Jason had been making use of the vastly empty base. He continued to live there and maintained his routine training schedule Ra's had him undergo either frequently or at consecutive times periods.
He basically lived in the mountains, engaging in frequent hunting and fishing from around the region.
These activities seem to bring him some sense of peace and help him feel some sort of connection with Ra's.
He had lost the only father figure in his life.
The man who had wholeheartedly accepted him even with his clearly visible flaws and questionable sanity.
He still treated him like a son, taught him a lot of things which quite a majority of then currently kept him alive.
The old man had taught him how to survive in this world which ran on the principle of survival of the fittest, in one way or another.
Ra's had helped him pick up a couple pieces of himself to help him form an identity and gave him direction and purpose in life.
He was just beginning to feel whole, right from the camping trip where Ra's had him meditate right beneath the waterfall.
Now he felt empty again, like those pieces which held up his identity and sense of self had shattered and scattered vastly across the earth.
Deathstroke would pay for taking Ra's from him, for causing him to feel this way.
He would pay for introducing him to the pain of such loss.
Every morning he would climb to the mountain top which was part of his regimen. But now he often caught himself, reminiscent of several conversations he had with Ra's atop that mountain top.
Hell, he even misses the herbal tea the old man would often make for him to calm his nerves and help sooth his mood.
He should be out there in the world and on the hunt for Deathstroke, but was clearly aware of their difference in skill,strength, and technique.
So he settled for completely surrendering his mind and body to constant rigorous training.
Being he now constantly by himself and with no one around, he hardly got his usual impulsive thoughts to end a person's life in the most gruesome way he could possibly imagine.
Scratch that.
His imagination was more like a plain canverse, one where his creativity for painting the most grotesque and disturbing outcome even just in his head alone, surprises him.
Most times he would spend days at the campsite him and Ra's visited, as he occasionally engaged in mindful meditation while being seated directly below the water fall.
Jason trained to fortify himself in both body and mind. He wasn't bothered if Talia and the others got Deathstroke before he goes hunting for him.
After all, it was their right to get revenge for the old man. And it should help them get some closure over his death.
But if they haven't succeeded in exerting their revenge by the time he felt ready enough to confront Deathstroke and avenge his fallen sensei, then he'd call shotgun for that meant Deathstroke was all he's for the taking.
Until then, he'd continue to train deep in the mountains while continuously honing his skills.
He also worked on his tracking skills while he hunted certain types of animals which possess at least some kind of intelligence.
At times he would put himself in the shoes of his prey while tracing the tracks left behind, in an attempt to understand what instinctive thought patterns went through their head if they were to survive.
He would often let the injured prey run off on purposely, all so he could trail, track and retrieve them.
He did this for sport.
He had no way of tracking down Deathstroke, it would be like trying to track down a shadow who doesn't want to be found.
So in the meantime, he immersed himself in training.
In recollection of how Deathstroke and his army of mercenaries overwhelmed the League, he realized there was only so much one could do with a sword.
A gun had its advantages and since it was the primary weapon of his target and subordinates, he got himself a gun from League's base.
He had stock piled them when he did clean up on the stronghold, burning the corpses of enemies and allies alike.
Jason trained with all sorts and sizes of firearms, but none felt right to him.
That was until he tried out a glock–45 which he found to be an efficient firearm.
It was portable, easy to use and quick to draw.
It just felt right.
But of all the weapons inhabited within the base, he trained mainly on the utilization of knives, swords, and his gun.
He had found his basic tools.
All that was left for him was training to utilize them in combat, working to get a feel for quick transitions from one weapon to the other.
- - -
[Jason Todd's POV]
The world was a blur of pain and cold.
I lay flat on my back, every breath a struggle, my body a map of bruises and lacerations. The chill of the forest floor seeped into my bones, gnawing at me with relentless teeth, as if the earth itself sought to claim what warmth I had left.
My eyelids were leaden, the weight of exhaustion and injury pressing them shut. For a fleeting moment, surrender whispered in my ear—just stay here. Just rest.
But survival was a habit I couldn't shake.
The ground beneath me was unforgiving—a jagged mosaic of rocks and roots, each one digging into my flesh with malicious precision.
Compared to this, the hard-packed dirt of Ra's al Ghul's training camps might as well have been a featherbed. At least there, I had the luxury of knowing I wouldn't wake up with a predator's teeth in my throat.
Consciousness returned in fragments, each thought sharp and disjointed.
It hurts.
The pain was a living thing, coiled around my ribs, pulsing in time with my heartbeat. Every muscle screamed in protest as I shifted, testing the limits of what my body could still endure. The metallic tang of blood clung to the back of my throat, thick and suffocating.
