Chapter Text
It was hot when Tim woke up, which was odd considering winter was around the corner. Yet, humid, stuffy air sat thick in his chest, making it hard to breathe. He groaned softly, fumbling to shove off some blankets so he could go back to sleep. Except there were no blankets, and his hand smacked against a wall.
Tim faltered. Alarm bells rang softly in the back of his mind. Something was off, but he couldn’t put a finger on why. His head was stuffed with cement; the heaviness in his limbs urging him to sink back into… his bed?
The alarm bells rang louder. This… This wasn’t his bed. But then…
Where am I?
The question pierced through the haze, and Tim’s eyes flung open. It was pitch black.
From the way his warm breath brushed his neck, he was somewhere enclosed. The darkness didn’t waver as Tim blinked to make sure his eyes were open. His head shrieked from the effort, and his entire body begged to slip back into blissful unawareness.
Tim ignored the fatigue, irritation lacing his tongue. Being in a confined space didn’t make sense. Yet, despite his ability to deduce something was clearly very wrong, his brain refused to cooperate like a computer stuck mid-update.
He huffed, his mouth twisting into a thin scowl. There was nothing he hated more than not knowing something. But it was like trying to wade through muck. Answers sank past his reach, as his mind scrambled to shove off the remaining drowsiness…
He had been drugged.
His mind never felt this fuzzy, even in his most sleep-deprived state. It explained the thick weight entangling his limbs and the jumbled memories of the past twenty-four hours. A headache flared in Tim’s mind when he tried to unscramble them.
He had been knocked out, was trapped in a cramped, enclosed space, and he couldn’t remember how he ended up here…
Not the worst predicament he’d been in.
Tim took a short breath, grimacing at the stifling air. It clung to his skin, his mask feeling slick on his face. His mask― Tim sighed with relief that it was still on― he hadn’t exposed the Bats. Hadn’t failed on that front.
Tim wiggled slightly to feel around― and yup, he wasn’t bound, and whoever locked him in here had let him keep his gear. Their mistake. He felt the two blades hidden in his boots, his utility belt digging into his back, and his comm nestled in his ear.
Good. He could work with this.
Tim forced his tense muscles to relax and shifted into action. He felt around the box and frowned. Prickles ran along his skin, the feeling that something was very, very wrong hissing in the back of his mind.
The walls were lined with fabric. Soft velvety fabric. Even the ceiling was completely covered in it and… was that a pillow below his head?
Tim inhaled sharply, stomach plummeting as he inched down, his boot knocking into another soft-pillowed wall. He raised his hands behind him, trembling fingers pressing into silky lining. The prickling across his skin sharpened into knives, cutting down to the bone.
He was in a box.
Lined with soft, silky fabric.
Shaped to fit a human body.
Tim choked.
No, this wasn’t― it couldn’t― he was in a box.
It. Was. Just. A. Box.
Tim rattled the cage, but it didn’t so much as shift. Sliding his knees up, he pressed his hands and legs against the ceiling. There was a low groan, but it didn’t budge.
He felt along the edges of the box, gloves touching something wet and slimy. He ripped them off, inspecting the grime on the edges. Dirt.
Gritting his teeth, Tim dug his nails into his palm. The short sting of pain grounded Tim from teetering into panic. Because there was no reason to panic. It wasn’t like he was in a fucking coff― nope. Tim quickly and efficiently shut down that mental train.
What he needed was a plan.
What he needed was to not panic.
He survived worst; he was armed, and with the last of the drug wearing off, finally alert. Nothing that Robin couldn’t handle. Really, if he couldn’t handle this, did he even deserve the title?
Tim took a slow, measured breath like Batman had taught him, and reached for his comm. “This is Robin. I need help.”
Static was his only reply. Tim grimaced, “I repeat, this is Robin. I need help.” Again, no reply.
Why was no one― Tim froze. Because no one is there, genius.
The Justice League had drawn Batman off-world, Dick had taken Damian on some ‘road trip’ to put some space between the demon-spawn and Tim, Babs was recovering from the last Scarecrow attack, and Alfred had gone to help her for the next few days…
Babs had ordered him to stay home, but Tim figured someone needed to be out there putting together what Red Hood was plotting before Gotham’s streets dripped with red. Someone needed to check out the Red Hood sighting around the warehouses. Someone― Tim’s throat tightened― someone had needed to prove he was useful.
