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The safe house reeked of despair, microwaved burritos, and Roy Harper's questionable life choices.
Jason Todd stared at the increasingly outrageous marketing strategies on the whiteboard, wondering why this wasn't the first time. Why hadn't he set some rules beforehand? Like "no daydreaming before noon" or "at least one sensible adult must be present at marketing meetings."
Roy stood beside the whiteboard, pointer in hand, looking enthusiastic—a far cry from the man whose last "brilliant idea" was to impersonate a DJ and infiltrate a gangster wedding. (That trick did work, but only because Artemis actually had DJ skills, while Jason was forced at gunpoint to request several songs.)
"Our social media engagement has dropped by forty percent," Roy announced, slamming his fist on the whiteboard so hard it shook. “Our merchandise sales are practically zero. And according to this poll I found on Twitter, 68 percent of Gotham City doesn’t even know we exist.”
“That poll only had twelve votes,” Jason pointed out. “And I’m sure eight of them were cast by Bizarro using different accounts.”
“Bizarro only registered four accounts!” Bizarro protested, turning upside down on the couch. “The other four were registered by other personalities of Roy Harper!”
“I don’t have any other personalities,” Roy argued. “I just registered multiple email addresses to boost our numbers. That’s called market research.”
“That’s called fraud,” Jason muttered.
“The point is,” Roy continued undeterred, “we haven’t made a ripple here at all. We fight bad guys, save people, and do good deeds. But who remembers doing good deeds? Nobody! You know what people remember? Merchandise.”
Artemis nodded from the kitchen counter. “He’s right. The Bat-Family has merchandise. The Justice League has merchandise. Even the Teen Titans have merchandise.”
“Superman has twelve different lunchboxes!” Bizarro added. “Bizarro counted them at Target! He also has blankets, mugs, and keychains, but those things don’t look like him at all!”
“That’s right.” Roy circled something on the whiteboard with a red pen. “We need something that represents the Outlaws. Something eye-catching. Something memorable. Something…”
His voice trailed off as he and Artemis slowly turned to look at Jason.
“No,” Jason said immediately.
“Something red,” Roy continued, his smile growing wider.
“Absolutely not.”
“Something with a hood,” Bizarro interjected, floating down from the ceiling.
“I’ll kill you all.”
“Something that embodies the essence of our fearless leader,” Roy said, already sketching on the whiteboard. “Cute and a bestseller, and…”
“I’m not cute!” Jason protested. “I’m a fearsome vigilante! I’ve fought assassins! I’ve faced Batman head-on! I—”
“Last Tuesday you helped an old lady carry her groceries for three blocks,” Artemis interrupted. “I have a picture.”
“She needed help!”
“You stopped a robbery and then gave the robber professional advice.”
“He’s obviously in some trouble!” Jason forced a serious expression.
Roy had already drawn a rough sketch of a round, plush toy wearing a red hood. It looked more like a grumpy, emotionally unstable potato than a fearsome vigilante.
“A plush toy,” Roy announced. “We’re going to make a Red Hood plush toy.”
Jason looked at the sketch, then at Roy, then at Artemis nodding enthusiastically, and finally at Bizarro, who was bouncing around excitedly.
“Why me?” he asked, hating the slight complaint in his voice. “We could choose Bizarro. Everyone likes Bizarro! He has that ‘cute but might accidentally destroy a building’ quality.”
“Bizarro already has a plush toy!” Bizarro said proudly, pulling a worn-out Superman plush toy from his pocket. “He’s ugly. But I love him.”
“Look? Bizarro has a Superman doll. That’s basically a Bizarro doll.”
“Not at all,” Artemis said.
“We can be Artemis dolls! You're way more photogenic than me. You radiate warrior spirit. Or Roy! That prodigal son, hero's journey charm of Roy—”
“Jason, bro,” Roy said, putting his hand on Jason's shoulder. “You're the face of this team.”
“I wear a hood!”
“A hooded face. Besides, you're the most…cuddly.”
