Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The thought lingered in the recesses of my mind, swelling at the back of my throat like an unshed whisper.

I wanted to watch him.

It was a thought that settled into the corners of my consciousness, dark and comforting. I had never seen him—not really. And yet, I was glad in moments like these, moments when the harsh edges of reality blurred into to the strange space between dreaming and waking.

I lay beside the cold metal desk, its edge biting into my side. Above me, the vintage lights flickered, their glow buzzing softly with an electric hum that filled the empty room. It was almost comforting, like a steady lullaby of white noise, drowning out everything else. In this symphony, I could imagine anything, think of all the things I could do in theory, but never actually bring myself to do.

My world had fallen to waste outside the prisons of my mind. I had become a passive observer, a naturalistic onlooker to life. Detached. Watching as events unfolded without my influence. I could not control who would be the first to raise their hand in class or who would be the first to throw themselves off a building.

No, I had no control over the world within the walls of my thoughts. There, everything was chaotic, unpredictable and wild. But within the sanctuary of my mind, I could control every variable. There was a twisted kind of charm in it. A place where all the chaos made sense, where I could bend the world to my will, even if it was only in the quiet of my imagination. But even within this refuge, there were consequences. Sins whispered in the shadows, and I knew that even there, God could hear.

He listened through the dreams of white noise and the screams of those who threw themselves from rooftops. He could hear my pitiful fantasies. My hollow dreams.

I knew I should stop them. I should let them go, cleanse myself of these thoughts. But they had grown dear to me, like a secret I held close, a sliver of warmth in the cold. These dreams were all I had. I craved them. When I woke, I ached to close my eyes once more, to slip back into that place where he existed.

I never knew his name. But there was a J, burned across his cheek. A scarlet brand, vivid against pale skin. I had been seeing him for what felt like years.

J.

The letter fascinated me, haunted me. What could it stand for? What had compelled him to brand himself? Why had he chosen to bear such a scar, to brand himself with that symbol?

I wondered what my father would say if there was a burned J upon my own face. Would he care? Would he look at me with those same vacant eyes, the way he always did, or would the sight of that scar shock him into feeling something?

I traced the letter onto my arm, the tip of a red marker dragging across my skin in a careful curve. It was a fragile connection, but it was something. If I were ever to meet this boy, we would be bound by that scarlet J, as if fate had tied us together with a single letter.

J.

Maybe it was the start of his name. John. Jacob. Those were names from the Bible, weren't they? Maybe he was religious.

There was something about the idea that captivated me. Religion.

J.

Jesus?

It fits, in a strange, disjointed way. Perhaps he bore the mark as a kind of repentance, an offering to God. I could understand that. Repentance was familiar to me, the notion of suffering to cleanse oneself of sin. It made sense, even if nothing else did.

I pressed the marker down harder, feeling it drag against my wrist, the ink smudging, staining my skin. The marker was faulty; the ink spilled from the tip, running down my fingers in thin, crimson lines, seeping into the beige of my coat. The coat used to be white, I thought—clean and pure, like I had once been. I'd bought it for twenty-five dollars, an impulsive purchase. Twenty-five. Twenty-five days I had been here, trapped within these walls, disconnected from the world outside. Twenty-five days since I had felt warmth on my skin or the sting of wind against my face.

The ink was warm as it spread, sticky and clinging to my skin. Branding myself with his mark, binding myself to the sinner of my dreams.

I reached for the glasses my mentor had left behind, their frame catching the dim light.. I picked them up, holding them to my eyes, but everything only got blurrier. Scarlet stained the world around me, the blood running down my arms, pooling on the floor beneath me. The fleeting thoughts of ending it all edged into my mind, a shadow hovering at the edge of my vision.

I looked at the letter carved into my skin, the blood like ink soaking into my pores, staining me. It was already a memory—a mark that had been there long before I had traced it. A symbol of something I couldn't name.

I wondered if I should associate it with him, the sinner who haunted my dreams, or with my own driftless thoughts. The pull toward oblivion, the longing to be free of it all. To slip away into the quiet, where no one could reach me.

A scarlet letter, burned into my skin, a reminder of the dreams I couldn't let go of, the fantasies that kept me tethered to a world I no longer understood.

I traced it again, my fingers moving slowly, reverently. The blood was smeared, smudged, imperfect. But it was mine.

The sting in my wrists reminded me of the pain the boy in my dreams was burdened with, and my righteous cause for life. If I ever met him, I would save him. It would be the first good thing I have done.

-

The bandages wrapped around my arm, binding my skin, just as the moon wraps itself around the sun during an eclipse. The wound underneath was relentless and the bleeding refused to stop, as if the hurt itself was holding on, like it had found a purpose in my suffering. I never wanted to see that letter again, that scarlet J etched into my flesh, nor the boy who haunted my dreams.

It took time to put myself back together, even if it had only been minutes.

I am not a schizophrenic patient. I have not stayed here for twenty-five days.

I had been here for roughly twenty-five minutes. Not twenty-five days. The aura of Arkham, the buzzing halls, the claustrophobic rooms—they all seemed to have worked their way under my skin. The blood circulating through my face felt sluggish, like my body was rejecting the very air around me.

In those brief twenty-five minutes, I experienced a kind of lurking darkness, an evil that could only be born in these corridors.

I should have known. As an intern for Arkham Asylum, I should've known that simply witnessing madness can drive one insane. Maybe it was something in the air, the radiation, the toxins or the molesting malevolence that seeped through every crack in these old walls.

The truth was, my qualifications for being here were thin at best. I was still in high school. The city needed able bodies after the Prince of Crime orchestrated a massive breakout. Qualified staff were scarce and no one with sense would choose to work here. But here I was. And I wasn't too worried about myself. After all, I wasn't important. Nothing interesting ever happened to people like me.

The ceilings above were lined with cameras, twitching every few seconds like the sharp, darting head movements of a crow. Being watched made me feel safe, as long as I didn't think too deeply about the eyes behind those lenses.

My footsteps echoed continuously, my worn sneakers tapping against the concrete. As I walked through the corridor, I noticed a peculiar liquid leaking from one of the old water fountains. It glistened, catching the dim overhead light, but the color was too dark, too thick, and made me want to wretch. You would think that since taxpayer money went here, they could afford water filtering. I should've just kept moving, but there was nothing else to distract me from the excruciating pain in my bandaged arm, and so my curiosity got the better of me.

I moved towards it, drawn to that strange, viscous fluid. Just as I was about to lean closer, one of the cameras snapped towards me, its lens twitching, swiveling to meet my gaze as if it were alive.

The cold eye of the camera seemed to watch me. I became anxious under its glare. For a moment, time seemed to slow, the world narrowing down to that unblinking lens staring straight through me.

The shiny bulb shattered, glass splintering, the pieces falling like feathers. Green ooze spilled from the broken camera like the bleeding of a crow. I took an involuntary step back, my eyes widening, my breath caught in my throat.

Standing there, beyond the shattered lens, was Dr. Jonathan Crane.

The man was just as unnerving as the cracked camera. His eyes were a piercing blue, which felt even more intense through the shield of his glasses. There was something sharp about him, something that seemed to cut through the air and settle into the goosebumps on my skin.

Normally, something like this happening would be a wet dream, but the lights in the building were just not sexy.

"Ah," he said, dryly. "No matter how much they invest in this establishment, they still cannot fix the water filter."

His eyes fell to the scar on my arm. "Did the patients already hurt you," he asked, his voice carrying a trace of disdain, "or is that your own doing?"

My eyes fell to my arm, to the poorly wrapped bandages that clung to my skin, evidence of my earlier foolishness. He noticed it, of course. His gaze flickered over the stained cloth, and I felt a rush of embarrassment.

I forced a weak smile, feeling the lie slipping off my tongue before I could think twice. "I fell off my bike while riding here. Hopefully, I can afford a new bike after this internship!"

Dr. Crane's lips twitched, but it wasn't a smile. "You do realize this is an unpaid internship?" he said with a hint of curiosity of how someone as stupid as me got into this establishment.

The words hit me like a brick. Unpaid. My shoulders sagged, and I stared at him, blankly. Was this a joke? Had I truly lost that many brain cells, along with the blood I spilled?

"If it were paid," I managed to mutter, "I probably wouldn't have been hired."

He made the doctor laugh, soft but professional, and more warm than the smile he gave earlier. "I wouldn't worry too much about it. Most of the people who stay here are unpaid."

Well, obviously. "If you mean the patients, I'm sure they have a better living situation than a normal person in Gotham."

"There are no normal people in Gotham."

-

The asylum began to feel more like a prison, each patient locked away behind bulletproof glass. They watched me from behind those barriers, their empty eyes following my every step. From their side, I must have looked like the one imprisoned, the way I moved so stiffly, nervously. They probably pitied me. I almost pitied myself.

Their thousand-yard stares locked me into an invisible trench, and I was too weak to maintain the fight. Eventually, I looked away, breaking from the gaze, admitting my defeat. It didn't matter. I was the one who was free. At least that's what I told myself.

The screams began faintly at first, soft, eerie wails, echoing through the floor beneath me. It had been there for a while, and I told myself it was nothing to worry about. Shock therapy, I thought. I reassured myself that the people here were not innocent. Whatever made them scream, they probably deserved it.

Still, I found myself drawn to those muffled cries. Dr. Crane had told me not to go down there. His voice had been stern, but I convinced myself there was no real danger. All the truly dangerous ones had broken out, hadn't they? There were no monsters like Professor Pyg down there—just a few unstable men too weak to escape.

It was probably the safest place in the asylum. I reasoned with myself, assured myself that I could take on whatever lay beyond. I'm just an intern, I thought.

I took a deep breath and turned down the corridor, my footsteps falling silent as I moved towards the door where the screams echoed from. There were no cameras here, no twitching crows. I reached the door, fingers brushing against the cool metal of the lock.

The door was locked, of course. I wasn't supposed to be down here. But I trusted myself. Or maybe I was just stupid.

Crane's keys weighed heavy in my pocket. They weren't given to me. I had taken them, borrowing them after the camera broke.

Maybe it was the toxins or green ooze in the water fountains deluding me, but I really think that today I might make a change in someone's life. Maybe, I would make myself memorable.

I hesitated, then fit the key into the lock, turning it slowly until a soft click.

-

The air beyond the door was stale, and lacked moisture, like dead air. The sharp tang of rusted metal and decay filled my nose, and I gagged, my stomach churning as I stepped inside. There was no light, just the pale, ghostly glow of my phone's flashlight. I swept it across the floor, catching glimpses of rats scurrying away, their bodies darting between the rusted pipes and debris.

The whimpers were still there, cascading through the room, but the source was hidden, somewhere deep in the shadows. My heart pounded, and I felt a cold sweat form on my forehead. The room felt dark. The walls loomed and the shadows moved, slipping out of the corner of my eye.

My mouth was open, sucking in short breaths as I wondered if the whimpers came from me or someone else, my hand covering my nose in a futile attempt to block out the rank odor of rot and mold. Then I heard a boy's voice again, soft and trembling. A whisper that shook the room, shivers tracing the lines of the scarred J on my arm.

I swallowed, my throat painfully dry, words lodged on my tongue. I wanted to turn back. I wanted to run. Please, God, let me go back before I meet someone I can't save.

I stumbled through the shadows, moving closer, my eyes darting to the stairs, the door I'd come through. Could I get back up? Could I just walk away from all of this? My body trembled, my legs felt like they'd been filled with concrete. And then–

For the first time, I saw the boy's face.

J.

There he was, J written on his face, bold and red, just like the scar on my arm. All those variables I had created in my head of how the situation would go if I ever met this boy, they're all presented before me now. The dreams that had strictly resided in my head, had become the reality before me.

The boy looked as though he had just awoken, his eyes half awake. His under eyes were painted with tones of red and black, as if it were a mix of bruises and sleep deprivation. The bottom half of his face was covered by a shadow, but I can assure you, he was not smiling.

Though I couldn't tell you if he was a boy or not– he was so hollow, he might have been a girl as well. Perhaps a zombie would fit better, or a mutated creature. His posture was similar to that of an ape, a piece of his hair graying, though he looked no older than me. Blood encrusted every crevice of his emaciated body, and his open wounds were raw and full of infections.

The entirety of his body was desaturated, as though all life had drained out of him, leaving him as a shadow of himself. Slowly, his face lifted, inch by inch, the darkness revealing his sullen features.

"Who..." he croaked, his voice barely audible, like his throat was collapsing in on itself.

Who? The question lingered in my mind. Who in this world would come down here? I knew, of course, that the answer was me. I had led myself down here because I was bored. Because I was useless.

"Who else would it be?" I asked, genuinely wondering. Who would do this to him?

"I won't—I won't fall for it," he rasped, as though I was playing some game I didn't understand. "Stop—please."

"Stop what? What are you talking about?" I stared at the blood staining his skin, at the ropes biting into his body, cutting into him like he was nothing more than an object to be bound and broken. I felt a knot in my stomach, and yet, I couldn't look away. "What happened to you?"

The words came out like a reflex, though I wasn't really expecting an answer. My voice softened. "Please, just let me help you."

He looked away, averting his gaze like I was some nude model in a window display. But I was here. I was the one who had come down here to save him. I crept forward, trying to catch his gaze by lowering myself onto my knees, placing my hands on his lap, searching for his eyes in the darkness. I wanted him to see me, really see me.

As I knelt beside him, searching for some flicker of recognition in his haunted eyes, a faint sound drifted through the darkness. It was barely audible at first—almost like a whispering breeze—but then it grew louder, more distinct, until I realized it was a laugh. Hollow, mocking. A chill ran down my spine. My heart skipped a beat, but I forced myself to stay focused on the boy. Surely, it was my imagination.

Up close, his face was gaunt, bruised, and hollow—hauntingly familiar, yet terrifying in its desolation. My fingers brushed against his cheek, tracing the grotesque J carved into his flesh. In my dreams, his face had haunted me, lingering on the edges of my mind, in the corners of my vision. It felt like fate had drawn me here, like I had been destined to hold his fate in my hands.

I touched his face again, gingerly tracing the mark with my fingertips. He tensed. Even the smallest gesture seemed to hurt him. He flinched at my touch, his brows knitting together, pulled down by a string of sorrow that seemed to weigh on his every feature. I wanted to take that weight from him. I wanted to make him feel... something other than this.

But as I stared into his blue eyes, it struck me. Just because I had seen him in my dreams, just because I knew him, didn't mean he knew me. To him, I was just another person here to gawk at his suffering.

The only sign of familiarity was the scar on my wrist. The one I had marked myself with because of him. I started unwinding the bandage— to him, this probably was the closest he could feel to a sensual encounter. Underneath was the scarlet letter, the evidence of my own questionable choices. We weren't so different. We were both scared. Though, I chose my own scar; he was branded.

"Who—who hurt you?" he asked, his voice soft, as his wide eyes fixated on my mangled arm. I had found it strange that he had asked me if I had been hurt as he sat in a pool of his own agony.

I saw something flicker in them—recognition, maybe, or a desperate kind of empathy. He thought I understood him. But he was wrong. I was the one who had chosen to do this to myself.

"I hurt myself," I admitted, bragging almost. His face twisted, confusion clouding his expression. "I wanted to carve it."

"Why?" The question lingered in the air, his innocence clashing with the pain in his voice. His gaze fell to my hand as I began untying the ropes, the sharp edges biting into my fingers. He looked panicked. "You're hurting yourself—again."

I barely registered the pain. "Am I?" I shrugged. "It's fine. I'd rather hurt myself than be... whatever it is you're going through."

The boy flinched as I touched his arm, but it wasn't his reaction that made my heart race. Out of the corner of my eye, something moved—a quick flicker of color against the wall. Purple? Green? I blinked, but when I looked again, it was gone. Just a trick of the light.

My hands trembled as I tugged at his shirt, pulling at the filthy collar. The fabric was so worn, so faded, it was hard to tell what color it had once been. My fingers crept under his collar line, releasing the contact between his neck and the filthy cloth. He let out a whimper, "Stop."

"Too early for that?" I said half wittingly. My hands stopped at a symbol on his shirt, which had faded. It resembled an R, like the Robin that Batman works with. "Are you wearing a Robin costume?" The words slipped out before I could stop them. The symbol had intrigued me more than it should have.

His face lowered once again, as if he was at the brink of tears. I reassured him, "I didn't mean to offend you– I mean a lot of people wear these costumes and if I'm gonna be honest, I think Robin is super hot."

His lips slightly pinched up, a very child-like smile. I continued, "Hey, maybe once we get out of here, we can tell the story of how we escaped– to everyone! Maybe we will get enough attention so that Robin will give us autographs."

His face fell, as though the mention of the name alone caused him pain. His voice came out in a whisper, so quiet I barely heard him. "I'm here because of Robin."

Is everyone out to get this kid? I wondered if he had ever made a single decision on his path to get here in the first place. I figured that I would be some sort of inspiration for him, since I chose to be here and chose to help him. I mean, Robin? That didn't make sense. "Robin? What do you mean? Did Robin do this to you?"

His eyes lowered once again, as if speaking from a distant dream, "Yes."

"I'm sure that's not true, Batman would never let that happen–" I was cut off by his eyes glaring down at mine with anger.

"Batman doesn't save anyone." His words were venomous, filled with years of animosity. His head tilted back as if he were distancing himself away from me. In response, I tugged at his hand to keep him close.

The words cut me, but I didn't know why. Were we talking about the same Batman who puts half of the criminals in prison? "That's definitely.. an opinion," I managed, my voice trembling. "Look, I'm sure you can just blame anyone for your predicament, so just let me take this off and–"

He cut me off, his voice hard. "I put myself here."

I froze. "What?"

"I was Robin," he said, and the words hit me like a punch to the gut, it was almost laughable. But the suit and animosity for Batman made it feel like the truth. I remembered the speculations and theories that there was a new Robin, someone different. Could this— could this really be the previous Robin?

"No," I said, shaking my head. "No, Robin– Robin doesn't look like that– like you."

His almost nostalgic voice sent a chill through me. "It was years ago– he told me not to go anywhere, but I–" His breath waned.

"Told you not to do what? Who told you?" My voice grasped for an answer, hardly believing what he was saying. Robin was seen just a week ago, patrolling the southern side of the city.

"Batman did. But my mom– my mom, she wasn't safe so I–" he gasped for breath, as if these were the most words he had spoken in a while. I squeezed his hand further, as if to get out information. "I had to save her from him and.."

I interrupted him before he finished speaking, "You chose to come here? On your own?" The words tasted bitter in my mouth. "To save your mom?" I had dragged myself down here because I was bored, and wanted to be something. But he had been trying to save someone.

Suddenly, my confidence waned. The belief that I was helping him, crumbled in the face of his story. He had defied Batman, sacrificed himself for his mother, while I had done nothing but chase after a dream that didn't even belong to me.

What was I thinking, that I would be the special one? I came here on my own selfish desires, and he– he was the true hero. If we ever got out of here, his story would be praised, not mine. For I hadn't suffered at all, unlike him. I just came and went, like a wave falling just as quickly as it rises. I would yet again be unimportant.

"You have to go in underneath, and unwrap it to take it off," he lectured me. I stood up, releasing my grip from his hands, my face contorting with bitterness. So, what am I? Just someone who tells me what to do so he can get out? Someone to be overshadowed by his tragedy?

I pulled back, irritation boiling up. "I know how to do it. Don't treat me like I'm an idiot," I snapped. "If you know how to do it so well, do it yourself!" My voice grew sharp, bitter. "Don't forget, I'm the only one who came here to help you."

"I didn't mean—"

"I don't care!" I cut him off, the bitterness seeping into my words. "What, do you just want all the glory for yourself? You want to be the only one who survives the Joker's torture and gets the credit? Well, I hope he comes. I hope he hurts me, so I can come out of this a hero too. At least then I'll have something to show for it."

His face fell. "You don't need to be hurt. You're already special," he said softly. "Please, just listen to me. We need to get out."

"Special? Maybe I'm a little too special. I cut myself because of a dream. You know how crazy that sounds?" I scoffed. "Being branded by some psycho gets you on the front of the newspaper; being the psycho who branded themself gets them put in a mental institution for being schizophrenic."

His eyes widened. "You... you did that because of me?"

"Yeah. You should be happy. Someone tried to die for you. Not even Batman did that for–"

His expression turned cold, interrupting my speech. "If you're not here to help me, then just do what you want. I don't care." His voice was low, but the words pierced through me. "I don't need you."

His rejection enraged me further. "You don't need me? Then why don't you help yourself!" My voice was venomous now, lashing out at him, but it was rooted in jealousy. Because he was the hero. I was just a shadow. "Well, I hate to break it to you, but the only thing you can do to help yourself is slitting your wrists, and you can't even do that!" I tried to use suicide as my way of being brave, some kind of bravery he didn't have.

"If I had killed myself, Batman would be free from torment. I need to live—so he can suffer."

Every word struck a nerve. Somehow, the one chained and tortured had more drive than me. If I were in his place, I would have given up already.

"But I thought you put yourself here, not Batman?" I asked, my tone smug, as if I had uncovered some hidden truth. Deep down, I still hoped he hadn't chosen to suffer like this, and that it was all Batman's fault, and that maybe I could swoop in and save him.

"No, I chose to be here. But he let me suffer. He left me to rot and replaced me," his voice cracked, struggling to hold back emotion. "And if you leave me here, you'll be just like him."

The sting of his words hit harder than I expected. I had imagined myself as the hero, coming to his rescue. Instead, I was starting to see how he viewed me—another person who would abandon him. But that wasn't what I wanted. I wanted to share his suffering, to prove that I could endure it too.

"You won't have time to figure out what you're going to do if you keep arguing," he warned. "Time is running out."

"I'm sorry I'm not moving fast enough for you," I snapped. "But if Batman couldn't help you, I don't know why you think I should meet your expectations."

He let out a long, defeated breath, as if he had already resigned himself to whatever came next. "Just do—do whatever you want. When the Joker comes, there won't be any talking."

I froze. Did he just say the Joker was the one who had him down here? The actual embodiment of chaos and evil?

A sudden drop in temperature made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. The room had been stuffy, oppressive with rot, but now it felt cold, too cold. The light from my phone flickered, casting jagged shadows that seemed to stretch farther than they should. My pulse quickened, and I glanced over my shoulder, half-expecting to see someone lurking in the dark.

But then my thoughts shifted. Escaping some random psycho would be one thing, but the Joker? If I got us out of here, people in Gotham would know my name. I'd be the one who saved Robin from the Joker. Batman himself might even thank me. The very idea sent a thrill through me.

"The Joker? Are you serious?"

He nodded.

"I expected worse." I scoffed, trying to hide my nerves. "That guy's old and skinny. I could take him in a fight, easy. Everyone thinks he's scary just because he's evil. But what would he do if I pulled out an AK-47 on him, huh? Bet you didn't think of that. And here I thought being Batman's sidekick would make someone smarter."

I spiraled into a nervous ramble, bragging about how I'd outwit the Joker, how easy it would be to take him down. I circled the room, visually showing how I would take him down. But then I saw his expression—he wasn't amused. His eyes flickered toward something behind me, and then his head dropped, almost in defeat.

"He's coming."

"Good," I hissed, leaning into the challenge. "Let him come."

It was as if I'd conjured him with my words.

My shoulder brushed against something cold and unyielding, pulling me from my rant. Slowly, I turned, the air thickening around me. The wall behind me was smeared in twisting hues of purple and green, vibrant against the darkness, like the embodiment of madness creeping closer. My pulse quickened, realization sinking in as I strained to breathe.

Then, I saw him. A grin, impossibly wide and gleaming like a sharpened blade, emerged from the shadows. His face—pale, stretched tight over jagged bones—hovered above me, illuminated by the faintest sliver of light. The Clown Prince of Crime. His eyes glinted with a sick amusement, as though he knew every thought twisting inside me.

The world seemed to collapse inward, my body frozen against the very nightmare I had recklessly invited. The Joker. The figure I had foolishly believed I could conquer, now standing before me. And in that instant, the false courage I had clung to drained away, replaced by a creeping terror I couldn't shake. I had wanted this. I had prayed for him.

And now, here he was.

-

It was as if a car was veering towards me and someone yelled for me to get out of the way. But my feet were cemented to the ground, every part of my body stopping, except for my heart beat which was increasing.

I stared down into the spiral of patterns on his suit, a sick irony. I would give anything to stare at the green ooze spilling from the fountain, or the rats right now. Anything but those sick, luminescent colors on the boy or the Clown.

Suddenly, I could feel my vocal cords starting to work again. I decided to finally do something.

"We were just talking about you," I said, a distasteful and twisted truth. I tried to keep up the facade of me being happy he was here, and I think I was successful in convincing myself as well.

For some reason, he found this very amusing. His cackles send an electric shock to the room, as opposed to the melancholic energy it once contained. The boy winces at each roar, reacting to every sound like the strings of a violin react to a bow.

As the Joker's final laughs wind down to an awful throat noise, he exclaims,"I knew he was thinking about me while I was gone!" He turned to me. "Ooh, ooh! Tell me what he was saying!"

I paused, "A lot, but none of it is worth mentioning to you."

"Did he tell you about the time we had the operation?" He leans in, eyes wild, pantomiming delicate surgical movements. "Oh, it was a riot! I was the surgeon, see, and poor little Robin was my patient. Snip, snip, here, a little twist there, and oops!—I think I might've misplaced a rib or two!" He laughs maniacally, clutching his sides, gesturing to Robin. "He screamed for days... but oh, how he loved our little sessions! I think he misses me, don't you? Poor boy, always so clingy."

"I didn't recall asking for a recap, but thanks for that horrid anecdote."

"Oh, Jaybird, your new friend reminds me of you in the early days! So much spirit. Tell me, do you think they should be our new plaything? Hmm?" He steps closer towards Robin, "Let's test if they can last as long as you."

Jason pulled his head up, "No, leave them out of this. This is between us. Please."

The clown leaned down, placing his arm over my shoulder, his breath hot against my ear, "Now, now. I don't remember him being this possessive." He turned his head to Jason, "You can't just save all the fun for yourself, that's not fair! Especially when you made an all new friend without me."

The boy's voice cracked a little, his desperation clear. "Don't– don't do this."

The Clown took out his knife and closed in further, gently tracing my hand, but not pressing down. "Maybe if you beg harder, I'll consider going easy."

"Please. Please don't hurt them." The scar on his face sort of wrinkled as he said this.

I wondered if the boy had even listened to a word I'd said before. I told him, I want the Joker to come in here. I want to get hurt. Maybe if this Robin wasn't so stubborn, he wouldn't be in this mess. My anger wasn't even aimed at the clown anymore; it was Jason who frustrated me now.

