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The safe house looked exactly the way Jason Todd preferred it: organized chaos. Guns were broken down on the steel workbench, armor plates lay ready for maintenance, and the air smelled faintly of oil and gunpowder. It was efficient. It was controlled. It was his.
Then he saw the box.
It was colossal. Not tall, but wide—a squat, cube of corporate brown cardboard that took up a ridiculous amount of floor space near the kitchen counter. Jason had received plenty of packages in his life—weapon shipments, specialized armor plating, illegal medical supplies, and even the occasional genuinely useful gift from Alfred (usually a basket of expensive coffee and a silent judgment). This box, however, carried an almost aggressive sense of wrongness.
“What in the actual hell?” Jason muttered, lowering the customized AR he’d been cleaning.
The delivery guy hadn’t even rung the bell, just dropped it outside and scurried off like he’d just delivered a ticking bomb. Jason’s internal alert system—the one that usually only went off when he smelled Joker toxin or heard Bruce sigh—was screaming. He approached the box with the tactical caution usually reserved for disarming an IED. The label was addressed to: J. Todd, Safe and Secure Location (Don’t Ask). The return address was just a P.O. Box in Blüdhaven, which immediately put Richard Grayson at the absolute top of the suspects list, right next to death.
Jason kicked the box gently. It didn’t explode. It didn’t rattle. It merely produced a soft, synthetic poof sound, like a cloud sighing.
“Oh, you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” he growled.
He grabbed a utility knife, sliced through the packing tape with surgical precision, and pulled open the flaps. He didn’t even need to look inside to know. He could feel the sheer, unapologetic roundness emanating from the interior.
Jason stared down into the box.
Inside, nestled in a sea of cheap packing peanuts, was a plush toy the size of a small tire. It was a cartoonish, exaggerated, absolutely spherical representation of Red Hood. The helmet was the right color and shape, the little black-and-white eyes were wide and innocent, the jacket was the right shade of tan, but everything below the neck had been inflated to the point of structural impossibility. It had tiny little hands barely poking out of the huge, bloated torso, and two ridiculously small, blue-booted feet peeking out from the bottom.
It was an insult made of polyester. It was a slanderous, jovial, fat rendition of his vigilante persona. It was the absolute worst thing he had ever seen, and the air immediately began to feel hot and thick around him.
“Are you shitting me?!” The shout echoed off the concrete walls of the warehouse. He kicked the box again, harder this time. The plushie merely wobbled, its innocent, black-and-white eyes staring up at him, perfectly round.
“Fat? FAT?! I’m lean goddamn muscle! I have a six-pack that could grate cheese! I spend eight hours a week avoiding carbs and another ten getting shot at! This is… this is an actual, physical implication that I’m some kind of doughy, sedentary slob who sits around eating instant ramen and crying over old Robin photos!”
He reached into the box, grabbed the synthetic tan jacket, and hauled the massive plushie out. It weighed practically nothing, which somehow made the insult even worse. It was all fluff, all fat, no substance. He threw it onto the workbench, where it bounced twice, nearly knocking over a jar of gun oil.
“The audacity! The sheer, unadulterated nerve of these goddamn psychos! They want to call me out? They want to make jokes about my physique? This is going to be the absolute last mistake they ever make, I swear to God.”
His heart was pounding, a primal mix of fury and wounded pride. He paced three rapid steps away, running a hand over his face. He spun back, ready to grab the nearest firearm and use the plushie for target practice, when his eyes landed on its face.
Those two simple, black circles on white fabric, the small, almost pitifully adorable hands… and the sheer, idiotic softness of the thing. It looked so utterly defenseless, so pathetically unthreatening.
No. Stop it, Jason. You are not thinking that it’s cute.
He picked it up again, intending to toss it into the incinerator. But when his fingers brushed the plush material, his movement faltered. It was surprisingly well-made. Soft, like dangerously soft. If you had a really, really terrible night and maybe, just maybe, you were trapped somewhere cold, this thing would probably make a great, albeit humiliating, pillow.
He squeezed it, just to test the firmness. It gave easily, springing back immediately.
“It’s fucking soft,” he mumbled, his voice suddenly quiet, defensive. He dropped it immediately as if it had burned him. “Doesn't matter. It’s still an insult. A soft, adorable, infuriating insult.”