“I don't want to be hugged! I use a gun!”
“You're huggable when you have a gun,” Roy corrected. “It's different. Trust me, I've been to marketing meetings before.”
“You sold illegal weapons to criminals!”
“Exactly! I know what sells! And you, my friend, as a soft, squishy doll? That'll definitely sell.”
Jason slumped into his chair, accepting his fate. This is fine. Really fine. How bad can a plush toy be?
Three days later, Jason stared at the prototype and realized things might actually be worse.
“It…is round.”
“It’s so comfortable to hug!” Roy countered.
“It looks like I swallowed a beach ball, and then another beach ball,” Jason said.
“It’s marketable,” Roy insisted. “We call it the Red Hood Plush Toy. Simple, straightforward.”
The prototype sat on the table between them, a round, red little figure wearing a small helmet and with short arms, completely incapable of holding any weapons. It was undeniably cute. And it was definitely spherical. Jason picked it up and squeezed it. It made a sound somewhere between a squeak and a pant.
“Does it have to make that sound?” he asked.
“The manufacturer we contacted said it’s more distinctive.”
“It sounds like it’s about to die.”
“It sounds cute.”
Bizarro picked up the plush toy and hugged it tightly to his chest. “Bizarro hates it!” he declared, though he actually loved it. “It’s horrible! Terrifying! Not cute at all! Not like Jason at all!”
Roy and Artemis exchanged a glance; Jason was clearly annoyed.
“What’s wrong?” he pressed.
“Nothing,” Roy blurted out, his voice rushed.
“Roy.”
“It’s just… looks like you’ve been eating a lot of bat burgers lately.”
“I haven’t—”
“The stress after patrols has been too much for you,” Artemis added thoughtfully. “I actually quite empathize.”
“I don’t overeat because of stress!”
“You ate a whole pizza last night,” Roy pointed out.
“I deserved it! I fought twelve guys!”
“I just said, ‘This plush toy is a bit…rounded…”
Jason squeezed the plush toy again. Squeak—he knew he’d hear that sound in his nightmares from now on.
That night, after Jason fell asleep, Roy picked up the plush toy and grinned at Artemis and Bizarro.
“So,” he said, “we’re all on the same page?”
“Fatson?” Artemis said immediately.
“Perfect,” Roy said, hugging the plush toy. “But we can’t tell him. He’ll kill us.”
“Of course,” Artemis agreed. “The official name is Red Hood Plush Toy. Very professional. Very popular.”
“But what about the two of us?” Roy squeezed the toy. Squeak—a panting sound. “This is definitely a fatson.”
“Bizarro, promise me you won’t tell!”
“It’s a huge secret! Easy to keep!” Bizarro said.
They looked at each other, both absolutely certain that Jason would find out sooner or later.
“We need about a thousand for the first batch,” Artemis said, typing numbers on her phone. “That means we need a factory. That means we need money.”
“I have money,” Jason said.
“You only have twelve dollars and one Metro token,” Roy corrected. “I checked your wallet last week.”
“Why did you check my wallet?”
“Because I needed to know if you were going to buy me lunch. You didn’t.”
“I have savings!”
“You have a tin can labeled ‘Motorcycle Repair’ with seventeen dollars and twenty-five cents in it.”
Jason hated the fact that Roy was right. His vigilante income wasn’t great, and most of his earnings from various (legal) part-time jobs went to buying weapons, armor, and keeping the safe house running.
“Can we crowdfund?” Artemis suggested.
“Then let everyone know we’re broke?” Roy shook his head. “That’s bad for our image.”
“Can we rob someone?” Bizarro kindly suggested.
“We’re trying to improve our image,” Jason said. “Robbing someone for money to buy a plush toy seems counterproductive.”
Then he remembered the card.
Jason pulled out his wallet and took out a sleek black card with gold lettering: Wayne Enterprises.
Roy's eyes widened. "That's…"
"Bruce gave it to me, just in case," Jason said softly.
"Does he know you still have it?"
"He gave it to me!"