'Where am I?'
'What happened?'
The questions cut through the fog in my mind, sharp as the claws that had torn into me.
My eyes snapped open.
Darkness.
Not the comforting shadows of trying to stay hidden, but the oppressive, consuming black of the wilderness at night.
Above me, skeletal branches clawed at the sky, their outlines barely visible against the dim glow of a half-moon. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and pine, undercut by the coppery stench of my own blood.
'The woods.'
Memory rushed back in a nauseating wave.
I'd gone hunting.
Stupid.
Arrogant.
I'd ventured deeper than I ever had before, confident in my own skill, in the knife strapped to my thigh.
Then the bear.
It had been still, a hulking shadow wrapped in the forest's camouflage, its fur blending seamlessly with the undergrowth. I hadn't seen it until it was too late. Maybe it had been stalking something else. Maybe my stumbling footsteps had scared off its meal.
Either way, it had decided I was the next best thing.
The roar had been deafening, a sound that vibrated in my chest, rattling my ribs like a physical blow.
I'd barely registered the movement before its paw connected, claws slicing through fabric and flesh with terrifying ease. The force sent me reeling, my back hitting the slope of the hill before gravity took over.
Tumbling. Rolling. Impact after impact, rocks and roots tearing at me until the world went black.
Now, here I was. Alive. Barely.
Gritting my teeth, I forced myself into a sitting position, my back pressed against the rough bark of a tree.
The wound on my chest was a ragged, angry red, the edges of torn fabric sticking to it with dried blood. Not deep enough to kill me—not yet—but enough to make every breath a battle.
Lucky.
If the fall hadn't knocked me out, the bear might have finished the job.
A bitter laugh escaped me, the sound hoarse and broken. Tasty meat. That's what I'd wanted. And now? Now I was the one who'd almost ended up as dinner.
"Ouch."
The word hissed between my teeth as I shifted, my knee protesting violently. A quick inspection confirmed it wasn't broken—just badly bruised, the joint swollen and throbbing. Probably smashed against a rock during the fall.
Improvisation was second nature. I tore the hem of my shirt, binding two sturdy twigs against either side of my knee with the fabric. A makeshift splint. Not perfect, but enough to keep me moving.
Standing was agony.
The forest swayed around me, my vision swimming in and out of focus. Blood loss. Dehydration. The world tilted dangerously, and for a moment, I thought I'd collapse right back into the dirt.
No.
I couldn't afford to stop. Not here. Not now.
The night was alive with unseen threats—predators that wouldn't hesitate to finish what the bear started.
Every rustle of leaves, every distant snap of a twig sent a jolt of adrenaline through me. My fingers twitched toward the empty space on my thigh where my knife should have been.
Gone. Lost in the fall.
Another mistake.
I forced myself forward, each step a battle against the weight of my own body.
The trees loomed like silent sentinels, their branches twisting into grotesque shapes in the dim light. My breath came in ragged gasps, the cold air burning my lungs.
The water in my bag was a small mercy. I poured it over my head, the shock of the icy liquid sharpening my senses for a fleeting second.
More trickled over the wound on my chest, washing away dirt and dried blood. The sting was excruciating, but necessary. Infection out here would be a death sentence.
I wanted to drink. God, I wanted to. My throat was parched, my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth.
But at the moment, swallowing could mean death.
So I resisted.
The journey back was a haze of pain and determination. Time lost meaning. Minutes bled into hours, each one an eternity of stumbling, falling, dragging myself back up. The forest seemed endless, the trees closing in around me like prison bars.
Then, there it was.
The League's stronghold.
Relief was a fleeting thing, quickly swallowed by the reality of my condition. I wasn't safe yet. The infirmary was my only goal, the only place with the supplies to keep me from bleeding out on the floor.
The hallway stretched before me, the walls cold and unyielding under my trembling hands. My legs threatened to give out with every step.
"Almost there," I muttered, the words slurring. A mantra. A lifeline.
"Just a little further."
Then—
"Oh no, you don't."
The voice was mine. But it wasn't.
I froze.
Hallucination. It had to be. Blood loss did strange things to the mind.
I turned, my vision swimming, and there—me. Standing there. Watching. A mirror image, but wrong. Smirking.
"You," I breathed.
The ground rushed up to meet me. Or maybe I was the one falling. The world tilted, the ceiling spinning above me before everything went black.
The last thing I heard was my own voice, dripping with amusement.
"Yes. Me."
Then—nothing.