"I don't see why you're worried Nightwing. This isn't the first time Hood has dropped off the radar."
Nightwing sighed. "Because Robin," for the millionth time, "we were supposed to have breakfast together this morning."
"Tt." Robin shot off another line. They had been trawling through all of Gotham's East Side for most of the night, looking for any sign of Red Hood. One of their... "informants", said that he'd heard that someone knew a guy who had last seen the murderous vigilante down by the warehouse district, so that's where they were swinging off to now. "It's not like he hasn't skipped out on you before. I'm surprised he agreed to breakfast with you in the first place."
"Not this breakfast. He would have shown up for this breakfast." Dick had had everything planned out. He'd taken cooking lessons from Alfred for a month, and that was just for learning how to make the pancakes. He still burnt the bacon, but that was only because watching it cook was boring. His mind wandered, for a second, honestly, and by the time he looked back, it was black and crispy. Fruit was easier. He just had to cut that into bite sized pieces and make sure it wasn't rotten.
Red Hood had been incommunicado for almost a week now. Like Robin had said, not unusual in the slightest. He often went days, weeks, without calling someone in the family or picking up his phone when they called him. What was unusual, besides the skipping out of breakfast, was that he hadn't been active for that week either. Not a single Red Hood sighting. And that didn't happen unless Jason was out of town. Even when he had gotten shot in the stomach last year and Alfred had told him to stay in bed for at least two weeks, he'd been out a day later trying to help when half of Arkham broke out.
He'd called Roy and Kori. Jason wasn't with them. Besides, he'd left most of his gear in his safehouses. If he was leaving Gotham, he would have taken at least one spare helmet with him.
Being in the warehouse district narrowed things down, but it was still a big area to search.
They ducked in and out of at least four warehouses, with no luck, when Robin nudged Nightwing. "Look. Scarecrow."
And so it was. He wasn't dressed in his usual burlap sack. He was wearing simple attire, green dress shirt, slacks, and a lab coat. With his glasses perched on the end of his nose, he looked like any other college professor. Heck, the stack of notebooks and pens in his arms could even be materials he needed for class.
And now Dick was torn. Continue searching for Jason, who may have just forgotten what day it was, or go after Scarecrow, who was almost definitely up to something. Sighing, Nightwing aimed his grapple and followed after Scarecrow.
The man was muttering to himself, so Robin dropped a bug on him. The more information they had about what he was up to, the better chance they had to stop it. They ghosted onto the roof of the warehouse just as Scarecrow shouldered his way through the door. "Sorry that took so long. Of all the times to run out of writing materials."
There was someone else in there? Damn. If he had an assistant or a hired lackey, that made things a lot harder. The two birds quietly moved towards the skylight, peering down. It was filled to bursting with crates and shelves, which made things a little trickier. Crane set his notebooks on a table in the only clear space and took a seat beside it. Grabbing a notebook, he flipped it open and started writing. "So, tell me, how do you feel?" He looked up into on of the corners of the room that was out of sight from the skylight.
Whatever the reply was, it was inaudible, but seemed to make Crane happy. He started writing, getting three pages done before setting down his pen. "Alright then. Time for the next one." He pulled a little remote out of his pocket. "I'm so glad I set this up before hand. Wouldn't want you getting a hand on me." He pressed the button, then settled back in his chair, pen back in position over the notebook.
He didn't have to wait long. There was a bang, followed by muffled screaming. With a jolt, comprehension flooded Nightwing.
He had a person down there. Not an assistant. Not a thug. A lab rat. And he was testing his latest formula on whoever it was. He used a sonic device to shatter the windows, then slipped in, Robin following close behind. It wasn't as flashy as just breaking through the glass with a triple somersault, but it was less dangerous, and a lot fewer shards of glass to pull out of the crevices of his uniform later.
They dropped down and barely landed before they were attacking. They spent a few blows uninterrupted before Scarecrow got over the shock of suddenly having two vigilantes spoiling his work and started counterattacking. Really, the man looked like he was made of straw, but he was all wiry muscle, and surprisingly strong with it. Batarangs started flying, fear gas was released, rebreathers positioned.
Still, it wasn't long before he got knocked back into his own table, sending notebooks and blue pens flying everywhere. With a growl, he pushed himself to his hands and knees. "Damn you both! I wasn't even close to done yet."
And what a relief that was. Which ever hapless person he had stashed over there – Nightwing hadn't gotten a good look yet – would definitely be better off if the Scarecrow wasn't done. Maybe only two months of threapy.