"Yeah, but does he know you still have it?"
Jason shifted uncomfortably. "It was a birthday present from him."
"Jason, you can't use Batman's credit card to make yourself a plush toy!"
"Why not? He's a billionaire. He probably won't even notice. And strictly speaking, this is teamwork. We want to increase our visibility, expand our influence, and build our brand. If we ask, Bruce will definitely support us."
"Should we ask?" Artemis asked.
"We'll ask for forgiveness later," Jason corrected. "A long time later. Maybe never."
Roy thought for a moment. “You know what? I love this idea. It has that rebellious edge we're looking for.”
“It doesn’t sound quite illegitimate,” Bizarro said thoughtfully. “I’m all for it!”
Two hours later, Jason found a toy factory in Gotham Industrial District that could take their order.
“A thousand,” Eddie confirmed, typing on his old computer, “round, red, helmet-shaped, with sound-producing mechanisms. Want expedited production?”
“How quickly?” Jason asked.
“Seventy-two hours.”
Jason blinked. “Really?”
“Mr. Wayne’s card gets priority service,” Eddie said with a knowing smile. “We’ll deliver your red helmets as soon as possible.”
The plush toys would be ready by Friday.
Leaving the factory, Jason struggled to shake off the growing sense of doom. A thousand plush toys. A thousand round, squeaky “self”s. He thought, at least they could serve as decent cushions when it all ultimately failed.
He had no idea how terribly wrong he was about to be.
Friday morning, Jason was woken by a deluge of notifications on his phone.
Actually, he wouldn't have minded if his phone had actually exploded. At least then he'd have an excuse to throw it into the harbor.
Roy: Jason
Roy: Jason!
Roy: You have to wake up right now!
Roy: We're in trouble!
Artemis: This isn't trouble.
Artemis: This is an opportunity!
Roy: We're sold out!
Roy: And not the broken kind!
Jason squinted at his phone. Six in the morning. He'd stayed up until three in the morning dealing with a human trafficking ring in the Bowery district. He hadn't expected this at all.
Jason: What's sold out?
Roy: Red Hood plush toys
Artemis: I probably posted a teaser on social media last night. Artemis: A pre-order link is attached.
Jason: Artemis
Artemis: We received 2500 orders.
Jason: Two thousand five hundred???
Roy: I'm just as shocked as you.
Roy: The kind of shock that comes with surprise.
Roy: Everyone loves them.
Artemis: The factory is working overtime to produce them.
Artemis: They might have used Bruce's card to increase production.
Jason: I'm going to kill you all!
Roy: You'll have to catch us first!
Roy: We're picking up the first batch from the factory.
Roy: Jason, they're beautiful.
Roy: They're so round and perfect.
Bizarro: Fatson, perfect!
Jason suddenly sat up in bed.
Jason: What did you just call it?
Bizarro: Didn't say anything! Bizarro didn't say anything!
Roy: He didn't say anything.
Artemis: We definitely didn't give it any secret nickname.
Jason: Roy Harper
Roy: I have to go! Factory stuff! Busy! Love you, bye!
Jason threw the phone across the room (it bounced onto a pile of clothes and survived because…). Of course, it did scream and then buried its face in the pillow.
They named it "fatson."
He's going to kill them all. Slowly. With these plush toys. Suffocate with squeaky toys.
His phone buzzed across the room. Then it rang again. Ringed again.
Jason groaned as he picked up the phone, immediately regretting it.
Social media discovered the red-hooded plush toy.
@gothamgirl2000: Oh my god, the Red Hood plush toy is so cute, I'm going to cry!
@vigilantemerchwatch: Okay, but why is Outlaw merchandise better than Batman merchandise?
@plushiecollectorgotham: Just pre-ordered 5. Come at me!
@thatonegoon: My boss got beaten up by Red Hood last week, and a week later he still can't move, but honestly, this plush toy is just too cute!
@gothamnative: Finally, I've finally found a hero I can hug without worrying about getting beaten up!