Before the Joker could launch into another one of his rants, I spoke quickly, cutting through his theatrics. "I don't know what you're talking about, Robin. I, for one, am not a victim." I lifted my hand and pressed it against the knife, trying to mask the pain it caused to look as though it was the knife being cut instead of me. "Like I was saying earlier," I turned toward the Joker, meeting his crazed gaze, "Robin and I were just having a chat about how much I hoped you'd show up and start hurting me."

The Joker's eyes gleamed as he paused mid-step, his manic grin widening. "Oh! Is that so?" he cooed, tilting his head. "You wanted me to come to hurt you?" He let out a high pitched giggle, clearly savoring the moment. "Ooh, I do love it when they beg for punishment!"

Robin's breath hitched beside me, his eyes darting toward mine, a mix of disbelief and frustration on his face. "What the hell are you doing?" he hissed under his breath, the panic creeping in.

But I didn't flinch. I needed him to understand something. Something Robin was too blind to see in his endless spiral of guilt and rage.

"I'm the one who's here to save you, not the other way around, Robin," I spat back, the name tasting like venom on my tongue. "I'm not another one of his victims, you are. So stop projecting onto me."

The Joker cackled, clearly entertained by the tension between us. "Oh, Jaybird! Looks like your friend's got a backbone! How cute!" He turned toward me, twirling the knife theatrically in his hand. "So, you want to play, eh? Think you can take it?" His voice was laced with mockery, but behind his eyes, there was an eager hunger, like a predator sniffing out new prey.

"Dude, why do you talk so much? Just get on with it and stop wasting my time!" I shot back, holding his gaze, even as I pressed my palm harder against the knife's edge. The pain bit deep, but I held steady. I wasn't giving him the satisfaction of seeing me break.

Jason's jaw clenched, his fists tightening against the restraints. "Stop... just stop. You don't know what he's capable of—"

"I know exactly what he's capable of!" I cut him off, my voice sharper than the blade. I turned my head just slightly to face him, but kept the Joker in my peripheral vision. "Maybe you forgot, Robin, but I didn't come here for your redemption story."

The Joker's face lit up in gleeful shock. "Oh, I like this one! You're really spicing things up around here!" He clapped his hands together like a child about to open a gift. "So what's it gonna be, hmm? Who gets to break first? You... or our dear Jaybird?"

"Well, considering I already called the police, I doubt any of that will happen," I said, trying to keep my voice steady even though my heart was pounding. I hadn't called anyone. Hell, I didn't even know how to get out of this basement, so I resorted to lying.

The Joker's grin stretched impossibly wide, his eyes twinkling with twisted amusement. "Oh, darling, that's precious." He clapped his hands slowly, mockingly. "You think a little phone call is gonna bring the cavalry in to save you?" He sauntered closer, his lanky frame looming as his shadow swallowed the space between us. "Do you have any idea how many people have screamed for help down here? How many have prayed for a miracle?"

He leaned in, "And guess what? No one ever came. Not for him." He gestured at the boy, who was trembling in the corner, "And certainly not for you." His laugh bubbled up again, but this time it was low, dark, like he was savoring some crappy joke.

"I mean, the only hero in this room is him, and look at the poor thing! His new owner is the Prince of Crime! You're all alone down here, sweetheart. And that little lie? It's the only thing keeping you from screaming right now, isn't it?"

Something clicked. The scar on the boy's face, it stood for Joker. Not anything heroic, just the clown. He had been a hero, the Boy Wonder, and now he had been remade and repackaged into the Joker's toy. J stood for Joker. He was branded by punishment, owned by sin.

I wondered what that meant for the J on my wrist. Certainly, I would not be owned by the Joker. Afterall, he didn't brand me. I only did it to myself because I saw a boy with it. Maybe it stood for judgment, since I've already deemed the boy guilty of being a damsel.

I was afraid. I had no way out, no way to save him. Then, I remember my comment from earlier, about how the only way he could save himself was by slitting his wrists. That comment still applied to the situation.

I looked at his depraved body, robbed of any pleasure. A boy at that age should be studying for geometry, or finding some cringy message to put onto a homecoming proposal. Being here has robbed him of any of those moments, and robbed him of his future. I figured, even if he were to live on, it would not be much of a life. The wheelchair was his graveyard, and I knew it. He would never leave it, dead or alive. He was already dead, at least that's my judgment.

The Joker's eyes twinkled with perverse delight as he noticed me staring at the scar, at the hollow shell of the boy who once bore the name Robin. He sauntered over, nudging Robin's limp form with the toe of his boot.

"Ah, you're starting to get it now, aren't you?" he cooed, bending down next to Robin like he was admiring his handiwork, taking the same knife used on me and plunging it deep into his finger. "He was something once. But now? He exists for me. He's not a boy anymore, sweetheart, just a reminder of how much fun you can have breaking someone, piece by piece."

I clenched my fists, a lump rising in my throat. Jason didn't even flinch, lost in whatever torment the Joker had carved into him. The horror of it all crept into my bones, making it impossible to tear my eyes away from his frail body. Branded by violence, owned by sin.

The Joker turned to me, eyes gleaming with that unsettling mix of madness and curiosity. "So, what's it gonna be, sweetheart? You wanna join the party or just sit there, pretending you've got any power over what happens next?"

I stared at Jason, his body a ruin of what he used to be. My heart pounded in my chest, my mind racing. I needed to get the Joker to see what I already understood—that Jason was beyond saving. Not in the way he'd want, at least.

"I don't know if you've noticed," I began, forcing my voice steady, "but there's nothing left of him. He's not Robin anymore, or Batman's son, hell, he's nobody's son at this point. He's not anything special anymore. Just... your plaything." I let the word sit, hoping it would get under his skin in just the right way.

The Joker tilted his head, still smiling but now more intrigued. "Oh? You're starting to understand  how I can mold anyone into anything, aren't you?"

I took a breath. "I don't think you're doing anything to him anymore. He's not fighting back. He's not scared. He's just... gone." I leaned in slightly, lowering my voice as though sharing a secret. "You didn't win, Joker. You killed him, sure, but not in a way that matters. He's just another body you've left behind. No fun in that, is there?"

I stepped toward the Boy Wonder, inching closer.

Even in his broken state, there was a strange, undeniable allure to the way he looked up at me, a mix of defiance and need, like a boy starved for something he couldn't quite name. His breath was shaky, fragile, as though something of his innocence still lingered, desperate to surface, sweetness releasing from his swelled areas.

As my fingers combed through his hair, pushing it back gently, Jason's eyes fluttered before rolling back, his lashes quivering with the motion. A soft, almost inaudible breath escaped his lips as his head tilted slightly into my hand. The movement was slow, deliberate, as if he were momentarily lost in the sensation, surrendering to the touch. His eyelids hung half-closed, his gaze drifting upward

I leaned in close, his breath trembling under mine. I wasn't sure what I was doing—maybe trying to see if I could reclaim the hope and innocence left within him. I kissed his scarred cheek, then his cracked lips, searching for the boy lost beneath the pain.

Clearly, I couldn't reclaim it.

His eyes were a vast ocean of still water, not reacting to waves of sensuality. I asked him, "Do you still think you can get out of here alive?"

His face retreated back into the shadows of his mind. From this angle, he looked like a fallen angel, one who could not pick himself up from the fall and back to Heaven. From this, I knew I could not save him.

The clown's grin faltered, just for a split second. I pressed harder. "You like a challenge, right? But Robin? He can't even muster up hope after getting kissed, and I'm assuming it is his first time. Can't you see if he can't even muster up hope, he can't ever be disappointed now? He's not a hero, or Boy Wonder anymore. He's just like a broken doll now, which isn't a challenge. You're just... dragging out the joke now."

The Joker's eyes narrowed, his fingers twitching near the knife at his waist. "Go on," he muttered.

I nodded toward Jason, still motionless. "End it. If you want to make it truly memorable, do it now. Before this becomes just another boring death that doesn't mean anything. You're an artist, right? You don't let the paint dry before the masterpiece is finished, do you?"

The Joker's gaze flicked between me and Jason, a calculating shifting behind his eyes. His smile returned, slower this time, more deliberate. "You've got a point. Maybe I've milked this one long enough." He twirled the knife lazily in his hand, as though considering.

I forced myself to keep my composure, to not show how badly I wanted to look away. "Right? Can you imagine the look on Batman's face when he realizes you and some random person gave him more mercy in death than Batman ever gave him? That we saved him, not Batman. I mean, if you're going to be the one to break him, then finish the job."

For a moment, the room was silent except for the flicker of the overhead light and the soft rasp of the Joker's laugh, growing louder as he stepped closer to Jason. "Mercy, huh? Now that's funny. I don't think I've ever been labeled as capable of doing that. But maybe you're right... Maybe I do like a clean ending. And I have been itching to send Bats my condolences."

I nodded, unable to meet Robin's eyes. "The Father will know. He deserves that much, at least."

When I came here, I expected I would be the savior in the way that I would return the innocent boy to his father. Sometime during that fantasy, I realized I was never good enough to pull off that amount of heroism. Maybe I was better off being good at something more harsh and realistic. Either way, I would be the boy's savior so it didn't matter.

The Joker clapped his hands together, laughing with glee. "Oh, I like you! You've got guts, sweetheart. I'll take your feedback very seriously, and I'l make sure to credit you when I tell the Father." He pulled out a gun, spinning it between his fingers with a flourish. "Let's put the poor bird out of his misery, shall we?"

And as the Joker turned away from Jason and lingered over to a camera stand, I felt the weight of the decision settle deep in my soul, the lines between mercy and cruelty blurring beyond recognition.

While the clown was busy setting up the camera, I quietly took a flask of water that I'd gotten from the fountain above ground and silently walked to him.

Robin—or rather, the boy—looked like a feeble mouse. His face was a grotesque mess of blood and scars, and I couldn't tell if he had surrendered to his fate or found some twisted form of peace. As I stood over him, I watched him lift his head, and in that moment, I could finally feel the waves of reciprocated sensuality that had broken the still water. If we had met under different circumstances, he might have been a beautiful boy.

In the final moments of his prolonged release, my heart pounded as we locked eyes, our irises silently making love, his gaze upward, almost as if kneeling before me.

If these were to be his last moments, I thought he deserved to be returned to a state of innocence. I whispered a prayer to the Heavens as I poured the water down his battered face, watching it cleanse the blood from his skin like the Rivers of Eden. The water shimmered on his face, and, inexplicably, my eyes started burning with tears of my own, my own areas bleeding with pleasurable release.

For the first time since I'd met him, he didn't look like a zombie. He looked like a boy, innocent and vulnerable, almost untouched by the horrors he'd endured. I realized I was baptizing him before the Devil would take his life. No, not a baptism by a holy figure, it was more like a demon baptizing an angel. His eyes were closed, and his fluttering lashes reminded me of an angel's wings.

Maybe he kept his eyes shut so he wouldn't have to see the mask of the Devil one last time before death. He must have thought I was a worldly pleasure, a life-sucking demon that his eyelids shielded him from.

In his final moments, and strictly those final moments after I cleansed him, the J didn't stand for Joker. It stood for Jesus. Perhaps, one day he will rise again in lush green as a robin and kiss the heavens goodbye for he will come another time.

And for the first time, I think I saw hatred in his eyes.

"Crows die."

These were the last words he said to me.

-

"Have you got something to tell the good man, Jason?"

"My name is Jason Todd."

"Who do you hate?"

"Batman."

Good job, why wouldn't you!? Did you get that, bats? Kids not yours anymore, he's all mine. For me to do as I please."

"Hey, I never asked this. What's the big secret all about? Who is the big, bad bat? Come on, you can tell me."

"Of course, sir. It's-"

The Joker shoots the boy named Jason Todd.

"I could never stand a tattle tale, and a broken doll at that. That's why I prefer to work alone, never anyone to spoil the punchline."

He would look directly at the camera.

"Of course I didn't come up with this punchline all by myself."

Death may be his only savior, but I deserve far worse, I thought as I looked at Jason's lifeless body.

-

I've seen dead people before—crack addicts in the narrows of alleys, people shot dead in the night. I had always been a witness. I never controlled any of it.

His name was Jason Todd. J stands for Jason. And in his last moments, he was just that—Jason. Not the mask, not the sidekick, just a boy. It was a cruel antithesis to everything I had believed the letter J represented. If J had always stood for his name, and I had never guessed, then I had stripped him of his identity. And now, in the stillness, his wheelchair was his cemetery, and the basements of Arkham were his Heaven.

The shock paralyzed me. I had hoped my heart would follow, still itself in my chest, but it only throbbed, steady and painful. The Clown circled the boy, inspecting the broken statue he had carved. The pieces of Jason—Jason, the boy—lay scattered on the cold floor.

"You know, if he had bled a bit more, the floors wouldn't be such a cold place for him to die," the Joker howled, spitting as he laughed. His lipstick smeared mouth gaped wide with delight. "But you know, maybe it reminded him of that cave Batman kept him in!"

It hit me, hard and cruel. The Bat was father to the Robin.

"You just killed the Son of Batman," I muttered, my throat tightening, making the words jagged as they left my lips.

The Joker's eyes flicked to me, his grin broadening. "Well, it would be quite selfish to take all the credit for our little project here, don't you think?" He let out a gleeful cackle "So let's split it fifty-fifty. I pulled the trigger, but you—you got his hopes up and ripped out his heart! Bravo! The Son of Batman, dead because of a traitor!"

His voice echoed, bouncing off the walls in wild, mocking tones. "Oh, how I wish you'd been in the film more! I mean, come on, a religious re-enactment! Me, the devil... you, Judas the traitor... and where's God? Oh yeah, he's off in his cave!"

His blasphemy, his endless rambling, burned my ears. But I couldn't deny it.

Jason must have believed I'd come to save him when I appeared in that hellish place. I wasn't wearing the white paint and red lipstick of the Clown, but I was just as covered in lies. He thought I'd bring the light, and instead, I brought the knife. I was no savior. Just a gilded betrayer.

For my self inflicted scar on my wrist stood for Judas. What am I but a traitor to the boy beaten down by this cruel world?

I forced myself to speak, barely coherent, "If that were totally accurate, wouldn't Jason rise from the dead? Your metaphor doesn't quite hold."

The Joker's face twisted in mock thought, his sharp jaw clicking. His venomous grin stretched wider, showing teeth, each one a testament to his madness. "Rise from the dead? Oh, you're a riot! Let's have him play Jesus and see how it goes!" His laugh erupted again, jagged and loud. "Ever heard of the Lazarus Pit?"

"Lazarus? What are you even talking about?" I could barely keep up.

"Wrong Lazarus!" The Joker snapped his fingers. "This one raises the dead, green fire and all. Oh, wouldn't that be fun? Bring Jason back! Let him play the part for me—Son of Batman!" He rocked back on his heels, eyes gleaming with a grotesque excitement.

I had decided earlier that death was mercy for Jason. But the idea of resurrection clawed at me. Could rebirth offer something different? Or was it just my guilt, hoping for absolution? If Jason came back, it would absolve me of my crime. And Batman... Batman would see me as a savior.

"If that were true, I'd take credit for reviving him, then," I scoffed, half-believing the absurdity I was spitting.

"This play just got a thousand times better thanks to you! Do you think Batman will thank you for killing and resurrecting his son?" The Clown rambled on, eyes flashing with wild delight. His mockery didn't sting as much as it should have.

"Batman should thank me for ending his pain," I retorted. "The world's greatest detective, and he can't even find his own son? I didn't know the kid, but I saved him. That makes me more of a hero than him."

"Oh really? I thought you saw him in your dreams! It seems all kinds of things are wrong with you! I mean, walking into an unauthorized place, kissing a dead boy, proceeding to let him die, and then suggesting he would rise again like Jesus? And saying you're a better hero than Batman? You should be a patient here instead of an intern! Oh, the irony!"

It hadn't occurred to me that he might have seen and heard everything. The crows always see everything here.

But then I started thinking of what the Clown had said, about me being a patient. I wondered how he knew I wasn't a patient, considering I had never brought it up the whole time.

"How did you know I'm an intern?" I asked, suspicion raising my eyebrows. This didn't feel like a random encounter anymore.

His smile curled intensively upwards, his jaw clicking. Any ounce of adrenaline that I once had, was now gone. My mouth started frothing, and my eyes felt the vibrations of a bee hive, blood like honey dripped down my eyes. Hallucinations unfolded in the rhythm's embrace, the rhythm of the crows' shudders.

I could feel the Clown's presence inching towards me, a vile sensation of green and purple hues staining my peripheral vision. But he was not the only one.

A cloaked face of burlap, a stitched mouth, and holes for eyes headed a suited man who had entered the room. It seemed as though I had manifested the crow killer from  before, because the Scarecrow stood before me. A different kind of evil. If his presence lived up to his name, I would be the crow.

His presence was darker, quieter. A different kind of evil. As his figure loomed closer, I felt the walls of the room close in. My body betrayed me, lurching toward him rather than away. My limbs crumbled as I stumbled into his arms, my face pressed against his chest. Every breath felt like inhaling powder, my senses slowly unraveling.

"Are you scared?" he whispered, his voice dry and hollow, like it carried through straw. "Don't start dreaming. It'll be over soon."

I had nothing to defend myself, so I clutched the crucifix around my neck, praying for the end. Jason's face invaded my mind, his eyes—blank and accusing—gazing up at me from the floor. A strange comfort, as if he was watching, waiting.

Scarecrow tilted his head toward the cross. "Is that what you fear, or is it me?"

"It's... it's rebuking you," I choked out.

"Ah, so you think this little symbol will save you?" His gloved hand reached up, pulling the cross from my neck, the chain snapping under his grip. "If you think it has power, then you must fear it. You protect yourself with what you fear, what you believe will save you, it's called projection dear."

Projection was a psychoanalytic theory made by Freud when discovering the unconscious mind. Of course I knew what it was. Right now, I wanted him to project himself out of the room.

"Obviously I'm scared of it, you should be too. It's the reason I'm still alive now," I found it hard to believe as I said this, as if I was trying to rebuke my selfishness.

"And Jason—if he'd had a cross on his face instead of a J, would he still be alive?"

How many of these criminals were in on this boys torture and crucification?

His words dripped like poison into my mind. They made sense, even though I hated him for it.
The scarred letter on my own arm burned in my memory, and I found myself muttering, "J stands for Jesus. He will rise again."

Scarecrow's eyes followed my arm, drawn to the jagged mark of the J.

"And will you?"

"Will I do what?"

"Rise again?" His voice lingered, waiting, testing.

"I'd have to die first," I blurted, regretting the words immediately. I had forgotten how everyone took everything I said very literally.

The glint in his eyes shifted. As I tried stepping away from his daunting embrace, he tugged my cross necklace towards himself. The pressure was too much, and it ended up breaking off of my neck, causing me to  stumble to the ground. I took a jagged piece of glass that had been on the floor next to me and pointed it towards him. He leaned down like a wilting rose.

"You think the sharp edge will scare me, if it didn't scare you?" he remarked, referencing the scar on my arm that I had clearly cut myself. "If you don't mind, I would like to test that theory of you rising again. You have no crucifix to scare me, so you may as well just play along now.."

I hate condescending people. I learned the only way to deal with them is to play into their fantasies.

The jagged edge beckoned me like the knife I held earlier today, as if they were scarlet colored markers, and my body, a canvas.

I pointed it towards my face and drew the crucifix below my right eye, ink splattering and painting my face bloody. I would ward away all evil with this on my face, and no one would be able to take it away. An emblem of sacrifice, I would purify myself and rebuke all evil. This would be my shield. No one would take this from me.

My hallucinations worsened, and it was as if a murder of crows had pervaded the distance between the Scarecrow and I. The sounds of the Joker's laughs slowly blended in with the caws of the murder as he reentered the room.

All this stimulation suddenly made me want to die again. I don't know why I am here. I shouldn't be here. I don't belong here.

It is said that the crucifix rebukes all evil from the outside, but it should also ward all evil from within. It was like a window, if it showed the outside of the house, it would also show the inside. Inside, the truth of myself was that I was evil, and I was my own enemy. I had killed the Son of Batman, and his name was Jason. I wanted to evict the evil from my heart.

I couldn't live with what I'd done. Every breath felt like it was dragging me deeper into the pit I'd dug for myself. It wasn't just the guilt—it was the knowledge that I had betrayed Jason, someone who looked to me, someone who trusted me. I played my part, and now there was no way to undo it. I kept trying to tell myself there was a reason, that it wasn't all my fault, but the truth gnawed at me. I knew I had been the one to destroy him, to break something that could never be fixed. There's no forgiveness for that, no redemption.

I had played savior in taking his pain, but for all the wrong reasons. I would never be viewed as a savior, but as a killer. If I were to die right now, it would be with a burdened heart, but at least I did something memorable in life. I figured I would leave it at that, it was the least I deserved. Ending it would be the most memorable memory of me in this world.

The only way out, the only way to make it right, was to follow him into the dark.

I wanted to lie down with Jason, forever in death.

I plunged the glass into my chest, over and over, desperate to evict the evil from my heart. Blood poured out, and eventually my heart fell out in broken pieces, and the crows—those angels of death—settled on me, each one a witness to my final act.

Chapter Text

Ra's Al Ghul watched with a heavy heart as the bandaged creatures struggled amidst the emerald hellfire, their silhouettes dancing in futile agony. They seemed to be around sixteen, young, raw, like his grandson. If they emerged from this torment as prodigies, perhaps they could mentor the boy.

Ra's had decided to keep them away from Gotham for the time's sake, especially for Jason. Guilt gnawed at him like an unquenchable flame, a reminder that he had paved Jason's road to Hell with his own hands.

But he would save him. He believed Jason would be the one to unleash cruel justice into Gotham, an antithesis to his father. Ra's would mold his suffering into the necessary evil to restore the world's glory.

As for the other bandaged figure—Talia and, strangely enough, the Joker, had insisted on their resurrection too. Ra's knew that Talia bore resentment toward him for allowing an innocent child to endure torture, and what pushed her over the edge was another teenager dying because of it. The Joker's motives were unsurprisingly inscrutable; he jeered about symbolism and drama.

Ra's eyed his daughter gaze at the figures wading in the Lazarus Pit.

-

"How long will it take?" she asked, recalling how many times her father had bathed in its neon essence.

"It is uncertain if either of them will return," Ra's replied dryly. "One is merely a cripple, and the other lacks a heart." He stared at the pulsing heart in his hand, its ragged edges struggling to beat, ignited by a dream of a soul.

Talia scoffed, holding a bit of the organ in her hand. "Your heart is made of stone, and yet you've bathed in there countless times. They'll manage." Her gaze softened, her heart aching for Jason—the son of her beloved, broken in ways she wished she could fix.

She had found his crippled body against an alleyway in Gotham. It was a strange and awful site, considering he had a funeral– without his actual body, of course. He was smothered in between a car and a wall, and it looked as though he had just come from a funeral. Well– more like the person the funeral was celebrating. Jason had been dead– for two years. His body was never found. She took a little bit of pride in finding him, although under terrible circumstances. Questions were brought up, did he die twice?

–

Ra's ignored her, his own heart had been crumbling, and it had been melded together too many times. It still beat, though each thud felt hollow against his chest.

The figures slowly became more distinct, their bandages beginning to unravel as they emerged. Jason managed for longer. The other, their eyes covered in bandages, flailed like a storm-battered flag.

–

Jason awoke with his skin ablaze, as though the fires of the underworld had risen from darkness to meet him. Hellfire is green, he thought as the color burned into his memory.

Oddly, the searing pain was not his first concern. Instead, the inept splashing from nearby caught his attention. As blind as he was, the frantic thrashing had further deepened his irritation.

Despite the agony, Jason felt a strength he hadn't known before. Burden has been lifted, replaced by something fierce and unwavering. He raised the other figure onto his back, and for the first time, he felt less like a lost boy and more like a man forged in fire.

–

Ra's summoned his subordinates to attend to the resurrected children. For the first time, he saw the Lazarus Pit's power as something beyond his entitlement—a miracle. Watching two battered souls claw their way out of Hell rebirthed a sense of faith within him.

–

Talia rushed over, ignoring her father's stern warning to not interact with them. She cradled Jason's bandaged face, her heart swelling with sorrow. He wasn't Bruce's biological son, yet he bore his beauty—with a boyish charm, though his face had grown concave, his features sharply carved by suffering.

Next to Jason lay the other body—no heart, no movement. Talia's fingers hesitated where a heartbeat should have been. It felt miraculous, this strange revival. A heart that beat with no vessel to sustain it.

Jason thrashed against the subordinates' hands when Talia moved on from him, his skin aflame, his body shattering under chaos.

Talia remembered her father's teachings, the legends he spoke of.

Hearts without bodies and bodies without hearts. Those reborn without a heart will live in death until the heart is reclaimed. Then the heart will belong to the World and shall know the thoughts and desires of others.

It was something she hadn't understood as a child. It seemed almost too simple. A body without a heart was in a state of death—that much was obvious. And a heart severed from its host belonged to the world, an omniscient entity, entitled and listening to the thoughts and sins of man.

It was in fact listening.

Watching the beating heart in Ra's hand made her uneasy. Jason, Ra's, and Talia had held the heart. Ra's had found the heart's owner in a basement of Arkham, slowly rotting alone in there, for what seemed like a year. Their heart was removed from their body, its base was solid but bits and pieces had been cut off.

It was curiosity and a prophecy that he had learned that pushed him to dip them and their heart into the Pit– separately of course.

The vessel was limp against the floor for they had been dipped without their heart intact. On the contrary, after their heart had been dipped and soaked within the Pit, it had started beating. They were now two separate entities.

Talia hypothesized that if the heart was returned to the body, the vessel that stood before her would be aware of all the schemes and thoughts of the people it interacted with in the room—Ra's role in their deaths, the truth of Jason's "death", and her finding him in an alleyway. And if Bruce were to discover...

-

Ra's held it gingerly, suddenly aware of the implications of the heartless vessel. Reborn without its host, the heart knew only the world, its knowledge boundless.

The host would endure a liminal existence, neither living nor dead, a consciousness bound to decay without true release. Rebirth without a heart was an oxymoronic miracle, a life spent in agony until reunification with their all knowing heart– at least this is what he hypothesized.

Ra's was determined. If he could use this heart to gain information from whoever it touches, like Batman or anyone who stands in his way– and then return it to the host, he would have an all knowing being at his disposal. From this, he knew the heartless creature alongside Jason would have to live as well.

-

Jason's vision blurred. He was surrounded by clowns, bats, everything he despised. His body twisted in fury, swatting at nuisances that seemed intent on tormenting him. The clowns beat him until he bled and the bats gnawed at his wounds.

It might have seemed ridiculous, if only it were a dream. But it felt painfully real, each movement dispersing aches into his bones, every inch of his flesh remembering pain.

He spotted a crow amidst the chaos, still in a sea of madness. It lay next to a corpse he could not recognize, its feathers twitching, organs spilling out, an image of raw vulnerability. He didn't feel disgusted, though.

