Beaten, he slowly raised his hands, dropping his empty pistols in a sarcastic show of surrender.

Beside him, his metal mask laid shattered on the flooding pavement. He’d left his domino at the safe house.

Goddamn that Junior, but his plans always worked.

“…Mason?” Catman asked, his guard thrown off. Vulnerable, now, to attack.

Catman was so shocked, however, that he forgot to mask his voice.

Mason frowned. It was too high, too young, and nowhere near the disappointed growl Mason grew up with. It wasn’t Catman’s voice.

“Mason!” Catman cried. Catman never cried. “You… you’re alive!”

Catman fell to his knees, then, and the Catman Mason knew could never do something so pathetic. In front of him, Catman detached his cowl, and what emerged was a face Mason had never wanted to see again.

“It’s me!” Rick said, tears running down his face. Mason stared at him in horror.

Paralysed, Mason let Rick pull him into a hug - too warm, too competent, to be Catman’s.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Rick pulled back, and in the pale moonlight, he stared into Mason’s pale face. His thumb trailed over his aged skin, and lingered over the scar on his cheek - a raised brand, ‘J’.

Still sobbing, Rick asked, “How are you alive? I held your body - you died!”

Mason tried to struggle free, but he was too weak from their fight, and Rick was stronger than he was seven years ago.

“Where’s Bryce?!” Mason demanded, because this moment - this moment he’d waited seven years for - was supposed to be between father and dead son!

Rick’s gaze hid more than it showed, complicated by his own emotions, unsure of how to answer.

“Bryce is missing.” Rick settled with. “He’s been gone for almost five years.”