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They open their eyes and all the world is darkness. It surrounds them, crushes them, as they breathe stale air, as they feel out the limits of the enclosure.
The world is small, they think. Too small to even stand in. Except that's wrong because the world is made of concrete and cool metal, of buildings standing so tall they can hardly see the sky. The sky that reached out to the stars, so untouchable when they used to try to catch them from the roof of that hellhole they'd called home.
The world they remember was so big it swallowed them whole.
The enclosure feels too small, their breaths coming in fast and shallow. There's no way out, they're trapped, they're trapped and their knees and hands hit the ceiling but there's no way out. They start screaming then. Mostly wordless, mostly desperate. Sometimes, they form a specific sound, one that makes them long and hurt and ask why.
The sound is Bruce.
Bruce is danger and the night and caregiver all at once. But Bruce is not here and will not be here – like last time, although they don't know when or how that was – and they won't wait any longer.
Screaming makes their ears ring but they don't stop. The ringing is good, the ringing is stinging pain that tells them they're here. It tells them they're alive. The frantic beat of their chest and the buzz in their ears makes them scrabble at the lid of their cage. They scratch and they tear through fabric and wood until they reach dirt. Their screams grow muffled but they don't stop, even when they can't breathe anymore.
After so long, after thinking they'll die again between the six feet of soil that separates them from life, they break the surface.
They gasp.
The air is sweet. Crickets resound, well out of sight. In the distance, city lights flashed. Blood drips from their hands and waters the earth. And the soil, it whispers back to them, curls around their ears. For a moment, walls close in again, stale air enters their lungs, and the silence of death consumes them.
But they're out.
They're free.
They lean against the gravestone next to them, sink down to the dewy earth and heave air into their chest.
What the fuck are they supposed to do now?
,
The city reeks of decay and desperation. It permeates the air, clinging especially thick in the back streets, the alleyways and all the places people have been forgotten.
Hunger claws bony fingers against their rotting insides as they stalk the streets. The other pedestrians avoid them, offer a wide berth as they move. It's pleasant – they dislike the thought of touching anyone; the feeling is likely mutual. They feel it, though, on their backs when the others don't think they can sense it: the eyes of jackals.
They straighten their back, widen the stride. Project power despite their disheveled, filthy state. In this world they've dragged themselves into, the strong will devour the weak without question. Without remorse. Chills brush up and down their spine as they walk without aim, purposeful and yet they have no goal. No safe haven in this steel-and-concrete jungle. But they glare and people flinch, when they growl the vermin scurry away into their hiding spots, beady eyes darting about warily.
They steal clothes. Shoes, when their feet start hurting for real. A jacket here, a shirt there... Finding anything edible is more difficult.
Out of the corner of their eyes, they see another one of the vermin twitching as he lies limp against the wall. His eyes are unfocused and they mumble some sort of nonsense as they approach. (No need to explore the alley; they know it's a dead end.)
For a moment, they consider eating him.
Just a moment.
He would taste good, wouldn't he? Of course, they'd need to drain the blood – contaminated, considering how obviously high he is – gut him, skin him, shave the hair off if necessary…
Too much work.
Oh, but how good he would taste. An entire man: legs, face, tongue and all.
They tilt their head. Somehow, they feel as if that's not how one goes about eating this sort of meal. And either way, it's wrong, isn't it? Eating people, vermin or not, is something they've never considered before now, though they don't have the faintest clue as to why. It seems like doing so would solve so many problems.
…Still.
They sigh and make to leave behind the heavily drugged man. Probably all skin and bones, anyway, and riddled with all sorts of diseases to boot.
(They wonder if zombies ever face these sorts of qualms whenever they chase down their meals.)
As they exit the alley, something else catches their attention: a dirty flier for a homeless shelter.
Well.
The thought of going there digs under their skin, writhing like a lone maggot eating into their flesh. They hate it, hate that they have no idea what their next step can be but…
They are homeless. And the night is still young. Maybe there's still some space. They can stay for one night – one – and take the time to figure out. They need that time. And, at the very least, a meal.
They glare at the flier as they carefully read the address.
,
(Note to self: Shelter food does not sit well in their stomach.
They retch bitter regrets into the chilly toilet, resolving to take up a more critical eye in their inspections before putting anything in their mouth ever again.
They are hungry.)
