Last Laugh
The laughing is what digs into him as the crowbar collides with his ribcage, not the bitterly cold metal. The incessant laughter buries itself into his mind, the unnatural sound peeling away at his sanity even more than the raw pain that has paired itself to him in the midst of the beating Joker is giving him. It's a horrible sound, high and wheezing, yet dark and demanding – the low chortles thrown in make it unbearable; but the worst part of it, is that it's real. Joker sounds practically giddy when he plows his foot into the front of his face, cracking a nose and sending a string of blood to splatter against the floor. It's not alone, that single puddle of red – no, Jason can see marks here and there all around the concrete ground of the warehouse.
His vision is red and blurry, so he must have popped a blood vessel in his eye earlier; that, or the dizziness is getting to him. He'd vomit, but his he's facedown against the floor, and he's going to use what little self-control he has left to force himself not to show weakness. He can feel the bruised bones that lay beneath his sliced skin, the cuts and scrapes compliments of the rusty knife Joker keeps in his pocket. He can feel his ribs ache from where the crowbar has managed to dent the bone – the aches and pains that come from even the smallest attempt at taking a breath. He can feel each bruise, each knick, each bump – he can feel his composure slipping out of his reach as he fights to keep his heart pumping and his mind alert; he's keenly aware of just how badly his body is broken, painfully conscious that he's not going to make it out.
The laughter fades into chuckles as Joker tosses the crowbar nonchalantly to the ground – it skids past his head, so closely he can feel it tousle his hair – and he can smell the copper scent of his blood before it slides past, hitting a wall in the distance. It clangs emptily in the first silence Jason has heard in hours – it doesn't last. Instead, he hears footsteps that wander closer and closer to him, until he can see the laced up shoes that stop just within sight – he forces himself not to flinch, his body wanting to protect itself from another kick to the face. Inside, Jason knows that Joker is getting tired of his newfound plaything – he knows that Joker isn't one to keep around his broken toys. He feels his expression slip into a narrow glare, and he can feel warmth leak from his eyes – aside from the tears, he can sense it's one that Bruce would have been proud of.
Bruce. Jason felt his heart twinge slightly as he thought of his mentor, the man who'd taken him in. He'd be so mad when he found out that Jason had gone out alone, that he'd thought he could take on the Joker all by himself in some petty attempt to prove how smart and strong he was. How stupid could he be? Jason could only imagine what Dick would say.
"Tsk, tsk, Bird Brain, what would the Bat think?" Joker asked suddenly, his thick shoes prodding the side of Jason's head harshly. He gave Jason a few moments to respond, but when the teen remained silent, Joker's cracked lips heaved themselves into a ferocious, almost predatory, grin, "Wake up, birdy! Let me hear you sing!" The man burst out in a quick fit of laughter as a delivered an unforgiving kick Jason's shoulder, causing him roll onto his back. A sharp intake of breath escaped his lips before the yell erupted from his mouth, his shoulder crying out in pain from the blow. Now that he was facing the ceiling, he could see Joker's hideous face.
The clown towered over him, his leanly thin body, adorned his repugnant purple suit as he loomed wickedly within Jason's line of sight. The man's ghost-white face paint clung haphazardly to his skin, sweat muting some areas with a discolored gray. The sharp contrast of his scarred red lips was almost as painful as they looked. His stringy green hair was slicked back with a truckload of greasy gel, and his bloodshot eyes were alight with murderous joy. The bad lighting offered by the warehouse wasn't doing him any favors, either.
"Hmm," the man murmured in faux deep thought, "I suppose, at least, we know the caged bird does sing. Even if it can't carry a tune."
Jason remembers Bruce telling him about Joker for the first time:
"It's all a game to him, Jason. It's a game that has no rules, no boundaries, and it's a game that Joker intends to win. Remember, that, Jason. Keep the game alive, because he can't win until it's over."
Jason coughed some blood out of his mouth, pushing it away from his swollen tongue so he speak, "Bite me."
The words were blubbery and garbled, but he was glad he'd gotten something out – he felt his body tremble with the effort of a fake laugh, a laugh of his own, one that countered the Joker's with a weak chuckle – he didn't know the rules, but he would certainly be the one to beat Joker at his own game. He'd be the one to have the last laugh.