Jason remembered a time long past. He was young, just removed from the orphanage, under a butler's care– hired by the Waynes. Jason would come to realize most of those he thought were family, were really just hired into it.

Alfred had asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up. Jason had never been asked that before. People always assumed he'd follow in his parents' footsteps, lost to addiction or crime.

He had considered being a psychiatrist, doctor, lawyer, and many other occupations. Someone who could help people like his mother, someone who could defend the innocent, save the suffering. There were so many wondrous opportunities in this beautiful world, was a notion he once had.

The boy could not decide, and decided to combine all these professions into one thing. He finally told Alfred he wanted to be a clown, a person whose kindness brought joy, someone who made people smile.

Now, looking at the crow, he understood why such jobs existed. They weren't meant to help; they were made to profit off of a cruel world. The world wasn't beautiful. It required endless help because it was inherently flawed.

But as he watched the crow croak, he didn't think it was an ugly thing. It was an inherently beautiful animal with black feathers that reminded him of ink and coffee and who he used to call his father. There is some beauty in cruelty, he thought for the first time. If he could save anything, he would save the crow. Even if the crow is suffering, it can still be helped.

Jason felt his empathy waning for most things, yet the innocent still touched him. The crow was suffering, but it could still be saved from the path of treachery. He wondered if he had been innocent when he was taken away.

Bats screamed in his ears, clowns mocked him, and he tried to claw the noise away, tearing at his ears, but only the tormentors could bring him pain.

He tried to save the crow, his efforts an endless loop of bandaging and healing. But each time it only suffered more. The crow refused to die, its agony prolonged by his efforts.

Jason's own nerves were frayed, his body sweating, trembling, as though reborn—his agony never-ending.

-

Ra's and his daughter watched Jason pump the heartless body, as though willing life back into it. Instead, his efforts merely spread his own suffering, every touch a fresh wound, every tear conducting his grief.

Blood trickled from Jason's trembling body to the other. His life-force drained, emptying into the heartless form underneath him, the equilibrium shifting, the hollow space within the body slowly being filled.

-

Jason tried desperately to heal the crow, offering it water, his own blood, wrapping its battered body in whatever cloth he could find. It no longer resembled a crow, for it seemed more human, almost a reflection.

It was a similar transformation that Jason had, from a robin to something that resembled a human. At his core, he had become a true human, fragile and berated by the unforgiving world, stripped of everything that once made it soar.

The robin and the crow had suffered so much that they became human.

The cycle of bloodshed and healing was endless. Violence following violence, innocence lost in a relentless struggle.

Why does losing innocence have to be so cruel? Jason thought. Maybe it was hope. Hope had led him to the Joker, had led him to Bruce Wayne.

He once believed Bruce had saved him from poverty, giving him a home. But Bruce had merely passed his sins onto Jason—the burden of deciding who deserved punishment, the weight of playing savior. Those were Bruce's burdens, and now Jason bore them too.

Perhaps Bruce hoped Jason would purify him. Instead, Jason had become a reflection of every sin, every failure, a living embodiment of Bruce's guilt.

This suffering—it was not a dream, not a nightmare. It was a reflection, a reality twisted by the Lazarus waters, painted in blood and regrets. And now, Jason sought to heal the crow, this innocent, fragile thing amidst all the chaos. His hallucination blurred, the crow became more than just a bird, it became his baby, his responsibility.

Love was a responsibility his father didn't prioritize.

Jason plunged into the depths of his own agony, reaching toward the crow. Puncturing his skin and wrenching out every piece of divinity within him until he became obsolete, he fed the crow with eternal life.

-

The tension in the room was palpable as Ra's al Ghul observed the unsettling revival before him. The figure wrapped in bandages, motionless, seemed to absorb the anticipation of the entire League of Assassins. Jason had already fled into the distance, his mind fractured, as if escaping from something no one else could see.

Jason bled for the flesh before him, and now their soul was reborn. The vessel seemed to have been revived, rising like a vampire from its coffin. It was odd, their emotions blended in with the bandages covering their face. Bleak and colorless.

They remained still while the whole room inspected them. A portion of their jaw clenched, and the bandages slowly unraveled. A crucifix engraved across their skin echoed Jason's, and the wrist bore an identical scar.

The white cloth spilled like frayed threads of a veiled tapestry. The Al Ghuls waited in anticipation, both wondering who this mysterious person could be.

But the tapestry was unbeknownst to them. A nobody, Ra's thought. At some point in the future, this person would know everything about him, but he knew nothing about them. He knew nothing of their motivations, their connections, or their status. Some sort of faith awakened within him, that they would wake up. Wake up so that he could mold them into a tool, like a computerized angel.

Jason was already something. Ra's knew him, he was Batman's son, the Boy Wonder who was left in the hands of a psychopathic clown. He already had a motivation, formed from hope that injustice would be absolved into hatred for those who were evil. Ra's just had to trigger it.

There was no denying that he had indirectly taken part in Jason's demise. The operations in the Middle East served as distractions to Batman. Jason's mother and her strange endeavors. Although, he hadn't realized that it had spiraled into an endless cycle of torture for Jason.

The torture was, to say the least, uncalled for. But, Ra's figured that suffering in a pit of agony would also bore something new. A poisonous hostility.  It would be a waste to let him recover in silence. If Ra's could take this hostility born from pain, he could unleash it as the justice the world needs. What Gotham needs. What Batman needs.

In the beginning, when Jason was pronounced "dead," he had expected Batman to bore rage. To become cruel within his methods of dealing with the injustices of the world. A son's death is enough to warp a father's mind, enough to make them see the sharp barrier that divides the world from the good and the bad.

But Batman was too stuck in his ways. Sure, for a time he had gone on rage fits, but all was fixed when a new bird– a new son came into his life. Batman would not change his morals for anyone, and to him, any cruelty towards the people he loves would not influence him into changing his static mindset.

Influence was immoral.

Influence was the tool that would turn Jason from a free, melodic bird into a hellish tyrant. A computerized demon for Ra's to decipher.

A young angel and demon, machines of death for his higher purposes.

-

That night, Ra's al Ghul sat in the dim solitude of his library, a deep frown etching his face. Jason had been taken away for treatment, and the unnamed one was undergoing tests, their fractured mind still far from whole. Why they had awoken remained an enigma. Perhaps the Lazarus Pit, in its mysterious depths, had tied their fates together, intertwining their life forces. There was a possibility Jason had unwittingly given part of his essence to them. The Pit was a cauldron of riddles, but this was by far one of its strangest anomalies.

Regardless of the cause, there was no denying the bond between them ran deep, pulsing in their veins like the lifeblood they now shared. Before they could return to Gotham, they would need to be trained—together. Especially the unnamed one. Ra's was certain they had little to no experience in anything of true value. But that would soon change under his guidance.

In his possession, locked within a small glass box, lay their heart—every shard and sliver, carefully preserved. Talia held a piece of it close to her chest, suspended on a delicate gold necklace. As long as it touched her skin, the heart would know her, always drawn to her presence.

Ra's, too, kept his own piece hidden, cleverly encased in his cufflink, a symbol of control as much as it was a secret weapon. The remaining fragments had been divided, each piece embedded into trinkets, artifacts, and devices that would be distributed to those whose influence he sought to control.

Batman would receive a new gadget—crafted to his liking—its core imbued with a sliver of that heart, binding him unwittingly to this web of manipulation. And so it would go for the others in Gotham, those who played their part in the city's endless cycle of chaos. Ra's could feel the intricate strings of this new game tightening around them all.

This time, the dance between life and death was his to orchestrate. And every move, every step, would be tethered to the heartstrings of those who remained none the wiser.

-

Talia stood over Jason, overseeing his "rehabilitation." After close examination, it had been confirmed that both he and the heartless one had been submerged in the Lazarus Pit together. But Jason's condition was far worse, his injuries suggesting he had been in the pit for nearly two years.

He looked different now, more like a man. Yet the Pit had aged only his body, not his mind. When he awoke, Talia knew it was inevitable that his mental state would regress, possibly back to that of a sixteen-year-old boy—angry and confused.

The room was open to the vast landscape beyond, a gap in the walls offering a view of the Himalayas, their peaks shrouded in mist. Talia remembered what it was like to raise Damian here—how he gazed at the sunsets, feeling alone yet knowing, deep down, that he was loved. The League's world had never been kind to youth, but at least this setting  held a sense of beauty amidst the cruelty.

She traced her fingers gently over Jason's face, his expression still and solemn. It would be some time before he was fully aware, fully himself. Her voice lowered to a whisper as she hummed soft lullabies in her native tongue, her melody blending with the distant chirps of birds gliding over the mountains.

Across the room, the other figure lay motionless, their presence almost forgotten. Talia realized with a pang of guilt that she had yet to attend to them. Her maternal instincts stirred, and she moved toward them, curious and sympathetic. This one, too, had been found abandoned, their history just as veiled as their future.

Beside their bed lay their belongings. A stained jacket, frayed and soaked with dried blood, sat crumpled on the floor. On top of it, an ID card which was faded, but legible. She picked it up, eyes scanning the details. A name, an age, a position: [insert name]. They had been a high school intern at the asylum, volunteering after a major breakout. Just a child, barely old enough to understand the weight of the world, and now caught up in its darkest corners.

Talia's heart ached. [Insert name] hadn't deserved this fate. Killed—likely by the Joker, though the details were murky. She wondered if they had felt it too, the sting of life so cruelly stolen, without warning.

At least now she had a name to match the face. But she knew what would come next. Once her father got hold of this, the unnamed would no longer be a mystery. Ra's would uncover everything—lineage, history, every insignificant detail down to who they took to their middle school formal. Nothing was hidden from him for long.

"Mother, you haven't left this room since morning."

Talia turned to see Damian, his eyes as sharp as ever, his posture rigid, as though he were compensating for his youth with sheer force of will.

"These two," she gestured to the unconscious bodies, "they haven't moved either, not since... not since forever."

Damian tilted his head slightly, his gaze flicking between Jason and [insert name]. "I imagine they regret that choice. You should not dwell on it either."

His words were stern, but Talia knew there was empathy beneath the coldness. She wrapped her arms around him, pressing her nose into his dark hair, feeling the warmth of his presence.

"You always have a way of phrasing things, my son," she whispered, smiling softly before her gaze drifted back to the motionless figures on the beds. A familiar pull of sadness tugged at her.

"What is there to worry about?" Damian asked, his voice taking on a lecturing tone. "We have servants to look after them. They're not going anywhere." He spoke as though he knew nothing of the deep significance these two held for her, for the League.

Talia, who had long mastered the art of deception, made it a point to tell her son the truth. "The boy there," she gestured toward Jason, "he was once a Robin. Batman's apprentice."

Damian's brow shot up, a flicker of curiosity flashing across his usually composed face. For a brief moment, his childlike wonder broke through, but he quickly folded his arms, trying to reclaim his mature air. "Robin? That always seemed a foolish identity. If you cannot fly, do not try to soar too close to the sun," he remarked, casting a hardened look at Jason. "Or you end up like that."

Talia couldn't argue with that. Jason would need to relearn everything—how to walk, how to speak, how to live again. His return to the world would be agonizingly slow.

"You shouldn't speak so harshly," she said gently. "He was still a hero. He's only like this because he tried to save his mother."

Damian's eyes narrowed, suspicion lining his voice. "You seem to know a lot about his death."

She sighed. Of course, Damian would suspect the League's involvement in the tragedy—it was true, after all. But she hadn't known of their role until much later. "I learned the truth after it happened," she explained. "But the real tragedy... I only discovered that recently. It wasn't just a death. It was something far worse. Jason—"

Her voice faltered, and she felt the burn of unshed tears, but she fought them back. She would not cry. Not in front of Damian.

Sensing her distress, Damian's hand found her arm in a rare moment of comfort. He tried to redirect the conversation, his tone softening. "And the other one? Who are they?"

"Their name is [insert name]," Talia replied. "They were an intern at an asylum, caught in the chaos that followed. Their path crossed with Jason's."

Damian's brow furrowed. "Why are they here, then? If they hold no importance?"

"Being unknown doesn't mean you're unimportant, Dami," she said, her voice laced with wisdom. "Sometimes, the ones least expected to matter hold the greatest value. [insert name] may be the future of the League—if not in body, then in heart."

He scoffed but didn't argue, his gaze shifting away. Talia placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Of course," she added with a knowing smile, "after you."

Damian smirked. "Well, that much was obvious."

-

Here's the revised version without as many dashes, with an improved flow and more ominous undertones:

"What is your name?"

"No."

"I'll repeat the question. What is your name?"

"Repeat?"

Jason's head was plunged into the icy water again.

"What is your name?"

"Jason."

It had been a week since his resurrection, and this was Jason's first successful step—remembering his own name. Ra's had yet to see the same progress from [insert name], who had remained in a deep, uninterrupted sleep for 178 hours.

Despite everything Jason had endured, his latent skills were undeniable. He possessed more than mere survival instincts—he had learned, endured, and adapted. The same could not be said for the heartless one, who, as far as Ra's could tell, had no special talents, no notable lineage, and an even more irrelevant dating history. Yet Talia seemed content to coddle them like a fragile relic.

Damian was always present during these sessions, silently observing the rapid-fire questions and endless repetition. Ra's knew his grandson was learning the importance of discipline, witnessing firsthand the consequences of failure. Jason's responses were limited—mostly fragments, pieces of a shattered memory, Robin, Bruce, mother, crow. The same words, over and over, like echoes bouncing off the cold stone walls.

Occasionally, Jason muttered strange phrases: "Mercy from strangers" or "zombie boy," spoken in the same monotonous voice. Repetition. Recall.

Then, unexpectedly, Jason said, "Damian."

Ra's eyes narrowed with interest, his head turning slightly to see Damian lurking near a table, watching closely. It was curious—Jason had never spoken anyone's name other than Bruce's. How had he sensed Damian's presence?

Damian stepped into full view, his posture rigid. Ra's, intrigued, asked, "Your senses must be heightened, Jason. How did you know he was there?"

"I hear footsteps. In the corner."

"And how did you know his name?"

Jason's gaze shifted between Ra's and Damian, as if calculating who would offer the approval he sought.

"The crows tell me."

Damian scoffed, his voice edged with skepticism. "It seems the Pit drove him mad. There are not any crows here."

Ra's shot a look at Damian, his voice sharp with reprimand. "No one will tolerate your disrespect here. Return to your chambers."

"It is not fair you give him so much attention when he's as hopeless as [insert name]," Damian retorted, frustration seeping into his tone. "You and mother have not spent any time training with me."

"This is not your concern, Damian. You'll have your moment in due time."

Damian stared at the floor, his defiance simmering. Ra's, sensing an opportunity, pulled a golden watch from his robes. The delicate timepiece gleamed, adorned with scarlet jewels.

Damian's eyes flickered toward the watch, curiosity momentarily replacing his irritation. Jason, still groggy, muttered, "Clock."

Ra's acknowledged him with a nod. "It's a watch, for you, Damian. A reminder of your family, even when we're not physically present."

Ra's spoke with sincerity, knowing the unspoken tension that lingered. Talia often considered sending Damian to Gotham, to live with his biological father, but Ra's had always found a way to prevent it. As the boy grew older, the matter pressed more urgently.

Damian stepped forward, taking the watch from Ra's hand. His fingers traced the blood-colored stones, and he tried to fasten the leather strap around his wrist. But he struggled with the clasp, his fingers fumbling against the fine material.

Before Ra's could react, another pair of hands reached out to assist. Jason, with surprising gentleness, took the watch from Damian and fastened it for him. His scarred hands moved slowly, deliberately, brushing against Damian's skin as he secured the sleek band around his wrist.

The room fell silent, the tension thickening between them, as Jason's quiet act of care hovered like a question unanswered.

-

Damian left the room shortly after, but something had changed. For the first time, he saw the "zombie" that had invaded his home as more than a lifeless shell—an actual human being. He still felt Jason's touch, lingering around the edges of the watch clasped on his wrist.

But he reminded himself not to feel too proud of Jason yet. The boy had only shown a basic ability in fine motor skills, a skill Damian himself already excelled at. He tried to convince himself that this did not matter.

He inhaled deeply, but instead of feeling relief, he felt worse than when he first entered the room. Recently, he had found an odd solace in visiting the unconscious [insert name]—but only when his mother wasn't around.

Slipping into the quiet, sunlit room, Damian approached the bed where [insert name] still lay. Here, at least, he could feel superior. This one wasn't going to surpass him, wasn't going to suddenly be better. He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at their face. Unlike Jason, their features weren't as gaunt, but they still looked haunted. A small crucifix scarred their forehead, adding to the solemnity of the sight

Fidgeting with the watch, he picked out two of the five rhinestones– he did not like the color red. He placed them over top of [insert name], embedding their bandages with the rhinestones.

"What sane person sleeps for this long?" he muttered towards [insert name]. He looked at their slit wrists and came to a conclusion that they must be insane. "A rhetorical question. I should rephrase– what insane person interns at a psychiatric hospital?"

He laughed at his own "joke," somewhat proud of himself. His smile faded once he realized the person wasn not awake to hear his "clever" remark.

"Hm. I suppose your only talent is wasted. My grandfather is expecting you to be a trained weapon by the time you wake."

"So I suppose death would have been a better option for you. Still, I would like to see... what talents you propose. I would doubt that my grandfather would project so much interest into a person yielding in qualities."

Damian let out a wisp of air, his posture decomposing. "But I do not lack in qualities, just so you are aware. I just require less time, that is all. You are rather time consuming, as well as Jason."

"When you wake, we will all train together. Although, you will notice that your skills are quite inferior to mine. So, you must understand my confusion as to why everyone here is so focused on you. I am the heir to this family. I am at a much more useful disposition than you."

Damian continued to vent out all of his feelings to the very unconscious person. This went on for about an hour, which is more than Damian had really spoken consecutively to someone in a while. It was very easy to vent to someone who is physically and mentally incapable of judging you.

And every night for the three days, he came to confide in this sleeping beauty.

"So then, I told them that I had actually watched all six seasons of The Amazing World of Gumball ten times so–"

"HOLY MOTHER OF GOD, SHUT THE HELL UP!"

Damian's face dropped. [insert name] just sprung from the coffin of their misery and jumped at him, as he lunged backwards, his jaw stuck open in bewilderment.

"How much longer do I have to hear your incessant whining about your freaking problems after I just woke up from committing suicide?! Do you think I'm a therapist? HUH?" [insert name] closed in further towards Damian. "Well, since your highness already declared me to be one, let me diagnose you. You're a brat with a superiority complex whose problems could be fixed if you just went to a public school with underprivileged kids who would bully you once they heard you don't use contractions, you homeschooled freak."

For a moment, they both just sat there, staring at each other in silence.

"How long–" Damian was further cut off.

"Nope– no more talking from you. Could you imagine my surprise when I feel my consciousness slowly coming back, expecting to see the afterlife and ascend– just for it to be interrupted by a prepubescent boy ranting about his granddaddy not spending enough time with him and how much better he is than me even though the only friend he has to talk to is a breathing suicide attempt? Could God not have at least blessed me with a hot maid taking care of me instead?"

This was followed by another long silence. Damian, for the first time ever, had been humbled to the core of his prepubescent existence. It was humiliating. Was his only friend an unconscious zombie?

[insert name] inhaled another breath to say their closing remark, "I've been awake for three effing days, pretending to be asleep because I would prefer that to the the horrors of having to have a back and forth conversation with you. So please, do me a favor and ask your grandpa to kill me already because I have lived another lifetime in these past three days of torture."

A flicker of tension pulled at [insert name]'s face, seething and unnerved. Damian stood there, speechless. God, were they really listening the whole time? Vulnerability tainted his dignity.

All he could muster up was, "You insult me as if I seek the approval of commoners." He flipped his head away as if he did something. [insert name]'s eye twitched slightly.

"Commoner? Commoner?! Are you joking? You're the one who kidnapped this commoner into your castle! You kidnapped me from death! How is that even possible?" [insert name] lunged towards Damian, grabbing him by the collar, their eyes wide with craze. "Approve this! Let me go back! Let me die now, please! Anything is better than this!"

"Get your poverty stricken hands off of me!" Damian  articulated as he took [insert name] by the neck and slammed them into the ground with a surprising amount of strength, considering the age difference.

[insert name] grabbed onto a silk sheet to throw at Damian as they crawled across the room. They found themself in front of a mirror. "My hair– oh my gosh, my hair!" They shrieked as they pulled at the grayed section of their head. Their head swiveled towards Damian, "Did you do this?"

"Believe me, I would never touch your disgusting body!" Damian spat, which only seemed to fuel [insert name]'s fury. They lunged at each other again, this time clawing and shouting.

The guards burst into the room, quickly pulling [insert name] away from Damian. One of the guards muttered under his breath, "Americans."

Damian followed them outside the room to see where they were taking them. If not out of curiosity, then to make sure that they would not say a single word of any of the "conversations" they had with him. Suddenly, [insert name] became a vessel of confidential information that Damian had confessed to.

-

[insert name] was forcibly brought to Ra's who was still with Jason. Damian hid in the corner as Ra's asked the rest of the guards to leave [insert name] on the ground and for all of them to leave the room.

From what Damian could see, Jason could not recognize [insert name]. It was strange, since it was suspected that they quite literally died together, at least during the first time.

"So, you have awoken. How are you feeling?" Ra's asked, his voice completely devoid of actual concern.

"How am I feeling? How am I feeling– what? Who are you?" [insert name] replied, seeming absolutely revolted by the whole situation. Their small minded perception probably limited them from knowing any of the world past Gotham.

Ra's paused, as if contemplating whether the truth should be told. "My name is Ra's Al Ghul."

"OK?! Are you an effing microcelebrity– what the hell is an Al Ghul?" [insert name] crudely responded. Damian wondered how ungrateful this person was, considering they were  housed and nursed back to life by the Al Ghuls. He was beginning to prefer Jason, who spoke at most four word sentences.

"A family name with a lot of legacy," he responded swiftly. "We took you in after your... incident at Arkham."

Jason's voice emerged, "Arkham Asylum."

"Yes, Jason. Arkham Asylum." Ra's affirmed Jason, and [insert name]'s eyes seemed to put together that this is the same Jason they died with. Allegedly. Jason still did not take notice of this preconceived connection. "You two met each other there, remember?"

There was a long pause. "Hell no! I've never met this guy in my life! What's his name again? Jasper? Weird name."

Huh. Maybe the Pitt affected both of their memories, or maybe they never actually met.

"Jason." Ra's corrected them. "Jason, would you please leave the room?"

Jason seemed to understand the word leave, and executed the order. He paused as he left the room. His head turned and met Damian's eyes to where he was hiding. Then proceeded a mutual glance, and Jason left him to his endeavors.

Ra's pressed, "Now, now. He is no longer in the room. You can tell the truth now." As Damian peaked through the sliver of the door, his grandfather had guided [insert name] up and traced the scar on their cheek.

"Truth? Truth of what? Who even are you– where even am I? Am I dead or–" as [insert name] rambled, they paused as if having an epiphany. "Oh. My. Gosh. Am I getting recruited for the Justice League? Was that why that boy was talking about training?"

[insert name] grabbed the hands of Ra's and added, "Oh my gosh, are you Batman?! I'm like such a huge fan!" Then they went silent for a second, and let go of Ra's hands as they backed away. "Wait, scratch that. I actually don't really like you, you did Jason so dirty."

This animosity was short lived before their excitement overtook them once again. "So I'll be trained by, like, Wonder Woman? Was she the lady next to my bed? Wait, wait, don't answer that. I want to be surprised.

"No, this is not the Justice League. This is the League of Assassins, where you will be trained by the most highly trained individuals in the world. And I am not Batman. But I do appreciate you telling the truth in the context that you know Jason."

[insert name]'s face seemed to gape open, for their running mouth betrayed the lie they intended to keep. "Uh oh. You got me. This is so disappointing." This newcomer seemed to leave an awkward silence after everyone of their nonsensical monologues.

Ra's lips curled upwards in a sorry attempt to be welcoming. "The League of Nations is of higher esteem than the Justice League, so you will fail to find it disappointing."

"I find that hard to believe. You guys aren't even on social media. I mean, you really aren't that famous if I can't find fanfics of you guys on AO3."

Damian could see his eye twitch a little. They did not guess that they would be this annoying. "Fame is not a main determinant of the fact that this is the most feared group of assassins in the room. You should have pride in playing a vital role in it."

"Vital role? I'm sorry? I don't recall signing up for having responsibilities. Do you have the wrong person or?"

"It is an honor you received this glorious responsibility, to rebuild the world from all evil. And part of that honor is telling the truth, so I would advise you to tell the truth of how you and Jason died."

"What did he tell you?"

"Nothing. He is not as.. communicative as you are right now. You truly must be one of a kind to speak so fluently after what you've been through. Surely, you will go down in history. See, you and Jason both died, but the League of Nations made the decision to revive you in the Lazarus Pit, for you have a greater purpose in life." Ra's was playing up their ego, it was not abnormal for someone to speak fluently after dying, but rather Jason was in a more unique situation.

"In history books? Lazarus Pit? That's what the Joker told me about, he wanted to revive us too." Then they muttered under their breath, two names, "Jesus, Judas."

"Tell me how that circumstance came to be." Ra's asserted, losing patience.

"You won't get mad right? If I tell you the truth, you promise I'll be like– a super cool assassin in the League of Nations, right?"

"League of Assassins," Ra's corrected them once again. "And yes, telling the absolute truth will be entirely beneficial to your success."

"Alright, here it goes. So one day, as I was interning at Arkham, I heard someone screaming and crying in the basement. And I was like, oh my gosh, I need to go help them, right? So when I went down there, I found Jason all battered up and whining while in a wheelchair. So my natural response was obviously to help them. But then, you won't believe it, but the Joker walks in! But I– obviously stood my ground."

[insert name] paced around the room, recreating the scene with her arms– reenacting Jason in the wheelchair and the Joker walking in.

"So I told the dumb clown off and he got really pissed at me, and I bled like a lot." They paused before their next words, as if trying to phrase it in the best way possible. "So then I was like.. I felt bad for Jason, I really did. But when I looked at him, I felt like the only way he wouldn't have to suffer anymore is through death. So I told the Joker to kill him and end his pain."

Their face lowered in shame. "And after that matter was done.. The Scarecrow came in. Clearly he thought I was a nutcase after everything, because they wanted to experiment on me. I was kind of scared, so I carved the crucifix on my face and then I–"

"And then you did what?"

"I committed suicide."

Damian shook his head in bewilderment. Not only was this irrelevant commoner accepted into a prestige league, but they were also a coward who killed themself in a single moment of trouble? That was not even the end of it, because they practically killed Jason too because they couldn't find a way to save him.

[insert name] added, "But I said.. I said– I prayed that Jason would rise again. I knew he would. I think– I thought I would rise again as well."

"You guess that based on a prayer?"