It had been stupid, but what other choice did he have? With the whispers of a power clash between Red Hood and Black Mask, it was only a matter of time before it boiled over into complete carnage.
Not much good it did anyone, since like everything else, he just succeeded at screwing it up. He managed to sneak around Gotham for years, but the one night he went out alone as Robin, he was captured. Another addition to the list of ‘Reasons Why Tim Never Should Have Been Robin’.
Maybe Damian had a point.
“Please,” Tim whispered again. “I’m trapped.”
Nothing.
“Guys, I’m trapped in―“ Tim’s voice cut off, throat constricting. While he might be stupid enough to get caught, he was sharp enough to know he wouldn’t be breaking himself out. He had his knives, bo, batarangs, a first aid kit, rebreathers, and a few smoke bombs. Nothing designed to unbury a grave. “I― I can’t get out. Please…”
There was― predictably― no response. The static on the comm popped like gunfire in Tim’s ear. Against his will, his breathing spiked― how much oxygen do I have again? Tim thought, half hysterically.
He scrambled to view his forearm, tapping the computer-like device on his wrist to light up the screen. Past midnight. His already foggy memories vanished sometime after he had been passing through Crime Alley at 11 p.m.
So, worst-case scenario, he had been kidnapped at 11 p.m. and immediately dumped in a box, which meant he’d used an hour of oxygen out of who knows how much. And there was no one on comms. He squeezed his eyes shut. “Batman, Nightwing, Oracle, someone… please.”
Damning silence.
“Please, I’m trapped, I can’t get out. I’m―“ Tim’s voice cracked as he admitted the truth, “I’m in a coffin.”
Everyone called Tim smart, but he was apparently stupid enough to patrol without backup. He was smart, but somehow still foolish enough to hope someone would check the comms. He was smart, but that had never made a good Robin.
“I’m in a coffin,” Tim repeated.
He was going to die in this coffin, the air gradually poisoned by carbon dioxide, breaths falling fainter and fainter, as his weak, useless cries for help died over the comms―
Dying was something he prepared for, even creating contingency plans in the case of his sudden death. Yet, every cell in his body writhed at the thought. It would be so much easier if his body accepted its fate, so Tim could move on and be practical.
But he couldn’t be logical. Couldn’t be practical. There was static snarling in his ears, air that had stopped flooding his lungs, a crushing weight on his chest, and a throat locked with the taste of blood.
He just couldn’t.
Not when he couldn’t breathe.
“–SHUT UP!” A voice roared from somewhere. Which didn’t make sense. No one was there, Tim noted dimly, though thinking anything coherent was becoming hard. The hiss of― dying, dying, dying― in the back of his mind consumed his whole reality. It was impossible to think. Impossible to breathe. Impossible to hear anything besides his whispered sobs. It was―
“Breathe.”
Tim took a stuttering breath.
He hadn’t realized he could.
Air flooded his crushed lungs, his whole chest heaving as his throat loosened. He gritted his teeth and clawed his way to the voice, words clearing in his head.
“… three four, hold. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, release. One, two, three, four…” Tim listened to the voice, stopped fighting, and breathed. Slowly, the static died, the panic retreating to the edges of his mind, still in reach, but not in control.
Tim settled back into his body and cringed, immediately wanting to flee again. Using the rasping voice to ground him, he resisted. His lungs ached as his heart stuttered.
His mind worked to process the blur of memories and thoughts from the past few moments. He had an anxiety attack, Tim realized belatedly. Oh.
Tim breathed carefully around his raw throat, hyperaware of the darkness waiting to strangle him. That was not good.
“–Tim, I raised you better than this. You’re not a child. You can be professional. Stop crying–”
Tim cringed at the echo of his mom’s voice. She was right. Panicking didn’t get him anywhere. With one more measured breath, Tim exhaled a quiet, “T― Thank you.”
The voice fell silent.
Right the voice. The voice that was definitely not one of the Bats. That was… worrying. “You’re not one of the Ba―”
“Bats? Nope,” the voice scoffed, his accent a Park Row drawl.
