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It stands in the middle of Crime Alley, in front of a tenement building the old timers know well. Windows look down with shattered eyes at the life-sized statue of a troubled hero. A villain by circumstance. An Outlaw.
Lacquer paint as bright as blood covers aging bronze as the last memorial to Crime Alley's most infamous son stands against time and the elements, as steadfast in death as he was in life. The statue embodies every aspect of him, and the people who remember him marvel at its likeness.
The bronze head doesn't bow to the criminals that have overrun its plinth, it doesn't roll over for the pimps that work their girls on its corner, and it doesn't shy away from the murderers and worse that pass it by. To them, it is a cold reminder of how fragile they all are. Although the Red Hood died, they know death is waiting around the corner for them. They shiver no matter the weather and pass the statue that much quicker.
His legacy is twofold, bloodstained and ironclad. He sheltered his people the best way he knew how, with a sense of justice and moral scales given to him by a childhood that took everything else; one hand holding a gun, the other outstretched in concern.
In his time, every child on the streets of Gotham knew his name. "Find shelter, find food, find cash," was the constant advice the old gave to the new, "but above all else, find the Hood." Many could only thank Hood for their survival, even as the safe houses he set up for them were annexed by Wayne Enterprises' army of charities. The children looked to those buildings in their darkest time, and they shone like beacons. Often they could spurn Wayne Enterprises’ donations, now that the world knew who really had run it. No rogue ever attacked the ones Hood had set up, fear and respect staying their hand. Many would find an envelope of cash after a big score from the newest criminal in Gotham’s playground, a donation and vow both.
That kindness extended to his memorial. It was neutral, hallowed ground, and everyone recognized its sanctity.
Even Oswald Cobblepot, alias The Penguin, visited the memorial with no ill intent. The man that catalyzed Hood's death visited religiously, never speaking, always with a dollar or twenty for the children that sought refuge under Hood's shadow. Ivy grew flowers as she mourned, planters full of reds and yellows and greens. Quinn would shadow behind her, tears streaking her face as she washed the fresh dirt off the statue, leaving the permanent stains alone. Catwoman sightings were always rare, but she would stay the longest of the villains that remembered Hood as a young boy, before his father’s war tore him from them.
The heroes and vigilantes came when they could. It was a shock the first few times, but eventually, the sight of a member of the Justice League paying their respects to Hood became commonplace. The League had fractured after his death, but even when opposing heroes found themselves before his statue together, they refused to fight. The two sides would inhabit the same space, finding common ground in their grief. Superman and Wonder Woman, the leaders of the opposing factions, would often be seen standing with joined hands in front of his statue every day in April and August. Superman with stony acceptance and Wonder Woman with rivers of anger marking their path.
Gotham’s homegrown vigilantes were never heard speaking of Hood after his death. If the Bats visited the memorial, it was under the cover of darkness with no witnesses. Their history was shaky, their relation with Hood unclear. The people of the Narrows knew the rumors were most likely true, that Hood had been family to them in the time before, but they refused to believe it. Abuse was a constant in Crime Alley, parental abuse the most common. To watch as Hood became a statistic even after making something of himself broke what little hope the people of the Alley had left. Better to believe he died in the constant struggle against Batman, even if he never lifted a finger against his murderer.
For if they had watched a father beat his son to death on live television and get away with it, that would have been the last straw. Gotham would have burned under their judgment.
Dick Grayson returned to Bludhaven, Barbara Gordon trailing behind. For a while they would work together stopping crime, the only thing they had left each other and their adopted mission. After the anger faded, they drifted apart, both crushed by the death of their little brother. Barbara threw herself into running the Birds of Prey with a newfound ferocity, uncaring if the guilty lived or died while Grayson clung to the shattered remnants of a code his father had tossed aside.
Tim Drake would take over Wayne Enterprises completely, reorganizing the oversight board focused on their Park Row initiatives so that he had the final say over any change to the place that had taken so much from his family. When he finally retired, he had sat Park Row firmly on a healing path. The Red Hood memorial would watch as the concerted efforts of a multi-billion dollar company finally broke the chain of generational poverty that had enslaved his resting place.