"I made an educated prayer."

Damian tried his best to repress a laugh. They really were a nutjob.

"I suppose that educated prayer got you a long way. Though, you were resurrected without your heart, I'm sure you took notice of that."

[insert name] most definitely did not notice that because they proceeded to take a hand to their chest, feeling for around five seconds before they started tweaking out once more and screaming, Where is my heart?

Ra's attempted to calm them down, holding their shoulders and telling them shh. This act further constrained them as they contracted into failure of breathing.

"Calm yourself, it has not gone away. We have it, and it still pulses." Ra's comment was meant to comfort them, but [insert name]'s face repulsed.

"It's still beating?! Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, that's so gross! Why on God's earth do you still have it?" Their lack of composure further irked Damian.

"It has become a separate, omniscient entity to your being," the older man closed in further, picking at the rhinestones on their bandages. "I understand why you woke up now, your heart is pulsating your consciousness through contact."

"What!"

"Whoever your heart is in physical contact with, it gains all knowledge of that individual being," He pointed towards the scarlet rock that was previously on Damian's watch. "These rocks are filled with bits of your heart, and it seems like when they came in contact with you, it shocked your body back into consciousness."

"So I was dead before that? Even after the Lazarus Pit?"

"The Lazarus Pit did revive you, however you could not withstand the conditions. Luckily, the Pit somehow binded you with Jason's life force– you could say Jason poured a bit of his life into you. From then, you were alive but in critical conditions."

Even Damian had a hard time understanding, he couldn't imagine how [insert name] felt. If the heart was supposed to be an omniscient entity that gained the knowledge of any individual it touched, why was Damian given one?

Damian stepped out from the shadows, and [insert name] gave him a not this guy again kind of look. "Grandfather, if these are supposed to store the perception of whoever touches it, why would you give it to me? What are you trying to gain from me?"

"Damian, how many times have I told you to stay in your corridors?"

"Answer the question."

Ra's must have spoken truthfully in this moment, speaking to [insert name] and him, "Once all these pieces of the heart return back into its original form and body, [insert name] will become a vessel for all the knowledge it gained from people. [insert name] would become an all knowing being, and we would have access to all that knowledge."

"I don't remember giving my consent to that–" [insert name] retorted when they were immediately cut off by Damian.

"Why would you need to know about my thoughts?"

Ra's held his grandson's shoulder, looking down on him, "The heir to the Al Ghuls must have the most valuable information stored in his mind. We could pass down information, generation after generation using all this valuable knowledge from you. All of this, it leads to the greater good."

Damian's face softened from this. He did suppose his mind was valuable in preserving the powerful family line. It did make him feel better, that he was so cemented into the greater good.

"I suppose you are correct."

"Correct!? Hello?! That's my organ, you can't just steal it? And what do you mean, generation after generation?"

They both turned to the violated figure. Ra simply answered, "Well, right now, you are in a permanent state of death, but you're just conscious, so you are basically immortal. Once your heart is returned to you, you will merge into its all knowing essence and become almost like an Oracle, and forever preserve the generational knowledge you gained."

"And all that for what?"

"A visual of all the corruption and evil in this world, a proof of why we need to eradicate the unworthy people this world has been bred to bore. With your all knowing truths, I can demonstrate the need for a better world to the people of this planet, and cement my plans into place."

"So, I'm going to be a glorified storage unit for the rest of time?"

"If it helps you rest better," Damian intruded. Someone like them should be grateful they earned such a high status position.

"I don't remember asking you. What kind of scam is this? Is Jason getting the same treatment?"

"Jason will weed out all evil from this world," Ra's answered swiftly before Damian could reply to their comment.

"So he gets to be a cool assassin while I'm stuck being a backbone to your borderline Mein Kampf agenda? Pick someone else!"

"I am afraid you are the only person who has fit the standards to do this. You are special."

That word, special, seemed to strike a curiosity in their eyes. As if the only thing that could convince them they wanted to do this was because they would become special. Damian thought it was quite pathetic.

"How long do I get before I have to assimilate with my heart, then?"

"It won't happen for a while."

"So, until that happens, will I be living in this mansion and have servants?"

Ra's smiled unconventionally, dryly remarking, "I suppose."

[insert name] whirled towards Damian with a bright grin and craze in their eyes. They lunged towards him, not to attack, but to hug. "We're gonna be roomies now!"

"Oh, get off of me!" Damian's words didn't register and he was practically being strangled with crazed affection. He did not understand this change in attitude. Perhaps they were faking it or maybe they were just really crazy.

So, it became apparent to Damian that he would be living with two young people from Gotham. Living, training, and eating with these people. The thought of the future sent shivers down his neck, as if he were bracing for impact.

All of them had left terrible impressions on each other, and he wondered if they were ever going to harmoniously work together. Technically, Damian did ask for more people to pay attention to him, but he never imagined it would be like this.

His heart ached knowing he would be surrounded by insolent people, people who didn't understand his customs or way of life. He'd imagine his mother telling him that it would be good for him to have more friends. But these weren't friends, more like tools of his grandfather.

-

Later that evening, Jason and [insert name] were shown around the place they would be living. From the mountainous valleys to their lacy sleeping quarters, each aspect of their previous living styles were heavily upgraded.

Their sleeping quarters were just across Damian's, so he would imagine there would be a lot of crossing over.

"Do I get a phone?" [insert name] had already started demanding stuff by the time they had flopped like a dead fish onto their fresh bed sheets.

"No." Damian bluntly stated. He had been examining this strange person the minute they switched up and decided they wanted to stay here.

"I thought you guys were rich."

"You are here because you are a subordinate, not an esteemed member."

"Your granddaddy said I'm an esteemed member so.." they stuck their tongue out and started bouncing on the bed. It was hard to believe that they were ever going to achieve anything great for his family.

"You are easily manipulated, he is just trying to boost your ego so you submit. His plans are greater than your individuality." Damian crossed his arms, disapproving of their illusioned comments.

"More like you're easily manipulated if you actually think his 'plans' are great. Eradicating all evil people in the world is like a plan I would make in third grade when someone asked me how we should respond to my Beanie Boo getting stolen."

"Beanie Boo?" Damian shook his head in disgust of what that possibly could be. "Are you not the one who agreed to be part of the plan?"

"Like I said, you're easily manipulated." They made another gotcha face and Damian was tired of constantly feeling as though they did get him.

"Do not make that face acting like you have a choice in whether you participate or not. You should be more worried about the fact that you are sharing a room with someone you practically killed." Now Damian made the gotcha face.

However, [insert name] was unphased and sneered. "Yeah, I did kill him. I admit it. But, look what I did for him! Now he gets to sleep in the same room as someone as hot as me. Besides, what he doesn't know won't kill him."

That stupid sneer made sense. Of course they were not going to tell Jason that they killed him. "You will brag about killing Jason to me, but will not tell him that you are the one who did it to his face. Just as I expected, you are a coward."

"Exactly what I was going for, you're a smart kid. Plus your grandpa said that he wouldn't remember who exactly did it anyways, just remember that someone did it. My cover story is that I went into the basement where he was tortured after he died and I killed myself after I got caught by the Scarecrow."

"You lie about everything else and yet you keep in the part where you kill yourself."

"Well, I would seem too perfect then. Plus, it adds a little uniqueness, don't you think?" Their arm hooked around Damian, pulling him next to them. Anytime Damian was squeezed by [insert name], he was slightly annoyed, however he never found himself uncomfortable.

"It makes you look like a psychiatric patient rather than an intern."

They sighed, tilting their head back. "I've heard that before, from the clown. You and the Joker get together to make insults about me?"

His face repulsed at the idea. "Absolutely not. If I was in the same room as him, I would surely take him out with ease."

[insert name]'s eyes creased in an endearing way. "Oh really? You should be the next Batman."

It was a joke, but Damian's eyes gleamed at the compliment. Afterall, it was every little boy's dream to become Batman.

But, Damian denied this. "I prefer being with the League of Assassins."

"You know what? I actually agree, it's growing on me. It kind of gives off a mysterious aura."

"You have been a member for half a day, and you are already convinced. Weak minded people like you tend to switch their opinions a lot."

Their eyebrows straightened at the condescending comment. They squeezed him even tighter, "You must be weak minded since you said you didn't want any commoners touching you, yet here you are, accepting my embrace."

Damian immediately jumped from the bed after hearing proof of his hypocritical behavior. Or maybe not hypocritical, but rather a change in opinion. Either way, [insert name] has had one too many gotcha moments on him.

"You sound like a child molester." [insert name] scoffed and held a hand to their heart as if to say, me? Damian supposed this comment made them more hyper because they began to chase him across the room and into the hallway, trying to tackle him.

Faint murmurs flooded their ears, causing them to abruptly stop in their paths. They both took side glances at each other as if to confirm they were not crazy for hearing something coming from the room at the end of the corridor.

The lights were dim, and they were completely alone. [insert name] clutched onto Damian's arm. Damian presumed this act was not to protect him, but because they felt scared. He guided them to where the murmurs were coming from.

"Are you dumb? Why are you walking towards that, have you never watched a horror movie?"

"Of course not."

"Right, I forgot you're like two years old." Damian ignored this comment and pushed them forward to where the noise was coming from.

They both peered into the dim room, [insert name]'s head just above Damian's. The sound of violent scratching tore through the silence, coming from a figure hunched against the wall, its shape like a shadow dragged from the depths.

"Get out... Get out of my head..." The voice trembled, each word dripping with raw, broken breaths. "They want to... they want to take me away from you. But I won't— I won't let them. Please... please, don't leave me."

The figure's hands clawed at the wall, dragging deep, red streaks as blood smeared across the surface. With each ragged breath, the figure smashed his head against the wall in an unrelenting rhythm, like he was trying to break itself free from the torment inside.

"That looks painful," [insert name] whispered, their voice faltering. Damian shot them a sharp glance, mouthing silently, shut the hell up.

The figure's head twisted, unnatural and slow, its glowing green eyes locking onto Damian. The light from them seemed to pierce the shadows, casting a sickly glow over the room, but those eyes weren't fixed on [insert name]. No— they were locked solely on Damian.

"You did this to me," the figure hissed, dragging himself forward, inch by inch, revealing Jason's scarred face. Damian had never imagined Jason's fury would be aimed at him. Not with [insert name] standing there, his literal killer.

"Who—" Damian began, but the words never left his lips. Jason lunged, slamming him to the ground with a force that knocked the air from his lungs. His hands gripped Damian's collar, pulling him close, his breath ragged and hot.

"You left me... don't you dare leave me again," Jason sobbed, his voice shaking with something deeper than anger—betrayal. His eyes pressed against Damian's, eyes wild with desperation, the tears spilling uncontrollably.

[insert name] stood frozen, watching, a sort of stillness in their eyes. "Jason... no one is leaving you."

Jason's grip loosened on Damian's collar, only to shift to his throat, tightening with violent desperation. His gaze flicked between them, but he still squeezed, Damian's breath fading beneath the pressure.

"Too loud... too many voices, too much noise. Make them stop! They're laughing at me— stop the noise!" Jason's hands clenched tighter, madness gripping him like a vice.

Damian gasped, vision darkening. Why couldn't he fight back? Why did Jason's weight feel so suffocating, so heavy? He looked toward [insert name], barely able to mouth the words, Do something. But [insert name] remained there, calm and detached. Why weren't they stopping this?

Jason's nails dug deeper, but [insert name] moved closer, calm in the chaos. They crouched down beside him, their face expressionless, still as death. Jason's focus shifted from Damian to them, though his grip stayed firm on Damian's throat.

Suddenly, [insert name] reached out, their touch delicate, guiding Jason's face to rest against their chest. His movements slowed. Damian's bruised throat was released as Jason's hands fell away, trembling.

[insert name] pressed Jason's head gently to their chest, holding him there. There was no heartbeat. No warmth. Just an endless, soothing silence where a heart should've been. A stillness that swallowed every voice that screamed in Jason's mind.

Jason exhaled, his breath shuddering against the nothingness, as the frantic noise in his head began to fade. He closed his eyes, burying himself deeper into the cold comfort of [insert name]'s chest, where silence reigned.

He collapsed to the ground in a distant sleep, as if the sound of nothingness was a lullaby.

Damian finally understood what made [insert name] special. Their entire existence was oxymoronic. They were a living suicide attempt, a truthful liar. An insane psychology intern. They were a heartless soul. They embodied a hollow core that drew others in, a shadow that danced between despair and allure.

And somehow, they used the absence of a living heart to create an emptiness that comforted rather than isolated someone. A living contradiction.

Chapter Text

“Are you some sort of prostitute?” Slade Wilson asked me this as I was at Jason’s bedside, tracing his arms and neck as he laid asleep. It did look like some kind of foreplay without context. 

Thankfully, it wasn’t. I learned that babies tend to grow faster when touched, and I figured the same would apply to Jason. Well– he was not a baby, but it's been five months since resurrection, and he has already grown from his previous emaciated form. 

Unfortunately, he was rarely ever awake. I wouldn’t call it brain dead– more like an involuntary excuse for actually living. While I had taken advantage of my disposition, he was a different story. In the periods where he actually talked in full sentences, they were cryptic. Like a mute dog, he only took orders.

Pulling my shirt collar down, I revealed the scar of the hole in my chest where my heart had been taken and given to the League. “I guess I have been actively selling my body, if you can call it that.” 

“You can actively sell yourself in another room.”

“No, thank you. I think he is fine with just me right now.” Slade had always scared me. He had been training Damian and Jason for the past five months, and his harsh methods shaped them into talented fighters.

The same could not be said for me. Unlike them, I had no previous fighting experience, so I just overall sucked at everything. I had tried training with them, but then I would just end up on the ground, my whole body aching in pain. Apparently, this ache was supposed to motivate me to train more, but it just made me humiliated for even trying.

I figured I would just act as a hired psychologist for the time being. But most of my conclusions were, Holy crap, these people are insane. No one would let me help them since they were so emotionally repressed, except for Jason. So until Jason was trained enough to go back to Gotham with me, I was sort of his only emotional support.

This really sucked since I'm technically the one who put him in this position, but oh well. I just have to keep denying that for the time being.

The salt colored man brushes his beard, “What he needs is training. You’re not doing him a favor by coddling him.”

“Yeah, and then he’ll have another episode and you’ll be begging for me to help.”

The room was tense, and every interaction with this guy was so painfully awkward.  Between his unnecessary times alone with Jason, and assuming they were a prostitute, he was the definition of a creep. 

I didn’t feel like arguing and left the room for him to do whatever he wanted.

-

The room I’d been stuck in for days felt like a prison. No phone, no music, no AO3—nothing but the sound of the wind outside. Bored out of my mind, I wandered outside and stumbled across Dami and Jason sparring near the edges of the outdoor patio. They’d been at it since noon, each move sharp and deliberate, but I could tell they needed a break. Or at least, a distraction.

“Guys, I’m so bored. Can we go huff paint fumes?” The words spilled out before I thought about how insane they sounded. Recently, I’d taken up a questionable new hobby to pass the time.

Dami rolled his eyes, his face twisted with annoyance. “I did not think it was possible to become an addict in such a place, but you seem to find a way to make anything possible.”

“I’ll take that as a no—and a compliment.” I glanced at Jason, hoping he’d indulge me. Instead, he just stared at me, eyes heavy with something I didn’t want to interpret. Sometimes I worried he’d start to piece things together—remember me from that night when we both died.

“Jason, you’re not allowed. I fear your mind would regress back to Month One or something.”

“It’s fine,” Jason said, his voice groggy and indifferent. He sounded used to disappointment, even if the disappointment in question was not getting high on paint.

“Uhm, if we’re not doing that, can I train with you?” I half-snorted, half-laughed just getting the words out. The sheer confidence it took to suggest it felt ridiculous.

Dami scoffed, his expression dripping with condescension. “You are far too important to be injured. Grandfather would hardly allow it.”

“Are you assuming I’d lose?” I asked, crossing my arms.

“You said you hated fighting because* you lost all the time,” Jason replied bluntly. It was the first time he’d said anything so sharp to me since we arrived here, and even Dami seemed momentarily surprised. Secretly, I was a little thrilled Jason didn’t hold back—it almost felt like progress.

“Why are you reminding me of this?” My shoulders drooped as if the Earth itself was trying to pull me down. “God, how many times do I have to be reminded of how useless I am?”

“Because I thought you should know,” Jason said, his tone flat and unbothered, like he wasn’t aware of how much weight his words carried.

“Yeah, thanks,” I muttered. “I’m reminded of it every second I’m here.”

Technically, I wasn’t all that useless. Ra’s had described my purpose once, referring to me as Jason’s collar. Whatever that meant. Apparently, I was here to keep him in check, to bring him down if he ever got out of control. It sounded awful, but I’d recently discovered a new addiction: being on a power trip.

For instance, during his violent episodes—when he’d hallucinate clowns or bats—I was the one who could put a muzzle on him. He wouldn’t hurt me, no matter how far gone he was. Even when I hit him, he didn’t respond. I didn’t understand it, and honestly, it made me feel worse about putting him in this position.

As the night sky stretched across the horizon, we all ended up sitting on the pavement. Jason didn’t sit until I told him to. By then, I’d bent over to huff the thick, intoxicating fumes from the fresh paint on the walls. Being up in the clouds made it easier to deal with the limited company I had here.

“So, guys. Let’s play truth or dare,” I said suddenly, recalling distant memories of high school games. Back when life was simpler, even if it was still messed up.

“I dare you to see if the second attempt at suicide works,” Dami shot back bitterly. He always had to take it too far. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that if I tried, he’d be the first one to drag me back to the Pit.

“So, I actually didn’t choose dare,” I replied smoothly, “and it’s my turn first, not yours.” My head turned toward Jason, who looked confused, as if trying to remember what truth or dare even was. “Jason, truth or dare?”

“Is dare okay?” Jason asked, his voice meek, as if he needed permission. Something about his tone made me lose it—I was too high to handle how soulless everyone was being. I’d wanted him to pick truth; everyone was being so mysterious lately.

I reached over and shoved his head down near the paint. “Yeah, I dare you to huff the paint.”

Dami opened his mouth to protest but quickly closed it, retreating into silence. I think even he was tired of Jason’s boring responses. Maybe he was curious.

“But you said—” Jason started to protest, but I pushed his head down further so his nose grazed the edge of the numbing scent. He got the message and inhaled.

“Good boy. See? It wasn’t that hard. Now the game will be so much fun.”

For about three minutes, Dami and I watched Jason like he was a zoo animal, observing as his pupils dilated and his movements grew sluggish.

“I am not sure getting him under the influence will have the results you want,” Dami remarked, inspecting Jason’s eyes with a smug grin. “Well, Jason. I suppose it is your turn now.”

Jason groggily put a hand to his head, contemplating. He turned to Dami. “Truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

Jason let out a laugh, rough and raspy, like he wasn’t used to the sound of it. “If you—If you had to guess… Who do you think your real dad is?”

I nearly choked, my cheeks puffing up as I tried to suppress my laughter. Jason really went there.

“What?! I am not subjecting myself to this simple-minded game,” Dami snapped, crossing his arms in defiance.

Jason and I wheezed at his reaction, unable to help ourselves.

“If you don’t answer, I’ll tell your grandfather you let Jason huff chemicals,” I said slyly. “I mean, if you can’t do it, just huff the paint. It makes it easier.”

Dami’s eye twitched, a small crack in his composure. “I will only huff it so you know my answers are not from the heart.”

Jason placed a hand on Dami’s shoulder as he leaned in, reluctantly inhaling the fumes. His face contorted slightly as the chemicals hit him, rearranging his brain chemistry.

“I’ve got both of you under my influence now,” I declared, huddling in closer.

We waited in silence, watching Dami as he processed the high. Finally, he coughed into his hand and replied, “If my father were to be anyone… Perhaps Richard Grayson. Bruce Wayne’s first son.”

Jason’s face twitched, a flicker of something unspoken passing over him. “Richard Grayson?”

“Yes, you dimwit. Partly because he is a harlot who gets around a lot,  and… I do not know. He would not seem too awful.”

I exhaled dramatically. “If he was your daddy, you should be expecting me as your new parent. He is so fine, but he is such a whore.”

Jason’s eyebrows furrowed. “He is not a whore, he just… is like that because of his situation.”

“Oh really? Well, you’re probably late to the news, but apparently he was caught with that super hot space princess with pink hair while he was dating a police commissioner’s daughter.”

Jason slammed his head onto his legs, frustrated. “He cheated on her?! Why… how do you know this?”

“It's like, all over social media, dude. At least it was when I wasn’t forcibly chronically offline.” I replied, questioning why he got so frustrated over the topic. Dami and I gave side glances in agreement that this was strange. Maybe he was really high out of his mind.

“What else do you know about them from social media?”

“If you mean the Waynes– the dad is like a super hot dilf and a billionaire, I mean everyone knows that.”

“Whats a dilf?” Dami and Jason asked this at the same time, both their voices slurring.

I understood why Dami didn’t understand, but it hadn’t occurred to me that Jason had been offline for two and a half years. If I had a strength over these two, it would be knowledge of pop culture. “I forgot how out of touch you guys are. It means, dad I’d like to f—” 

Their mouths gaped wide out of confusion before they started snickering, for two different reasons, it seemed. When Jason laughed, it felt as if it were an inside joke, like he was familiar with the people I was talking about. Huh.

“What about the other people in the family, what do they say about them?” asked Dami.

“Well there is Tim Drake, he was another rich guy’s son, but he got adopted by the Waynes. I’m pretty sure he was in my school district, and he got canceled for pretending to be bisexual. Or maybe he wasn’t pretending.” Snorting at the last half, I recalled how much I missed Gotham drama with the elites. 

Jason tensed, “I would yeet him off a building if I saw him. Seems like a dick.”

“Jason! There is no way you just said yeet in this day and age. Oh my gosh, I’m about to throw up.” I was repulsed at his lack of current slang. “I have to teach you both about pop culture, ‘cause if I don’t, you guys will get bullied so hard.”

I hadn’t realized this until now, but Dami was laying on Jason’s shoulder, slightly drooling at the mouth. I forgot I had just given a child drugs. Or fake drugs. Whatever wrong thing I had done, it created a pretty sweet image. 

“Wait– is that all?” Jason stroked Dami’s hair as he said this, and gave an anticipating look.

“What do you mean?”

“There is no other Wayne that the people talk about on social media?”

“Umm, not that I recall.” I searched the backs of my mind to understand who he was talking about. There were always circulating conspiracy theories about the Wayne family, so I couldn’t quite pinpoint which of them he’s talking about. “Well, there are theories about Martha Wayne– wait! I remember.. I think at some point Bruce Wayne had another son, who died. I’m not sure though, none of the public is really sure on who that kid was. It was all really mysterious, some people even said it was covered up.”

There was a blank look on Jason’s face. Dami seemed to regain consciousness and replied, “Yes, there were some speculations of a second son, but I suppose he rarely ever had a public appearance.”

“Huh, these Waynes are really sketchy. I bet they’re like that creepy vampire family from Twilight.” I admitted. For some reason, Jason was hyper fixated on this mysterious Wayne who probably wasn’t even real. 

Dami decided to end the standoff, sighing dramatically. “Your turn, [insert name]. Truth or dare?”

“Oh, right. Let’s change it up—dare.” I propped my feet onto Jason’s lap, trying to appear casual.

The little boy sneered, already hiccuping with glee over what he was about to say. Regret hit me immediately. I knew I’d get absolutely humiliated. Then again, I remembered I was playing Truth or Dare with a kid who was high on paint fumes. Humiliation was already part of the package. Their eyes were all glazed over as they leaned closer to the painted wall, like moths to a flame.

“I dare you to find Slade and dye his hair green with the paint.”

Normally, Dami wasn’t the type to suggest something so reckless. Sure, he was a brat, but not rebellious in the usual way. But then again, he was currently high. It was awful, yes, but I couldn’t help being amused at him finally acting like a regular kid.

“Now you’re being fun. Is he sleeping?”

“He’s above the right wing, left corridor. I presume he’s asleep.”

“Oh, I am so screwed if he’s awake. Jason, protect me.” I shot Jason a pleading look, already planning to blame him if we were caught. Oh, the Pit made him do it. But then again, the Pit didn’t make anyone do anything—it just brought out the worst parts of you.

Jason shrugged, clearly weighing his options. I figured he liked Dami and me better than the creepy one-eyed guy, so he nodded.

Turning back to Dami, I muttered, “I’m only doing this because I prefer you acting like a kid instead of a bratty soldier.”

Dami rolled his eyes. “Please. I’m testing your stealth since you’re terrible at everything else.”

“I’m a great child psychologist.”

“The incident at the asylum says otherwise.”

I glared at him, the memory stinging. Jason didn’t react, probably because he hadn’t connected the dots yet.

“Let’s just get this over with,” I muttered. “Jason, be my guard dog.”

And so, we crept down the painted hallways. Jason carried the paint, his steps quieter than mine. The guards patrolled like clockwork—turning every five ticks, changing paths every thirty.

Jason proved to be better at stealth than me, covering for me every time I exhaled too loudly. I leaned toward him, whispering, “In the movies, if they catch you hiding, just start making out with whoever you’re with. They’ll leave you alone.”

I snickered at my own joke, my movie-deprived brain finding it funnier than it was.

Jason clamped a hand over my mouth and pressed me against the wall. His shadow shielded me as the guards walked past. Five ticks. One glanced our way. Five more ticks, and they were gone.

It was just like the movies, minus the kissing.

Breath mingling, scars aligned. Jason’s eyes kept flickering to my scar instead of my face. His “J” branded into my skin alongside my “T,” creating an unintentional JT.

“You’re like a movie star, JT.” I ruffled his grayed hair, teasing.

“JT?” he asked, confused.

Grinning, I grabbed his hand, guiding it to my scar. “J.” Then to his scar. “T.”

“Jason Todd. No… JT. Is that my new name?” His hand lingered on my cheek, hot even after mine dropped.

“Really? You’ll let me name you?”

He nodded, tugging me toward Slade’s room. I’d forgotten about the dare in the distraction. “I’ll take that as a yes. Do you think he’s asleep?”

Jason peeked through the door, then gestured for me to follow. I mouthed, You first.

He sighed, annoyed, before creeping in. I followed close behind. Slade lay still on the bed, muscles tense even in sleep.

“He doesn’t look as… vulnerable as I expected,” I whispered, biting my lip.

Jason backed toward the door, leaving me awkwardly trapped between him and Slade.

“Yeah, he looks stone hard.” He rasped.

“He’s always hard when he’s around you.” I giggled before realizing I’d said it out loud.

“What?”

“Huh?” I averted my eyes, heat rushing to my face.

“What did you mean by that?”

My laughter came again, bubbling uncontrollably. “I think he sees you as another kind of film star.”

Jason froze, processing. “Adult films?”

I smacked my head. “I was hoping you wouldn’t know what I meant.”

