Chapter Text
“Ladies and Gentleman, put your hands together for the final fight of the night,”
Jason was being pushed from all sides, he couldn't help but huff and glare at the people around him, who seemed to be oblivious to what personal space meant. The cheering filled his ears as the people around him jumped up onto their feet, he tried to look between the gaps of people to see down into the rink, as he was the only one staying seated. How exciting can these things even be? he contemplated.
He had been here for the better half of the night, trying to get some information of a lead, specifically a lead on Crane serum trading. Honestly, thought Jason feeling contempt, these rings have been around for years, and not a single bat has attempted to put a stop to it. He felt his hands clench around the binoculars he was holding at the thought. Had Batman even known? Would he care? Probably not. He was too happy letting the GCPD turn their noses away.
He was seated pretty high up in the seats around the arena, which were so pressed together that if he stood up too fast he was sure he would fall down the whole way. The arena was built like an inverted triangle, a very very steep triangle. At the bottom was a standard ring, about twenty feet each way, even criminals couldn't splurge on a nicer venue. On all sides of the room were slabs to sit on, with onlookers practically piled one on top of the other for a seat.
Pressing the binoculars to his face - He was handed them as he walked in, apparently everyone got one - he took in the ring itself. The classic set up - foam corners and three strings connecting them all. The floor however, was just a light dirt, having been swept and re-set from the previous match.
The most interesting detail Jason noted was the two square holes sunken on both halves of the ring. From all the previous fights he’d seen tonight the holes were platforms that the two fighters would emerge from.
Honestly, I’ve seen it all, muscled tough guy comes running in, thinking he's the shit. They play some over hyped song nobody wants to hear and they flex their muscles and scream. Pinching his eyebrows, He had to remind himself why he was here in the first place. I didn't get dressed in this hideous disguise for nothing. I just need some hard evidence that there is legit strains of crane serum being transported here, and I can take it to the bats- Jason cut off his line of thinking there, What the fuck would B do? Run in, arrest all these wanna be Tyler Durden’s and let them break out of prison and continue, no way.
Suddenly, the speakers around the arena turned on, blasting the intro to- of course, fucking Master of Puppets, what did I say.
“Everybody! It’s your favourite babyface! Please, welcome to the ring- Puppeteer!”
As the announcer paraded around the middle of the ring, the platform on his left rose, to a man- or what was supposed to be one. A mass of muscle and fat was what made the fighter up, Jason was sure ninety percent of those muscles were for show.
“Puppeteer” was tensing his arms, showing off the bulges of flesh and screaming back at the roars coming from the crowd. Jason watched as a few over-eager, and over-inebriated fans toppled down a few rows in their excitement.
"Towering at a whopping 6 '7 feet and a weight of 250 pounds; Puppeteer is known as “The Meat Grinder-” He found himself snorting in disbelief at the name “-coming all the way from Blüdhaven! Earning himself a win record of 217 wins to 23 losses! The Puppeteer everybody!”
A sickly feeling began growing in Jason’s stomach, a nausea he had not experienced in awhile. Watching this fighter begin to stomp in his corner of the ring, spitting and riling the crowd. A foreboding uneasiness he couldn't quite settle, then-
Trickling from the speakers, and weaving through the restless bodies of the crowd, a faint violin grew. And as the orchestral note crescendoed, the crowd fell silent in a weary recognition. He felt that suspicion arise again ten-fold as he hurriedly pulled the binoculars to his face. This was new.
“That's right, after a month of recovery from a brush with the afterlife. The heel of Gotham! With a 5-1 win ratio at a mere 5 '5 with a weight of 120 pounds. I welcome to the ring-”
That Silence. Jason could place that feeling in his stomach now- a gut feeling, not a Red Hood feeling- a Bat instinct. Contrary to how the crowd was before, it was dead silent now. He watched with bated breath as the platform rose, the song picking up and playing a composition that was unfamiliar. From where he was, all he could make out was the figure of a boy with a head of unruly black hair
“Milenko, The Enchantress”
The bell rang out, and the fight had begun.