Stephane Brown grabbed Damian Wayne and fled Gotham the moment she saw the news broadcast. With a quick text to Cassandra Cain, she would flee across the sea, losing any tails in Europe before taking refuge in the League of Assassins, Talia forever grateful she had protected Damian. She and Jason had come from the same walk of life, both children of the streets, battling addict moms and abusive fathers. She could count on one hand the civil conversations they had had, and if she used her other hand, the total conversations they shared. Batman had kept them apart, and now she would take the time to mourn what never was. Perhaps she could have built something as strong as her bond with Cassandra. Eventually, Talia would offer her a place in the League, and she would accept after humoring the older woman’s pitch. When next Stephanie Brown took to the streets, she had removed the bat on her chest, a red splash clashing with her deep purple outfit. Cluemaster was her first kill, just to be safe. Afterward, she would target anyone that dared raise a hand to women and children, willingly picking up Jason’s burden.
Cassandra Cain watched in horror as Jason resigned himself to death, broken before the fight had even started. Her little brother, dead at the hands of her unrepentant father. She watched as Jason breathed his last, shooting into action the moment the broadcast cut away. She threw herself into the mission, screaming across rooftops as she went through every contingency for this exact situation. Recovering Jason's body from where it lay on the rooftop, she handed it off to Roy, the older man openly sobbing. Promising she would be in touch, she continued her hunt. When she finally found Batman, his face was stone, his stance shifting as she landed. She gave him one word, one instant, and then struck. "Oathbreaker." The fight was pitifully easy, and she couldn't think about the reason. Standing above him, Jason's blood on her hands, she tore the symbol from Bruce's chest, letting the screaming wind carry it away. She took one last look at the father she had chosen, wondering how she could choose so wrong. Were the signs always there? She and her siblings had always looked up to him, failings and all. To sit and watch as he burned his singular obsession, the one rule he upheld at the cost of everything, she shuddered at the fallout sure to come. Her phone dinged with a text from Steph, but it could wait. She and Barbara had a Batcave to burn.
Damian Wayne would allow Brown to carry him off, understanding the protective urge the woman had well. But Batman needed a Robin, and a father needed his son. Sneaking away after reaching Pakistan, he would return to the empty manor, his father a changed man. Gone was the mighty warrior and leader he followed with near-religious zeal; a shell walked the Wayne Estate. Damian would take on the cowl after his father made no attempt to patrol, no attempt to shoulder his cross. When he returned from Batman’s first patrol after the death of Hood, he would take the case off Jason’s uniform and remove his own, setting them ablaze. “Killer!” They cried at him as he leapt from rooftop to rooftop. “Murderer!” The people accused him. With a single act, Batman had ruined the image of the nonlethal protector. Batman had claimed to own the city, to protect it from all crimes. The people of the Narrows knew it to be a lie, never once seeing the Bat patrol through their home. The rest of Gotham had watched the lie shatter upon Red Hood’s helmet, eyes unseeing as blood bubbled up from under the remaining metal.
Alfred Pennyworth left before Master Bruce could return. He had watched the boy he raised turn twisted and dark, but had held out hope that sweet, caring, lovable child was somewhere still inside of the father like it was his grandson. Watching his hopes dashed, he returned to England where he would attempt to figure out just where it had all gone wrong. He wouldn’t outlive the year, the Wayne family -minus Bruce- scattering his ashes on Liverpool’s rocky shores.
Bruce Wayne stepped back from the public light, citing his close ties to Batman had shaken the core of his beliefs. He became a recluse, a shade haunting the manor as he wasted away. His children always appeared colder in public, no longer willing to continue the charade of a happy family. When the paparazzi could corner the remaining sons for comments about their elusive father, they didn't try and keep the scorn from their voices, tongues lashing the reporters with fire and brimstone. Inevitably, the next scandal broke and the Waynes drifted into memory as best a billionaire’s family could. Like a vice loosening, the family could breathe easier.
Months later, Wayne’s body would be found in bed, an ancient shamshir buried in his chest. Halfway around the world, a mother would mourn the son she had found, unable to return to Gotham after all it had taken from her. She had seen many horrors in her life, but knowing her beloved son was killed by her Beloved, she wept. Her son by birth perched himself at her side, shocked to see his mother so emotional. With memories of a catatonic -but mobile- boy that had protected him in his youth, he finally allowed himself to mourn.
If Jason Todd had returned one more time, he would have died again laughing. Someone had to be pretty special to get two grave sites and two memorials, after all. His identity as Hood had only ever been a soldier, a shield guarding the fearful against their tormentors. He had always thought himself a product of his upbringing, but if you asked him who his father was he would just bark a dark laugh and ignore the question, along with the myriad of looks of pain his answer elicited. His first father made it clear he wasn’t wanted, and his second finished the trend. He wouldn't believe it himself, but then titles are what the living give the dead, and the living had decided that the troubled man had been:
RED HOOD
HONORED SON OF GOTHAM