/me took in a sharp, almost painful inhale before waking up only to be greeted by an incredibly dark room. Both his hands had been wrapped neatly above his head, an army of chain links strapped across his wrists, and spanned all the way up to the ceiling. There was a severe pain in his sides, as if he had just been hit by a freight train, and somehow managed to survive it. A few, short grunts were made, as he struggled not to make the pain worse than it already was with the way he moved. It seemed to have been worse everytime he twisted --or tried to twist-- his lower half. His feet had barely touched the ground, and just below him was the cracked Red Hood helmet that had been used in the fight against Bane. That's right. That was the last thing he could remember. Fighting Bane, and managing to stop the big ugly brute. At least, until he passed out from the injuries he suffered. Jason wasn't quite sure as to where he was, or why he was there. "Shit." He whispered under his breath, momentarily struggling to break free of the chains that bound him. The male tossed his head down, pushing it as deep as he could towards the floor, which honestly, didn't make a whole lot of difference. His feet attempted to move the helmet on the floor, but his efforts barely gave him any advantage. There was a button under the mask that would allow it to act like a bomb. A self-destruct feature. One of the many upgrades he's added to it's primary functions. "Don't play hard ball with me now..." His hand reached for the sleeve of it's opposite in an attempt to locate the blades that he kept within it. He loved playing dirty, and it was simply one of the many tricks he had going for him. And as his fingers danced within the crevices of his sleeve, it was brought to his attention that whoever took him in, was smart enough to check his body for any spare weapons. Which reminded him, his eyes darted to the holsters on his sides, only to find them empty. "Damn it. Not those..." He held a particularly soft spot for his dual handguns. Mostly because they were considered to be more powerful than any ordinary handguns in existence. Thanks to, of course, the helpful technology from the Tamaraneans, and a little bit of help from the smart Bizarro --Again, long story--. It seemed that the only way he could get out was either brute force, or he needed to think outside the box. With the pain that he felt in his sides, he was almost certain that forcing his way out of those binds would be next to impossible. All because of that moron, Bane. However, there was still one more thing he could do... Jason opened his mouth and tugged on his lower lip with the upper row of his teeth, blowing his breath out. A soft whistle had been produced, and a series of many different tunes followed. The helmet sparked to life, noticeably by it's eyes glowing a bright white. His mouth formed into a cocky grin, making it look like he had been too proud of himself to actually think of something as smart as adding a pitch passcode. It took him weeks of training to actually get something like that down, but managed to nail it every time after the sixth week. <b>Outlaw Protocol activated.</b> A voice, almost the same as Alfred's could be heard coming from the half-shattered helmet. <b>Would you like to contact, Roy Harper? Koriand'r of Tamaran? Rose Wilson? Simon Amal? Artemis of Bana-Mighdall? Bizzaro? Harley Quinn? or Komand'r of Tamaran?</b> Jason wheezed once, if any of his Outlaws tried to bail him out, they wouldn't think twice about Batman's 'no killing' rule. Whoever he was going to call, had to be someone who did. "Switch to the Family Protocol." There was a moment of silence, before the helmet spoke again. <b>Family Protocol initiated. Would you like to contact...</b> A loud, incoherent static filled the room, as if the following names had been deleted. <b> ...Barbara Gordon?...</b> More static followed. "Yes." Jason replied in a whisper, cautious of how much noise he was making. It was bad enough that the helmet didn't have any specific modifcations to how much volume it was actually producing. A few more second of silence passed, and the Alfred-like voice spoke once more. <b>Unable to reach said contact. Would you like to try again?</b> The red hood cursed under his breath once more, looking back and forth between his binds, and his helmet. "Send distress signal to Barbara Gordon." And that same distress signal would come in the form of a text message. A coded one. One that only he and her would understand. Sort of like an agreement the two made if ever one or the other was in danger. Or in Jason's case, relative danger. He wasn't too sure if whoever caught him was dangerous, but it was better to be safe than sorry. There was no fear within him, but he had no intentions of dying where he hung. He had unfinished business to take care of. <b>The message has been sent, Red Hood.</b> Jason nodded. "Good." And in that same message, read; "Barbie, date's cancelled. Rain check?"