Tim narrowed his eyes, but couldn’t stop the thought of, ‘Oh, thank God.’ A problem his mind could attack, so it didn’t dwell on his current sketchy predicament. Hacking their comms shouldn’t be possible. However, unless Tim had completely lost it and was now imagining voices, someone had found a way onto their comms. For Tim’s own sanity, he decided to accept that.
“How do you―”
“You’ll run out of oxygen,” The voice interrupted, sounding strangely strained like whoever was on the other end was winded. “You need to focus on calming the fuck down.”
Right, like having a stranger's voice chatting in his ear helped his nerves at all.
“Worry about who I am later. The important thing is none of the Bats are in Gotham and you’re―“ the voice cut off before continuing tightly “―stuck. If you want out, you need to help me. Where are you?”
Tim bit back a sarcastic scoff. This man could not be serious. He had access to the Bat’s comms and knew Robin was the only one in Gotham. A random hobo on the street didn’t know that. This stranger was dangerous.
A thought crossed Tim’s mind, and his body locked. With a forced casual tone, Tim commented, “Great sales pitch. You wouldn’t happen to be the person who stuck me in here, would you?”
“What!? Fuck, kid. No!”
The response seemed genuine. But still… “Right, and you just happened to be conveniently on my comm line because…?”
“A mistake,” the voice growled. “One I’m seriously regretting, right now.”
Tim bit back a growl of his own, but he didn’t bury the irritation pooling in his gut. Anger was good. Anger helped him not panic.
And to be honest, now that the panic had dulled to manageable levels, Tim was a little pissed. Mostly at himself, but stiiiiill… strange, creepy, raspy voice chiming in over the comms that he most certainly should not have access to was a fantastic target for Tim’s current frustration.
“Fine. Be all super secretive if it makes you feel better―“ It’d take Tim an hour, if that, to track down who hacked into their comms. Of course, he first had to get to the Cave― right. Coffin. Maybe snapping at the one person who knew where he was was not the brightest idea.
Tim’s face puckered, but his brain was unfortunately right in its analysis. This mysterious hacker was Tim’s one chance out of here, even if it was a terrible idea to trust him. Really, Tim should tell the man to get lost but―
The shot of dread coursed through him at the thought of being trapped in the darkness alone again, which almost sent Tim spiraling. He counted to ten in his head before recalculating. Okay, so clearly working with this man was Tim’s only action here, if only to keep his rebellious, traitorous body calm. He was, quite literally, boxed in.
So, the sarcasm needs to be reeled back a few notches, Tim noted. With that said… “Buuuut I think it's fair if I know who you are.”
The voice was silent.
“At least a name,” Tim added quickly.
Seconds trickled by, Tim’s heart beating louder with each one. Please don’t go―
The voice returned as a mechanized drawl, like someone had put on a voice modifier.
Tim sighed in relief. Until the man’s answer registered in his brain.
Hood.
Shit.
Thirty Minutes Ago
Jason dismantled the trap on his window, sliding it open and shutting it behind him, before dropping into his safe house. While resetting the trap, he kept an ear on the Bat’s comms.
Hacking onto their link was one of the first things he had done when he arrived at Gotham, couldn’t risk running into them― at least― not yet. Oh, he had every intention of meeting them, especially that snotty-nose replacement and the old man himself, but it would be on his terms. Until then, Jason would relish in the sharp, vicious thrill of listening in as they lamented how he slipped past them again.
Not that they were outright targeting him, besides a few short chases. However, his over-sweep of the drug trade and the new title of crime lord from the past few days were bound to change that.
Jason grinned under his mask. He was close. Black Mask just needed to be pushed a little further and then Jason would have that damn clown.
From the silence on the comms, it sounded like the Bats were out of town for the night. A quick search of activity confirmed ‘Richard Wayne’ was on a trip with the new brat Bruce had picked up, the Justice League had an emergency, Oracle had been out ever since that Scarecrow attack last week, and Alfred mentioned last night on the comms he’d be visiting her.
And Robin… Jason couldn’t help the surge of wrath at the little shit. Well, the replacement wouldn’t be going out without backup, and for the brat’s own sake, Jason hoped he stayed up in the manor.