He took a deep breath, the fury returning, sharper now because it had been briefly challenged by a sickening, traitorous warmth.
“Right. They want a war? They’ve got one. No one mocks the Red Hood and lives to tell the tale, certainly not with something this goddamn cute.”
The plushie—which he mentally dubbed The Sphere of Shame—was now resting precariously on a shelf, facing the wall, as if under house arrest. Jason, however, was in full investigation mode. This was more important than the entire Arkham breakout he’d just dealt with. This was personal.
He started with the box.
1. Logistics:
Tape: Standard-issue brown vinyl packing tape. Nothing unique.
Box Type: Generic triple-walled corrugated cardboard. Easily sourced online.
Packing Material: White biodegradable peanuts. Common.
The Address: J. Todd, Safe and Secure Location (Don’t Ask). This confirmed it was a Bat-Family member, or someone who had deep access to their logistics chain. The only people who knew this specific safe house address were the core four, Babs, and maybe Cass.
2. The Return Address:P.O. Box 470, Blüdhaven.
“Dick.” The name hissed out like steam from a kettle. Dick Grayson, the self-proclaimed king of passive-aggressive gestures and irritating gifts. It was almost certainly him. Almost.
Jason immediately pulled up the Blüdhaven P.O. Box database (a handy, if ethically dubious, tool he'd acquired from a disgruntled postal worker). P.O. Box 470 was rented under the name “D. Grayson, Clown Enthusiast.” A dead end. Dick would use a burner box rented under a false name, but he wouldn't use one he actively owned. This was a decoy designed to point the finger. Dick was smart, but not this meticulous unless he had help.
3. The Plushie Itself (The Evidence): Jason grabbed the plushie again, this time putting on nitrile gloves. He was a detective, damn it. He’d learned from the best (and the most irritating).
He examined the stitching. The fabric was a surprisingly high-quality Minky polyester. The eyes were machine-embroidered—no risk of loose plastic parts. He checked the tiny care tag. It was manufactured by a company called “CuddleCorps,” based out of Shenzhen, but the design felt custom. The tag also contained a small, almost invisible serial code: RH001-A-BLK.
This wasn't mass-market merch. This was a small batch. Probably custom-ordered.
Jason spent the next hour running the RH001-A-BLK code through every conceivable customs manifest, private manufacturer database, and Chinese production ledger he had access to. Nothing. CuddleCorps was a shell corporation created last week and dissolved yesterday.
“Son of a bitch, they covered their tracks,” he muttered, impressed against his will. This wasn't Dick being cute. This was a coordinated attack.
Jason moved to his dedicated investigation console. He cracked open his safe house’s network logs, which were encrypted six ways to Sunday.
“You didn’t just waltz in here, whoever you are,” he said to the empty room. “I want to know how you got the address.”
He reviewed the last 72 hours of digital activity:
Firewall: Clean. No breaches.
IoT Devices: The smart thermostat, the encrypted lock system, and the automated coffee machine—all secure.
Perimeter Scanners: His exterior cameras had a single 1.5-second glitch about four hours before delivery, a moment of static that was statistically insignificant but instantly suspicious. He enhanced the footage. It was nothing but rain splatter, but the digital signature of the static was odd. It contained a subtle, repeating pulse pattern.
He recognized the pulse. It was a low-level, self-canceling quantum encryption signal—the kind Babs used to hide data packets.
“Babs? No way.” Barbara Gordon wouldn’t engage in this level of high-school mockery. She might send a strongly-worded text about his life choices, but she wouldn’t spend hundreds of dollars on a custom, spherical plushie to mock his weight. But she might have provided the signal for the glitch.
Now his list of suspects and their potential motivations began to form:
Dick Grayson (The Prime Suspect): Motive: Pure, unadulterated fraternal malice. Execution: Likely hired a third party and used Babs’s tech knowledge without her knowing. Revenge Plot: Replace all his hair gel with industrial-strength superglue.
Tim Drake (The Quiet Schemer): Motive: Exhausted by Jason's general existence. He might see this as a high-effort, low-risk psychological warfare operation. Execution: Meticulous tracking, using disposable companies. Revenge Plot: Replace all his caffeine with pure, unadulterated decaf for a month.
