was hunting Vico, hoping to make him talk before he lost more teeth.
A deep rumble. Like the earth exhaling in one breath.
Jason turned his head toward the mountain on his left. In the dark, he barely made out a white glow falling—no, crashing—like a furious sea.
The avalanche caught him.
He tried to turn. Skidded. The bike zigzagged like a wild missile. The slide came down like a demon unleashed, dragging rocks, trees, everything in its path.
Jason hit the emergency button on his left wrist.
“Code Red. Hood here. Coordinates—Kananaskis Pass, 51°N. Avalanche imminent. Repeat, avalanche—”
Ice swallowed him before he finished.
The snow devoured him like a beast. One moment he was on the asphalt; the next, he floated in a mess of ice, rocks, and branches. Everything white. Everything noise. His body slammed against ground, trees, itself. His helmet softened the blows, but he couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t tell up from down.
A bottomless silence, like the ocean floor of snow.
He was exhausted.
The pain was unbearable.
The air was gone.
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