Things have gotten worse. Or better? Jason can't tell anymore.
Someone made a video of the plush toy rolling down the street, bumping into cardboard cutouts of villains, as if "fighting crime." Others have photoshopped the plush toy into historical scenes. Fan art has already been created. Someone even crocheted a miniature Red Hood plush toy to match their own.
Jason wanted to die. Or maybe never leave the house again.
His phone rang. It was Roy.
“Did you see that?” Roy asked, barely able to contain his excitement.
“Yes,” Jason replied coldly.
“We’re famous, Jason! We’re trending! Do you know what that means?”
“It means I can never show my face in Gotham again?”
“It means we’re really famous!” "We have 'brand awareness' gone! The Outlaws are officially famous!"
"All the publicity is good publicity!"
"Actually, it's not like that—" Jason said.
"We've already received inquiries from toy chains. Gotham City's morning shows want to interview us. Someone even wants to make costumes for their dog!"
Jason heard a loud crash in the background.
"What was that?" he asked.
"Eddie just dropped a box of Red Hood plush toys. They're fine! Very durable! Jason, we need to discuss a distribution strategy. I think we should start with local comic book stores and then expand to—"
"Roy," Jason interrupted him. "This is insane."
"This is capitalism," Roy corrected. "And we've been very successful at it. Think about it—we can use the profits for real vigilante operations. Better equipment. Medical supplies. Maybe we can even fix that hole in the roof of the safe house."
"A hole in the roof?"
"That hole has been there for three months." "Didn't you notice?"
"I thought it was a vent!"
"Jason, man, we need these. And, hey—everyone loves them. There should be some point to it, right?"
Jason hated that Roy was right.
"Okay," he sighed. "But if anyone asks, I've been against it from the start."
"Got it. Now to the factory. We have Fatson—I mean, Red Hood plush toys to distribute."
"I heard you."
"Heard what? I didn't say anything. Bad signal. I have to go!"
By Sunday afternoon, Jason reluctantly accepted his fate. Red Hood plush toys were everywhere. He'd seen them in shop windows, on social media, and in children's arms—children probably shouldn't idolize a vigilante, but they did anyway.
Saturday night, he'd gotten into a fight with a thug who, between punches, stopped and asked if he could get one too.
"Are they really as soft as they look?" The villain asked.
Jason stared blankly at him.
“Because of my back problems,” the villain continued, “I saw online that these are great for back support.”
Jason tied him up with cable ties, asking for a signed copy as he did so. Jason left without answering, but the question lingered in his mind for three hours.
But now he faced another challenge: the family dinner at Wayne Manor.
He had tried to avoid it for a whole week, but Alfred had called personally, meaning that refusal was impossible unless he wanted to endure endless guilt. So Jason rode his motorcycle to the manor, his heart already pounding with anticipation for the impending mockery.
The Bat Family must have seen the plush toys. They couldn't have missed them. Tim probably had a sales log. Dick probably bought twenty.
He stepped through the front door and immediately realized something was wrong.
It was too quiet.
“Is anyone home?” he called out hesitantly.
“In the living room!” “Dick’s voice responded, sounding unusually cheerful.
Jason turned the corner and stopped abruptly.
Red Hood plush toys were everywhere.
Not one or two, but ten. Ten round, red, squeaky plush toys were laid out on the sofa, as if in a meeting. Someone had arranged them in different poses. One was “reading” a book. Another was “drinking” from a small cup. The third seemed to be crossing his arms, as if “judging” the others.
“What’s this?” Jason said slowly.
“A family meeting,” Dick said, peeking out from behind the sofa with a bright smile that could light up the Gotham grid. “We wanted to show our support for your new venture.”
“Where did you get them—how did you—why?”
“I bought them,” Bruce said, walking in from the study, Alfred following behind. “Ten of them.” “
Jason stared at his adoptive father. Bruce Wayne. Batman. The Dark Knight. Gotham's greatest detective. Holding a receipt in his hand.