But other than that one little pest, no Bats or Birdies were in the Cave. Which meant Jason would have a free run of the place for the whole night. While his information network was pretty damn impressive, it didn’t hold a candle to Batman’s― loathed as he was to admit it. He’d been away from Gotham for three years, and the few months he spent studying the criminal underground were not enough time to get him innately familiar. Knowledge was the underground’s currency, and the Batcomputer’s databank was a fucking jackpot.
The comm crackled, and Jason swore. That better be static and not some fucking Bat canceling his plans.
“This is Robin. I need help.”
Jason hissed, whipping back towards the window. Fucking hell, he was going bird hunting. Of course, the brat had to ruin– wait… Jason stopped in the middle of storming out of the kitchen. No one had clocked on to the comms tonight, and he knew everyone was busy.
Oh– did the brat go out alone? Jason chuckled. Sucks to be him; there wasn’t anyone around to save his pathetic hide.
The voice cracked again, “Please… I’m trapped.”
Jason grinned. While he preferred to be the one to do it himself, he was a little occupied with the clown’s upcoming release, and Jason got to dangle in front of Batman what type of monster he had made. The replacement had been for later, but who was he to complain if someone snuffed him early?
“Guys, I’m trapped in―“ the voice cut off abruptly. “I― I can’t get out. Please…”
Jason’s grin faltered. The panic in the brat’s voice sounded achingly– dangerously– familiar. Unease curled in his stomach.
He changed his mind. Listening to someone die wasn’t nearly as fun as doing it himself. Though who was he kidding? It wasn’t like the brat was going to die. One of the Bats would save him. After eavesdropping on the comms for weeks, Jason was well aware that if the replacement so much as whimpered, Batman came running because he actually cared about this one.
Yet a minute passed, and no one fucking answered.
Because no one is fucking here.
“Idiots,” Jason cursed. Seriously, not even one of the Bats had decided to monitor the comms. Fucking incompetent.
Jason wavered in his kitchen. The kid was one breath away from complete hysteria, his sharp, soft gasps hitting a little too close to home.
Fuck. He really was going to have to at least check for the brat, wasn’t he? He could always beat the replacement black and blue later.
“Batman―“ the kid whimpered.
Jason’s body went taut, his splinter of sympathy dying. Batman could rescue the bird brat. What? Had he really been considering helping? Jason had more important shit to do than save the fucking costume-stealing substitute who had gotten into the mess in the first place. If Batman failed to save Robin, maybe it’d finally be the last nail in the coffin for him, and he’d get his head out of his ass and realize that children weren’t fucking soldiers!
Jason moved to slip off his helmet so he could remove the comm from his ear. The brat could die for all he cared, but he wasn’t listening to this shit.
“Please, I’m trapped, I can’t get out.”
Jason’s hand dug into his helmet― the voice had sounded like him. Trapped with no one to help, but still begging someone would save the day because dammit you couldn’t.
It was unnerving as fuck.
Jason scrambled to get the fucking helmet off to smash that comm― he was done hearing this. But his hand wouldn’t move. Instead, the kid’s hitching breaths echoed louder in his head, sounding closer and closer to the voice of the boy who had died in that grave.
Jason should be enjoying this. Relishing as that pathetic form of a substitute saw what happened when they stole what wasn’t theirs. But Jason was paralyzed, feeling like he was watching himself splinter as the kid hyperventilated.
The voice stopped, and Jason forced himself to unfreeze, hands clamping down on the helmet. This wasn’t his problem.
The comm hissed, before a broken voice stated with chilling acceptance, “I’m in a coffin.”
Jason's chest tightened and suddenly his helmet was too tight and his lungs were suffocating and his high-collar leather jacket was choking his throat and there was mud in his mouth―
Jason tumbled back into the counter, banging against the wood. He fumbled to get the fucking helmet off his head and tear off his jacket.
It wasn’t him. It wasn’t him. It wasn’t him. But it was his voice he heard repeating, “I’m in a coffin.”