Suddenly, a look of malice crossed Crane's face. His hand shot forward, too fast for Nightwing or Robin to stop, and grabbed something from under one of the notebooks. The remote! With a cry of victory, he pressed all of the buttons in quick succession. "And now I am! Do be a dear and leave the cameras running. I want to see this." Nightwing, shaking himself out of his stupor, tossed a sedative dart into the villain's neck. And then.
Screaming. Muffled, most likely due to a gag, but no less intense. Nightwing hadn't heard a sound like that since... well... ever. It sounded like death and pain and heartbreak. Quickly, he dashed towards the victim, leaving Robin to tie up Scarecrow. As he approached the person lying, writhing, on the ground, he couldn't help but wonder at the vaguely familiar silhouette.
Wait.
No.
Please, God, no. It couldn't be.
Whoever it was had his arms taped from wrist to elbow behind his back, and his ankles and wrists cuffed. There was a box strapped to his neck, a pulsating green light blinking to red as Dick watched. It looked like some sort of automatic delivery system, injecting medicine, sedatives, or in this case, fear toxin, at the press of a button. And whoever it was was wearing dark grey body armor with a red bat emblazoned across the chest and a red domino mask. The suit was loose, hanging off of thin, malnourished limbs.
Dick stood, stunned, his brain taking in details, the dark hair with the shock of white mixed in, the leather jacket tossed into the corner of the room, the bit of dark scruff from a week of no shaving. One of the lenses had popped out of the mask, showing a green-blue eye. All of the details swam in his head, but refused to make a complete whole. Like looking at an unfinished puzzle. He could only guess at what the finished picture was.
Another scream, and the picture snapped into focus, into perfect HD, with surround sound. Jason, Jason, curled into fetal position, then snapped out straight again, back arching. His one visible eye was wide, terrified, and it was that that finally had Dick moving.
"No, no, no, Little Wing, can you hear me?" He flicked his hands to the back of Jason's head, undoing the gag and pulling it out of his mouth. It resisted. The gag had been tied so tightly, Jason had screamed so much, that it had dug into the corners of his mouth, ripping them. Blood had soaked the gag and dried. Pulling it away reopened those injuries and blood streamed from Jason's mouth.
That wasn't his only injury. His glove-less wrists and boot-less ankles were almost destroyed from the cuffs. His suit was cut in several places, and there was a bullet wound in Jason's leg that looked like it was getting infected. He was severely dehydrated and looked like he hadn't eaten in a week.
He probably hadn't.
Scarecrow had meant for Jason to die here.
Another scream, this one not filtered by the gag. Frantically, Dick tore the tape off of his brother's arms, picking the locks on his bindings faster than he thought possible. As soon as Jason was free, he scrambled to his feet, stumbling.
"Ja-" Wait. Scarecrow had said cameras. "Red, Red, calm down, you'll be fine now."
"No!" The shout surprised Dick. Jason had who knows how many doses of fear toxin in his system. Liquid doses. The gas was bad enough when inhaled, but this had gone straight to his bloodstream, and it had been injected so close to his neck too. How was Jason still coherent enough to talk? "No, that's what you want me to think! I don't know what kind of sick game you're playing, but it won't work!"
With a distressed cry, Dick surged forward, to hug his brother, comfort him. But at his movement, Jason yelped, and backed up. There was a nail protruding from the crate behind him, but Jason ignored it, ignored when it tore through the skin on his back, and just kept moving with his spine pressed to the crates, away from Dick. "Red, please, it's me! Nightwing!"
There was a moment of near silence, filled with Jason's ragged breathing, Robin's footsteps as he finished with Scarecrow and padded up behind Dick, and just a tinge of hope. It was shattered by a sudden burst of loud, mad, broken laughter.
"Nice try Joker, but I won't fall for that one again! You're a terrible actor, you know that?"
Jason thought he was the Joker. And what did he mean again? "Red, I'm not Joker, I'm Nightwing, your brother! Nightwing, the first Robin, Goldie, Dickhead!" He listed off the names, hoping that one of them, any of them, would spark a positive reaction.
"Really?" Why did that one word, the flash of recognition in Jason's eye, send shivers down Dick's spine? "If you insist. But if you're Robin, then I must be Joker. That's how this works, right?" And without warning, a wide grin spread across his mouth and he attacked.
Jason was injured, dehydrated, and starving, but fueled by fear and mad intensity. It was much harder than it should have been for Robin to pull Jason off of Dick, and even more difficult when he'd turned on Damian instead. Somehow in the scuffle, Jason had picked up a crowbar and smacked it across Dick's jaw. Not with enough force to break anything, but enough to knock him back. All the while laughing, laughing, laughing. It was the most frightening thing Dick had ever heard.
Finally, Dick managed to get Jason pinned. "Robin, go find some rope."