“I’m not stupid,” he muttered, voice dropping. “I’ve been in enough films.” His hand moved to his head, shielding his eyes.

Memories of the cameras and his bare skin shining through his clothes in Arkham, resurfaced. I decided not to ask. 

“I didn’t call you stupid.”

“You call me a stupid dog all the time.”

He wasn’t wrong. What was I supposed to do? I’d been thrust into responsibility I didn’t deserve. Power-tripping was the only way to cope.

“Well, you act like one. You bite and obey.”

“What do you want me to do?” His eyes burned, daring me to answer.

“You’re still asking! You should be angry! Everyone here is using us. After everything you’ve been through—if I were you, I’d remind them every second.”

“For getting mad at me, it sounds like you just feel bad.”

“Obviously!” I jabbed a finger into his chest. “I’m the only one who does. When I yell or hit you, it’s because I’m trying to save you.”

“Save me? From what?”

“I don’t know! I want us out of here! If I’m going to do one memorable thing in life, it’ll be you.”

“And treating me like a dog is your plan?”

“Oh, you’re already a hero, Robin. Don’t hog all the glory. When you go back to Gotham, they’ll call you a tortured legend.”

“I’m not going back as Robin. That’s not me anymore.”

He paused, voice quieter. “You’re starting to sound like that crow.”

“What crow?” My stomach tightened.

“The one in the basement. They wanted to save Robin. Once they realized I wasn’t special anymore, they let me die.”

Oh, God. He remembered. I had to tread carefully now and pretend like I wasn’t the same person.

“What?! What a manipulative bitch! If anything, you’re worth more because of what happened to you. Revenge, you know?”

Jason didn’t respond, lost in thought.

“Like, ew. What a creep. They didn’t even know you and insulted you? Total waste of space.”

“It was true, what they said about me being a waste of space,” Jason began, his voice soft but laced with pain. “I had no hope. I wished I was dead so badly. Maybe then someone would look for me. But then they came, and they kissed me, and then—”

His words were interrupted as Slade shifted in the bed, a subtle movement that froze us both.

I glanced at the paint in Jason’s hands, my heart pounding as I remembered the dare. Panic set in as I recalled who was lying in the bed before us. “Pause. Let’s do Dami’s dare first. I’m afraid I’m gonna get molested by Mr. Wilson here if we don’t hurry up.”

Jason gave me a look but didn’t protest. We moved to either side of the bed, crouching like awkward burglars.

“How the hell are we supposed to do this without waking him up?” I whispered, already regretting everything about this plan.

Jason smirked faintly, shrugging. “I’m just the guard dog, remember?”

“Yeah, which means you have to help me!” I hissed.

“This is your dare,” he shot back with a smug look.

I rolled my eyes. “I don’t think Dami’s here to see if I cheat a little.”

Jason crossed his arms. “How do you expect to be a hero if you can’t even do this?”

“Oh, shut up!” Frustration boiled over, and I lunged at him, grabbing his arm and pulling him towards the bed.

“[Insert name], you’re waking him up!” Jason gasped, his eyes flicking to Slade, who stirred slightly.

In my panic, I froze, realizing my sleeve had brushed across Slade’s face. My heart thudded loudly in my ears as his eyes fluttered open.

He gave us a cold, piercing gaze as we wrestled over him. I figured it probably didn’t look like wrestling to him, but something entirely different. And ten times dirtier.

Desperation struck. “Oh my gosh, we were just going to ask you if you wanted to partake in a threesome,” I blurted out.

Jason’s jaw dropped, and Slade stared at me, his face twisting in confusion. The silence stretched awkwardly, everyone too stunned to react.

And then, without thinking, I grabbed a marble lamp and smashed it across Slade’s head. His body slumped back against the bed.

“Jason!” I cried, clutching the lamp like a lifeline. “Please tell me I didn’t just kill this guy! Holy mother of God, tell me he’s not dead!”

Jason approached cautiously, resting a hand on my back in a gesture that somehow felt reassuring. “I am not touching him.”

“Just do it!” I demanded, nearly hyperventilating.

With an exasperated sigh, Jason checked for a pulse. “He’s alive.”

Relief flooded through me, but Jason’s expression darkened as he turned to face me. “[Insert name]?”

“Yeah?” I answered tentatively.

“What the actual fuck is wrong with you?”

Hearing him swear for the first time was oddly jarring, but I ignored it. Hugging the lamp defensively, I muttered, “I just saved you. If you’re not gonna help me dye his hair, you have no right to complain.”

Jason shook his head in disbelief but reluctantly handed me the paint. I got to work, realizing quickly that paint wasn’t exactly a substitute for hair dye.

“It’s not working,” I muttered, rummaging under the sink and finding bleach. Mixing the paint and bleach together, I went back to Slade’s head. Jason watched with faint amusement.

“I think we just made a new drug,” I said, laughing through the fumes. “Blaint.”

Jason groaned and dropped to the floor. “I think I’m gonna quit later.”

“Not me. I’m taking this up as a new addiction.”

Jason tilted his head back, his neck red from where I’d grabbed him earlier. “My mom was an addict.”

I sat down beside him, handing him the paintbrush. “Tell her the new drug on the market is Blaint.”

He laughed dryly, resting his chin on the edge of the mattress. “He looks like the Joker.”

“If we add makeup, sure,” I agreed, examining Slade’s now lime-green hair. “Want me to make him look like the Joker? Then you could practice beating him up for revenge.”

Jason actually chuckled. “With what?”

I eyed the array of materials we had. “Does bleach and blood count?”

He smirked. “Are we casting a spell now?”

“Nope, just an intense makeup tutorial. Watch and learn.”

Jason kneeled beside the bed as I narrated the steps, applying bleach to Slade’s face, then using the blood from the lamp injury for his lips and eyes. By the time I was done, Slade looked disturbingly like a deformed version of the Clown Prince of Crime.

“[insert name]. I dared you to paint the man’s hair green, and you took it upon yourself to make a deformed experiment. Tsk.” Dami had emerged from the shadows to judge the trifecta of awful dispositions in the room. But, embarrassment wasn’t something to worry about after what I’ve been through.

“I got carried away.” I said, shrugging as Dami’s face tried to understand what possibly could make someone do this. I felt like a watered down version of one of those Gotham psychos that mutilated people’s bodies.

Jason didn’t even acknowledge Dami. His eyes were fixated at that awful image I just painted. I waved my hang in front of his glass eyes, “Earth to Jason.”

I exchanged an awkward look to Damian, pointing at the convocation I had made of chemicals that gave a possible explanation for Jason’s sudden disassociation. “Blaint, it’s a new drug I made.”

“Figures. I suspect that you would be successful in the drug distribution industry.” I applaud myself sarcastically at his comment’s expense. 

“I prefer being the one buying.”

“I am not sure that is true since you have been staying here without cost.”

“I think kidnapped is the correct word. But you know what? I am enjoying living here rent free while playing truth or dare in a place full of assassins.”

Dami’s foot tapped. “Well. I have been waiting for a particularly long time for you to be done with this dare. I suggest you continue.”

“I don’t think Jason is responsive right now.”

“Just ask him, truth or dare. He always responds to you.”

Staring at Jason’s fatigued figure, I demanded, “Jason, truth or dare?”

Quickly, his attention snapped towards me. For a few seconds he thought and concluded, “Dare.” 

“You really like saying dare. I’m beginning to believe you just don’t wanna tell the truth.” I complained. I sort of wished he said truth. Maybe I could learn something. I guess I wanted to know him better. He shrugged in affirmation.

I needed something unique for Jason’s dare. Something he wouldn’t forget. I wasn’t going to be just another fool who tried to control him; I had to leave an impression.

My fingers traced the cross on my necklace, the one embedded with fragments of my heart. Ra’s had gifted it to me, claiming he found the necklace alongside my heart where I had died. This cross could reveal the unvarnished truth about anyone who touched it—a sacred token that held unimaginable weight.

And with that, the perfect idea struck.

“I dare you to be knighted by me,” I said, a smile tugging at my lips. Jason tilted his head, skeptical.

“What?”

“You said you wouldn’t come back to Gotham as Robin, right?”

He nodded slowly. Damian’s eyes narrowed in confusion, clearly trying to catch up to the context.

“Well, here’s your out,” I explained. “If I knight you, you can leave the Robin persona behind. You’ll come back as a new knight, a new person. What do you think?”

Jason’s expression shifted, something unguarded flickering behind his eyes. “You can… do that?”

Damian scoffed. “They outrank you, believe it or not.”

“Exactly,” I said with mock formality, motioning to my necklace. “And I find you worthy of my grace, Jason.”

Jason blinked, childlike hope replacing the usual weight in his gaze. “You really think so?”

“Yes. Now, kneel.”

He hesitated only for a moment before sinking to one knee. Damian stood beside me, arms crossed. “I suppose I’ll bear witness to this absurdity.”

I cleared my throat. “We are gathered here today to bestow upon Jason Todd the honor of knighthood, in recognition of his service. Jason, do you solemnly swear to uphold the values of war and peace, punishment and justice, and to serve God?”

Jason smirked. “I guess—”

I shot him a look, and he corrected himself. “I do.”

“Good.” My mind raced for the perfect title. It couldn’t just be symbolic; it had to mark this moment, this transformation.

The Robin was gone, but something else had emerged. Jason wasn’t reborn in the Lazarus Pit. No, he was reborn in death, in Arkham, when all versions of him shattered like glass under my kiss.

I smiled. “Then by the power vested in me, I declare you the Arkham Knight.”

I unhooked my necklace and brushed the sharp cross over his left shoulder, then his right, and back again. I leaned forward, clasping it around his neck. The jewels glimmered faintly in the dim light, resting over his heart—over my heart

I then clipped it across his neck, the jewels glittering like glass paintings across his neck. I didn't let go of the necklace, a dear attachment to my heart. Thought swarmed my head, if the Arkham Knight was reborn before he died, who was the person who killed him before death? Was it truly me? 

I stood there, my fingers sourly releasing the chains I had put on Jason as he was cleansed of all previous titles. All previous versions of him drifted into a soft suicide. My guilt had purified the boy.

-

Jason rose with a new collar wrapping around his neck. It was the only heart to embrace him, unlike his own, which just beat because of the animalistic urge to live.

He had spent so long in the absence of affection, only to find himself in the grip of a hormonal teenager and a family of assassins.

And now he was knighted by one. 

Jason didn’t think too much of who this person was. Supposedly, they died after Jason died, in the very same basement. It didn’t make much sense, because another person had already come into the basement, being present when Jason was shot. The reason Jason was shot.

Of course, it was like the Clown to put false senses of hope into Jason. That is what Jason assumed when those doors opened, a sliver of light shining through that dark ceiling. It was not real light from the sun, but fluorescent lighting, paid for by poor funding from the government.

Jason had done much thinking, wondering if it was just a play the Clown had orchestrated to give Jason a humiliating end. That the person was sent in there with a script to make him believe he would be saved, when in reality he would not. It had happened before, except with Batman pretenders.

But they felt like the real thing. Like an Angel of Death, kissing him to eternal sleep. 

That is why Jason didn’t interrogate [insert name]’s identity. What happened in the previous life was supposed to be met with an airy dream filled with words that read like pictures, and pictures that were painted on top of porcelain. It was disappointing to wake up when he was kissed goodnight forever.

He imagined [insert name] felt the same way. If he did not want to be burdened by the past, so why should they be? If they were lying, it didn’t mean anything. Jason wondered if [insert name] was actually the Crow he had met before his end. 

Jason had crossed that option out a while ago. The Crow and [insert name] could not be the same person because while the Crow gave him cruel mercy, an angel telling him the truth of his meaningless existence and permitting him to finally go to Heaven, [insert name] was like the Father who kept bringing him back to life to suffer. 

Maybe he was put in this world to suffer. Maybe [insert name] was right. But he clinged onto the dreams of suicide that the Crow had awakened in him. 

Damian finally broke the silence, his tone teasing as he glanced at Jason with a smirk. “You still look like yourself, so you should refrain from fulfilling your knightly duties until… you are fully capable.”

Jason shifted, glancing up at Damian, and for a fleeting moment, the boy’s expression stirred something deep within him—a memory of the man who’d once taken him in. A man who, despite his faults, had given Jason a chance to be something better.

“You could almost be my dad,” Jason said, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Damian froze, his brows furrowing as he processed the statement. Jason’s gaze lingered on him, the corners of his lips tugging downward as a wave of nostalgia washed over him. Damian, in that moment, looked so much like Bruce that it was painful—his stature, his presence, his unwavering intensity. It all brought Jason back to a time when hope and guidance seemed like real possibilities.

Bruce had once told him, just before he left to find his mother, “You’re still a kid, Jason. Don’t carry the weight of the world on your shoulders.” Jason hadn’t listened, and the weight had crushed him.

His voice cracked as he tugged on Damian’s shirt, his eyes fixed on the floor. “It’s all my fault… I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Damian’s jaw tightened, bewilderment flashing in his emerald eyes. He glanced toward [insert name], as if seeking guidance on how to navigate this uncharted territory. After a tense moment, Damian awkwardly placed a hand on Jason’s head—a gesture that was more hesitant than comforting. “You are… forgiven?” he said, his words carefully measured.

Jason’s eyes flickered with something unreadable. Maybe relief. Maybe more guilt. Either way, he gave the faintest nod.

Damian’s hand lingered for a second longer before he cleared his throat, pulling back abruptly. “Just calm down,” he said, his voice more certain now. “There’s no need to get emotional right now. Are you forgetting who’s still in the room with us?”

[Insert name] clicked their tongue in irritation, jerking their head toward the unconscious Slade sprawled across the floor. “Right. You’re talking about him.”

Jason’s body tensed as his gaze flicked to Slade. The man’s presence—his very existence—was unbearable. Slade looked too much like the Clown for comfort, the green tint in his hair stirring memories Jason couldn’t suppress. It felt suffocating, like being dragged back into a nightmare he’d been trying to escape. He clawed at the edge of the bed, tearing at the sheets as his breaths quickened.

“Get him out!” Jason’s voice was raw, edged with desperation. “Get him out–get him out!”

“Jason,” [insert name] said firmly, their voice cutting through the tension. “We can’t do that. If we move him, we’ll get caught. You need to calm down.”

But Jason couldn’t calm down. The Clown was everywhere—in every shadow, in every corner of his mind. His fists tightened, and his breaths grew shallow as rage and panic fought for dominance.

Without hesitation, [insert name] moved toward Slade, gripping the man’s body with some effort. “Fine,” they huffed, their words laced with strain. “If it makes you feel better—” They shoved Slade off the bed with a loud thud before beginning the arduous task of heaving him underneath it.

Jason’s wild grasp on the bedframe loosened as he stared at the now-vacant space. His breathing slowed, the tension in his shoulders gradually easing. He slumped back against the bedpost, exhaustion weighing on him like a lead blanket.

[Insert name] dusted off their hands before flopping onto the now-empty bed. “There. He’s gone. Happy?”

Jason nodded faintly, his head resting against the wooden pillar. The chemical high that had driven him earlier seemed to be fading, dragging the three of them into a shared haze of exhaustion.

[Insert name] stretched out luxuriously, their voice light as they broke the silence. “So, did anyone actually think of an escape plan?”

Damian raised a brow, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Can you climb through a vent?”

[Insert name] snorted. “No.”

“Of course you cannot,” Damian said with a resigned sigh before turning his gaze to Jason. “And you?”

Jason could have. But the thought of leaving [insert name] behind to fend for themselves wasn’t something he was willing to entertain. “I don’t think so,” he lied.

Damian pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath about incompetence. “Have you both learned nothing in your time here?”

Meanwhile, [insert name] sprawled out further, ignoring Damian’s exasperation. “Oh my gosh, this bed is so much nicer than mine,” they said, running their hands along the plush surface. “How does he get this kind of luxury?”

Damian shot them a look. “Because he is a more… contributing member.”

“That checks out,” they admitted before pouting. “But technically, I gave my heart for this place, so I think I deserve to sleep in a bed like this.” They pulled their knees up to their chest, making themselves comfortable.

Jason blinked at them, his brow furrowing. “Are you seriously going to sleep here?”

“Yeah,” [insert name] replied, dangling their head upside down to look at him. “If anyone asks, I’ll just say he tried to molest me and I acted in self-defense.”

Jason winced, immediately covering Damian’s ears before the younger boy could process the comment. “What is wrong with you?” he muttered.

Damian, ever the stoic, pulled himself together. “Your decision-making skills are atrocious,” he said flatly. “I suppose I’ll stay here in case he wakes up. You’ll need someone competent to protect you.”

“So you’re staying with us?” [insert name] asked, a sly smile creeping across their lips.

“Unwillingly,” Damian replied, glaring.

[Insert name] shifted their gaze to Jason, their grin widening. “Come into bed with me, JT.”

Jason stiffened immediately. “Uh—”

“Stop being disgusting,” Damian interjected, climbing onto the bed with an air of self-righteousness. “I propose that you two degenerates sleep on the floor while I take the bed.”

Instead of heeding the suggestion, [insert name] tugged Jason onto the mattress, much to his dismay. He sat stiffly on the edge, looking anywhere but at them.

“Suit yourself,” [insert name] said smugly. “Jason and I will share the bed.” They wrapped themselves around his arm, resting their chin on his shoulder as though he were designed specifically for this purpose.

“This is so improper,” Damian groaned. “Move!” He wedged himself between the two of them, using his legs to force them apart like a human barrier. “People have no sense of shame anymore.”

“You’re interrupting my game, Dami,” [insert name] protested, their voice a mock whine.

“No one wants to play your stupid games,” Damian shot back.

“I beg to differ, you clearly want to sleep next to me.” [insert name] grabbed Damian and started to cuddle with him, or rather strangle him. Damian flailed, breaking free from their grasp with a look of pure indignation and turned to face Jason instead. 

“No, I’m sleeping next to him. Stop touching me, you imbecile.” Damian tried to look intimidating, but he looked sort of like a kitten with his face scrunched like that. Jason was reminded of how young he was, with his small body in between the both of them.

[insert name] crossed their arm over Damian to touch Jason, wrapping around both of them. Jason, in turn, crossed his hand over, gently tracing over their arm. It was as if Heaven was engulfing him. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

Ten minutes passed in restless silence. Despite their exhaustion, none of them could seem to stay asleep. Eventually, [insert name] broke the stillness with a low murmur.

“Can you guys even sleep?”

No one answered.

“Hello? I know you guys are awake.”

Damian, facing the other way, gave no acknowledgment. He shifted slightly, his back to [insert name], an unspoken signal of annoyance.

Undeterred, [insert name] leaned over and shoved his shoulder. “I know you’re awake.”

Still, no response.

Frustrated, [insert name] turned their attention to Jason. “Hey, are you awake?”

Jason answered promptly, almost as if he’d been waiting. “Yes?”

“I think I figured it out,” [insert name] announced.

Jason frowned. “Figured what?”

“I figured out who you are.”

That piqued Damian’s interest. Though he didn’t move, he cracked one eye open, watching the exchange from his feigned position of sleep.

Jason’s heart skipped. “Who I am?” he repeated cautiously.

“Yes. I think we’ve met before,” [insert name] said, their tone dripping with certainty.

Panic prickled at the edges of Jason’s thoughts. He’d never been the most public of the Wayne family—at least, not before everything happened. It would have taken someone digging deep to recognize him, and [insert name] wasn’t exactly the research type.

Jason masked his nerves with a forced laugh. “Who’s the real me, then?”

“You used to take used cigarettes off the ground and resell them to desperate teenagers,” [insert name] replied bluntly, their voice deadpan.

For a moment, silence hung in the air. Jason stared at them blankly, and from behind him, Damian’s lips twitched into a barely restrained smirk. He bit his tongue to keep from laughing outright but didn’t bother to maintain his sleeping act.

[Insert name] looked between Damian and Jason, unbothered by the growing tension. “Your dirty secret has been exposed to the prince of assassins. You should be ashamed.”

Damian’s eyes snapped open, his smirk instantly replaced with irritation. He turned to face [insert name], glaring. “Stop calling me that!”

“Look who’s pretending to be asleep,” [insert name] retorted, pointing to him. Then, turning back to Jason, they added, “He’s probably never shared a room with a peasant before—or worse, a broke cigarette dealer.”

Jason sighed, running a hand through his hair. Damian sat up, shooting him a disapproving look. “Jason,” Damian began, his tone that of a disappointed aristocrat, “I would have never taken you for a desperate dealer of discarded substances. That’s… unsanitary.”

Jason couldn’t help the short laugh that escaped him. “I didn’t want to do it,” he admitted, a touch of defensiveness in his tone. “It was just… the easiest way to make money back then.”

He paused, narrowing his eyes at [insert name]. “How the hell did you know about that, anyway?”

“Oh, you know Officer Cash?” [insert name] said casually. “He caught you one time. Brought you back to the station and gave you a donut. Kept scolding you about it.” They shrugged like it was common knowledge. “I knew I remembered your name from somewhere.”

Jason blinked, surprised. Somewhere in his tangled memories, that day resurfaced—Officer Cash was one of the few decent cops in Gotham, someone who’d treated him like a kid instead of a criminal.

“Wait,” Jason asked slowly, “why were you at the station?”

“Free donuts!” [insert name said] brightly, as if it was obvious.

Damian groaned. “I was expecting some moving tale about how the two of you are somehow intricately connected. That was an utter disappointment of a story.” He huffed, crossing his arms. “Gotham is such a bore compared to where I’m stationed.”

[Insert name] shot him a look. “What, did you expect him to get executed for dealing hazardous cigarettes? Gotham’s not a bore, by the way. Have you ever seen a city with its own live-action version of the Sopranos?”

Jason frowned slightly, catching the reference but not the deeper implication. “You mean Penguin?”

“Obviously,” [insert name] said, as if Jason were slow. “Think about it! It’s like living in the world’s trashiest mafia drama.”

Damian still looked unimpressed. “Your city lacks intrigue. And villains like Cobblepot are hardly remarkable.”

“Oh, okay,” [insert name] countered. “If Succession is more your style, Gotham has its very own version of the Roy family.”

Jason tilted his head, the name tickling something faint in his memory. Before Arkham, maybe he’d heard of it. He added it to his mental list of shows to check out later. “The Roys?”

[Insert name] grinned. “The Waynes, obviously. They are Gotham’s walking, talking version of a messy billionaire drama.”

 They then paused, and went to mock Damian. “Oh my gosh, the dad you chose for yourself in truth or dare, Richard Grayson, is such a Kendall Roy! Now I’m praying Grayson is as much of a failure as Kendall is, at least behind cameras.”

Jason blinked, momentarily taken aback. Was that how Gothamites saw the family? He hadn’t thought of the Waynes like that since before Bruce adopted him. Maybe they were stereotypes from an outsider’s perspective.

He smirked faintly. “I bet Grayson is a failure,” he added, leaning into the game. “He seems like the type to be neglectful and totally out of touch.”

“Debatable,” [insert name] shot back. “Sure, maybe he’s out of touch, but that doesn’t matter when you’re super hot and have a bunch of brand deals. Besides, he spoils his brother a lot.”

Jason froze. “He… does?”

“Yeah, Tim Drake. Don’t you see them in the tabloids all the time? Maybe it’s just for PR, though. There were rumors Dick wasn’t that accepting of Tim at first.”

Jason frowned, a subtle wave of something unnameable washing over him. For a moment, he felt distant from the Waynes again, as though the time he’d spent in Arkham had erased him from their dynamic altogether.

“Okay,” Jason said slowly, masking the sting with humor. “If Tim’s in the Roy family, who is he supposed to be?”

[Insert name] thought for a moment before delivering their answer. “Definitely Shiv. She’s smart, always left out of important stuff, but absolutely worthy of being the successor. That’s Tim Drake in a nutshell.”

Jason’s lips tightened. Not only did he not get a character, but Tim got a good one. That settled it. He was going to kill him.

The tension in the room shifted as Jason mulled over the resentment bubbling beneath his skin. It was one thing to know that someone else had taken up the mantle of Robin, but it cut deeper knowing that this pretender was also acting like Bruce’s son. And worse, the imposter had the chance to meet with Dick regularly—something Jason had never truly had.

The idea of someone being closer to Dick than he’d ever been burned. He didn’t just want to kill the new Robin. He wanted to kill Dick, too.

Jason hissed, breaking the silence. “I think it’s important to remember that they’re an aristocratic, capitalistic family that profits off the poor. I hate them all.”

The words came easily, a callback to his glory days when he was just another scrappy kid trying to survive in Gotham’s alleys.

Damian’s voice cut through his bitterness like a blade. “I do not appreciate your degradation of the wealthy,” he said, indignant.

[insert name] interjected. “Damian, no offense, but don’t group yourself in with the Wayne kind of wealthy. They’re like the Kardashians, meanwhile your family is like the Rothschilds.”

Damian furrowed his brow at the comparison, clearly unamused.

Jason, however, cringed at the mental image of the Waynes being equated to a reality TV dynasty. “The Waynes aren’t Kardashians,” he argued. “They’re more like Rockefellers.”

“Nah,” [insert name] interjected, their voice light but pointed. “The Waynes give laid-back, luxury entertainment while sustaining Illuminati-like conspiracies. Just like the Kardashians.”

Jason snorted at the absurdity of the comment, but something about it struck a chord. The Waynes? Laid-back? That was the funniest thing he’d heard all night.

Damian’s tone was sharp as he turned to [insert name]. “Is the only thing you’re skilled at stalking people who are better than you?”

[Insert name] froze, mouth gaping in exaggerated offense. They quickly recovered, though, their face shifting to resigned acceptance. “You know what? If you guys want the truth, I’m pretty sure I’m only here because I pretended to be hard in that asylum. They must’ve thought I was useful.”

They paused, clearly choosing their next words carefully. “I feel like a college student who used Chat GPT to write a paper, and their administrators sent them overseas to represent the college, thinking they were a top student.”

Jason tilted his head, confused. “What’s Chat GPT?”

“You can ask Chat GPT that question when you get back to Gotham,” [insert name] replied with a yawn. Jason made a mental note to ask Chat GPT that question—yet another thing to look into when he returned home.

Damian’s disapproval was palpable as he gazed at the ceiling. “You two keep talking about what you’re going to do in Gotham, yet you disregard the mission you’ve been assigned. Do you not have any serious goals?”

Jason, tired of Damian’s constant moralizing, gave a dry laugh. “I’m supposed to carry out a mission with Slade to take over Gotham,” he admitted.

“And I,” [insert name] added, “have to give pieces of my heart to some important people so your grandpa can get information from them.”

Jason shot them a glance, his curiosity piqued. The vague nature of their mission didn’t sit right with him. Would they have to give a piece of their heart to Bruce Wayne? The idea wasn’t far-fetched, considering how central Bruce was to Gotham.