,
Answers do not come in the homeless shelter. Neither do they miraculously appear in the wanted sections of the newspapers or the careful questions from nosy people about getting social workers. If anything, nagging suspicion rises with the suggestions and implications of the latter, effectively chasing them out of any respectable establishment after only so much time.
The answer instead arrives in the form of a late night out, of shivering against their claimed warm spot by the vents of a building. Specifically, it looks like a large man grabbing the wrist of a scantily clad female.
Reacting is instinct. Their body coils, remembering kicks and punches and movement that sends adrenaline pumping through their blood. The world shifts – or maybe it's them, maybe they're wrong with limbs writhing under their skin and a hole from their stomach to their chest that craves – and they stand in front of the man, their fists swinging at his ugly face.
It feels good. It feels natural.
They smile, careful to hide their face in the darkness. Careful not to really be seen.
Leave, they say without words, without sound. Because if they're going to do this, then they may as well do this right: make themselves larger than life, a monster in the dark.
A myth.
A nightmare.
A legend.
Grandiose thoughts for a zombie but maybe there are exceptions for the particularly handsome ones.
With a flick of their hand, they shoo the young woman away as they step towards the cursing man again. He spits out blood and meaningless words. Everything bounces off them – tonight, they are on fire.
Fighting with the mugger – and if he's something worse, then all the better – is child's play. They sidestep his fists, block, return every favor. It's exhilarating and beautiful and they laugh and laugh and laugh because it's so perfect and right.
But the fight drags on and on and they tire.
…Well, that's not really the truth. The truth is that they grow bored. He's hardly worth so much of their time – his words and his movements are repetitive and he's bleeding and angry still, roaring and spitting like an enraged feline.
They snap his wrist. Drag him forward. Open their mouth and swallow him whole.
And the world falls as silent as it ever will in this diseased city. A few streets off, the screech of the sirens pierce the air. They fall still to listen but when the sounds – familiar, makes them clench their jaw – pass by, they relax. Smile.
They are full.
And now they know what they must do.
,
They pull the hood securely over their head, draw the cloth up past their nose. It's not the most functional outfit for the job but it can hide them in plain sight. Which, considering they only have one other set of clothes, is vital.
And besides, urban legends start with normal-looking people anyway. Because they don't plan to go gallivanting around with a cape and armor and a hundred different fighting styles hidden in their belt (although that last bit would be nice). They've seen the papers about the Batman and while he's definitely a nightmare and a legend, he's too … public. Too distinguished. And he doesn't kill.
Them? They need money and this is the only way they can get any without stealing from hardworking, legally-paid people. By stealing already stolen funds. It's a bit of a roundabout thing, but they don't think on it too hard.
They won't be a Dark Knight, or a savior. The world isn't kind enough for that sort of thing.
They run their tongue over their teeth, allowing for one second, their form to shift with the world, to flicker into the more that they grew into when they woke up in the box. Appendages slithering about beneath the skin, fingers and limbs just a little too long, a little too pale. They stand tall and cast their long shadow across the alley.
And then, they're just. Just human again. Just another scraggly twig on the streets besieged by misfortune. Just another in this world riddled with holes, crawling with vermin.
They roll their shoulders. Flex their hands.
They debut that night in silence and terror. As they shift the world just enough that the electricity flickers in the building, that chills finger the spines of the scum they eye from the shadows. As they swallow up screams and fight against paper dolls with wild abandon.
Only one gun fires off. Once.
They're rather proud of themselves.
And the cash. Oh, the cash. They count it up, smile wide and stuff as much as they can into their pockets. They're in no rush but they do need to transport all this into a safer area until they can get somewhere to stay. The carpets are soaked with blood after the fight and they make a mental note to learn how to be a bit less messy when it comes to ripping people apart.
But then, that is half the fun.
The next morning, the newspapers are filled with their handiwork. They smile, cut the article and pin it on the wall of their shitty new apartment. Light a cigarette and breathe.
,
The Ripper
The public chooses it and that's their entire excuse for ending up with such a shitty alias. But it's really partially their own fault because they hadn't even planned on a name and now they can't even reject the one they've been given. They had wanted to be a shadow, a whisper on the streets, not something tangible. Not something so stupidly named.
At least the no one's posted a picture of them – yet.
They growl.