And Jason was back―
Splitters digging under his fingernails, the taste of copper and mud mixing in his mouth, legs chained by rich satin, shackling him down as his hands clawed through the dirt― but it didn’t stop. The dirt fell into any hole he carved with broken, crooked fingers while he thrashed uselessly under the ground, pleading for it to turn to air so he could breathe. But no. Sludge strangled his throat, his lungs shrieked while blood burned in his veins, and it was so so so dark. Nothing to mask the mocking laughter ringing in his ears―
NO!
He wasn’t down there― it wasn’t him― he was alive and breathing, and in his kitchen with plenty of fresh air.
Jason yanked off his helmet, gasping for air like he was being strangled.
It.
Wasn’t.
Him.
Jason dug his nails into his head, trying to block out the cries as mud climbed down his throat.
It wasn’t his prob―
No one came. Not when his mom died, not when that hag betrayed him, and not when he was trapped in that coffin.
He had begged too.
And no one had come.
Jason barely recalled the night, a blur framed by terror and pain, his brain too damaged from the fucking crowbar― but he remembered that― The cold panic gripping his mind as he realized he was alone. Again. Just like when he was in the warehouse with the slow crawling countdown of the bomb, but at least there Jason could breathe.
His hoarse voice had rattled around in the coffin― a stupid part of his crushed brain hoping that someone might be able to hear the rasp of a dying boy six feet under and save him.
But no one did. No one ever did. He was on his own; always had been since his dad walked out and chose petty crime over a dying wife and starving son.
“I’m in a coffin,” the kid― because it was a kid― because Batman thought it was okay to let toddlers in spandex out in a city to fight crime where adults didn’t even feel safe walking in broad daylight.
“I’m in a coffin, please―“ and the kid’s voice broke completely, turning into nothing but frantic breathing, each one driving a nail further into Jason’s coffin.
The dirt buried him as nightmares Jason had so carefully locked away broke free at each one of the kid’s half-choked breaths. And he― Jason was terrified.
And the Pit didn’t like that.
It didn’t like fear. Many thought the Pit fed off of fury, and yeah, it did, but Jason had always been pissed. The Pit wanted to rage and obliterate. Fear though… it didn’t like fear. There shouldn’t be fear; everyone else was supposed to cower, to scream, to run as it destroyed anything in its path…
The Pit didn’t like fear― and that made it angry.
Green tinted Jason’s vision.
No! He’d worked so hard to claw his way into control. The Pit didn’t own him, Jason was controlling it― using it to fuck over Batman and this whole Godforsaken city. But it was winning. As his panic suffocated him, the Pit eased its way back into the driver's seat. Jason’s hearing rang with the sound of laughter, and green bled across his vision.
He was losing it.
The kid’s panic was screwing him over― Jason needed to get in control―he couldn’t do this. He would not go back into that coffin. Jason clamped his hands over his ears and screamed.
“SHUT UP!”
But the strangled sobs didn’t stop.
The green surged.
“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” Jason roared. He didn’t know which one he was begging to stop, the kid, the Pit, or that fucking laughter. But it wouldn’t stop, and he couldn’t breathe.
Jason leveraged his last bit of strength and rasped, “Breathe. In for one, two, three, four, hold. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, release. One, two, three, four―“
He’d first learned it from B to help manage hyperventilating victims, he said it helped them calm down. Talia reiterated it with a different spin. An ancient mystical secret used to help control the Pit. Well, both explanations were bullshit, and both of them damn liars.
Jason wasn’t feeling calm or controlled.
It didn’t stop the Pit’s rush, the green thrill begging for an outlet. Just let me out, it pleaded. Let me go. Let me be free.
Jason cursed and kept counting. It didn’t stop the Pit, but it grounded Jason enough to wrestle back on top... slowly. The rasping words drowned out the jeering voice of the clown. The green weakened, and he shoved the Pit back where it belonged.
The floor blinked back into view, and Jason realized he was on the ground, crouched back against the counter with his hands dug so deeply into his head that there were indents.
“Breathe. In for one, two, three, four, hold. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, release. One, two, three, four―“ Jason forced his hands to unclench as his lungs celebrated every hitched breath he took. His body sagged against the counter.
It took a second, but he realized the kid had latched onto Jason’s counting, his breaths steadying. He couldn’t care less and kept counting long after it was safe to stop, the Pit back in its cage.