Damian twitched, clearly dissatisfied. He turned to Jason with a pointed look. “Is that really all? Are you not angry about what’s been done to you? Do you have nothing to prove?” His voice grew colder. “You need to live for more than that. Otherwise, when the mission is over, you’ll be discarded. Forgotten. You’ll have no purpose.”

“Yeah, Jason,” [insert name] chimed in, their voice lighter but no less sharp. “I guess once my mission’s over, I’ll just be permanently dead—which I’m definitely postponing—but you? You’re not dead. So what will you do without me?” They leaned forward, their tone a mix of teasing and genuine concern. “There must be something for you to live for.”

Jason didn’t appreciate how quickly the conversation had turned serious. He turned toward the wall, staring at the blankness as he let their words linger.

“I guess I’ll just retire as the Arkham Knight and kill myself,” he said flatly. “I’d have no purpose after the Arkham Knight anyway.”

The weight of the bed shifted, and Jason’s heart sank. [Insert name] had stilled, their earlier teasing replaced by something heavier. It hit him then that his careless words might have dredged up their own terrible thoughts.

“I’m sorry,” Jason muttered quietly. The silence that followed felt endless.

Jason’s mind lingered on [insert name]’s words, their tone sharp yet tinged with an unsettling sort of understanding:

“It’s fine. I guess I ended things, so I can’t say much. But I ended my life because I thought I was guilty, not because I had no purpose. Jason, if you’re going to kill yourself after your great mission, it has to have some meaning. You have to at least have a personal goal driving you, so when you achieve that goal, you’ll have some terrible feeling of guilt lingering—that way, the suicide will feel… I don’t know, maybe it will make the suicide memorable after you die.”

Jason blinked at the ceiling, their words slicing through the murk of his thoughts. A suicide with meaning? Was that the purpose he lacked?

He tried to push their voice out of his head, but their reasoning sank its claws into him. His current plan—to help Slade take over Gotham and then end himself—sounded hollow. It wasn’t a mission. It was a preprogrammed task, like flipping a switch. A final power-off for a machine with no purpose beyond what it was told to do.

“Who do you hate, Jason?”

Jason flinched as [insert name]’s question pulled him back into the present. Those words struck a nerve; they were too familiar. He’d answered that question before, long ago. When the Clown asked it, his answer had been simple: Batman. But the truth was more complicated now.

“I hate the guilty that go unpunished,” Jason muttered, his voice low but venomous. “Everyone is guilty, but it’s the ones who aren’t punished that make good people hurt.”

“If everyone’s guilty, why do you care if good people are hurt?” [insert name] pressed, their tone probing yet strangely patient.

Jason hesitated. “Because… I think everyone is born with guilt in their system. Some people just decide to become more liable than others.”

“Well, there you go. Save the innocent from the poison of guilt, Jason.”

Jason turned toward them, eyes narrowing. “And how would I even do that?”

“By killing the guilty,” they said without hesitation, clicking their tongue as if it were the most obvious answer in the world. “And by the end of it, you’d have killed so much, you’d be the worst of them all. Be the victim and the executioner. Kill yourself because you’ll be the last person to blame after everything you’ve done. Prove yourself right—that all evil must perish, so you must die at your own hand.”

Jason stared at the blank wall, his mind filling with vivid pictures of the guilty falling one by one, each death a step toward eradicating pain from Gotham. And at the center of it all was Bruce—his father, his teacher, his failure.

Bruce, with his self-righteous refusal to kill, had let guilt fester in Gotham. Bruce, who claimed to uphold justice, had let Jason fall into Hell and done nothing to stop it. If Bruce’s justice was real, he would’ve locked himself in Arkham long ago.

Jason’s fists clenched as the vision solidified in his mind: Bruce’s realization that he’d created the monster Jason had become. Every life Jason would take, every ounce of pain he’d unleash, would be Bruce’s burden to bear.

Damian’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Suicide is the coward’s way of death. Surely, if you think of yourself as a knight, you should at least die with honor.”

Jason’s sneer returned, his lips curling bitterly. “If I don’t end up killing the person I want to kill…” he began, his tone dark and resolute. “Then I’ll force him to kill me. Let him live with that fact for the rest of his life.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed, his voice carrying a dangerous curiosity. “And who is this person?”

Jason didn’t hesitate. “The Batman.”

His voice carried a venom that burned in the silence that followed. He sneered at the blank wall again, but in his mind, it wasn’t blank. It was painted with visions of Bruce’s shattered facade, of his suffering, his realization. Batman—the so-called savior of Gotham—would see the weight of every life taken because of Jason. Because of the boy he had failed.

“I hate them all,” Jason hissed, his voice low but chilling. “I’ll kill them all.”

The weight of his words hung in the air, pressing down on the room until, one by one, the three fell into an uneasy, haunted sleep.

-

Jason awoke to whispers, his body sluggish and his mind foggy.

“Jason, help [insert name] get up into the vent,” Damian ordered, his tone sharp and impatient. Jason groaned as he pulled himself out of bed, still feeling the heaviness of the night before.

“Oh my gosh, I knew I wouldn’t be able to do this. Just let me out through the window!” [insert name] hissed, their voice muffled by the vent.

“You’re going to fall to your death if you do that. Jason, hurry up,” Damian snapped, clearly frustrated.

Jason moved sluggishly, lifting [insert name] toward the vent. They squirmed, muttering complaints about how tight it was, but eventually disappeared inside. Damian followed shortly after, sparing Jason a brief glance before vanishing into the darkness.

Jason turned back to the room, preparing to follow, when a cold, heavy hand clamped down on his shoulder.

“Jason.”

The voice was unmistakable—gravelly, low, and venomous. Jason froze as Slade’s grip tightened. Slowly, he turned, his heart sinking as he took in the sight before him.

Slade’s face was a grotesque mix of green and white, the remnants of [insert name]’s terrible dye job seeping into his skin. He looked like a twisted version of Frankenstein, and Jason had to bite back a laugh at the absurdity of it all.

“What were you doing last night?” Slade growled, his voice low and threatening.

Jason blinked, stalling. “What?”

Slade leaned closer, his mismatched appearance failing to make him any less intimidating. “You and [insert name]. Don’t play stupid. Just what the hell were you doing in here?”

Jason’s mind raced. He swallowed hard and lied through his teeth. “I think you were dreaming.”

Slade’s glare deepened. “So I dreamt that you and [insert name] were on top of me, asking for a threesome, then knocking me out and stuffing me under the bed? And now, magically, you’re still here as I wake up?”

Jason’s jaw clenched, his thoughts tangling as he struggled to come up with an answer. He cursed [insert name] under his breath, They’d better hope this vent leads to somewhere safe.

“Yes?” Jason barely got the word out before he doubled over, a sharp wheeze cutting through his throat. The laughter hit him so hard and so suddenly that even Slade seemed caught off guard. Jason tried to compose himself, but the image of the man standing there, looking like an oversized Oompa Loompa, was too much to bear.

“What’s so funny, Jason?” Slade’s tone was menacing, but the absurdity of his appearance stripped away any real threat.

Jason only managed to laugh harder, his body shaking uncontrollably. Slade shoved him with enough force to send him crashing into the wall behind him. Jason groaned, trying to catch his breath, but even as his ribs ached, the laughter kept bubbling out.

“No—it’s not—I just—” Jason tried to explain, but when he glanced at Slade again, his words died in his throat. The man’s arms were crossed in mock severity, the green-and-white mess on his head gleaming under the dim light. Jason slid to the floor, biting his hand to stifle the hysterics.

Slade’s patience snapped. Without a word, he stormed to the nearest mirror.

Jason watched with bated breath as the man stared at his reflection, the expression on his face shifting from confusion to horror to unbridled rage. There was a beat of silence before Slade erupted into a stream of curses, his voice echoing off the walls.

Jason had to bite down harder to keep from cackling, his shoulders trembling with the effort.

“You think this is funny?” Slade barked, spinning around to glare at him.

Jason shrugged, his lips twitching with a suppressed grin. “No. Not at all.”

Slade advanced on him, his voice lowering into a growl. “You’re not a kid, Jason. You’re training to become a soldier, an assassin. You think you can get away with pulling stunts like this just because [insert name] thinks it’s amusing? They’ll be punished for this, and so will you.”

The words cut through Jason’s amusement like a knife. The reminder of Slade’s cruelty pulled him back to the reality of their situation. His laughter faded into a bitter scowl.

“I’m aware,” Jason muttered.

Slade’s eyes narrowed. “If you’re going to act like a child, easily swayed by your peers, then you’re not ready to go back to Gotham.”

Jason’s head snapped up. “What?”

“You heard me. I need a soldier, someone who can follow orders. Not some brat pulling pranks like it’s a game.”

“I’ve been training for this,” Jason protested, his voice rising. “You can’t just—”

Slade’s fist collided with his face mid-sentence. The pain exploded under Jason’s skin, sharp and searing, but it was the humiliation that burned deeper.

Something inside Jason snapped.

His feet planted firmly on the ground, and before Slade could react, Jason lunged. He tackled the older man to the floor with a feral growl, his knee pinning Slade’s neck as his fists rained down. Each punch was a burst of fury, painting Slade’s grotesque, dyed face in deeper shades of red.

“I am going to Gotham,” Jason snarled through gritted teeth, his voice breaking with rage. His knuckles cracked against Slade’s cheek.

“I’m going to kill them all.” Another blow.

“I need to kill him.”

Blood pooled beneath Slade’s head, mixing with the green streaks in his hair. Jason’s breaths came in harsh gasps as he loomed over the man, his boot pressing against Slade’s throat.

“And if you speak a word about what [insert name] did to Ra’s,” Jason hissed, his voice low and venomous, “I’ll kill you myself.”

The room fell into a heavy silence, save for Jason’s ragged breathing. His mind raced, fragments of clarity threading through the chaos. For the first time, he understood what he was becoming.

He would be a killer. Not a soldier. Just a weapon of vengeance, shaped by rage and sharpened by pain.

Jason extended a hand, his fingers steady despite the adrenaline coursing through him. Slade hesitated but eventually took it, allowing Jason to pull him to his feet.

Jason half-expected retaliation, but Slade simply stood there, blood dripping down his face. His silence spoke louder than any words ever could. It was the silence of a man who had just witnessed his creation take form—a weapon he could no longer control.

Jason turned away, his mind already drifting back to Gotham. To the guilty he would punish. To the man he would destroy.

-

The powdery snow danced in chaos as the cargo aircraft engines roared to life, the echoes swallowed by the surrounding mountains. Shades of fiery red streaked across the horizon, painting the heavens above a stark contrast to the pristine white below. The sun’s retreat left behind a fleeting, ethereal beauty Jason doubted he’d ever see again.

Soon, there would be no snow—only stone. The towering skyscrapers of Gotham, carved from the earth like a testament to humanity’s reach, would greet him under an ink-black sky. Though he’d left Gotham physically, his heart remained shackled to its shadows, its pain, its allure.

Slade stood nearby, his black and orange mask stark against the snowy backdrop, a silent reminder of his menace. The mask smoothed over the chaos beneath—the disheveled hair, the scars on his face. His stance was authoritative, almost rigid, his imposing figure blending with the cold landscape. But Jason wasn’t afraid, not of him. Not anymore.

The shift in the wind came first, and Jason knew Damian was there before he saw him. The boy approached, his presence disrupting the frigid air. Jason smirked; Damian always moved like a specter.

“So, you are leaving now,” Damian stated, his tone firm but undercut by a visible shiver. He crossed his arms, attempting to conceal the discomfort brought on by the icy weather.

Jason reached out instinctively, ruffling the boy’s slick black hair, knowing this was the last time he’d feel its soft texture. Nostalgia bit at him. The moment hadn’t even passed, yet it felt like a memory already.

“Yeah, seems like it.” Jason’s voice carried a bitter sarcasm. “They’re desperate for me back home.”

Damian’s lips quirked into a faint, reluctant smirk. “Then this must be farewell, forever. I must say, I did not entirely dislike your presence. You… balanced the equilibrium with [insert name]’s personality.”

Jason arched an eyebrow, crouching down so their eyes met. “Wow. Didn’t even consider visiting me? I’m hurt.”

Damian pouted, his expression as stubborn as ever. “Why would I visit that poverty stricken city? Perhaps if you failed the mission you would be able to come back here and visit me.”

Jason grinned, pinching Damian’s cheek lightly. “You’re not even denying you’ll miss me.” He let the moment linger before adding, “And I won’t even get to see you become the prince of assassins.”

Damian’s pout deepened, his arms tightening across his chest. “I am not the prince of assassins!”

Jason laughed softly, pulling him into a tight embrace. “Right, my bad. You’re gonna be the king.”

Damian didn’t protest. For a moment, Jason wondered if Damian reminded him of Bruce—not the man he had known but the man he thought Bruce could’ve been. The idea of Bruce. He squeezed Damian a little tighter, memorizing the sensation before pulling away.

Slade’s voice cut through the moment. “We’re leaving. Now.”

Jason stood, his sharp gaze scanning the perimeter for a familiar figure. He yelled back to Slade, “Where’s [insert name]?”

But Damian answered first. “They are not coming with you, Jason. You two are going your separate ways from here on out.”

Jason froze. The air left his lungs as if he’d been punched. The worst possibility—the one he hadn’t dared to consider—had come true. [insert name] wasn’t just another person in his life; they were the cornerstone, the house of his heart. Separating from them felt like losing a rib, like losing a piece of himself.

He felt his breath quicken, his chest rising and falling erratically. Damian reached out, his small hand brushing against the cross on Jason’s necklace. “Calm yourself. They will always be here,” he said quietly, tapping the pendant.

Jason nodded absently, clutching the cross. He swore to himself he’d never lose it. But still, he wanted to see them. To say goodbye.

The seconds dragged on, but [insert name]  never appeared. Time, cruel and impatient, forced his hand. Each step toward the aircraft weighed heavier than the last. His body moved forward, but his heart stayed rooted in the snow, yearning for [insert name].

As the doors began to close, a faint figure appeared in the distance. Jason’s heart leaped. It was [insert name].

Seeing them shattered something in him and rebuilt it at the same time. All the anger, all the resentment he carried dissolved in the mere sight of them. His arm reached out, desperate to touch, to close the unbearable distance.

But Slade’s voice stopped him cold. “If you walk out, all your plans for revenge are out of the picture.”

Jason hesitated, his mind warring between the pull of vengeance and the pull of his heart. Slade’s voice grew harsher. “If you walk out, you’re walking out for the person who got you killed in that asylum.”

Jason’s steps faltered. His eyes darted back to Slade, his blood turning cold. “What are you talking about?” he demanded.

Slade stepped closer, his tone deliberate. “You didn’t think [insert name] and the person who told the Joker to kill you were the same person, did you?”

The words hit him like a bullet. Jason’s gaze snapped back to the figure in the distance. Their silhouette was clearer now, but their expression remained unreadable. The growing distance felt insurmountable, like an abyss opening between them.

The doors closed, sealing Jason inside the aircraft. He sat, his mind spiraling. He couldn’t shake the image of [insert name]—their face, their presence. His heart ached with longing, but now it ached with doubt too.

And as the aircraft ascended into the night sky, Jason couldn’t help but wonder if the t on their face stood for traitor. They had been lying to them the moment he latched onto them.

That was all the reason he needed to want to kill them.

Chapter Text

hey i’m kind of disappointed that this isn’t as successful as i wanted it to be, since i worked really hard on the chapters. :( i was thinking of changing it from a y/n story into a canon character x jason? i would just replace y/n with another character and keep it third person since i heard y/n fics and first person aren’t popular anymore. i really like the plot and writing, but please comment if you would want that and please interact if you like it :)

Chapter Text

His hand stroked against the sleek metal wall, the edge biting into his cold demeanor. He had been stuck in this aircraft for two days, what felt like a month. It is said that grief slows down time, to make people wish that they had spent more time with the thing in which they were grieving.

In his context, the person he was grieving was very much alive. It was betrayal that had killed their old self, only leaving rage to fill in between the gaps of grief.

This rage had already been spilling over the edge, and was turning into a blood-lusted thirst. 

“The ship is landing. We’ll be getting new armor from here.” Slade adjusted his mask. The sounds of the ship submitting to the ground almost drowned out Slade’s dialogue. He handed him a red mask. “Cover your face.”

Jason still wore the same outfit from when he was with the League of Assassins, a red thing with Middle Eastern influence. The red mask almost matched. 

The sliding doors opened, and the night stars shone. The smell of Gotham cityscapes and pollution engulfed his senses like burned cookies, familiarity taking him up. 

“This place hasn’t changed.” Jason remarked, watching the streets from a bird’s eye. Over the edge of the roof, he could spot a woman being mugged while a policeman turned an eye. Prostitutes, who looked no older than seventeen, lined up in a dark corner where streetlights highlighted abuse on their bodies.

It was as if Jason had never left. The older man scoffed, “That’s up to you now. Follow me.”
He was led down a hidden elevator located at the top of a movie theatre. But he didn’t need a tour guide, he already knew where everything was. In fact, he was the one to type in the passwords. 

The basement was just as he left it. Glass cages, and tech galore. Nothing had changed. There were the high ceilings where Jason used to leap off of in attempts to scare Bruce. He was always unfazed. 

Through corridors they went, finding the room where all the Batman prototypes were displayed. Robin, as well.

He edged the glass tube, confining him from the first Robin costume, belonging to Dick. It was a well kept thing, with flamboyant colors. A faint smile brushed at his eyes at what felt like a light in the darkness.

His Robin costume was a different story. It was not even his, and he knew this because he had died with it. It had stuck to him as if it were his skin. This Robin costume was a fraud, something he had never worn. 

He wondered if it was truly worth it to put that costume up on display as if Bruce had even retrieved it from his dead body. Here lay the unused costume, shown as if Jason had ever worn it. If Bruce truly wanted to show what happened to the previous Robin, he would’ve shown a picture of Jason’s dead body.

Slade must have picked up on Jason’s contemplation and switched the topic. “Don’t waste time on feeling bad for yourself. Here is the prototype designed to your liking, like how we discussed before.”

He stood before the armored suit, its sleek design a blend of precision engineering and unyielding intimidation. The base was dark gray, almost black, with angular plates that seemed to absorb the light around them. The helmet was a masterpiece with a sharp, faceless mask with a glowing blue visor. A bold red “A” slashed across the chest plate, defiant and unapologetic, claiming ownership of something that was never his to begin with.

Jason gawked, for a second. Everything he and Slade had discussed was imprinted onto Batman’s old armor. He felt like he was vandalizing again. This was a fleeting thought, because, like a little boy, he rushed to try it on. 

The gauntlets and boots were reinforced, built for brute strength rather than stealth. Utility pouches lined the belt, a nod to the lessons he’d learned as Robin, but now filled with weapons Batman would never condone. Every line of the suit screamed efficiency, power, and rebellion.

“This was supposed to be his ultimate armor,” Jason thought, a bitter smile creeping onto his lips. “Funny how it fits me better than it ever could him.”

Each detail of the suit had been tweaked to reflect his personality—razor-sharp edges, a soldier’s practicality, and none of the restraint Batman held so dear. It wasn’t just armor; it was a declaration. A war cry in steel.

“You look like a real arsenal now. But I have to ask, why the cat ears?”

“They’re not cat ears– They’re bat ears.” Jason blushed at the sudden change in tone. They sort of looked like cat ears if you didn’t pay attention.

“Huh. I would’ve thought you wanted to separate yourself from Batman.”

“Not necessarily.” Jason didn’t want to separate, rather cultivate himself into the better version of him.

These words didn’t convince him that people wouldn’t see cat ears upon looking at him. He assumed [insert name] would be the first to point it out as well.

He then proceeded to tell himself that under the circumstances of which he would next meet [insert name], the tone wouldn’t be so light. Then again, they might just say it anyway. He hated them for it, even if it was a hypothetical. He hated himself for even thinking of a hypothetical for it.

Within hours, they had set up a place to stay in some warehouse. He was left all alone in the warehouse while Slade had gone to a meeting regarding the militia he was creating for the Arkham Knight.

Jason hated warehouses. He did not stay there very long before he pulled a red hoodie over his head and found himself on the dark streets of the city he used to live in.

Jason walked the streets of Gotham, his boots tapping against uneven cobblestones in neighborhoods worn by neglect. The city was a maze of crumbling buildings, dimly lit alleys, and looming shadows, where crime thrived unchecked. Sirens echoed in the distance, blending into the hum of a place that never truly rested.

Despite its dangers, Gotham held a pull for Jason. 

With the wads of cash he was given, he bought a pair of black sunglasses to further conceal himself. It wasn’t that he thought he would get recognized, considering how much he had changed, but rather he wasn’t ready to return as Jason quite yet.

Another issue was the “J” on his cheek, so he just bought a white, square bandage from CVS to cover the ugly thing. Prices had gone up so much, he felt ill handing over the cash.

He wondered if [insert name] would cover up their scar. Jason bet that they would make up a story of how they got a scar from being a part of a cult so they could blow up on social media. Since they’re such a liar.

Again with the hypotheticals.

After fully concealing himself, he ordered ten burgers, four large fries, and an extra large Coca-Cola from a diner. He hadn’t had any fast food in years, and he decided to bless himself.

“OK, I’m assuming this is for a to-go order. Do you need extra napkins for your group?” The blonde waitress innocently humbled him. Jason half opened his mouth to tell her the food was for here, since he was eating by himself, but he just nodded in shame because who on Earth eats that much?

“Yeah, that's fine. Thanks…” Jason paused and looked at her nametag. He wanted to remember the name of the first person he interacted with in Gotham after so much time had passed. “Stephanie.”

“You got it.” She limped into the kitchen, where Jason noticed her broken leg and crutches. He peaked in the back, noticing how she was the only person working. The only other people in there was a group of plastered, around thirty-year old men who were staring at her creepily.

He eyed them closely as they exchanged pitiful whispers. It was clear they hadn’t bought anything and were only there to prey on the teenage girl.

She appeared with his food in a paper bag. “Sorry for the wait.”

Jason reassured, “Don’t worry about it. Are you the only person working back there?”

“It's a whole one person band back here.” She smiled warmly as if blissfully unaware of the types of danger that usually follow these kinds of situations. 

“Are you aware that there's a three person band back there who don’t look as welcoming as you?”

“I usually try to block out ugly people from my peripheral vision. It really helps me get through the day.”

“I don’t think pretending ugly people aren’t there will really get you through the night when you’re walking alone in the most dangerous city in the world.”

“I have a feeling you’re referring to those ugly motherfuckers in the back?” She gave a quick glance to the men. “If you're worried, I am perfectly capable of fighting back.”

She attempted to show her self defense moves, but she stumbled onto the counter without the support of her crutches. Jason retorted, “I bet you can.”

“You caught me on a bad day. Once these crutches come off, I’ll beat every single one of their asses.”

“Well until that day comes, you shouldn’t clock out alone when it's this late. I’ll walk you to your ride.”

“And how am I supposed to know if you’re not trying to kidnap me, Mr. Red Hood?” As soon as she said this, he remembered how suspicious he looked. He pulled down the red hoodie.

She commented, “So, having a white streak in your hair makes you more trustworthy?”

“Uh, yeah?” Jason proclaimed with uncertainty. It became clear to him that people would think he purposefully dyed his hair. 

Stephanie paused for a moment, and then shrugged. “OK, I believe you. My shift ends in ten minutes, but don’t you need to get your food back to your group?”

“They can wait,” Jason lied.

Ten minutes passed. Stephanie proclaimed to the men in the corner, “We’re closing now.”

“Whatever you say, sweetie,” The one with the gold tooth sneered as he said this. Jason forgot how much he hated people like this. 

She rolled her eyes and let them walk out first before she locked the place up. They lurked behind as Stephanie and Jason walked out together. Jason wondered if she could feel their presence in the shadows behind them. 

“You from around here? Never seen you before.” Step questioned as the sound of her crutches echoed against the pavements.

“Yeah, from Crime Alley, but I’m just visiting.”

“Explains the bandage. I was wondering if you’re wearing those glasses to cover up bruises, or are you blind?”

“Which sounds cooler?” Jason hoped to build a new persona in the short time he had before the Arkham Knight.

“Lets just say you have a bruised left eye, and you're blind in your right eye."

Jason pushed the sunglasses up his nose. "Sounds cool to me."

"So... Do you go to school around here? College?"

Jason thought of that question. If he thought about it, he was technically a dropout. And college was definitely not on his radar. "I'm getting my... GED."

"Sounds chill. So are you visiting any family here?”

“Not under fortunate circumstances.” Jason shrugged and leaned his head back to check up on the men following them.

“I don’t think any reunions with family are under good circumstances, or maybe it's just me.” She laughed. Stephanie seemed like the kind of person who had a lot of baggage, but hid it with a smile.

Just as she said that, one of the guys from before, came up to them, “You got your boyfriend to walk you home? I’m offended, sweetheart.”

She rolled her eyes again in annoyance. “Just a friend.”

“He’s got good taste.” The wrinkled man latched his shoulder around Jason. “Let's quit this respectful guy act and agree to share her? Man to man?”

“I’m not your fucking man,” Jason twisted the old guy's wrist until he heard a snap, and pushed him up against the wall before slamming his head into the wall repeatedly. Blood gushes from his temple, painting the grey stone wall maroon.

Stephanie did not flinch, which was something worth noting. Jason just figured she was used to violence. Which was not something he wished on anyone. People should flinch at violence, people should not be used to it.

“Shit! Don’t kill him!” Stephanie urged as she pulled Jason off of the guy, who was now bleeding profusely on the ground, Jason’s boot trampling his neck. Jason was caught in a trance, like a dog gnawing for its bone. It would’ve felt so right to snap his neck and end a pathetic excuse of human life. 

In his contemplation, one of the man’s friends who was lurking in an alleyway shoved him into the stone wall and screamed, “What the hell are you doing, are you a fucking idiot?!”

Before Jason could react, Stephanie took one of her crutches and slammed it down on his foot, leaving him imbalanced, leaping on his left leg.

All Jason could think about was beating the piece of shit into the ground, but Stephanie had already called someone. 

“Why the fuck are you calling someone?” Jason asked as he looked to see where the third member of that lurking gang went. In the distance, he could see the fat guy running as he saw the sight. Typical.

“It's an ambulance.” Stephanie answered, telling the people on the line the situation. Jason’s jaw clenched, wondering how someone could be so thoughtful after something like this. “Don’t want ‘em to bleed out on the street, you know?”

The scarboy gave his perspective, shaking off his shock, “So now you wanna put them into a medical bill debt? That's just cruel.” 

Stephanie smiled at the snide remark, “Two things can be true at once.”

“Let's get out of here then.” Jason urged, not wanting any type of authority asking his identity. They quickly walked two blocks away, before arriving at a small parking lot.

“So, this is my ride.” Steph hugged the side-view mirror of her Rolls-Royce. A fucking Rolls-Royce.