,
A woman, middle-aged and beautiful, stands before them with a self-assured smile and a smooth stride. She talks a lot, offers more, and in the end, reaches a slim hand out towards them. Waiting, like she would know their decision, the gleam in her eyes anything but generous.
"Interesting," they rasp because speech is a bothersome thing. "My memories … answers..."
Her smile widens, shows white teeth. "You can have all that and more."
They know a false promise when they hear one. A deal with the devil, a Faustian contract. And she sure as hell looks enough like a succubus.
"But I already have my answer," they continue. "And I have my memories." Broken, fractured, maybe beyond repair but it's true and unquestionably theirs. Which may not become the case if they start letting random women poke around in their head.
The smile disappears. Her eyes harden. "You would be wise to reconsider."
They tilt their head curiously. "Are you going to attack me?" they say, humor lacing the rough.
Her answer is a throwing knife and attack after strategic attack. But she's grown used to fighting only the knowable – maybe that's all she's ever had to fight – and they strike back. They unfurl themselves from bone and marrow, blood and muscle. They strike, flickering between what they are and who they are until the two become one as they draw her blood.
It's almost time, their mouth watering, as they taken in her disheveled brokenness. Good enough to eat. And they stretch forward, reaching greedily, ready to devour this presumptuous harpy–
She runs. Almost impossible with the damage to her legs but she does and they can't help but watch.
(Like an injured gazelle.)
Primal fear plays wild in her eyes when she turns away and they breathe in the scent of it and promise themselves her flesh the next time they meet.
(They never see her face again.)
,
The first time they meet Batman, they see red.
Their meal whimpers on the ground, legs broken, and they step over it, never taking their eyes off the caped madman. They writhe inside their skin, coiling around fragile bones, ready to burst, to attack…
"So you're the maniac shredding people," Batman says, sounding more affronted than surprised.
They lash out.
Batman reacts. He's good. Very good – fast, agile, strong. He keeps up with them and there's something incredibly reassuring as well as intimidating about the fact.
"You're a thief and a murderer," he says factually, unfazed by their silence. It usually throws people off a bit. But not Batman. Somehow, they're not surprised even if annoyance does surge. "But you only target criminals and abusers."
They can't stop themselves from laughing. The sound is dry, choked – little wonder, considering how little they've spoken since waking up. But it's there, ice crawling underneath their skin and picking apart their spine.
Horrifyingly, salty moisture pricks their eyes.
They want to run away.
Their stomach rebels at the thought of swallowing him up. It's too fast. Unexpected. He's a skilled fighter, an exciting one even if the very sight of him makes them need to shriek as they haven't since they woke up in the box. They hate him, they do, and they don't, and the killing blow never comes. Because they can't.
They just can't.
Maybe this is why he won't kill any of his villains, either.
So they throw him into the wall and knock their head into his. Hard enough to incapacitate. Batman slides to the ground.
They feel eyes on their back.
They take a deep breath, shake their head. Eat their meal – they'd lost their playful mood despite the riveting fight – and run. And when they run far enough, they scream and they scream and they scream until their voice bleeds and they choke on the air.
Bruce, they think in the way one would utter a curse.
Bruce.
,
(Sometimes, when they decide they really want to go there, their mind digs up memories of the universe: as it was, as it should have been, how it irrevocably is. The same way they simply are now. They remember the nothing that preceded everything and all the things that came before that.
Eternity stretches onward and behind and very few things stay for its entirety.
They are one of those few things – even as they are now, a blip in the cosmos and trapped in something tiny and fragile. They remember regarding the game and the others who have been for as long as they have. They remember human memories from the time when they were 'I' instead of 'we'; 'me' instead of 'us'. It's hazy now, as memories are, flawed and unreliable. But it's all theirs to be kept and treasured.
God help anyone who tries to take any of it away.)
,
Batman's a persistent bastard, they'll give him that.
After the first night, it seems the man has resolved to stop them in any way possible. Hunting for possible targets becomes a nightmare in and of itself as they learn to avoid all forms of physical and digital security and turn to the rooftops for their routes.
Sometimes Nightwing comes with him. And the pair, Batman and Nightwing, are almost good enough to keep them from getting away. Almost. And they're thankful for it, for the extra strength and bizarre anatomy that make their getaways possible.
Seeing the two of them, together, does painful things to their still-beating heart. Hearing them talk makes it worse and there are nights when they do no more than turn tail and run the opposite way as soon as they spot either of the vigilantes.