“Thank you,” the kid eventually whispered.
The voice was filled with so much fucking hope it made Jason so disgustingly pissed that for the first time in who knows fucking how long he took a full breath. He relished the sweet air in his aching lungs.
The brat remained silent.
Jason was quite content with that arrangement. He was an inch away from shooting something– that was always his go-to whenever he was reminded of something… unpleasant.
Nothing beat the therapy of a well-placed bullet, but his guns were on the fucking counter, out of reach and if Jason gave into the anger, the Pit banging on the door he’d shoved it in would break free, and Jason didn’t have the energy to wrangle it back again for a second time in the same damn night.
Of course, the little shit just had to go and ruin it. “You’re not one of the Ba―” the brat trailed off…
“Bats? Nope.” Jason glared at the wall, body shaking so hard he wasn’t sure he could stand. But he needed to move, the brat didn’t have long.
Jason could take out the comm and let the brat die, but― No. Jason couldn’t spend the rest of the night knowing that somewhere in Gotham another kid would die six feet down in the dirt. That was something a villain would do― something the clown would do.
He came back wrong, Jason knew that, but he wasn’t a monster. And he’d damn himself to hell before he ever became like one of those sickos who stuck a fucking living kid in a coffin.
Jason growled. Fuck. His nerves were threadbare already, and he was about to go and try to do something that would hit every raw gaping wound. Fuck him.
“How do you―“
“You’ll run out of oxygen,” Jason interrupted. “You need to focus on calming the fuck down.” He didn’t add that if the kid spiraled again, he probably would too, and it wouldn’t just criminals who’d be bodied that night. The Pit didn’t care who it got, Jason did. And that’s what made him in control.
And if Jason lost control… well Batman wouldn’t be burying another Robin― it’d already be done for him.
“Worry about who I am later,” Jason continued briskly, hoping the little shit wouldn’t notice the slight tinge of terror. “The important thing is none of the Bats are in Gotham and you’re―” in a coffin―“ stuck. If you want out, you need to help me. Where are you?”
The voice scoffed a little, doing a horrible job at sounding not panicked (great, the kid was already failing at Jason’s first instruction).
“Great sales pitch. You wouldn’t happen to be the person who stuck me in here, would you?”
Jason physically recoiled. “What!? Fuck, kid. No!”
“Right, and you just happened to be conveniently on because…?”
“A mistake,” Jason snapped. “One I’m seriously regretting right now.” As soon as the night was over, he was destroying the comm, keeping track of the Bats be damned.
“Fine, be all super secretive if it makes you feel better.”
Ahhh, there was that classic Robin snark. At least the brat didn’t sound one second away from losing it again.
“Buuuuut, I think it's fair if I know who you are.”
Oh, really now? Jason debated between responding with one of the classics: ‘It’s cute you think life is fair’, ‘Go fuck yourself’, and, ‘Get used to disappointment’ while he climbed shakily to his feet.
He slammed his helmet back over his head, and his whole body relaxed. He wasn’t Jason Todd anymore, the failure who died because he missed his mommy, but Red Hood, a deadly crime lord who wasn’t fucked over at the mention of the word clown, crowbar, or coffin.
At the silence, the kid rushed to add, “At least a name.” His voice had tilted towards fear again, like pressing Jason might scare him off. Jason hated to admit it, but it was a reasonable worry.
Jason slipped out the window onto the fire escape, and a droplet of rain fell on his back. He glanced up, dark clouds overcast the sky, mist falling like hail.
It just had to be fucking raining, didn’t it?
Jason bit back a snarl and gritted out a reply. “Hood.”
The stunned silence made Jason smirk.
“… as in short for Red Hood?”
“Aww, you’ve heard of me. I’d say it’s nice to meet you, but then I’d be a murderer and a liar.” Jason dropped from the fire escape and landed in a crouch, cursing the rain under his breath. The few droplets were steadily growing into a downpour.
“Why are you helping me?”
That was the question, wasn’t it? “Hell if I know.” Jason threaded his way down the alleyway, stopping by a pile of trash.
“Crime lords don’t help vigilantes.”
