Jason unfolds himself across the couch, finally allowing his legs the sweet freedom of contorting in whatever manner they wanted without strict declines from the more logical side in his brain. You can't take a quick powernap while patrolling Gotham, and the villains won't conveniently stop to let you catch your breath—not if they are smart. The lack of intelligence in morally bad guys isn't too uncommon, and everyone is well acquainted with the old stereotype featuring a villain describing their terrible plans in detail, only to give the hero an opening in which they can exploit known weaknesses and save the day by some miraculous chance. Been there, done that, it doesn't even sound very exciting after a while and the only amusement you can find within the rambling is an unintentional pun or, in the strange sort of cases Jason hopes to never stumble upon (again), a completely bizarre plan. You know a person takes their veganism way too seriously when they try to make animals intelligent lifeforms, simultaneously killing dozens in the process of finding this formidable 'cure' to a meat eater's existence. Calcification in the brain sounds awfully painful.
TV remote loosely in hand, he flickers across many channels of disinterest before finally settling on the news, of all things. What am I? Insane?! Probably, he muses to himself, shifting to get a better view of the blabbering lady talking about what is probably the weather. Gotham's news reports are unlike any other city's, and they can go on for hours before finally finishing their grim broadcast. There is no shortage of crime-related things to talk about; the current continual talking describes minor burglaries and something about new speed limits to help enforce road safety. All boring.
"And now, just coming in…"
His mind starts to drift from focus; the level of attention payed from the start was low, don't mistake his open eyes for attentivity, but it seemed there were no major Asylum breakouts he needed to be aware of, so Jason felt himself tip towards Morpheus' arms. They're open wide, waiting for him to collapse, embrace…
"A report concerning the masked vigilante known as Nightwing. Mr Jones is here to report."
The pace in which he bolts upright causes a 'pop' in his spine and it's louder than a creaky floorboard trying to maintain the weight of a guy who eats too much McDonalds. All of Jason's body parts like to become audible in more ways than the typical snapping and breaking he—thank goodness they heal back stronger—often has to endure. What'd the little b—h get himself into this time? He highly doubted the flying Grayson's death had finally knocked on his door, but the concept of potentially irritable damage being caused in the older brother is not a far-fetched theory in any way. It kinda comes in the job description.
Keppel eyes train themselves on the small rectangle in front of them without straining, waiting for information to spill. What was just a green screen programmed to look like the inside of a completely white cube mere moments ago was now replaced by a dark alleyway. He recognised the place thanks to a vague visit a few weeks ago, but it held no significance in the world of bringing justice. The high walls surrounding it would prove useful to any baddies trying to corner some helpless woman during the dead of night—or even the bleak of day, if they use tactical smarts—though it probably isn't too much of a criminal hotspot simply because what goes around comes around. Those guys could be cornered by authorities, vigilantes, and even other criminals. What business did Nightwing have there at this time of night? It's barely 10:00 PM.
Dumb idiot probably wanted free fast food, he thinks to himself with a rumbling stomach at the mention of the last part, I suppose I could almost see why. If I was a public hero with a ravenous stomach, I'd probably go around and collect any s—t I could get from those stupidly addicting burger joints. Wonder if he eats the same stuff as me… his diet is probably more nutritionally advantageous thanks to reoccurring visits with Alfred, charming bastard, but surely he treats himself on occasion. You ain't living, otherwise, Dickiebird.
"Thank you, Angela," the reporter cleared his throat nonchalantly, indicating that no major threat was in place. "I am here with the fabled vigilante to ask a few questions! Mr Nightwing?" Jason scoffed internally at the formality. These people must have been taking lessons from some really nice butlers to have it all stick when they're out of earshot. They should try Alfred out for a spin! He knows everything. Somewhere in the Manor, the aforementioned man's lips turned downward for seemingly no reason at all, Jason knows. There's nothing that you can ever manage to pull over his eyes, and its ridiculously crazy how well he manages to straighten out any kinks in your behaviour.
When the camera shifted to reveal what was beside the reporter, the all too familiar tight outfit graced many screens and eyes. He could almost hear the joined forces of men and women gaping in their seats… though it could just be an auditory hallucination threatening to occur.
Merry Christmas, bastards. Enjoy it while you can and hope he turns around.
Not to willingly praise the former Robin in any way, shape or form, but nobody—not even Jason—could deny the great body Dick has been blessed with. There is no doubt that the man would make a terrific supermodel and he could, under the right circumstances, become famous world-wide in the fashion industry due to the way he can wear anything and make it look spectacular. For crying out loud, put him in a dress and watch him as he singlehandedly blows every drag queen in existence right off their stages. Put him in overalls and you have a new standard for 'farmer boys.'
Put him in a tight suit with some weaponry and you've got the hero everybody has to love without fail. Stupid golden boy.
"Oh, please, just 'Nightwing' is great," he smiles warmly at the camera, making all but one person who can see it replicate the expression. Even the villains would get a kick out of his looks, if it meant they knew the exact places to put their knives later. Jason can almost hear the sounds of their maniacal cheers and laughter… it's all repulsively vivid, too. He never can bring himself to understand the sheer enjoyment in torturing someone you barely hold a grudge against, which is exactly what the other lunatics—Jason doesn't deny his place among them—do in this city. He has every right to want Nightwing's throat within the grasp of his hands, and he has every right to slice upwards with a knife from the corners of his mouth, deranging him in appearance like the Joker. Ivy, Freeze and every other maniac in existence has absolutely nothing on Dick; no reason to hurt him purposely is evident besides the sheer lack of brain cells and common sense. You cannot complain about being put behind bars if you committed the crime, because it's righteous. You got what was coming for you. There is no reason.
Their interview travels along swiftly and without much awkwardness, not to the anti-hero's surprise. First, there are a lot of simple and easy questions, a method of buttering up the interviewee for harder, more personal questions on the list of things. Who even knew word foreplay was a thing, huh? I wonder if that's the actual term... eheh, might have to ask Clark, he frowns, if I can reach him without being lasered in half, ripped to shreds and/or punched into the sun. Mm. Should check on our relationship status, perhaps.
It is no secret that Todd now has… less than adequate relationships with people he used to know. After he was resurrected, things became immeasurably complicated to the point where he had social anxiety at a debilitating degree. Everyone would either stare, murmur between themselves and behind his back or straight-up question him. No one could seem to accept the facts and fiction; everyone wanted in on the little details he was quite happily going to keep to himself.
"Oh darling, are you okay?"
"What happened to you?"
"Is it… you know… are the rumours true?"
"You should have been more careful. Why'd you be so foolish?!"
The thoughts slowly send him mad like a constant dripping from a leaky tap. The water droplets drip whenever they can, succumbing to gravity and free falling to the drain beneath them. The sound is loud, loud enough to make Jason draw his bottom lip between his teeth anxiously while his brows furrow hard enough to begin affecting the very top of his vision. With coming back from the grave comes many problems, some of which have no easy cure of natural origins. In Jason's case, he has no choice but to call the mechanic in to fix his leaky tap, to make the noises stop their meaningless existence.
He swallows the antipsychotic dry.
Author's note: hello, everyone! I have no idea where this is going but if you'd like me to continue, you're gonna have to show me the love (please review/follow :3) because, otherwise, my lazy ass will forget about this whole thing. Have a nice day!