Damian Wayne (The Demon Brat): Motive: To prove his artistic superiority by mocking the physical form of his "inferior" sibling. Execution: Probably didn't have the technical prowess, but might have commissioned it. Revenge Plot: Replace his pet cat, Alfred the Cat, with a realistically-painted, slightly less grumpy raccoon.
Alfred Pennyworth (The Black Horse): Motive: None, but the thought of Alfred using a burner P.O. Box in Blüdhaven to deliver a 'Fat Hood' plushie was enough to make Jason laugh, which immediately made him furious again. Revenge Plot: None. Alfred was untouchable.
Jason decided to play the long game. He stuffed The Sphere of Shame into a heavy-duty garbage bag and hid it in a highly-secure storage locker, behind three landmines and a tripwire. He was not letting anyone know it existed. And he was certainly not telling anyone how soft it was.
That evening, he showed up at the Clock Tower under the guise of "needing help with a new frequency jammer."
Barbara was at her console, sipping coffee.
“Hey, Babs,” Jason said, leaning against the doorframe, trying to look casual. “You seen anything weird lately? I mean, logistically speaking. Any weird one-off deliveries, shell companies being spun up for no reason?”
Barbara raised an eyebrow. “Weird is my job description, Jason. Specifically, weird that involves criminals. Why? Did someone send you a fruit basket full of anthrax?”
“Worse. Something… insulting. Highly personalized and deeply expensive to produce.”
“Sounds like a Dick move,” she replied without looking up.
Confirmation. Dick was the first thought. But was that too easy?
“Yeah, but Dick usually uses a cheap balloon and spray paint. This was professionally done. Any quantum encryption pulses going out from your side in the last 72?”
Barbara turned, her expression suddenly serious. She ran a quick diagnostic. “No. My network is secured. Why are you asking about quantum pulses?”
“Just a hunch,” Jason lied, realizing he’d tipped his hand. He quickly changed the subject, finishing his jammer request and leaving before she could analyze his body language further.
Next up: Tim Drake.
Jason found Tim in the Batcave, drowning in four monitors, likely researching something impossibly boring about micro-finance.
“Hey, Replacement,” Jason drawled, grabbing a handful of Twizzlers from Tim’s hidden stash.
“Jason. Don’t call me that,” Tim sighed, not taking his eyes off the screens. “What do you want? I’m tracking a money laundering ring run through a chain of artisan bakeries.”
“Sounds thrilling,” Jason said, chewing loudly. “You been to Blüdhaven lately? Buying any cheap property? Maybe renting a P.O. Box under a hilarious name like ‘T. Drake, World’s Best Robin’?”
Tim finally looked at him, his expression one of genuine confusion. “No. Why would I? And if I was, I’d use a burner email and a VPN, not some antiquated P.O. Box. Unless… did Dick finally send you that hideous birthday tie he promised last year?”
Tim was a terrible liar, and his reaction felt authentic. He was genuinely oblivious. This meant Dick was either acting alone, or Tim was the master manipulator I’d always suspected, hiding his guilt behind a wall of nerd.
Jason left the cave feeling more frustrated than before. The simplicity of the Blüdhaven clue was a red herring. The complexity of the custom plushie and the quantum glitch pointed to a deeper conspiracy.
Back at the safe house, Jason ignored the Sphere of Shame, now wrapped in an extra layer of tarp. He went back to the only unique physical evidence: the tiny, nearly invisible serial code on the care tag: RH001-A-BLK.
He pulled up a reverse image search on the stitching pattern used for the eyes. It was incredibly precise, a rare, custom-programmed stitch sequence. He ran that sequence through every CAD/CAM library he had.
2 hours later. BINGO.
The stitch pattern was proprietary. It belonged to a small, extremely high-end embroidery firm in Metropolis that specialized in custom logo work for tech CEOs. They were so exclusive, they didn't even have a website.
Jason hacked their mainframe in three seconds flat. He immediately isolated the order for "RH001-A-BLK."
Client Name: A shell identity. Payment: Bitcoin, untraceable.
But there was one final, perfect, sloppy human mistake. In the "Special Instructions" field for the order, someone had added a specific, unnecessary detail: “Please use the exact Pantone 7409 C for the jacket, and ensure the black eyes are stitched with extra matte thread. The client is extremely particular about the aesthetic.”