"Why can't we just sedate him? It would be easier to drag the fool back that way."
"No! We can't know how the sedative will react to the drugs already in his system! Just get the rope and call B to bring the car!" Batman was investigating some smuggling ring, over by the docks. Luckily, that wasn't too far away.
When Robin returned, with a long length of heavy rope slung over his arm, he reported, "He's on his way. I also radioed Gordon. He'll be here to pick up Scarecrow soon."
Dick nodded. Good. Hopefully before Batman was able to work Scarecrow over too much.
They ran into a problem tying Jason up. Dick wasn't able to let Jason go without the second Robin trying to run off, so they ended up tying the two of them together. After a few minutes of consideration, Dick instructed Damian to loop some rope around the bottom of Jason's jaw, up and over his head, tying his mouth closed. If Jason kept laughing like this, with the corners of his mouth already split open, then soon he'd have a bigger smile than Joker's.
They lay there, Jason secure in his arms, his back pressed to Dick's chest. From this position, he had a very good view of the little box attached to the side of his little brother's neck. As he had thought, it was an automatic delivery system, hooked directly to his carotid artery. When Scarecrow pressed the button, it would deliver whichever toxin he was testing straight to Jason's brain. The thought made him shudder.
Not as much as how many cartridges of formula the thing held. There was twenty spaces, twenty variations of fear toxin for Scarecrow to test. He didn't know how many had been tested before Nightwing and Robin had shown up. He didn't know how many Jason was under right now. He didn't know anything.
Well, they would hopefully know soon. Robin had been busy while Dick had been inspecting the box. He'd pulled down all the cameras, gathered the notebooks and the tape recorders. Crane was a meticulous note taker, which had saved them more than once. Hopefully, it would save Jason this time too.
Dick stiffened as Jason shuddered. Abruptly, the muffled chortles cut off, replaced by a keening sound. With the one free hand that Damian had so graciously left him, Dick reached up and pulled the rope off of Jason head. "Little Wing?"
"Bruce?" The sound was small, fragile. "Where are you?"
"He's on his way Little Wing. Don't worry." Just another few minutes. Jason could hold on that long, right?
The next sentence broke Dick's heart, just from the tone of voice. "It's dark." Jason's hands twitched, stopped by the bindings. "No, I have to get out!" Jason started thrashing, pulling against the bindings with all he had. Fearful that Jason would hurt himself, Dick scrabbled at the knot, letting the rope fall away. But once they were free, Jason just rolled off of Dick, his arms going out to his sides only to be stopped by an invisible wall. They carefully maneuvered until they were stopped a few inches in front of his face by another wall. Almost as if he were in a...
... box. His coffin.
Frantically, Dick grabbed at Jason's arms, trying to pull them out of the box the toxin had put him in, to show him that it was just in his mind. But his arms didn't move. How could they? He was buried in a coffin with solid, unmovable, wooden walls. And arms couldn't pass through wooden walls, no matter how real they were.
Batman chose this moment to screech to a halt outside, dashing into the warehouse without turning off the engine. The moment Jason caught sight of his cowled head, his tears stopped, and he started screaming again. "No! No, you were late!"
The words froze Batman in place, but Jason wasn't done. "You didn't come, didn't care! You've never cared! I'm just the failure, the forgotten!" Jason flinched as if struck. He moved his arms, warding off invisible blows.
Thankfully, Batman wasn't one for overlong hesitation. He swooped in, scooping Jason into his arms and made for the exit, his other two children following behind him. Jason shouted and thrashed. Once they made it to the car, he deposited Jason in the back seat and leapt behind the wheel. "Robin, passenger seat. Start going through the notebooks, find out which antidotes we need. Nightwing, stabilize him."
Dick nodded and dived into the back, pulling Jason into his lap. He was still flinching, crying out in pain as if the crowbar that killed him was still there, slamming into him. Between cries, he called out for Batman to save him, and asking his mother why. Why she had betrayed him to the Joker.
They peeled out of the warehouse district. Over Jason's mutterings and cries, Dick could hear the sirens as Gotham's finest went to arrest his abuser. It was a relief, but a vindictive part of Dick was really hoping Scarecrow would wake up, say something to piss the cops off and get shot for it. A large part.
Half way home, Jason started speaking again. "Who...?"
"It's me Little Wing. Dick. Nightwing. Are you alright?" Stupid question, but it had to be asked.
Jason didn't even hear the question. "Nightwing. But I killed him." Tears started flowing down Jason's face. "I killed him and Robin and all the Batgirls and the Pretender and Bats and Alfred and oh God."
What? "No, you didn't Jay! I'm right here!"
"I did. I went into the Pit and came back broken and I thought breaking them would fix me and it didn't."