Slowly, they learn how to attack in the day. It's not easy – mosquitoes are always attracted to the dark – but they make it work. They eat and they sleep at odd intervals, more of catnaps than anything else.
Tonight, they can feel eyes prickling the back of their neck. Watchful. It's a feeling they've come to associate with the Batman although it isn't a constant.
Immediately, their eyes dart around the area, trying to decipher where a mad Bat might try to jump out of the shadows or blind spot.
Nothing comes.
The watchfulness does not go away and they do not leave. This is a mystery they don't appreciate, unlike their lost – broken, unwanted – memories.
They draw themselves up tall and regal and for the first time, they allow all of their appendages to escape the confines of skin. They uncoil and taste the air, grasp the light, smell the dark and fear–
It's hides on a rooftop.
They scale the nearby building. It's an old structure that might have been something actually respectable fifty years ago. Today, however, neglect has seen its fall into disrepair. They feel the brick under their hands and tentacles as they glide upwards in one fluid motion. They follow the smell of human and anxiety and fear, so much fear…
They feel it before they see it. Completely by accident, because touch is a strange thing that lights all of the affected nerve endings and they'd rather not waste so much sensation on another person. It's uncomfortable.
A small cry escapes a tiny nook they'd overlooked completely on the way up.
They stop.
Blink.
And then more feelers reach for the origin of the sound and make contact with cloth and skin and hair. They wrap the appendages around the small creature and drag it out into the moonlight.
They blink again.
Because what they have in front of them, struggling and whimpering against their limbs is a small human. A tiny human.
A professional camera hangs from its – his, they remind themselves – neck.
They jolt, snatching the device before they really know what they're doing. The child cries out but can't break free from their grip.
"Please," he begs, arms and legs entwined in their appendages. "Please, I – I didn't take – I didn't take any of you. I didn't mean to – I'll leave. I won't tell anyone. I swear, please, just please–"
They tune him out, too busy with their eyes, at looking, at seeing. The boy – because that's what he is – is small, frail, young. They don't eat those. And more than that … odd specialties, a special kind of spark, black hair, Caucasian skin, wide blue eyes…
This wisp will grow into a Robin.
They tense, tighten their grip, and the boy babbles more quickly. Tears leak out of his eyes and his voice shakes, he's so young. So, so young.
Bruce will take him and the Bat will mold him into an offering fit for the earth. Take him, mold him, bleed him, break him.
They drag the boy closer, unaffected by his pleas and struggling. He's weak and ready to cry but they don't stop until they hold him up only a few inches away from themselves.
"You take pictures of Batman," they say aloud even though shaping the words is a hassle. The child doesn't deserve to be terrified. Intimidated, yes, scared, yes, because this is dangerous and not a hobby for the innocent but they will not have him frightened for his life.
They wonder if he's ever been scared like that before. Their own childhood had been very … exposed to the elements of the world and innocence had always been something more like a dream. But this one's camera is expensive and feels relatively new in their hands so they doubt that financials are the worst of his problems.
But then, there are so many more problems in the world than money even if want of it does dominate the criminal landscape.
The boy flushes. "Yes – I … yes."
A tentacle flicks a teardrop away from his face. It tastes like salt.
"How long?" they say.
"A-a few years."
They hum. "Does he know?"
A frantic shake of the child's head.
Interesting. Definitely the makings of a Robin.
Gently, they set him down and he collapses on trembling knees. They haven't completely let loose of him yet – it's the only thing keeping him from falling on his face. And should they follow him down to the ground? Stand still? They're not sure.
Finally, they kneel. Put their hands on his shoulders. Drag him into an embrace.
Feel their heart pound as they realize they're not even sure if they know how to hug right.
"Hatchling," they say because this slip of a human will someday become their younger brother in arms. Another soldier sent to appease the city with his blood. With his life. They breathe in deep, committing his scent to memory. "Go home."
While he still can. Because one of the many rites of passage that a Robin must go through – that is, the requirement – is to lose everything.
The child – boy – human – hatchling – is tense. They rub his back in a hopefully reassuring gesture.
"You're not going to kill me?" he whispers into their shoulder.
"No," they promise, drawing back. They look him in the eye. Wipe tear tracks away with their fingers. "Come," they add, not unkindly. "This place is not safe for you."
