Chapter Text
Jason cautiously eased the backpack off his shoulders. He had been careful not to jostle it too much, keeping the trigger strapped in a box with no chance of accidentally pressing the button—he had no wish to die by fire a second time.
It had hurt. It had hurt more than anything Jason had ever felt. The pain was unimaginable—his blood had boiled and fire seared through his skin to burn bone and he’d drowned with every gasp of superheated air and he remembered all of it. Remembered the agony shrieking in every cell of his body and he didn’t even know what was happening until it all stopped.
Until he sank into the blissful embrace of an unknowing eternity.
Until he’d been dragged back.
Back to a world with the possibility that he might go through that awful experience again because the Joker was alive, because Batman hadn’t killed that fucking clown, because the deaths of a thousand people meant nothing to the Bat, the death of Robin meant nothing to the Bat—
Except Robin was just a suit. And clearly Jason hadn’t been his son. So why would his death be any different from the multiple unnamed bystanders that had gotten caught up in Joker’s epic quest to destroy the Bat?
He was just collateral damage. They were all collateral damage in the game that Batman played with the Rogues, this whole goddamn city, and if the mountain didn’t go. Well.
Jason removed the bomb and concealed the backpack with the trigger in a hollow between the dumpster and the wall. The Batmobile was parked across the street—they were near the stadium, a good five blocks from the docks. Jason had watched Batman leave the Batmobile five minutes ago, no Robin in tow, no one else in the car as far as he was aware.
He took a deep breath and walked forward. He’d drawn the hood of his red sweatshirt over his hair and darkened the hollows around his eyes with grease before tugging on the plastic domino mask.
He was alone. No gear, no comms, no backup. He had no warning system to tell him if Batman was coming back. All he had on his side were luck and determination—the only two things he had ever needed, the two things that had kept him alive on the streets long before Batman had picked him up and shoved him to the frontlines of a fight that no child should’ve been on.
The Batmobile’s sensors, in theory, stretched ten feet in every direction. In practice, the sensors were attuned—they couldn’t be setting off alarms at every fire hydrant, streetlight, stray piece of trash, or passing car. Jason knew how they were attuned, he’d been the one to design it. He knew the system like the back of his hand. He knew where the loopholes were, and how to exploit them.
“Okay, how about if an animal falls on the car?”
“What kind of an animal?”
“Hmmm…how about a cat?”
“You planning on heading to Selina’s again, old man?”
He stopped, three feet from the car. Now was the tricky part. He jerked forward a step, a jagged movement too fast for a normal walk, and immediately froze. He counted down from thirteen in his head.
“Why thirteen, Jay?”
“Everyone’s superstitious in this city.”
He jerked forward again and stilled, staring at his reflection in the dark, tinted windows of the Batmobile. The bomb was heavy in his hands.
“No, B, you gotta clean it until it shines!”
“Son, that isn’t going to stop them from egging it.”
“It would’ve stopped me.”
He crouched in a swift movement, staring at the rear tire.
“How about you change the tires, lad? You’re quite familiar with them, after all.”
“You’re never gonna let that go, are you, old man.”
Jason swallowed, almost missing the end of the thirteen count, and practically threw himself to the ground, suppressing the heaving breaths he wanted to take as he sprawled, tense, right next to the Batmobile.
He needed to—he had to stop—the memories—
“Why is it called the Batmobile?”
“Dick.”
“Okay, but why did you agree?”
“When’s the last time you said no to Dick’s pouting face, hmm?”
Jason pushed himself along the ground, asphalt digging into his back, until he was half under the car.
A warm arm around his shoulders, a quiet, low voice patiently explaining the different components of the engine—
Curling his fingers around the steering wheel and giggling, because he could see Bruce’s constipated face even under the mask—
Tired and sore and covered in grease but happy, eyeing the gleaming car with pride as a heavy hand ruffled his hair. “Good job, Jaylad—”
Jason violently yanked himself back to the present.
Bomb in his hands. Cord looped around his belt buckle. He was staring up at the undercarriage, fuel tank to his left. There was a sensor on the tank itself, of course, but there weren’t any right next to it. Jason skimmed a hand across the pipes, checking for any changes, but there was nothing he could find.
His fingers were trembling.