“You bought ten Red Hood plush toys,” Jason repeated.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“They’re of very high quality,” Bruce said expressionlessly. “And I wanted to support your entrepreneurial venture.”
“My—I—what?” Alfred cleared his throat. “Young Master Jason, I must say, the workmanship is superb. The stitching is perfect, and the sound system is incredibly responsive.”
To demonstrate, Alfred squeezed one of the plush toys.
“See?” Alfred said. “So cute.” Jason looked around frantically, trying to find someone to help him, but to no avail. Tim was typing on his laptop in a corner, surrounded by piles of plush toys, obviously used to prop up his computer. Damian glared at one of them, as if it had offended him (given Damian's personality, its mere presence probably infuriated him). Duke was taking selfies with three plush toys. Cass was holding one, smiling serenely.
"Where's Stephanie?" Jason asked weakly.
"At home," Tim said without looking up. "She bought fifteen. She's building a throne with them."
"Of course she would."
"And Barbara bought herself twelve."
"Why would Barbara—"
"She said they relieved stress during long surveillance operations," Tim continued. "She tested their durability. They're sturdy and can withstand repeated pressure."
"That's... kind of scary."
“Young Master Jason,” Alfred said kindly, “would you like some tea? Or would you like to sit down? You seem a little overwhelmed.”
“I am overwhelmed,” Jason said. “This—this is crazy. They’re just plush toys!”
“They are fantastic plush toys,” Bruce corrected. “The quality control is impressive. The materials are durable. The design is appealing without being childish; you’ve created some truly good things.”
Jason felt a lump in his throat. It was perhaps an emotion. He tried to suppress the feeling.
“They were originally intended as cushions,” he muttered. “We didn’t expect them to actually sell.”
“Well, they sold very well,” Bruce said. “This makes me think of an important question: are you prepared for this kind of success?”
“I—what?”
“Your factory can’t meet the current demand in the long run,” Bruce said. “You need better infrastructure, quality control, and a distribution network. Have you considered scaling up production?” “Bruce, we only have a thousand, and I'm barely managing—”
“Two thousand five hundred more,” Tim interrupted. “Just thirty seconds ago. And someone in Japan just ordered five hundred.”
“What?”
Dick picked up a plush toy, walked over to Jason, and handed it to him. “You should be proud, little wings. You created something that makes people happy.”
“I didn’t create it,” Jason protested. “Roy came up with the idea. Artemis is in charge of marketing. I just…stood there looking around. And I’m right here; why do you guys need…”
“You’re not round,” Dick said. “Although you and this thing are both great for hugging. It’s different.”
“Actually, no—”
“The children’s hospital contacted us,” Bruce said casually. “They want to order three hundred more for the pediatric ward.”
Jason’s protest caught in his throat. “They…what?” ““Three hundred,” Bruce repeated. “They say the kids keep asking. Apparently, the Red Hood’s gentle and safe image puts them at ease.”
Jason felt that uncomfortable feeling well up in his chest again, this time stronger.
“This…” He struggled to find the right words. “It’s actually quite good.”
“Indeed,” Bruce agreed. “So I wanted to talk to you about acquiring your factory and expanding production through Wayne Enterprises.”
“You want to buy the factory?”
“I want to make sure you have enough resources to meet the demand while continuing your vigilante work,” Bruce corrected. “The boss said he wants to retire. It’s good for everyone.”
Jason squeezed the plush toy Dick had handed him. Squeak. The sound of his dignity crumbling instantly.
“At least I can have creative control, right?” he asked.
“Of course,” Bruce said.
“Then shall we bring this up at the board meeting?”
“I’ll keep it a secret.” “And also, everyone stop calling them ‘fatson’—” Jason stopped himself abruptly. “Stop calling them anything other than ‘Red Hood Plush Toy’?”
The room fell silent.
Too quiet.
Dick stared wide-eyed. Tim looked up from his laptop. Even Damian stopped glaring at the plush toy and turned to Jason.
“Wait,” Dick said slowly, “were you just… calling it ‘fatson’?”
