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“Problem – the vault’s overheated. I have no way of getting in.”
“Put a wrench to it.”
“No shit, Sherlock. The second I did, the thing turned orange. I need Signal.”
“I’m ten minutes out.”
“No dice. This thing is blowing in six.”
Jason sighs, picks up the pace. “Two minutes.”
“Negative. You’re not a metahuman.”
He glances forlornly at his nice, expensive gloves. Shit this good isn’t stealable – unless he’s stealing from Batman. And, honestly, shit like this he wouldn’t want to steal anyway because, yanno, he only steals from people who deserve it.
Like Batman.
Ugh. They’re such nice, supple, sturdy fucking leather. Literally some of the best pairs he’s ever had, and they’ve lasted him well in the past two years, stood up to some real bullshit.
“Hood – I said negative.”
“What?” he drawls. “Can’t hear ya, Red. Must be somethin’ interferin’ with the frequency.”
Silence. Because he wasn’t even trying, and everyone knows that.
Jason drops through the pre-made hole in the skylight, glass crunching under his boots. The sound echoes eerily for a moment as he takes a couple seconds to survey the room, nicely furnished and stacked with unconscious, tied up goons against one wall.
Just like the office he just left. A red herring if there ever was one because among these goons is a man dressed up in the kind of disgusting finery that only comes from the rich and the cultist. He wrinkles his nose and makes sure to kick the guy in the shin as he passes, taking off his helmet to hear the hum of machines behind a false bookcase.
A crackle of “Hood,” over the comms. Ah. There he is. Just in time.
Jason ignores him and sets his helmet on the inside of the doorway, grinning roguishly when Red Robin and Batgirl turn as one in his direction. Tim is already scowling, unimpressed. Steph’s expression is a twist of scowling and grimacing. Both of ‘em have a dash of knowing and hating every second of it.
He steps around them, taking deep, calming breaths. The room is uncomfortably warm, sweat already sliding down his spine. And the closer he gets to the vault that contains what is essentially a depopulation bomb, the hotter it gets. The skin on his face feels tight, all the oxygen in his lungs goes stale and dry.
The vault is basically a security room, protecting the computer system that runs the bomb inside. The metal is red-hot, leaning dangerously close to white at some edges. The computer system is still functioning, unfortunately – it would defeat the purpose if their own security trap fried the whole point of their existence – but once Tim gets int there, they can turn the bomb off before it takes out the entire eastern seaboard.
“Red. Hood.”
Jason inspects the vault spindle. Gotta love the classics. He cracks his neck side to side, rolls his shoulders, shakes out his hands. Some logic dictates that maybe he should take the gloves off. Melted leather is not fun – which he knows from experience. But he’s hoping for the extra protection and banks on that being worth more in the long run.
“Jason –.”
“Oooh, real names,” Jason says flippantly. Tim and Steph are dangerously quiet behind him. The comms are silent except for that one voice. It’s useless. Everyone but Batman seems to know that. “No time, Boss-man. We’ve got, what, less than five minutes? I’m strong enough.”
“The heat – .”
He brushes it off. “I heal fast.”
“Not that fast,” Tim says quietly behind him, tone firmer than the volume would suggest.
Jason glances back. He doesn’t look eager for Jason to do this, but he’s not going to stop him, looking resigned and pained. Steph is a little more obvious about it, arms crossed, fingers digging into the crevices of her gauntlets like they’re the only thing keeping her from hustling him out of the room.
His smile turns a little softer, a little fonder. “I heal fast,” he repeats. He hovers at eight and two o’clock, not touching down yet. “The second there’s enough room for you to squeeze your skinny ass in there, you take it, ‘kay?” Tim shuffles closer in response, shoulders squared, usb drive clutched tightly in his hand.
“Jason,” Bruce says, voice strained and almost…pleading. “The likelihood of you ever being able to handle a weapon again – .”
“Worth it,” he grits out. “Now shut up.”
And he doesn’t because of fucking course. Jason tunes him out. He tunes everything out. He takes himself outside from his body, sets all his senses right next to him, because he knows if he pays attention to any of this, he’s – he’s not going to get very far.
There’s a heat haze radiating off the metal. The humidity practically sizzles as it comes into contact.
Jason takes one last fortifying breath and, with his hands at that eight-and-two position, he grabs the red-hot spindle and applies pressure.