He remembered working on this car, remembered passing tools back and forth, remembered the flush of warmth when blue eyes landed on him and crinkled into a smile and—
And nothing.
All the hair ruffles in the world hadn’t been enough to save him. Hadn’t been enough to avenge him.
Jason set his jaw, and pressed the bomb to the undercarriage. He held it in place with his forehead, uncoiling the corded rope to quickly and efficiently lash it to the pipes, knotting the cords with ease.
He dropped back down, and stared at it. At the unassuming dark case tied to the Batmobile. At the instrument of Batman’s destruction.
For a second, he was somewhere else, he was leaning against a wall with his body screaming at him, and there was ticking in his ears and a timer and wires and—and—and—
Jason would be avenged tonight.
He waited on the roof in the opposite direction of the docks, curled up in the corner with the hood up and mask off, like he was just catching a nap. The trigger was clutched firmly in his hand.
He didn’t care how long he’d have to wait. This ended tonight.
“Good job, Robin.”
No. No. Batman didn’t care. Batman was tearing this city apart. If there was no Batman, there was no Robin, there were no dead kids, there was no one to get caught up in a grudge match between a morally idealistic hero and his insane psychopath of a nemesis.
The freaks with costumes and gimmicks had shown up because of Batman. Remove Batman, and the crazies would melt back into the shadows.
Kill Batman, and this city would be safe.
“Robin. Did he fall…or was he pushed?”
He’d fallen. Jason hadn’t—he hadn’t—he had never killed anyone.
Not until now, anyway.
Batman had never trusted him. Had never cared about him. Jason had just been the poor deluded street kid that had gotten a scrap of affection and thought that meant something. Batman didn’t care though—not about him, not about this city, not about anything but his menagerie of villains.
And if Jason had to cross a line to stop him, so be it.
The trigger was shaking in his fingers. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. It was going to be okay. Everything was going to be okay. He was going to kill Batman—
“Jay-lad—”
“How was school today?”
“I bought you some new books.”
“Come on, kiddo, you can do better than that.”
“You made the right choice, Robin.”
“I will never leave you.”
“You’re my son.”
“Jay—”
He was—he was going to—to k—kill his father—
It wasn’t the cowled shadow that appeared in his mind, dark and forbidding, it was warm blue eyes and soft smile and a patient voice and Batman was Batman but Bruce Wayne—Bruce Wayne had been his father.
He didn’t care about you, his mind hissed, not enough to trust you, not enough to save you, not enough to claim you, even in death.
Bruce Wayne was Batman, and he hadn’t avenged his son’s death, and Jason’s head was screaming, a throbbing pulse of pain behind his eyes as memories of a family clashed violently with the sickening sound of a crowbar breaking his bones because it couldn’t be a lie, three years of patience and understanding and love couldn’t be a lie, but it had to be a lie, because if it was true then the clown should be dead, why wasn’t the clown dead.
Because Batman hadn’t cared enough to put his son over the inflexible rules that governed his mission, because he hadn’t trusted Jason enough to take him at his word, and it made sense that Robin’s death wouldn’t have changed his crusade.
Maybe Jason had been worth something. Maybe not. But it hadn’t been enough to change anything.
As always, the street kid felt short.
He hadn’t been enough for any of his parents—enough to keep Willis out of jail, enough to stall Catherine’s drug addiction, enough to stop Sheila’s greed.
Maybe the problem wasn’t with Batman.
Maybe it was with him.
The remote trigger almost clattered to the floor.
Maybe it’s you, something echoed in his head, maybe it’s all you, maybe you don’t deserve to be happy, ever think of that? Maybe you’re just pathetic alley trash, lashing out because you’re being treated exactly the way you should be.
He—he’d thought that Bruce—that Batman—he’d thought he’d meant something, he’d—but he hadn’t always had those expectations.
The street kid, adopted as a wonderful show of charity in the game that rich assholes loved to play, and Bruce must’ve been so relieved that he could finally wash his hands of the whole affair. Get a new charity case, one that listened, one that cleaned up better, one that wasn’t such a useless waste of space that he couldn’t even die properly.
Was he really going to kill Batman just because Bruce hadn’t done what all three of his other parents hadn’t done? Nothing about Bruce’s reaction was different enough to inspire outrage, and here Jason was, sitting on a rooftop in the dead of night, planning to blow him up—for what? For not caring, like everyone else in his life?