Jason felt like his soul had left his body.
“No,” he lied, but it was utterly unconvincing.
“You did,” Tim grinned. “You almost called it ‘fatson.’”
“I didn’t…”
“Fatson,” Damian repeated, a hint of mockery flashing in his eyes. “That’s what you call it? Fatson?”
“We don’t call it anything—”
“Who told you that?” “Jason questioned.
“Nobody told us,” Dick grinned. “You let it slip yourself.”
Cassandra used sign language. Tim translated, “She said Roy told her three days ago.”
“Roy!”
“And Bizarro told me,” Duke added. “Artemis told Stephanie. Stephanie told everyone.” Jason's phone vibrated. It was a text from Roy.
Roy: Did you just let it slip in front of the whole family?
Roy: Because Artemis received everyone's texts.
Roy: Jason, bro, you only have this one mission.
Jason: I'm going to kill you.
Roy: Get in line! Deathstroke just texted me asking where I can buy one!
Roy: He said he didn't want to buy one, but his question suggests he actually does.
Jason: Deathstroke????
Roy: He denied it very vehemently.
Roy: That means he definitely wants several.
Jason looked around the room at his family, all holding Fatson (he had given up avoiding the name), looking at him with varying degrees of smug smiles.
"I hate all of you," he declared.
"We love you too," Dick said. "Just like we love you cute little chubby guys." He pinched his chubby bottom as he spoke. "Squeak—"
"I'm leaving." “Before dinner?” Alfred asked, his appearance perfectly timed. “That would be a shame. I’ve prepared your favorite dishes.”
Jason hesitated. His fondness for Alfred’s cooking clashed fiercely with his wounded pride.
Ultimately, the cooking won out.
“Fine,” he sighed, slumping into his chair. “But nobody’s allowed to take pictures of me and the fatsons.” Seventeen camera shutters clicked simultaneously.
“Too late,” Tim said gleefully.
Three months later, Jason stood in the newly renovated headquarters of Wayne Enterprises' toy division, trying to understand how his life had so drastically veered off course.
The factory, which the boss had gratefully sold to Bruce (“It’s the best retirement gift I’ve ever received!” he exclaimed, already planning to move to Florida), had been transformed into a state-of-the-art manufacturing plant. They now produced five thousand Red Hood plush toys a week.
The toys also came in various variations: Winter Fatson (Jason had given up protesting the internal name), wearing a small tactical Fatson with extra pockets; glow-in-the-dark... Fatson, because clearly someone wanted this style.
Roy, who proclaimed himself Chief Creative Officer, was both admired and terrified by Jason's success. Artemis, in charge of marketing, somehow made the Outlaws a household name. Bizarro even had his own toys. A plush toy line—"Weird Companions"...deliberately designed to be asymmetrical and bewildered. They sold even better than the originals.
"I'm terrible at business!" "Weird Companions," declared triumphantly. "Sales are awful!"
Sales were phenomenal. Nobody corrected him.)
The charitable aspect also exceeded everyone's expectations. Children's hospitals, after-school programs, community centers—within three months, they raised over $200,000. Jason personally delivered the boxes to the pediatric ward, where a six-year-old hugged him and whispered in his ear, "You're softer than your toys." This embarrassed and touched him.
"I'm wearing armor." Jason protested.
“Soft armor!” the child insisted.
Now, standing in the showroom, Jason watched his family gathered around a display panel covered in concept sketches.
“Wayne Enterprises Bat-Family Series,” Bruce announced, pointing to the designs. “Given the success of the Red Hood plush toy, we’re bringing the whole family into it.”
The sketches showed plush versions of each character: Batman (with softer lines than previous versions; Bruce reluctantly agreed to make it “more huggable”), Nightwing (with an optional short stick), Red Robin (with a detachable coffee cup), Robin (smaller, with a fierce look), Disruptor (with purple accents), Cassandra (smiling, serene), Beacon (with glowing elements), and Oracle.