“Lady, you have a fucking Rolls-Royce and work at that shithole? God, I can never understand rich people.”

“Well– technically it's not mine. It's a gift.”

“A gift from who? Your dad?”

“Oh, God no! Bruce Wayne. Figured I’d eat the rich by abusing their wallets.”

Jason pondered at what her connection to Bruce Wayne would be. With her fighting capabilities, she could be a Robin. “And how’d you get him to do that?”

“Here is a little secret. He is a huge fucking dick, even though people say he’s the coolest celebrity. Our paths crossed and… well, long story short, he messed the fuck up and I made him apologize with this car.”

“Huh.” Jason wondered if this girl was actually connected to Batman. Then again, Bruce can mess up even without his alter ego. “You could have asked for like a million dollars or ‘sum. He can afford it.”

“That's just desperate.” She leaned against her car. “And I get my own money from my very own job, thank you very much.”

The girl snickered before continuing, “I told you I could fight them off. You see that shit? I’m like the hot version of Batman.”

“Eh, the only thing in common is beating the shit out of two broke guys. You’d have to be rich to be a hot version of Batman.”

“First of all, you just beat up two poor people.” She held up two fingers on her hand. “Second of all, are you just assuming all vigilantes are rich?”

Jason snorted, “Yeah, I’ve got a pretty good theory.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but then looked to the ground. “Yeah, that probably sums it up.”

The blonde continued in desperation, “But you know the Spoiler? She’s super cool and super humble, she's probably really hard working and stuff. Definitely the most down to Earth girl ever. And she's super hot too.”

Jason stared blankly at her. “Who's the Spoiler?”

Stephanie looked as if he had just blown cigarette smoke straight into her face. She squinted up at the ceiling, sucking her teeth and muttering to herself, “God, I’ve got to get better PR.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing.” She snapped back to reality after her mini breakdown. “Oh my God, I’ve been distracting you from getting your food back to your group! They’re probably wondering where you’re at!”

Jason recalled his lie and played along, “Oh, you’re right. Don’t worry about it, they’re just waiting on some rooftop.”

“Do you need a ride?”

As much as Jason would’ve liked to say yes, he shook his head. “Nah, I’ll pass.”

“Well, since you’re cool, you should come to this party this weekend.” She pulled out her phone. “Give me your Snap so I can send you the details.”

“I don’t have a phone.” Blank stares.

“Dude, you are really mysterious. I wish I could be like that.” She shook her head and pulled out a piece of paper, writing down her number and the details of the party and handed it to him.

“Thanks.” Jason didn’t expect himself to show up because of his whole secret ordeal, but he appreciated the kindness.

She leapt into the car and opened the window before driving away, “See ‘ya there!”

Loneliness swept him up again, as the breeze lifted his hair. He pushed his hoodie up and found himself climbing up ladders and doing parkour to get to the highest rooftop, where he could peacefully eat.

-

Clink.

Dick picked up the fallen necklace. A cross with red jewels. The red hooded person had dropped it on their way up to a rooftop.

BATCHAT

Spoiler [12:31 AM]: just met the coolest guy

Robin [12:32 AM]: cool

Spoiler [12:32 AM]: well are you gonna ask?

Robin [12:33 AM]: ask what

Spoiler [12:33 AM]: you’re pissing me off omfg

NightW [12:35 AM]: Does he have a red hoodie on perchance

Robin [12:35 AM]: you can't just say perchance

Signal [12:39 AM]: no one asked timothy

Robin [12:39 AM]: no deadnaming allowed

Spoiler [12:39 AM]: yeah he does have a red hoodie and ru spying on me dick wtf

Robin [12:39 AM]: no deadnaming !!!

NightW [12:39 AM]: He just dropped his cross necklace

Spoiler [12:40 AM]: u should return it to him cus he can probably fuck u up pretty bad

NightW [12:40 AM]: I thought you said he was the coolest guy

Spoiler [12:41 AM]: he is lol he just beat the shit out of two creeps when walking me to my car

Signal [12:41 AM]: did she just scout the new robin

Robin [12:42 AM]: am i getting replaced

Robin was removed from the chat

Signal [12:42 AM]: welp its wrap for him

Spoiler [12:43 AM]: go give him his cross back and tell me if he is lying about not having a phone

NightW [12:44 AM]: Why would he lie about that

Signal [12:45 AM]: bro just doesn’t want to go to her party

Spoiler [12:45 AM]: trust he does he's just really mysterious and doesn't have a phone

Signal [12:46 AM]: whatever makes you sleep at night

Spoiler [12:47 AM]: wait when u give it back can u ask for his name and who he is cus hes lowkey familiar it's suspicious

Spoiler [12:48 AM]: and idk i have a weird feeling about him like he left the guy in critical conditions, they said his brain was bleeding, and it looked like he was about to kill him

Dick swung the necklace in the crevices of his gloved fingers. He hadn’t seen a crucifix this beautiful before. It would be a shame if that stranger lost it.

He found himself atop the rooftop, the red hooded stranger against the pale moonlight. He sat at the edge, which would often paint the picture of suicide. 

Rather, he was eating alone. Dick made it a point to not frighten him, though he didn’t look easily frightened. He called out to him, “Hey, red hood. You dropped something.”

The stranger didn’t look back, but his shoulders tensed up. Dick tapped his foot, wondering if he was deaf. He decreased the distance in between them, attempting to tap his shoulder. But the stranger caught his hand before he could touch him, glasses, a vast blackness, staring at him before the stranger released his hand from his grasp.

“Woah, kid. I don’t bite.” Dick smiled endearingly. Maybe he was a runaway. “What's your name?”

“I’m not a kid.” 

“Ok, not a kid, I found your necklace.” Dick crouched next to him, extending the necklace towards him. “I’m Nightwing.”

“I know who you are.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty famous around these streets.” The wind seemed to carry these words. 

“Then quit playing lost and found.”

“So you don’t want it back?” Nightwing got to his feet and swayed the necklace just outside of the stranger’s grasp. “It's a shame, it's so nice.”

The stranger rose, his back hunched. He tried to grab it from Nightwing, but he swerved to the side, still holding the stranger’s necklace. Dick knew that if he returned the necklace that quickly, the stranger wouldn’t even bother talking to him.

The red hooded stranger did not look very amused as his fists clenched. “Give it back,” He urged, constraint tugging at his throat.

“If I gave it back that quickly, I’m afraid you wouldn’t answer any of my questions.”

“Am I being fucking interrogated? I didn’t commit any crime.”

“Well, you did leave a man in critical conditions at the hospital who has a track history of working for the Penguin,” Dick paused. “Although, I’m sure it was out of self defense, it sparks questions.”

“You should be thanking me for getting your job done.” 

“My job is done when I find out if you actually have a place to sleep instead of sitting on a rooftop all night.”

“I already do.” The stranger said this confidently.

“Really? Where? I’ll take you there since it's so late.” As he said this, the stranger stared at Nightwing with a certain animosity.

“I can take care of myself, so leave me the fuck alone.”
“Someone learned how to swear yesterday.” Dick huffed at how stubborn this guy was. He avoided all his questions and he didn’t understand how he was cool to Steph, but not to him. 

The stranger narrowed his eyes, his posture shifting from irritation to barely contained tension. “You think you’re funny, don’t you?” His voice was quiet, but the edge in it could cut glass.

Dick raised his hands in mock surrender, the necklace still dangling from his fingers. “I’ve been told I have a certain charm. You don’t agree?”

The stranger didn’t answer immediately, instead fixing his gaze on the necklace. His fists were still clenched, but he didn’t make a move to grab it. 

Nightwing decided to fill the silence, “Look, I’m just concerned. You sent some guys to the hospital–”

“Guy,” Jason corrected. “The blonde waitress handled the other one.”

“Well, I’m assuming your guy is the one who’s bleeding from the brain?” This was followed by silence. “And there’s blood all over your glasses, you know it's dangerous to walk around at night like that!”

Nightwing’s hand almost grazed over the glasses, but the stranger flinched and pushed his hand away. In the collision, the glasses were swept to the ground, the stranger’s green eyes fluttering to the surface.

The sweet smell of rosary was masked by the paint scented air. Dick couldn’t find the point of origin, but it was there. It was always there, not fully realized. The stranger’s eyes caught him in a moment of desperation, as if clinging to the temporary instance where familiarity was founded upon. Like a rosary.

But in all things, the scents of paint swept their senses and the stranger looked up at him, eyes creased and eyebrows pulled by a string. The very same string tugged at Dick’s as he tried to understand who this was.

“You– you look just like him…” Dick gravitated backwards, he knew he had to be hallucinating. But the hallucinations ended years ago, the hallucination that was Jason was merely a ghost of his dreams.

“Look like who?” The ghost looked at him through his eyebrows, his teeth gritting. He almost looked as if he were grinning.

The ghost of Jason Todd swept Dick up like a silent tsunami. But his flesh was real and aged. This couldn’t be him. His memory, his legacy, was always a sweet boy. Was Dick projecting?

“My brother.” Dick managed to croak. The sound of a crow flocked at the edge of the rooftop, as if to demand elaboration.

“How so?” The stranger sneered as if there were some sort of inside joke between the two. “It's funny, you kind of resemble my last brother too.”

Dick didn’t seem to find any of this amusing. He wanted to wrap his arms around him and tell him it would be alright. But the stranger’s flesh and soul was not of his late brother. This is what he reminded himself of, “What a coincidence…”

“Does he know you leap off rooftops and irritate random strangers at night?”

“I wouldn’t word it like that.” Dick’s voice trailed off as the boy stepped closer towards him.

“Well, it doesn’t really matter if he knows or not. Either way, it must be disappointing that his brother would rather do this than spend time with him.”

His description felt way too close to home. As guilt blocked him from responding, the stranger continued, “How old is he? 

“Looks like you’re interrogating me now,” Dick paused to contemplate. “He’s fourteen.”

Forever fourteen, Dick thought to himself. His meds must be finally kicking in. This was not his brother. He couldn’t even begin to understand why he thought they were alike.  

“And where is he tonight?”

“Well,” The tides had finally dropped. “He was killed five years ago.”

Chapter Text

Jason found himself at the edge of nothing. Dick had entangled the necklace into Jason’s palm, cupping it with both of his hands, holding onto nothing.

His soul twitched. Jason had recognized his brother, even after years. He hadn’t aged much, and even through the mask he could see his unreflective face, shining like a prophet through a veil.

Jason had sat in a damp basement for years, doing nothing but aging, and now his own brother would not recognize him. Something sinister had been birthed in him during those years, a small, bitter hope that Dick's hair would gray, and permanent lines would form where he smiled so much. There was none of that. He hadn’t changed one bit. In a good way, but one that was hurtful to Jason.

Jason was bigger than him now. It didn’t make him feel powerful or anything. He felt more like a lab rat that was forcibly injected with steroids for a year. Like none of it was his own doing.

Well, he was killed five years ago. Those were his words.

But, he was standing right in front of him. Maybe he really was a new person after all. It wasn’t entirely Jason’s fault, though.

“And what did you do to try and save him?” Something in the rain caused the man to shiver, or maybe the words were icier this time.

“I don’t– I don’t want to focus on myself right now,” The man’s face had dimmed.

“Well, clearly you have. You seem just fine without him.”

“Listen, kid. I don’t know where this is coming from, or maybe you’re just projecting–”

“I’m not fucking projecting,” Technically, Jason was projecting. “You leap around these goddamn buildings while fixing your hair, like a fucking fairy. Meanwhile, the crime is the exact same as it was five years ago, and you’ve changed absolutely nothing.”

Dumbfounded, Nightwing’s lips lifted apart a little bit. He was still holding back, as if he had no suppressed emotions on what happened to his little brother. Still, he was upholding his precious image.

“And don’t try to act all fucking cocky with your flips and you tricks, because clearly it's not enough to save your own fucking brother,” Jason pushed Nightwing through the middle of his chest. The guy just stepped back and took it.

Jason probably sounded like a lunatic, getting all worked up about some vigilante’s brother dying, that he supposedly didn't know. He would be worried about blowing his cover, but clearly he was too unrecognizable to even be considered to be Nightwing’s dear little brother.

He would never be that way again. Suddenly, feeling small and helpless, he was reminded he was just some glorified project of the Joker’s, just to spite Batman. Jason pushed Nightwing a second time, and then a third. He just kept hitting him.

He hated him.

And Dick just kept taking the hits as if they were nothing. Like he was nothing. 

Not saying a word, his intercom went off. Someone saying they need him in a blue light district. Urgently. 

Jason backed off at this point, shrugging and pacing around. Nightwing looked like he was at the edge of something. 

“I’ll be there,” The masked man stated. With no acknowledgement of anything Jason had just said.

“Look– I have to go but if you need me-”

The intercom repeated again, that it was urgent.

Jason said, “Just go.” He turned his back on him and walked away. The sound of Nightwing leaping off the building was delayed, as if he were hesitating. Nonetheless, the interrogation was over. 

-

This party was loud and crowded with all his senses. Overstimulated, he prayed he had his buffer. [insert name] came to mind, but of course, he wanted nothing to do with them.

“Look who decided to show up!” The bright eyed blonde seemed to find him at his worst. He might have been the only one sober right then and there. “Dude, how long have you been standing there?”

“I lost track of time.”

“Oh, that's my bad, I forgot you don’t know anyone here. Follow me.”

Jason followed the light through the drunken crowd. He had come in through the backdoor of the alleyway, so he was confused on how she could get such a large building for a party.

“Do you own this place or something?”

She snarled, covering a laugh. “Oh my gosh, you must be the most oblivious people I’ve ever met.” Jason perked up, suddenly aware of what he must have looked like. He felt like he had slipped out of time, desperately trying to claw his way back in.

She must have noticed this and reassured, “This isn’t mine. This is Tim Drake’s. Well— More like his dad’s.”

Shit, it must be one of the Wayne Enterprises Hotels. He had forgotten he owned most of the buildings here.

“Bruce Wayne, huh.” He wondered if Bruce had ever given him the privilege of using one of his buildings.

As if reading his mind, “By the way, his dad would never let him do this. This hotel was shut down so we just sneak in here. He’s really smart, so he can program the lights and music and shit.”

“Super smart, huh. It doesn’t look that good.”

Jason felt someone’s presence up against his shoulder. Turning back, he saw a young guy with cat shaped eyes.

“You can have an opinion on that once you plan the best party in Gotham in the span of a night,” He retorted. He was a pale thing, with thin blue skin bruising the edges of his eyes. His black hair framed his face in wispy bangs, highlighting his royal blue eyes.

Steph shoved him jokingly and apologized on his behalf to Jason, “He always gets tense like this before the green kicks in,” Turning to the guy, she continued, “Stop being such an asshole, Tim.”

Tim Drake. Robin’s predecessor. The feeling of seeing him for the first time was a bit lackluster. The new Robin smokes pot? For fuck's sake, couldn’t he be normal and just drink at a party?

Bruce must have given up on raising a kid, that's for sure. Jason had expected to be angrier, considering how much the Joker had taunted him with the images of the new kid in that trademark costume, but that always felt like a distant dream.

Seeing him was a different thing. The guy had always felt like a concept to him, nothing but a placeholder for his deeply rooted envy. Maybe Jason wasn’t drunk, but the match hadn’t met the gasoline just yet. Or maybe it was the calm before the storm.

“Hey, dude. Are you good? I didn’t mean it.”

“You’re… Bruce Wayne’s son?”

“Adopted.”

There was this weird tension in the air, as if all the music and loud voices had been sucked out of the atmosphere between the three. Jason wondered if Tim had seen as many pictures of him as Jason had seen of Tim. No matter the answer to this, Jason was pretty much unrecognizable to any of the last pictures taken of him anyway.

Well, should Jason introduce himself? As long as Tim didn't, he wouldn't have to.

“Well, I’m not just his adopted son. I’m Tim Drake, ‘ya know?”

“Oh, goddammit,” Jason coughed out which earned him a questionable look.

Steph seemed to pick up on the fact that she didn’t know his name either. “Wait, I just realized I still don’t know your name.”

She and Tim stared at him, clearly hinting that they wanted to know his name.

“Well, I, you know…” 

Tim was edging at skepticism. Jason couldn’t tell if the guy was recognizing him or not. He couldn’t be, right? The dude was high as shit. There was no way he would be able to know it was Jason.

Thankfully, this awkward silence was disrupted by a blonde boy practically jumping on top of Tim.

“Who’s this?” He meekly asked, while staring at Jason.

“He’s… Uhh… I gotta go,” Tim huffed, while staring intently at Tim. He proceeded to leave the three of them there in a state of confusion.

“I just got here…” The blonde boy called out. But in just a few seconds, Tim came back with a shot of vodka in his hands.

“Here, have this,” He urged Jason. 

“Nah, I’m good. I already had a few,” Jason declined. 

Steph reached her hand out to take it, “I’ll take it then!” 

Tim lurched back, avoiding her reaching hand, “It's for him.”

“He doesn’t want it, though,” The blonde boy pointed out. Tim gave him a piercing look and pushed the drink to Jason’s direction.

“I insist,” Tim eyed the drink with anticipation as he looked at Jason.

“Dude, did you spike this?”

“What?! No, why would I do that?.”

Steph and the other blonde looked at him like they wouldn’t put it past him to do that.

“‘Cause you won't let anyone else drink it even though I said I didn’t want it?”

Tim gasped and put his hand to his chest, offended. “No, no, no. You got it all wrong! If it was spiked it would be fizzing just a little, and if it was advanced it would just fog up the edge of the glass a little bit. You haven’t thought of the fizz? Think about the fog, you idiots!”

They all stared at him like he was crazy. Steph shook her head, “Why the fuck do you know so much about this?”

“Oh, you of all people should know this,” Tim smiled while looking around for approval.

“Why me?”

“Well, ‘cause you know. The thing.”

She crossed her arms, “What thing?”

The other blonde answered nervously for him, while side eyeing Jason, “I think he means your job.”

Jason became skeptical. Why were they so nervous to say her job? She's just a waitress. Maybe she had a side hustle or something.

“Are you a drug dealer or something?” Jason questioned.

She gasped and shook her head, “Oh, God no. He means that I’m a waitress, right, Bernard?”

“Uh huh, yes,” Bernard nodded his head in affirmation.

There was something suspicious going on here. Maybe it was an affiliation with Robin or something. Were they aware that Tim Drake was Robin?

“Well, that was tense. You should have this,” Tim then forcibly placed the drink in Jason’s hand. “I think we’ve all established that it's not spiked, whatsoever.”

“I don’t give a fuck its not spiked! Don’t be handing me shit, you fucking dweeb.”

Steph held her hand to her mouth as Jason said this. “Dude, did you just say dweeb? What year are you living in?”

Tim ignored this and took the drink from Jason’s hand and chugged it down. “See, not spiked!”

Bernard reminded him, “I think we’ve already established that.”

“By the way, I never got your name,” Tim stared at Jason manically. “Yeah, tell us your name.”

“Can you not look at me like that? Jesus Christ,” Jason backed away from the group since he was at the brink of breaking his cover.

“Wait, come back!” He could hear Tim say as the other two seemed to scold him for scaring Jason away.

-

“Why the fuck would you steal his necklace? What the fuck is wrong with you?” Steph urged.

“I’m telling you, something is wrong with this. Dick found it on him and I’m telling you, this shit looks like something from a horror movie?”

“Ok?! Who are you to question his style?”

“I’m not questioning it, he's just really suspicious,” Tim explained himself. “Plus that other suspicious person was also asking about him too.”

“Is that why you have to get him blackout drunk?” Steph cried out, as Jason was drunkenly parading himself across the floor, half asleep.

“Well, it was either that or giving him acid.” “Why the fuck would it be between that or acid?!”

“Well, at least I did it consensually. You almost blew my cover.” 

“Consensually? You made us all play truth or drink, and he obviously didn’t wanna tell strangers about his personal life.”

“And my suspicions were correct. Why the hell does he not wanna tell us anything?”

“Because you wanted to spike his drink?”

Tim tapped his foot erratically, “I never did that! I was just trying to get his DNA on the cup so I could find out who he really is!”

Tim was on the verge of overdosing himself because everyone around him was so blatantly ignoring the fact that this bandaged stranger was up to something. First, he buys like ten burgers with a stack load of cash, beats the living shit out of some thugs, has some weird grudge against Nightwing, throws a whole fit about his strange necklace, and then doesn’t tell anyone his name? And, he uses outdated slang. Which is the worst of all crimes. 

And why was no one noticing how he looked just like Jason Todd?

“Just give me a minute, Steph, I need to walk outside.”

“Take your fucking time.”

The heavy bass of the party still throbbed through the pavement as he stepped out onto the damp Gotham sidewalk, the cold night air slicing through the warmth of the crowded penthouse behind him. Neon lights flickered overhead, casting a sickly glow on rain slicked streets, where the distant wail of sirens and the occasional roar of a passing motorcycle punctuated the uneasy silence. He lit a cigarette with unsteady hands, exhaling a plume of smoke that curled into the darkness like a ghost.

“Oh God, that tastes like shit,” Tim stomped on the cigarette and ended up using it in his frozen cherry apple geek bar.

“Let me have a hit,” [insert name] asked shyly. They had met at the party earlier, and they were also looking for the bandaged guy, adding to Tim’s suspicions.

This other mystery person had waltzed into his party, and was asking everyone if they had seen someone with a scar on his face. Of course, Tim liked to be at the scene of interrogation and decided their description had perfectly matched up with the guy Tim got blackout drunk.

What was really weird was that they had asked if he had a red, crucifix necklace. For some reason, [insert name] and the mystery guy had some weird obsession over it. Which is the reason why Tim took it from the guy. He wouldn't just steal without any motivation!

They were both really weird. Naturally, Tim had already looked up who this person was. It was strange, their record was practically perfect. There was one thing that was off, though. There was something about them going missing in the Arkham Asylum, around five years ago.

The next weird thing was, even though they were a legal adult now, Oswald Cobblepot had become their legal guardian, just recently too.

And it was also hard to ignore the huge crucifix scar on their face. He handed them the nic and started questioning them, “So… How exactly did you meet this guy?”

“Uhh… Well it's a long story.”

“I have the time.”

They laughed nervously. “No offense, but I’m actually going nonverbal right now, so be quiet.”

[insert name] was just as suspicious as the Jason Todd look-alike. But at least they weren’t as awkward. They sat there in silence for a bit, but Tim couldn’t contain his erraticness for much longer.

“So… Where are you from?” Tim asked dryly.

“Uh, here. I feel like I’ve told you this already.”

They had, in fact, already told him. And it was also hard to ignore the huge crucifix scar on their face.

“I heard your legal guardian is a mob boss,” Tim blurted out. He hoped that was common information. There were strange rumors circulating of some new family addition.

“You’re such a good conversationalist, and yes, Oswald Cobblepot is technically my legal guardian…” They looked ashamed to say it, as if they didn’t believe it themself. “Wait, how did you know that?”

“Well, Bruce Wayne is my legal guardian. I got connections, you know?”

[insert name] gasped, and started fanning themself with their hands. “Oh my gosh! You’re Tim Drake!? I totally didn’t recognize you.”

“Why not?”

“Well, you know that whole scandal of you faking being bisexual? I totally believe you were just pretending for attention, so when I saw you with that blonde guy, I was like, that definitely isn’t Tim Drake. ‘Cause Tim Drake lied about that.”

“You know what… I totally wasn’t expecting that.”

“Yeah…”

“I feel like everyone forgot about that though, it happened like five years ago?”

“Uh… I just got a really great memory.”

“Uh huh.” Either they’re really obsessed with cancel culture or something is seriously wrong with them. Or both. “So, why were you asking to see that guy?”

“Well, I don’t necessarily wanna see him, I just wanna know he’s here.”

“Why?”

“‘Cause..” They paused for a second to think of their answer. “We hook up like crazy. I’m trying to see where he is… But you know? We should all have three way.”

Heat rushed to his face, and he was unsure if should have laughed it off or pretend he didn’t hear that. Clearing his throat, he grasped at the fact that maybe this person was off the hinges or something. “What?! Oh my God, no. Jesus Christ, what's wrong with you?”

 “God, I’m just tryna lighten the mood,” [insert name] exclaimed. “If you can’t handle that, stop asking me questions about him! I was just tryna confirm he's in Gotham.”

[insert name] left Tim on a cliffhanger with that last sentence. Why would they need to confirm that if they only hook up together? Tim had to visibly contain himself before asking anymore questions, just in case they threw another curveball at him. God, if they really were someone dangerous, they’d be really good at it.

Tim was thinking about going back inside and prying information out of the drunk, Jason Todd look-alike before he could hear the stirring of a Noire Bugatti pulling up to the curb, and the tall shadow of a familiar man stepping outside of it.

“Here, do you want it back?” [insert name] placed the nicotine right back into his hands, just as Bruce was approaching the two.

“No, keep it, you idiot!” Tim tried to shove it back into their hands, but was interrupted by Bruce’s mellow voice.

“Tim.”

The underage boy awkwardly smiled as he looked up to see Bruce, in the flesh, while he still had nicotine in his hand. Damn you, [insert name].

Without saying any words, Bruce took the vape from his hands.

“Just to be clear, that was theirs,” Tim gestured towards [insert name]. 

Bruce turned to them, “Is that so?”

Tim was internally screaming at [insert name] to just say yes. But the look on their face was indifferent. They didn’t even answer, they kind of just looked at Bruce with some sort of unbeknownst hatred.

He attempted to clear his name, “They’re nonverbal.”

“I’m afraid that's not the biggest issue, as of now, Tim,” Bruce gestured to the abandoned building he owned behind them, and how it was being used as a rave for drunk college and high school kids.

To be completely honest, Tim had never really gotten caught like this before. He usually covered up very well, or maybe Bruce had just pretended not to notice. Either way, Tim was high as shit, and he was off his game.

He decided to blame his luck on the Jason Todd look-alike. He must have been some kind of bad luck charm. 

Maybe that necklace was a bad luck charm.

“You have ten minutes to shut it down, or I’ll call Cash to shut it down himself.”

Tim would've registered these pitiful words quicker if he wasn’t fixated on [insert name]. Something was seriously off about them. Particularly at this moment. 

Although Bruce did not shift under their relenting stare, Tim could feel the discomfort. Someone about that crucifix scar seemed to glow unsettlingly under the fluorescent party lights of the night. 

“Are you high right now?”

“What? No,” Tim’s eyes were heavy with the undertones of cherry dew. “Yeah.”

“Just get in the car. We’ll talk about this at home.”

Tim looked to the still quiet [insert name]. Though they were kind of intimidating in this light, he remembered they were still vulnerable in the city night. “Do you need a ride home?”

No reply. Why were they so fixated on Bruce? Tim tried to work his observant nature, but Jesus Christ, he felt like he was about to green out with all the overthinking he was doing. He couldn’t even tell if Bruce was noticing this awful tension.