No, something else hissed, rage borne of years of frustration, Batman. Batman is killing this city. You need to stop him.
That was true. No Batman, no Rogues. No Rogues, no mass murderers, no more dead kids.
A flicker of movement. Jason tensed—the cowled shadow had appeared, a dark wraith fluidly crossing the street to the car. No indication that anything was wrong. He didn’t even glance up at the rooftop where Jason was hiding.
No Batman, no Rogues.
The gauntleted hand opened the door of the Batmobile.
No Batman, no Rogues.
…Right?
He went cold.
Batman slid inside the car—no sign of anyone else inside, he was free to push the trigger—and closed the door.
What if—what if the Rogues didn’t go away with Batman? What if Gotham was left defenseless with no protector?
Fat lot of good his protecting has done, a low voice sneered.
How many people has he saved? another voice countered, how many cases did you solve, how many criminals did you lock away—
For them to be back on the streets in days, the corrupt system—
That’s not Batman’s fault—
His responsibility—what’s the point of catching criminals if half of them just get back out?
At least he’s doing something! At least he tries!
Not good enough, the sneering voice retorted.
The Batmobile started. It was beginning to move.
Are you going to kill him for not being good enough? the quiet question resounded in his head, are you going to kill your father for not being good enough?
His heart felt like it was moving through molasses. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move.
He could only watch as the Batmobile got further and further away.
He was still holding the trigger.
He didn’t press it.
Are you really going to kill your father for not being good enough?
He’d been about to. He’d—he’d planned to, he’d bottled up vicious rage and frustration and he’d plotted and he’d—
You remain unavenged.
And for that crime, Jason had been ready to commit murder.
He leaned against brick, texture rough against his trembling fingers, and tried to remember how to breathe. He—he didn’t know where he was, he didn’t know where he was going, all he knew was the horror coursing through him, washing out any trace of any other emotion.
He’d almost murdered Bruce. His father.
You were never his son, something screamed at him, but Bruce had still been his father.
Three out of four parents were already dead and Jason had almost made it a matched set.
Dad. He’d almost killed his dad.
He retched, but there was nothing more to bring up, he’d lost the contents of his stomach along the way as he fled Tricorner Yard, fled that rooftop, fled the very thought of what he’d almost done.
One little button. That was all. One little button and Jason would’ve become a murderer.
One little button was all that separated him from a line he’d once sworn never to cross.
It had to be the green. It had to be—Jason seized the explanation like a drowning man clutching a raft. Talia—Talia had done something to him. Talia al Ghul and the League of Assassins. How had he ended up in Tajikistan if his grave was in Gotham? How long had they had him? How much had they twisted up everything inside of him?
The excuse felt hollow to his own ears. The green came and went. He knew it did. The anger—the frustration, the rage, the spite—that was all his own.
In the end, he wasn’t any different from all the other Rogues.
For the good of the city—no, for himself, for the hurting, naïve child that discovered that the world didn’t work the way he wanted it to.
So Batman couldn’t fix Gotham. Did that mean Jason had to kill him? Was he going to kill everyone else that didn’t fix this city? Commissioner Gordon, his hands tied by compromise, the corrupt City Council, every crooked cop in the city, every cop that looked the other way, the gangs, the rich families, the Rogues, everyone who kept their heads down and carried on?
Would Gotham finally be fixed, if there was no one left in it?
If he razed it to the ground and salted the ashes, would the miasma of darkness finally, finally dissolve?
Jason looked up—the dark alley walls, the rickety fire escape, the smog-choked, light-polluted dark gray sky, the sliver of moonlight visible through the clouds.
No.
No, screamed the child that grew up in a dingy apartment in Crime Alley, well acquainted with the city’s filth.
No, screamed the kid that spent two years on the streets, living and stealing and surviving.
No, screamed the teenager that wore a hero’s name to fight against evil, to build hope, to protect the people that deserved it, and the ones that didn’t.
Jason shakily made his way back to Crime Alley, head swirling. He—the League had done something to him, poisoned him—he needed to—the kids on the streets, hollow-cheeked and dead-eyed—he had to—the gangs and the drugs and the violence that one man could never keep up with, no matter how hard he tried.