Joker didn't seem amused, but he kept ahold of his poise, "Ah," he smiled cruelly in delight, "Found our voice have we? Splendid," he giggled, bending down. Jason glared as Joker's hand wrapped around the cuff of his cape, pulling him upwards and holding him there, in the air, his feet off the ground and all the weight dangling from Joker's hold on the cape. The clown smirked, "The old Robin was so much more entertaining, so much more original. I can see why Batsy doesn't keep as tight a leash on you – you're not worth the effort of keeping, are you?"
Jason, despite the pain and the fact his body was wrecked , felt himself snarl – no one talked about him like that. No one. Especially not this...this…whatever that the Joker was. This clown, this joke, didn't get to talk about Bruce. He didn't deserve to even think about him and his relationships with people.
Joker must have seen the look in his eyes, the glare of hatred and defiance, because the man laughed, again, "Oh-ho-ho, struck a nerve, have we? How positively precious." The giddy note in his tone dropped seven octaves, "I hate things that are precious."
Jason barely had time to suck in a breath before the toe of Joker's shoe tore into his gut, stealing away air and jostling his bruised ribs.
He tried not to wince, but pain's tight grip on him made his body writhe up tightly, folding onto itself unconsciously. The tears seeped out, and he was glad his domino mask held them out of few.
Joker's laugh echoes of the wall, cold and malicious, like he's a hyena who is sick and ready to lash out. It's primal, guttural and happy- it's driving him insane.
Another kick.
And another.
And another.
And they keep coming, a fist here and there added in, as though he wants to be fair and take full advantage of this game.
Jason feels his body start to relax, give up, and just start accepting the reality of his situation. Slowly he feels his mind lose track of feeling and time starts to slip away from him. He can feel himself dying.
He's so young.
He can feel his breath starting to hitch.
What will Bruce say?
His eyes begin to fall beneath a weight of exhaustion that feels so final and cold it scares him.
Dick will be so upset.
A fist curls around the material just beneath his neck, but he can't do anything about it. He can feel his dying breaths squeezing pathetically from his throat – the Joker is chuckling.
No one is going to save him.
"You home Birdy?" the Joker says harshly, his voice off key and apathetic. Jason's glad his eyes are closed, he's glad he can't see the man's face.
Joker loses interest fast, tossing Jason to the floor like a rag doll.
"Hmm, Birdy has flown the coup. Ah well, they don't make sidekicks like the used too."
Footsteps. A door opens. A door closes.
And he is completely alone.
Jason frowned, forcing his eyelids open – and he's broken. He can feel his broken limbs even before he moves, but still he writhes. He pulls on the handcuffs where his arms have been pinned behind his back, rolling and twisting his pain-riddled body until his hands are hanging where they should be, right in front of him. Next he pushes himself across the floor, moving like a worm – he can see his utility belt on the floor only a few feet away. If he can get to it, he can send a distress call.
That's when Jason here's the beeping – he turns his head slowly to a crate, where a clock in waiting for him – a clock that's counting down.
He's got ten seconds.
Ten.
He's going to die.
Nine.
He's really going to die.
Eight.
What if there is no God?
Seven.
What if there is, but he goes to Hell?
Six.
Where's Bruce?
Five.
What will he think?
Four.
What about Dick? What about his brother?
Three.
Will they notice him gone? Will they miss him?
Two.
Jason feels thoughts flood his head, apologies and words spilling over, and he's seeing a million moments in his head he'll never get to live. He's ask for forgiveness from Bruce, apologizing to Dick, and Alfred. He's telling his team goodbye. He's can see himself asking them to remember his good moments, not his last. He's seeing their tears. He's hearing them at his funeral. He's seeing them silent. He's seeing his first dance. He's seeing his wife, his kid, and all the things he'll never get to do.
He's dying. He's alone. He's scared.
He's so scared.
He can feel his thoughts drowning him.
He's so sorry.
One.
His thoughts go still.
The warehouse explodes.
And somewhere in the dark of Gotham, the Batsignal goes off, because someone needs a hero.