Instantly there’s overwhelming heat through his gloves. The smell of burning leather. The spindle doesn’t move.
Fuck that shit.
Jason grits his teeth and strains his muscles, pushing and pulling, forcing himself to breathe – just breathe. Sweat pours down his face. Blood roars in his ears. People are shouting over the comm like that’s going to do anything. He feels the way the palms of his gloves give first, where he’s putting the most pressure – and the spindle moves ever so slowly as heat finally, finally chews its way through.
Then he knows nothing but deep, agonizing pain.
A scream traps itself in his chest, strangled and keening high. He can’t hear himself. He doesn’t want to hear himself. The spindle moves – moves – moves – and his hands burnburnburn, burning, blistering, stealing all his oxygen, running – running outta time – gotta – fuck – fuck. It hurts. It hurst so fucking much. Tears steam down his cheeks. Blood doesn’t run down his wrists, cauterized before it even makes it through the layers of skin burned away.
He turns the spindle, and it clicks. He barely hears the click. There’s no strength in his muscles at the angle he’s at to pull the door open. Running outta time, Jason. Always fucking running outta time.
Jason shoves the disjointed thoughts away – run time hot fire fire batman where batman batman please bruce – and slots his arms between the spokes. There’s a shout and something on the back of his jacket, tugging him, but he’s locked on and he’s already pulling with his entire weight, the vault door opens inch by inch by screaming inch with his own scream tearing out of his throat, breathless and soundless and horrible, awful, the worst thing imaginable.
Weight. Around his waist. Pressure. Pulling him back. But not jostling him from the vault. Helping him.
Too weak. He’s always too weak.
He lets go of a breath he didn’t know he was holding and it fucking burns through him, tastes like blood and ash and, and – he digs his heels in and there’s –
“Go!” he barely hears.
A whisper of cape, flicking against his hip. Jason doesn’t open his eyes to check. He can’t move. Locked frozen and – that’s fucking funny. Frozen. And this is the hottest he’s ever been. Hotter than the Sahara. Hotter than the Pit burning through his veins, yanking him and his body together. Hotter than the bomb that dropped a warehouse on his already broken body as he tried to protect the woman who sold him out.
The end of one spoke is pressed against his jaw – blistering-burning-fire-burning – make-it-stop-make-it-stop – his exposed forearms are hooked to the metal, skin hissing and spitting. Smells like – smells like cooking meat and he gags and that hurts, jaw working, skin stretching and snapping.
Faintly, there’s a voice, “Jason, let go.”
But he can’t let go.
Jason is stuck, burning in a thousand hells, consumed by a million suns – he can’t – he can’t – and then there’s –
He’s on the ground. When did he get on the ground? Jason stares up at the ceiling, glassy-eyed and pale, eyes rimmed red, his jaw blistering raw. A shadow casts over his face and he sucks in a terrible, too shallow breath, his lungs working overtime. Shaking – he’s shaking. Trembling, and it jars his burns, and he can’t – he can’t feel them. His hands – palms. His forearms. His elbows – he feels those, the nerves on fire, screaming at him, shouting in pain that he can’t get out of his throat. He’s clammy. He’s too hot. No. He’s too cold. No. Hot. Cold. Burning fire and ice.
Shadow. There’s a shadow. A murmur of voices – something something heart rate and breathing and he’s going into shock! and where the fuck is Superman?! – and Jason can’t hear. He wants to close his eyes. Fall into darkness. But he stubbornly clings to consciousness, eyes half-lidded and unfocused and bright-bright with pain and tears and –
Shadow. There’s a shadow. No cowl – D – Dick? No. Jason’s head rolls, trying to see, he has to see. What – no. Yes. Everything smears in a grotesque mix of colors. A hand stops his movement, palm on the good side of his face, thumb on his cheekbone, fingers splayed down his neck. He presses into it even though it hurts, his nerves sensitive no matter how far they are from the burns.
Shadow – Batman – No. Bruce. Bruce drags his thumb across his skin, and it almost doesn’t hurt. “You did good, Jaylad,” he’s murmuring, over and over again, barely audible above the talking, over the pain, over the blood roaring in his ears. Jason whines and it breaks his throat – and it breaks all their hearts. Bruce notices his focus and he fucking smiles, pained and proud and resigned and heartbroken. “You did good,” he repeats, firm and solid.
And Jason passes out.