He didn’t realize he’d reached familiar streets until he heard the scream split the air.
He was already moving, running towards—an alleyway, two thugs blocking the entrance—another scream, dying to a choked gurgle, and Jason didn’t pause, didn’t hesitate, he swept the legs out from under the first goon and slammed the second’s face into the corner of the brick wall, hearing his nose crunch under the impact.
A man and a woman, young twenties, cowered against the wall, surrounded by a gang of teenagers—the man was clutching his stomach, nearly bent double, and the woman had pressed herself as close to the dumpster as possible, shrinking back under the leers.
Five teenagers, hungry looks on their faces, all wearing matching armbands. Gang initiation—there were different varieties, but mugging and assault were a common theme.
“Get lost,” one of the teens snarled at Jason, flicking out a switchblade, “This isn’t your business.”
Green rushed into his vision so fast he almost felt dizzy.
“I’m making it my business,” Jason snarled.
Switchblade attacked. Jason leapt back to avoid the swinging blade, grabbing the wrist and twisting—green seethed, and he didn’t stop until he heard the crack. A howl of pain accompanied the next attack, and Jason caught the kick before wrenching the foot sideways in a sudden jerk that definitely broke something.
“You fucker!” one of them screamed, fumbling a gun out of their waistband, and Jason didn’t give them enough time to go for it. One kick sent them stumbling back against the wall, head cracking against brick, and the next sent them to the ground, curled up in a fetal position and sobbing.
The woman had retrieved a can of pepper spray and attackers number three and four were screaming as they pawed at their eyes—it didn’t take much to send them both to the ground too. Teen number five clearly held the brain cell of the group because she raised her hands and started backing away.
Jason took deep, heaving breaths, trying to think past the green clouding his vision, the rage coiling inside of him. “You okay?” he directly roughly to the man and woman—the woman still had one finger on the pepper spray nozzle, and the man was clutching the edge of the dumpster, mostly upright.
She nodded, and he managed to grunt out a hoarse, “Thank you.”
“This had nothing to do with you!” Switchblade snarled through his tears, “What are you, a Batman wannabe?”
Jason stalked closer and rested a foot on the broken ankle—Switchblade howled in agony. “I’m not Batman,” Jason growled, “Batman isn’t the only person allowed to give a fuck in this city.”
“Fuck off,” one of the pepper-sprayed idiots groaned, “This is Crime Alley. Keep your nose out of other people’s business before someone breaks it for you.”
His heart was still pounding. No, screamed every cell in his body. These were the streets he grew up on. These were the streets he’d defended. This was his home, and Batman couldn’t take that from him. The Joker couldn’t take that from him. The League of Assassins couldn’t take that from him.
“No,” Jason said coldly, “I don’t think I will.”
Gotham was a crime-ridden, seething cesspit of humanity. But it was his.
“You wanna be a hero?” Switchblade laughed wetly, “The new Batman?” He squinted at Jason’s red hoodie, “The new Robin?”
The pang that shot through his heart was so acutely painful Jason had to pause for a moment to breathe.
“I’m tired of watching the same problems repeat in a vicious cycle,” he said finally, soft and dangerous, “And if I can do something to stop it, I will.”
Jason turned, glancing at the occupants of the alley, letting the weight of his gaze rest on each and every one of them—the five teenagers on the ground, the one holding a bloody nose at the end of the alley, the girl slowly backing away, the man and the woman.
“This is my city,” Jason declared, low and steady, “And I’m taking it back.”
Red sweatshirt, hood up. Grease to darken that white strip at the front of his hair. Mask—cheap plastic, but serviceable for now.
Knee and elbow pads under his clothes. Black fingerless gloves. Simple holsters snapped onto his belt—a mini flashlight, pepper spray, gauze and antiseptic cream, corded rope, a taser—nowhere near the kind of resources he’d once had, but more than he’d been able to get as a street kid.
Knife tucked into his boots. Tape under his gloves, and metal caps on the knuckles.
He rested a leg on the edge of the rooftop, and looked down. One by one, gazes caught sight of red-clad figure at the corner of the rooftop, and looked up.
Crime Alley was his.
It was time he started fighting for it.