"Jason, no, I'm right here, please Little Wing, look at me."
And he did, with dead, lifeless eyes. "You don't underst- get it, you don't know, war, it's a war, and it's always going, and it's me against the Pit and I lost and now they're dead and it's still war." His speech was becoming fragmented. "The Pit wants me, needs me to rip, tear, destroy, I have to make everyone they have to suffer like but they wouldn't appro- I don't think I can but I have to, must, need to keep fighting it."
Dick didn't know what to do. So he just pulled Jason close and started running his fingers through his hair. "It's alright Jay. Calm down. We're all still alive and you're still fighting. You'll be fine."
"If I stop, ha, the Pit takes haha over and then I can't controhohahahahol myself anymore and sometimes I don't can't shouldn't want to, sometimes I just want to let loose but I can't I don't and everything hahahahahurts and hahahaHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
They popped open the canopy and laughter filled the Cave, startling the bats. Alfred rushed up with a gurney, one of the ones with straps on it thank God. With how Jason was shaking, twitching, laughing, laughing, he wouldn't be able to stay on a regular gurney. They strapped him down and wheeled him to the various analysis machines. Bruce started up the brain scan, taking blood samples while Alfred cut the over-large suit off of Jason's limbs.
He looked horrible. The suit had covered all the bruises and broken bones Jason had had. There wasn't a patch of skin that was its original colour. It was surprising Jason had been able to move at all, was still able to move.
Bruce sent Dick and Damian out of the room, to go shower, to wait. Which they did. And as soon as they finished, they had their ears pressed to the sound-proof medbay door, trying to hear something, anything. When Tim ventured down the stairs, woken by all the noise, and they filled him in on what had happened, he joined them. After an hour, they started alternating between listening and reading Scarecrow's notebooks.
The sound-proofing was really good. All they got was the occasional incredibly quiet scream. It must be deafening inside the room.
Finally, four hours later, the door opened, and an exhausted Bruce and Alfred walked out. Alfred went to fetch some refreshments, not because he thought they needed them, which they did, but because he needed to do something, something familiar, something calming. And nothing was more calming than tea and cookies.
So it was up to Bruce to deliver the report. "He's asleep now. We found a sedative that shouldn't react with the toxins. Six broken bones, all a week old. We had to rebreak and reset two of them. We have him on saline, nutrition and antibiotic drips. Stitches to the corners of his mouth, his leg, and his back. A few of his organs were shutting down, but they should be fine now."
"And..." Dick swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. "And mentally?"
A sigh. That wasn't a good sign. "There's no way to know until he wakes up. And that won't be for a few days at least."
Dick nodded. Bruce waved them into the room, so they could sit by Jason while Batman went over Scarecrow's notes.
They sat. They sat until Damian fell asleep, exhausted by a long patrol and the stress of seeing one of his older brothers break. Until Tim brought Damian upstairs, claiming the need to sleep as well. He had been awake for the past three days looking into an old murder case and its relationship to a new one that was following the same modus operandi. Until it was Just Dick, siting beside his brother.
With shaking fingers, he opened a pouch on his belt and drew out a small bundle. It was a set of gloves, well padded, but without removing dexterity. They would fit like a second skin, a second skin with steel over the knuckles and a red stripe down the middle and through two fingers.
Yesterday, it would have been funny. Jason had constantly made fun of him for his finger stripes. But Dick knew he would have worn these. Made some excuse about how his old ones had gotten worn out and that he was only wearing these until he got them replaced. Jason would have been lazy about it, switched them out for a "less lame" pair when these gloves had gotten worn out themselves.
Carefully, Dick placed the gloves under Jason's hand, sitting helpfully on top of the blankets. Then he covered the whole with his own hands. This wasn't how this day was supposed to go. They were supposed to have breakfast, take a walk to the outdoor market, laugh as they looked at the blades and guns being sold as "decorative" (it wasn't the store owner's fault if the customer used them for something besides their intended purpose, right?), go to some violent zombie movie where Jason would cheer for the undead and Dick would laugh and the other movie-goers would shush them. They would go on patrol and Jason would use less fatal methods for just today, and at the end of the night, while they were sitting on top of Wayne Enterprises just looking at the city lights, Dick would give him the gloves. Jason would have insulted Dick's fashion choice a bit, but he wouldn't have meant a word. Then they would have gone their separate ways for the evening.
Tears dripped onto the back of Dick's hands.
"Happy birthday Little Wing."
AN: Haha, I'm awful. It actually is Jason's birthday today. And I give him fear toxin as a present. Terrible.
This might be continued, and if it is, it'll probably be Jason's point of view. Not sure yet. Hm.
Read and enjoy!