“We’ll also be releasing a complete Outlaw series,” Roy added, pointing to another panel, “plushocks of Arsenal, Artemis, and Bizarro, matching Red Hood.” “I look ridiculous,” Artemis said, examining her concept sketches. But a smile played on her lips.
“You look amazing,” Roy corrected. “We’re all amazing. This is incredible.”
“Bizarro isn’t excited at all!” Bizarro declared, though it meant he was ecstatic. “This is a terrible idea! The worst day of Bizarro’s life!”
Tim was already typing on his laptop. “I’ve already made my prediction. If we keep this up, within six months, our vigilante merchandise will be the best-selling product line in the country.”
“We’re going to surpass Superman?” Jason asked in surprise.
“We’re going to surpass everyone,” Tim said. “People like how approachable we are. These plush toys make heroes feel…safe.”
“That’s the key,” Bruce said softly. “Heroes should feel safe. Especially children.”"
The atmosphere was incredibly genuine for a moment, but Damian immediately poked his plush toy prototype with a pencil, ruining the moment.
“If my version doesn’t have a katana, I won’t approve it,” he declared.
“The katana is embroidered,” Roy assured him. “We won’t give the kids real weapons.”
“Coward.”
Jason’s phone vibrated. He glanced at it and almost smashed it.
Unknown number: Tell Harper I want twelve.
Unknown number: For reconnaissance.
Unknown number: Not because they're "cute" or anything he claims I said.
Unknown number: This conversation never happened.
Jason showed the text to Roy, who immediately burst out laughing.
"That's—" Roy gasped.
"Deathstroke," Jason confirmed. "He denied wanting them but ordered twelve more."
"I knew it!" Roy said triumphantly. "I knew he was lying when he said he didn't want them!"
"He said it was for reconnaissance," Jason added.
“Of course he said that.”
“Should I tell him we’ll send it?”
“Absolutely.” “And include a thank-you card signed by Fatson.”
“You’re terrible.”
“I’m a marketing genius,” Roy corrected. “There’s a difference.”
The meeting ended, and everyone went their separate ways to handle their work (Tim went to oversee distribution, Dick to quality control, and Damian to the design team—he was apparently determined to help “fix” everyone’s weapons), leaving Jason alone in the showroom, surrounded by plush toys of his family and team members.
Alfred appeared just in time beside him, a cup of tea in hand.
“Young Master Jason, you’ve truly built a vast empire,” Alfred said.
“I didn’t build it,” Jason protested. “It was Roy’s idea. Bruce bought the factory. The others were the ones who actually did the work. I was just…existent.”
“You inspired it,” Alfred corrected gently. “Your willingness to show vulnerability, your willingness to make people feel you’re approachable—that’s what made it all possible.” “Others created the product, but you laid the foundation for them.”
Jason pinched one of them.
“I just wish people would stop shooting at us,” he muttered.
“Now they’re embracing you,” Alfred smiled slightly. “I guess that’s progress.”
Jason’s phone vibrated again. It was the “Outlaws” group chat.
Roy: When did we tell Jason that “fatson” was trending in fourteen countries?
Artemis: Don’t tell him. Let him find out on his own.
Bizarro: Bizarro hasn’t told him yet!
Roy: Perfect. "Oh, and I might have also designed a limited edition 'Fatson,' wearing a mini leather jacket."
Artemis: Roy, that's a brilliant idea.
Jason sighed and put his phone in his pocket. He looked at Alfred, who was struggling to suppress a laugh.
"I think there are several limited editions, young master Jason."
"Of course."
"I heard there's even a holiday limited edition called 'Fatson Santa.'"
Jason closed his eyes. "Kill me now."
"I don't think so," Alfred said. "You're making too much money."
Jason couldn't help but laugh. It was all so absurd. He had unexpectedly become the face of a plush toy empire. His family had embraced it all wholeheartedly. Deathstroke—Deathstroke himself—had ordered twelve, saying it was for "reconnaissance."
But all of this is also incredibly wonderful.