Jason stared at the screen. Pantone 7409 C was an extremely specific, rich shade of tan, almost mustard.
He pulled up the public records for the Gotham City Juvenile Detention Center, specifically the records of inmates who had spent time in arts and crafts classes and were notoriously obsessed with Pantone color codes and hyper-specific details.
There was only one candidate.
“Holy. Shit.”
It wasn’t Dick. It wasn’t Tim. It was the one person no one would ever suspect of orchestrating a coordinated, logistics-heavy, custom plushie-based body-shaming operation.
It was Cassandra Cain, working with Stephanie Brown.
Cass, who couldn’t speak five full sentences in a row, often used gestures and objects to communicate. She had clearly partnered with Steph, the most chaotic and creatively vengeful person in the entire family, to execute the logistics. Stephanie handled the Blüdhaven P.O. Box and the payment. Cass handled the stealth insertion and the highly specific, artisanal design instructions—because Cass would be the only person to realize that Jason Todd, for all his bluster, has a genuine appreciation for good design.
The realization hit Jason with the force of a train. They weren't just calling him fat. They were calling him fat and a snob.
A grin, wide and terrifying, spread across Jason's face. This wasn’t just a simple prank. This was a statement. This required an epic response.
Jason spent the next twelve hours planning. His fury was no longer hot, but cold and precise. He didn't want to hurt them; he wanted to destroy their lives in the most aesthetically displeasing, yet utterly harmless, way possible.
Suspects: Cassandra Cain and Stephanie Brown. The Crime: The Fat Hood Plushie. The Sentence: Utter, overwhelming, inescapable pink.
He drew up a two-part plan, codenamed: Operation Flamingo.
Part One: The Apartment Bomb. He ordered twenty industrial-grade air fresheners, all scented 'Ocean Breeze,' a smell he knew Steph despised. He bought two hundred dollars’ worth of iridescent, hot-pink biodegradable glitter (the kind that sticks to everything) and a gallon of industrial strength, non-toxic, pink dye. He engineered a series of pressurized canisters designed to mist the apartment with the dye and fill it with the glitter and air freshener simultaneously. He would strike while they were out on patrol. Everything they owned, from the sofa to the kitchen sink, would be covered in a fine layer of glitter and dyed a vibrant, shameful pink.
Part Two: The Batcave Broadcast. He would hack into the Batcomputer’s screensaver function. When Bruce, Dick, or Tim were looking at the main display, their screens would suddenly switch to a custom GIF: an image of the Sphere of Shame, perpetually bouncing, while a synthesized voice, set to Dick Grayson’s irritatingly cheerful cadence, repeated the phrase, “Who’s a good little round boy? You are!” on a 30-minute loop.
It was glorious. It was petty. It was perfect.
Jason checked the plan twice, verifying the escape routes and the digital masking. He was ready. Justice was coming, and it was going to be aggressively pink.
In the quiet, predawn hours, with his revenge fully mapped out, Jason felt a sense of weary satisfaction. He opened the storage locker and pulled out the Sphere of Shame, just to look at it one last time.
He unwrapped the tarp. The plushie’s big, innocent eyes stared back.
“You, you fucking little round bastard,” Jason whispered.
He was tired. He hadn’t slept. He was still pissed. But he was also cold. He ran a hand over the plushie’s head. It was so soft. So incredibly, idiotically soft.
He sighed, the sound escaping him in a rush. He sat down on the floor, leaning back against the cool concrete wall. With a glance at the empty hallway, he pulled the enormous, spherical Red Hood plushie into his lap. It was basically a giant, well-stuffed cushion.
It’s just tactical lumbar support, he thought fiercely, resting his helmeted chin on its ridiculously bloated, tan-jacketed shoulder. It’s cushioning for my spine. Nothing more. It’s an ergonomic tool.
He closed his eyes for just a moment. The revenge was ready. Operation Flamingo was a go.
But first, five minutes of tactical ergonomic cushioning. He gave the plushie a brief, absentminded pat—a single, soft tap on its enormous, offensive belly.
Don’t tell anyone, you goddamn traitor, he thought, his eyelids growing heavy. The Sphere of Shame was going to live on the very top shelf of the storage closet from now on, where it could be safe.
He would destroy the perpetrators, but he would protect the evidence. It was the only logical thing to do.