Was this kid trying to convince Jason out of rescuing him? Because he sure as hell was doing a good job at it. “Well, fortunately for you, kid, I’ve never been one to follow the rules.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better!?”
“Getting you out of that box is,” Jason bit. “We’re wasting oxygen here. I need to know where you are.”
The brat laughed, half hysterical. “Why would I know? I’m in a coffin!”
Jason flinched. “Okay― shit question.” In his defense, he still wasn’t thinking clearly. A good portion of his energy was being devoted to, you know, not losing it. “Where were you last?”
“I… I don’t know,” the kid admitted.
“You don’t know?” Jason repeated incredulously. This kid was fucking useless. Which he proceeded to tell the brat while he unburied his bike, hurling bags of trash at the wall. It wasn’t as grounding as he hoped, so he kicked the dumpster. The sharp rattle of his leg forced the green back a little farther.
“Wow, victim blaming. Nice,” the brat said flatly. “I. Was. Drugged.”
Jason bit back a sarcastic retort about how oxygen deprivation must already be getting to him and instead said, “What’s the first clear memory?”
“Patrol,” the kid snapped. “I was heading through–“ There was hesitation before the brat confessed– “Crime Alley. Near the Narrows.”
Jason’s eyes narrowed at the mention of his territory. “What the fuck were you doing there?” The question slipped out before he caged it. The Bats didn’t patrol there. It was one of the reasons it was so fucked up, but it wasn’t important. “You know what, that doesn’t matter. Do you know when that was?”
“Around 11:00.”
“And it’s 12:23 now. Which gives us about four hours―” If they were lucky. Shit.
“How do you know?”
Jason rolled his bike away from the dumpster before sliding onto the seat. “Coffins hold about four to five hours of oxygen.”
“So we have three hours.”
“Apologies for the optimism,” Jason said sardonically. “Is there any way to track your location?” Batman was paranoid, smothering, and controlling, and was not above sneaking trackers into shoes. Yet somehow, miraculously, he was never around when someone needed him.
“We have trackers,” the brat answered reluctantly, “But I’m not giving you access to the system.”
“Figures,” Jason tsked. It was like this kid had no comprehension that his life was literally on the line. “Can you hear anything? Like water or subways?”
There was a beat before a defeated, “No.”
Jason thrummed the motorcycle and roared out of the alleyway, skidding into the street, thinking fast. Cemeteries were the only place in this damn city where someone could touch grass, however, there were dozens of them across Gotham. There had to be with the amount of dead bodies Gotham piled up on a weekly basis. With the time frame, it was unlikely the brat had been moved further than the Bowery or Narrows, but that still left ten cemeteries to search. Give or take a few minutes, Jason estimated he could search a cemetery in half an hour. Added to that was travel and busting the kid free, leaving Jason time to search only three, maybe four graveyards. That was what? Almost 50% chance of success? Not bad in their line of work. But was he willing to risk the kid’s life on it?
Jason let out a slow hiss; he couldn’t believe he was saying this. “I’m gonna call a Bat, I need a phone number, kid.”
“No,” he said immediately.
“Brat―“
“I said no.”
“Have it your way.” Jason slammed the brakes, tires screeching as he arrived at the first cemetery. He sprang off the bike, flicking on a flashlight to illuminate a rusting gate with a faded sign. “I still can’t believe they let you out alone.”
“They didn’t know.”
“Well, lesson learned. Bad things happen to birds who leave their cages.”
Robin wisely stayed silent.
Jason swung himself over the railing, body flinching as his boots sank into soft, squishy mud. His mask filtered out scents, so he couldn’t smell the mud, but it was the fucking city. Even at night, he couldn’t miss the city lights shimmering off of puddles and the mud squashing beneath his feet.
His vision flashed green, and he snarled.
With the rain falling like bullets, thunder breaking across the sky, and lightning illuminating slanted gravestones, he felt like a cord about to snap. The kid’s unsettled breathing in the background did nothing for his nerves either.
“So, what is the plan?” The kid finally asked.
Jason glared at the graveyard stretched out in front of him and grabbed the shovel leaning against the fence, before storming his way through the tombstones. “Haunting graveyards,” Jason said tightly. “And praying to whatever god you believe in that I have more luck here than I do with parental figures.”