The hatchling stands with them. He's pale, sweating, with the scent of fear that has decreased by only so much.
They withdraw into themselves again, skin closing over torn orifices. It takes a moment for them to settle fully, to coil around muscle and bone, but the result is something less intimidating. More human. The hood goes down even as they curl back into a more logical height, and they tear off the cloth covering the bottom half of their face. They look closely at the little one, bringing their face near, allowing him to take in their features as they have memorized his.
The hatchling blinks. "What are you doing?" His voice is wary, rightly so.
"People will think I'm kidnapping you if I cover my face," they explain as even more color drains from his face. White as a sheet, and they're almost tempted to regurgitate the remains of their last meal to offer but this is only a hatchling on his first life. Doubtless, he prefers to eat the way everyone else does.
"You're coming with me?" he squeaks.
They raise an unimpressed eyebrow. "Problem?"
Obviously, there was if the impending panic attack means anything. They thump his back. "Breathe, hatchling."
"I can go home on my own," the child reassures them too quickly. "I know the way – I've been doing this for a while, remember? You don't need to escort me or anything." He laughs nervously. "I'm sure you have a lot of better things to do."
"No," they respond, bemused. They're not idiots – this boy is not going home unless someone sees to it that he does. "I don't. Now lead the way, hatchling."
"Really," he says, desperation creeping into his voice. "You don't have to."
"Don't I?" Their own home life had been hell during those crucial formative years. It might be a little late for their hatchling but they'd like to see what the situation is with him. "And – your camera."
The hatchling catches the device when they throw it, holding it close to his chest like a treasure as he slips the strap over his head once more. He murmurs his thanks before a horrified look passes in his eyes and he looks firmly away.
"You're welcome." Should they feel amused? Slighted? Again, they're not quite sure and suddenly, so much of Bruce's awkwardness makes sense now.
(They shove the unwelcome realization away; it will not do to become Bruce.)
Tentatively, they stretch out a gloved hand, stained brown with dry blood but no one need to know that. They offer him a lopsided smile, the stretch of muscles unfamiliar but they're trying. "Let's go."
For a long moment, the hatchling looks frozen on the concrete roof: his face trapped in a mixture of horror, fear and – more encouragingly – disbelieving amusement. And then he snatches their hand, gripping them as tight as his little fingers can.
Well. In this form, they're little too. But taller than the hatchling. Quite a bit taller and growing, still. And their everything is bigger and stronger so they pick up the little one, ignoring his alarmed shriek, and descend from the rooftop. Still ignoring the shrieking.
"Babybird," they sing softly the way their mother sometimes used to when she lay on the ground, higher than the moon. "My hatchling, my babybird."
He shudders slightly, tightens his fingers on their clothes, and struggles to be let down on the ground as soon as possible. Moving too fast and forcing himself on shaky legs makes him sway and for one moment, he leans on them. It's only when he realizes that he's doing it that he stumbles backwards, eyes wide, heart beating fast, with his arms wrapped around himself.
"The streets are dark," they muse.
"That's okay." Too fast. Too openly anxious.
They smile, just a little. Bring the hood and the cloth back up to hide their face. "Then hop to it. Night's not getting any younger."
Armed with all the encouragement he needs, the hatchling shoots down the street, mustering up a pace that is possibly the fastest he can manage. They cross their arms and watch his figure grow smaller in the distance before ducking into a street. After counting down the minutes in their head, they move in the same direction. He can't have gone far in the given amount of time. No doubt, he'll take the least obvious routes, maybe even default back to the rooftops and try to disappear into the shadows, but that's alright.
A game of hide and seek never hurt anyone.
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Author's Note: Welcome to my first attempt at writing for the Batman fandom. Make no mistake, I know very little of what goes on here. Comics are hard to come by where I live but I'm doing my best to find and read them when I can. I have a particular interest in Tim Drake and Jason Todd so I'm trying to read more of their comics than the others. Hopefully, I managed to write something close to how Jason might think and feel while also housing an eldritch horror in his body and mind (especially since he's technically supposed to be catatonic at this point). I may not always be able to send my thanks properly, but I greatly value your comments and/or criticisms - I would really like to improve my writing.
I apologize for any mistakes that may have slipped through the editing process. Despite them, I hope you enjoyed reading this fic!