He probably was, but still.

“I’ll find my way home, thanks,” [insert name] broke the silence. The buzzing of the old vent lines kept numbing down their speech.

“Are you sure?” Bruce asked gently.

[insert name] snapped their head back to Bruce. “I sure as hell won't be needing your help.”

Just as they were about to walk away from the car, Tim finally jogged his memory and remembered he needed to give the necklace back. “Wait! [insert name], take this and give it to him!”

[insert name] stopped dead in their tracks, and received the jeweled cross necklace. Smiling, just a bit. They chipped one of the tiny, scarlet jewels off and placed it inside a locket around their neck, then placing the necklace back into Tim’s hands. 

“You can keep it for now. But, when you get the chance, give it back to the bandaged boy. You owe him.”

Tim seemed distraught, “I owe him? I barely know the guy, why don't you just give it back?”

[insert name] just smiled eerily before walking into the distant humming of the city. They looked back for a second and said, “You will.”

Chapter Text

I’ve lived a lot of lives since the one where I died. Jason left me not long after he realized I was the one who ended his. How do I know? Because Jason always looked at people with this soft glimmer in his eyes, like he still believed in them. Like a puppy, really. But on that airship, right before everything fell apart, he gave me the same look he used to give Bruce.

And yes, I know who Batman is. I know who all of them are. Jason’s full name was given to me like a secret, Jason Todd. And Jason Todd was the adopted son of Bruce Wayne. So, if Jason was Robin, then it wasn’t hard to do the math. My theory was simple. The League of Assassins confirmed it without hesitation. I still don’t know why they kept it from me so long. I’d spent so much time trashing the entire Wayne family in front of Jason’s face. Maybe they found it funny. Maybe they wanted to see how far I’d go before choking on the irony.

The worst part? Even though I was legally an adult, if I wanted to get into Gotham’s upper circles, the League needed to assign me a guardian. My parents had been wiped off the map and vanished into silence. I still had limited contact, but as long as I knew they were alive, I learned to live with it.

So they handed me over to Oswald Cobblepot. Yes, that Cobblepot. He looked like Danny DeVito on a worse day. He never pretended to be a father. He didn’t need to. The deal was clear. He took me in, and in return, the League left his secrets alone. He was off limits to my hard drive hearth. It was a simple exchange of power and protection.

The heart necklace has been passed between Jason and Tim, though I don’t know if anyone else had it in the time between. I only gave it to Tim because I couldn’t give it back to Jason. I wasn’t ready to face him. The League had already crafted a leather watch for me, stitched together with pieces of my literal heart.

Still, I tore off a fragment of the necklace for myself before giving it away. It felt like it belonged to Jason. Like it was a part of him I needed to hold onto. If Tim has the necklace now, then the crucifix is harvesting his thoughts, reading him like a diary. With any luck, it’ll get passed around again. Let every Wayne carry the weight.

But with the Arkham Knight rising and Scarecrow’s reign creeping closer, I can’t afford to be careless. And Tim… Tim is already watching me too closely.

He’s starting to figure it out. 

It kind of made me feel like Jason and I were still a team. That old rhythm between us, still echoing faintly somewhere deep inside.

-

Two weeks later

It was Halloween. I sat in my too fancy apartment, sprawled across the bed, caught in thought. I had just met Bruce for the first time. It wasn’t the dramatic, badass moment I had always pictured. There was no fire in my words. I just stood there, silent, like something heavy and invisible was holding me down.

I did feel a kind of justified resentment toward him, but only a few words managed to leave my mouth. To Bruce, I was just some random person hovering near his nicotine addicted son. That was our first meeting. Not exactly legendary.

I couldn’t stop thinking about why Jason was so recklessly obvious at that party. That felt more like something someone else would do. My mind was too crowded to think clearly, so I left the building and wandered the sidewalks, surrounded by the humming chaos of the city.

Normally that would be strange, especially for a teenager. But I wasn’t a teenager anymore. I had lost so many years that I couldn’t tell how old I was supposed to feel. I still felt like a kid. Jason probably did too, considering he had been tortured for nearly two years.

After that, he trained with Slade for two more until now. So maybe he was better now. But still, part of me felt like I helped shape who Jason became. And it stung a little to see him arrive here so recently and already get invited to something important.

I had been in Gotham for a year. Despite my status, all I got was one dull charity event and zero real connections. Life has a funny way of being unfair.

But, since I’m working for the Al Ghuls, I did set up some things for Slade. For instance, I made deals with Ace Chemicals for the toxic gas. I also covered up any suspicious encounters while paying off Slade’s new militia.

The scream of sirens broke the air, singing the usual soundtrack of Gotham crime. There was a robbery down the street. No police in sight, probably too busy elsewhere. It seemed like the perfect time to finally meet the so-called vigilantes.

Knowing what I did about their background, it felt almost wrong to call them that. Most of them were just people born into old money. They weren’t vigilantes. They were more like unauthorized police in expensive armor.

As people scattered from the scene, I found myself walking straight toward it. After dying once, I wasn’t really afraid of much anymore. I figured I should get something out of this borrowed life.

The criminals were dressed like Two Face’s crew, split color suits and skeletal masks. I didn’t care about them. I just wanted to watch the vigilantes in action. And right on cue, I sensed one. A bat-like shape moved through the shadows, just as I had expected. I had a strange talent for noticing movement in places others overlooked.

Instead of watching the fight unfold, I searched for something better. I scanned every alley and every parking deck, looking for the Batmobile. It wasn’t easy to hide something the size of a tank.

Tucked at the edge of a narrow alley, there it was. It looked like it was worth more than everything else on the block combined. The cracked pipes and graffiti around it made the whole scene feel surreal.

Jason once told me how he met Batman. He had been trying to steal a tire off one of these. Looking at the thing now, that was kind of impressive. I would have thought it would electrocute you on contact.

If that was all it took to get Batman’s attention, maybe I should try it too.

I tried the doors. Of course, they didn’t open. I couldn’t believe he actually locked them. Who does that?

So I leaned against the car and waited, rain starting to fall in thin, cold sheets. I shivered under the weight of it, soaked and small beside a machine built like a god. My plan was falling apart with the storm. Eventually, I started drifting in and out of sleep, curled up against Gotham’s most dangerous welcome mat. 

All of a sudden, I heard two voices approaching in the distance. 

“You’re still grounded,” a deeper voice muttered.

“C’mon, can’t you give me some leeway? I practically saved you tonight,” the younger one protested.

I kept nodding out as I listened to their muffled voices. It must have been Batman and Red Robin. Huh, Tim must be getting grounded. Serves him right, I guess.

I quickly closed my eyes, pretending to be asleep. I was hoping they would come along the corner and find my poor soul “passed out,” and try to help me. 

Their footsteps grew louder against the wet pavement. I could hear the soft squelch of boots on the rain-slicked concrete, then a pause. They must have turned into the alley.

“Wait,” the younger voice said again, quieter now, uncertain. “Is that… someone sleeping?”

There was a beat of silence. I could feel their eyes on me before I even heard them move closer. I was wondering what their expressions were.

In a low tone, who I assumed to be red Robin, “That's the person from…” He stopped before finishing his sentence. I met him when he was Tim, not as his vigilante self. He wasn’t aware that I knew who he was already. I was internally giggling at how he would try to hide this knowledge. 

I stayed still, let my breathing remain slow and steady. I didn’t move a muscle. Not even when their shadows fell over me like storm clouds.

There was another pause. Batman shifted his weight, and I could practically feel the scowl radiating from under the cowl.

“They’ve been around the Batmobile,” he said, more to himself. “Reckless.”

“They’re soaking wet,” Tim added, softer this time. “And alone.”

“They're not unconscious,” Batman said. “Their eyes just opened.”

I felt a pang of irritation. Of course he could see that. Still, I stayed frozen. Just in case they weren’t sure.

“They’re pretending,” Tim said after a moment, sighing. “Should we… take them back? They’ll get hypothermia if they stay out here much longer.”

Batman must have listened, and in a louder voice aimed at me, “You can stop pretending. We know you’re awake. It's dangerous to be alone in the middle of an alleyway.”

I cracked one eye open, looking up at the two figures looming above me. And yes, Red Robin, Tim, was doing a very bad job of not staring at me like he knew exactly who I was. 

“It's sort of insulting that you don’t know who I am,” I eyed.

Tim’s body language shifted, as though he thought I had figured out who he was at the moment. I mean, I knew, but that moment is long gone. Nervously, he exasperated, “I don’t think we’ve met before.”

“Well, that much is obvious. I would've expected at least Batman to know that the Penguin has a legal child now,” I pointed out. To be fair on them, the whole thing was kept quite private. I mean, why would I personally want that to be known information other than for attention? Well, even I was not that desperate for attention. The only ‘appearance’ I made was at a charity event where I hid in the bathroom for the whole time and ate everything that I could fit in a square white napkin.

Still, it seems like Batman’s losing his touch, just a little bit. Even Tim knew this.

“So, are you just gonna leave me here in the cold ‘cause you hate Mr. Cobblepot, or what?” I questioned, subtly hinting at their fact that I wanted to go to their secret lair. When Scarecrow and the Arkham Knight take over Gotham city, it would be nice to have a technologically advanced place to operate from. Or hide. Who knows?

Batman paused for a second, before he opened the doors to the car. The hiss of hydraulics echoed in the alley, steam curling up from the seams like it was breathing. The interior was dark, sleek, glowing faintly with pale blue interface lights. 

The older man knelt down. Behind the mask, I could see empathy creviced in the age of his face. It started to kick in. Was this the same man who Jason had scrutinized for so long? The one who is knelt down in an alleyway, trying to help the affiliate of a mob boss? It was surreal to remember how many stories about a person can be true at the same time. 

“Get in the car, we’ll take you home,” he assured. 

I didn’t wait in the rain just to go back home. God, can’t he catch a hint?

“Home? Like your home or mine?” I quickly replied to subvert the context.

“Yours, unless there is something going on at home?”

I had to quickly shake my head, because I definitely don't wanna be emancipated and become recruited for the next Robin. I will not be in the same family tree as Jason. Shit, why am I thinking of that?

“No, I live by myself. I just– I have a lot of issues to bring up with you. You know, I’m legally related to a mob boss.”

Both Red Robin and Batman looked at eachother. Robin asked, “Is everything okay? You can tell us what's going on.”

Here come the fake tears. To be honest, I had zero idea what was going on with the Penguin, or for any matter, what was going on in Gotham at all. I can't remember the last time I looked at the news. The only thing I knew about is that the Scarecrow and the Arkham Knight were taking over the city, which was very soon. And I can’t exactly screw that up by telling Batman. God, I think Jason would actually kill me. 

I sniffled, my tears blending in with the rain droplets. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’ll tell you everything…I just can't go home right now.”

“I think we need to take them back to the base,” Tim told his dad. 

He nodded, “We’ll take you back to our base. You can tell us everything if you’re worried, okay?”

“Yes, sir,” I was grateful as they opened the door for me. It quickly wore off because now I had one car ride to make up some bullshit of what I was worried about.

Like, do I tell them that the Penguin has some masterclass plan to blow up the east side? Who in the world would believe that? I kind of dug myself into a hole, but it's whatever. If I can’t think of anything, I’ll just pretend to get a panic attack or something. That would probably get rid of all the cool points I got the first time I met Bruce and Tim outside the party though. 

The car ride there was silent. I was trying to find out ways to plant my all-seeing heart onto Batman. I guess I’d have to get close to him first. He seems like a suspicious guy. I did have a watch with my heart in the crevices, Bur Ra’s hadn’t given it to me yet.

The windows in the back were tinted, so I couldn't see much of anything. I wondered what Tim was thinking. He seemed really on the edge two weeks ago, especially about Jason. Hopefully he wasn’t connecting any dots. 

The tank glided down an underground tunnel, it must’ve been way over the speed limit at that point. I couldn’t really tell where we entered from. I know we were still in the city. We were near the Panessa studios. 

As I got out of the car, there was a huge display of different technologies and suits. It was like a museum. Robin offered me a thin blanket to cover myself with. I was still soaking wet.

I couldn’t come up with any lies to tell them, so I decided to just tell them a very simplified version of what the Arkham Knight, Slade, and the Scarecrow were going to do. A little warning wouldn’t stop the plan from happening anyways. 

I sat down on a ledge. The two of them facing me was sort of intimidating. I don’t know how Jason is going to fight either of them. Unless Jason had really grown that much in two years, I was actually getting scared for him.

I tilted my head down to avoid eye contact. “Look, I just overheard this from Mr. Cobblepot, but it really has me worried.”

Their facial expressions didn’t change. Batman assured me, “It's okay, you can tell us everything.” 

God, can’t he catch a cue? That is the opposite of what I want to do.

All of a sudden, I heard from an intercom that there was a police chase to find the culprit of a murder. Apparently, a mutilated body has been hung in the city. Yikes. It's only going to get worse from here.

Robin looked at him with assurance, “You can go. I can handle this.”

Batman looked at him before getting into the car, “I'll be back as soon as possible.”

Thank God for that. I did not feel like explaining shit to Batman.

He leaned down on the rail beside me. It was killing me that we both technically knew each other, but we couldn’t say anything about it. Not with ears everywhere.

“Whatever happened, I wouldn’t worry too much. We’ve got everything under control, miss.”

I didn’t bother hiding the scoff in my voice. “So I don’t have to tell you what happened? You’ve got that covered already?”

The way his jaw tightened told me he caught the sarcasm. But he didn’t argue. Maybe because he knew I was right. It was obvious they didn’t have anything under control. Not when the real threat was two nights away, and they had no clue. 

“I didn’t bring you here for nothing,” he said, hopping down from the ledge and spinning to face me. “By any chance… does it have to do with the scar on your face?”

I looked away. “Not even close.”

He paused, studying me. It wasn’t like a cop, but like someone who actually listens. 

“I was involved in vaguely cultish activities back then,” I said, half lying with practiced ease. Does cutting your face into a crucifix to impress the Joker count as cultish? I probably shouldn’t answer that. 

“Well,” I sighed, deciding to get this whole ordeal over with, “I overheard something from Mr. Cobblepot.  To sum it all up, basically every criminal in the city is planning something big.”

His eyes narrowed beneath the hood.

“They’re going to release some kind of airborne chemical. Something toxic. I don’t know if it’s gas or spores or whatever, but it’s supposed to hit the whole city. Full coverage.”

“And you're saying…”

“Two nights from now.” I looked at him, finally. “You don't have to believe me. To be honest, I don’t know what you can do… but I thought it would be worth it to tell you here. There are hidden cameras all over where I live.”

He turned away, processing. I could practically hear the gears grinding in his head.

“Do you know where the chemicals are being stored?”

I hesitated. “I have guesses. The docks are too obvious. Maybe it's under the Narrows. Wherever it is, they’ve been planning it for a while. All the factions are working together, for now.”

“That never lasts,” he muttered.

“Yeah, well, they don’t need it to. Just long enough to make Gotham unlivable.”

He turned back to me, voice lower now. “And why are you telling me this?”

I raised an eyebrow. “Because I’m not interested in dying. And because… maybe I owe someone.”

He didn’t ask who. Smart of him.

It didn't really bother me that he knew so much. The event was so well planned, thanks to me, so nothing would be able to stop it. 

“So… what are you going to do about it?” I asked, so I could know how useless his plan was. 

“Well, I have to tell Batman and…” He paused for a second, as if he regretted what he said. “Actually, I can do it myself. Wait here, don't touch anything.”

He quickly lept off and ran towards a door that led to darkness.

Great, I was alone again. I thought I was supposed to be part of this counter plan of the plan I supported? 

I wandered for a while, aimless but drawn in by the quiet reverence of the room. The cases lined the walls like gravestones, each one holding fragments of past lives, old armor, broken masks, faded insignias. Some had been mended. Others left exactly as they were found, scars intact.

One display caught my eye.

It was Jason’s old Robin suit.  Rust colored stains marked the abdomen, blood soaked so deeply into the threads that even time refused to scrub it clean. My throat tightened.

I remember when I saw him for the first time. This is what he was wearing. It must have been four or five years since then. A sick nostalgia washed over me. 

I touched the glass surrounding it, as if I was still touching him. He was so small, wasn’t he? He looked like a cracked porcelain doll, all rusted up from torment. I felt sick to my stomach. Was this not death’s costume, a reminder of the world’s failures? Of my failure?

And why was it on display? It was like an old, dusted trophy. Oh look, here is the armor of my dead son. Batman seemed so stoic around it, as if it did not affect him. I did not understand this.

I wrapped my blanket tightly around me, tears bubbling in my eyes. I missed Jason. I missed Damian and Talia. This city was just a sick reminder of all that there has ever been, and what has there been but the aftermath of mourning after mourning?

There was a loud bang that came from behind me. Was Tim back? I wiped my tears to conceal my tragedy. 

Looking behind me, I did see a Robin costume. Just not the one I was used to. 

I raised my eyebrow. This must be the new Robin. Huh. He was a bit short. I felt a little bit old considering I had lived through four Robins. 

I had never heard news of this one, so he must be really new. “Hey, sneaking up on someone is not cool.”

He stared at me blankly, looking me up and down. Is he seriously already judging me? I followed up, “Are you new? You know Robins are supposed to be welcoming, right?”

If there was a new Robin, there could be a chance that Bruce Wayne had adopted another kid. But no, there would be news about that. Who the hell is this?

He stepped closer, and said something snarky. “You’re the one who keeps following me into my home.”

“It's pretty sad if you live here. I don't even know you are so…” 

Then, without a word, he pulled off his mask and grabbed my wrist, tugging me into the shadows of a corner.

My heart stopped.

“Damian?” I whispered.

He stared at me like I was the ghost. “What are you doing here, [insert name]?!”

I couldn’t move. I just stood there, my mouth hanging open, disbelief locking my joints in place. He looked older. A little taller, sharper around the edges. But it was him.

“Answer me, hello?” he snapped, like he didn’t know I was the one in Gotham.

Out of pure instinct, I leaned down and wrapped my arms around him, tight. Like he might vanish again if I didn’t.

“I missed you,” I breathed. “I missed you so much.”

At first, he didn’t move. But then, slowly, reluctantly, and with the smallest sigh, he gave into it. His arms slipped around me, mechanical at first, then real. The kind of hug you give when words fail.

Eventually, he pulled away slowly and said, “You are not supposed to be here.”

“Neither are you.”

We stood there in silence, wrapped in the kind of hug that feels like trying to hold the pieces of yourself together through someone else.

For the first time, I felt like I was at home. I giggled a little bit, and tousled his hair, “It's only been a year? How did you grow so much?”

“I have been hard at work, unlike you.”

I finally decided to address the elephant in the room, or the bird. “Are you… the new Robin? How the hell does that work?”

“I thought you would be able to piece two and two together, since you are supposed to be a spy.”

“Quit being snarky and tell me.”

He sighed, as if he were about to tell some big news. I braced for it. 

“I’m Bruce Wayne’s son.”

For some reason, the only appropriate reaction I had was to laugh straight into his face. “You have got to be joking.”

“I'm not.”

“So, I was living with two different Waynes two years ago? What a fucking coincidence!” I started hunching, holding my stomach. This could not be real.

“Is this funny to you?”

“Yes. Yes, this is funny. So, all that time Jason was complaining about that new Robin… he didn't even know he was living with a future Robin? Oh my gosh, this is just cruel.”

“I am glad this is so hilarious to you. May I ask what you are doing here?”

“Same thing as you, I'm infiltrating Gotham for Ra’s.”

He looked at me as if I had something totally bizarre. I continued, “That's why you’re pretending to be Robin, right? To infiltrate the Waynes?”

He looked at me very sternly, “[insert name], did you not get the message?”

I laughed awkwardly, “What message?”

“My mother has called the mission for you off, since my grandfather is on his deathbed. Did you not receive the letters?”

I felt like my heart dropped, even though it was not there. “Where were the letters sent to? I didn’t receive any of them.”

“They were sent to Oswald Cobblepot’s property.”

I sat back against the wall in frustration, “Of course that deadbeat didn’t send me my mail. Damian, I don’t live with him!”

He took a step back, in confusion. “Do not tell me… you are still working for Slade?”

I grasped for some consolidation. “Well, yes… I mean–”

“So, you are telling me that Slade is still continuing his plan to gas the whole of Gotham, even though my grandfather told him it was over?”

I was dumbfounded. I was working for Slade, even though I didn’t have to?

“And… and you have been helping them?” He questioned me further. The warm and familiar face had turned cold and distant.

“Can you blame me? Why are you even with the Waynes? After everything that happened to Jason? I thought you would always follow your grandfather’s wishes.”

“I am following my mother’s wishes,” He huffed. “How can you actually agree with this plan? Do you know how many people it will harm?”

“Do you seriously think I have a choice? I'm locked in with them now.”

“Weren't you the one who was always talking about making your own decisions in life?”

“I am making my own decision. I’m trying to help Jason.”

He scoffed, “He does not even like you.”

“Why are you switching up on me? I’m the one who's been on your side.”

“Can you not see what you are doing is wrong?” He took a step back, and his voice echoed through the whole room.

“So, you suddenly become Robin and now you are the spokes boy for all good in the world?”

He didn’t reply.

I continued, “Were you not supposed to inherit your grandfather’s legacy? Why are you with the Waynes?”

“It is what my mother asked for.”

“Because mommy told you?” I snapped, the words boiling up faster than I could stop them. “Jesus Christ, you have no loyalty. I don’t care if your whore mother called it off, I didn’t get fucking revived and trained in Budapest against my wishes to do nothing.”

Ouch. As soon as the words left my mouth, I regretted it. 

He didn’t seem to like that either, because in the next few seconds I was against the wall, with his elbow to my neck.

His other hand hovered near his belt, fingers twitching toward his comm.

“I was going to give you some leniency, but you should not have said that. I am going to tell my father everything.”

The last thing I wanted was Batman knowing about my true intentions. If I was getting my ass handed to me by a middle schooler… God, I already was shivering with fear.

I jerked my arm free from Damian’s grip and, with a sharp twist of my wrist, tore the comm device from his ear. Before he could react, I threw it to the ground and stomped, the thing shattering with a static pop beneath my boot.

He froze.

We stood there, both breathing hard with me against the wall and him with his fists curled.

“You don’t get to act righteous,” I hissed. “You’re not even sure which side you’re on.”

Neither was I, but at least I wasn’t pretending otherwise.

I continued, “And if you tell Bruce about it, he’ll know, actually, the whole family will know, that you know Jason is alive. So much for secrets, huh?”

Got him. How is he going to join a new family, and have them hate him already?

All of a sudden, I heard Tim’s voice echo through the hall, as if an angel came from Heaven just for me. “Uhm… What are you guys doing?”

Damian quickly slid the mask right on. I prayed he wouldn’t say anything, at least not with me here. 

In a very monotone way, Damian replied, “They were just telling me that they really needed to go home.”

Great, is he seriously trying to get me out of the way so I don’t expose him? When I’m gone, he’ll definitely tell them that I was a part of it. Then they’d interrogate me… Then I'd go to jail… A wave of sweat bled through me.

Tim replied, clearly clueless, “Really? That's fine. I was just running some tests, since I was already suspicious of that area. There has been something seriously sketchy going down at Ace Chemicals. It comes down to some anonymous name, but that's no problem.”

Seriously? It's been like five minutes since he left. I was practically cornered. Damian’s suggestion was the best option for me. I was basically stuck in Batman’s doom lair once Tim found out.

“Yeah, yeah, you go do that Tim. I think I’m gonna go now, you know it's Halloween,” I said, as a cold bead of sweat came down my forehead. 

Tim tilted his head. “For sure. I’ll take you home then?”

“Just drop me off at the closest place you can find,” I said, trying to keep my voice light, casual, like my heart wasn’t trying to beat its way out of my chest. From the corner of my eye, I saw Damian’s eyebrows draw tight, suspicion already digging in.

Tim didn’t say anything. He just gave me a slow nod and gestured toward the exit. “C’mon then.”

We moved fast down the hall, boots echoing off the concrete, the flickering lights overhead buzzing like flies. The air in the Batcave always felt colder than it should. Maybe it was all the ghosts.

Tim opened the elevator with a flick of his gauntlet. It groaned to life, humming upward.

As we stood inside, the silence sat heavy between us. I didn’t dare look back at Damian. I could feel his eyes burning into me from across the cave. 

“You okay?” He asked. 

“Yeah, just take me to the nearest cafe.” I calmed myself down. As long as I was with Tim, Damian wouldn’t be able to tell him the truth, because I would be able to expose him. Once Tim got back to Damian, then it was a free for all with Damian.

Unless he was just bluffing. Despite all the arguments, I was still close with Damian. Maybe he was just trying to intimidate me out of carrying on with the plan. Maybe he wasn’t going to betray me after all.

It was smooth sailing in RR’s car. He seemed to notice my sick demeanor, and didn’t say much.

I was dropped off near a cafe. We said our goodbyes, and he thanked me for my help. “We’ll contact you as soon as we resolve this. Thank you.”

He most definitely will not be contacting me. As I waved a forced little goodbye to Tim, already halfway down the driveway, I slipped my phone out and scrolled to the number I shouldn’t be dialing.

Cobblepot. I hit call.

To my surprise, he actually picked up after the second ring.

“Ay, what the hell you want? Didn’t I tell you to only call for emergencies?”

“It is one,” I said, lowering my voice. “I kind of fucked up. Do you think you’d be able to push the whole Arkham Knight agenda to tonight ?”

There was a pause. 

 “Tonight? Are you kidding me?” He let out a harsh laugh. “Jesus Christ. You realize you’re asking me this on the day of, right? I can ask Slade, maybe. But I dunno about Scarecrow, he’s one scary motherfucker. Doesn’t like change. Doesn’t like people. ”

I closed my eyes. “Just tell him this. It’ll be even more poetic if it happens on Halloween. The city’s already wearing its mask. Might as well let it rot beneath one.”

There was silence again, then the quiet click of a lighter. I could picture him now, leaning back in some overly plush leather chair, puffing on a cigar and cursing under his breath.

“…What did you do this time?”

“You want the truth?” I snapped. “ You forgot to send me my fucking mail. And now Batman’s sniffing around. That’s all I’m telling you.”

“Christ,” he muttered. “Alright. Alright. I’ll do it. Jesus fucking Christ. What a pain in my ass.”

“Also…” I said, biting back the hesitation.

“What else the fuck you want?” he groaned.

“I need a gun.”

That shut him up.

“…Since when do you ask for guns?” he finally said, more cautious now.

“Since I pissed off both Wayne’s sons in a 24 hour span and shredded Robin’s comm in the middle of the Batcave. Just… get me something clean. No serials. Nothing flashy.”

Cobblepot sighed like I’d asked for his last bottle of whiskey. “You are gonna owe me for this one, kid.”

“I already do.”