"Every night, and every morn,
Some to misery are born.
Every morn, and every night,
Some are born to sweet delight.
Some are born to sweet delight.
Some are born to endless night."
… Auguries of Innocence, William Blake
The thousand faces on the walls were all singing. Their steady, monotonous chorus-chime had filled the room with a haunting ambiance that elevated each passing second from permissible whisper to operatic scream. Time was deafening in the home of William McKeever, who had grown obsessed with its passage as it aged him, and turned the Clock King from man to mulch. His wrinkles sank deeper than the cracks in the floorboards. His skin was as spotted as the mold on the ceiling and the light in his eyes had diminished long before the bulbs overhead had flickered out. He was as dark and decrepit as the condemned building that he'd come to praise as his temple. He worshipped every minute as they were shouted from the walls.
Jason Todd was deaf to that particular dogmatic pitch. He worshipped no one and no thing, not anymore. Years ago, Jason's own ticking ballad had gone silent. Time abandoned him, swept away by the obsidian cape of his fleeting idol. Time eventually returned with a deafening shriek. His hero did not. He'd been forced back into the theatre of numbered faces and was strapped to the chair nearest the stage. He could do nothing but listen as the seconds passed. Time went on as Jason was made to live with the memories of his childhood and the fear of his future. The Clock King thrived on that sort of thing. He longed for it. McKeever wanted to sit and cheer and applaud as time went on and defied the creeping oblivion. Jason wanted silence. He wanted the clocks to stop ticking and the curtains to close. He just had work to do first.
The Red Hood came to deliver oblivion. He pushed his gun into McKeever's open mouth until the old man's teeth were scraping against the barrel. Jason could feel the alizarin steel pressed against the back of the Clock King's throat. He pushed further. William gagged and his tears ran like rivers down the canyon-wrinkles that spilled to his jaw. The old man's nightgown was bloodied. He'd known the moment that he'd stirred awake with the crimson helmed vigilante at his bedside that the clocks were finally winding down. Still he had not anticipated the wrath that Jason Todd had come to deliver upon him.
"You should be honored, McKeever." The Red Hood could never resist his parting words; the theatrical rise in tension before the inevitable climax. It was one of the few habits he still entertained from his days as Robin. Back then he taunted each crook with a cheerful, childish wonder before delivering whichever blow might have led them to a jail cell. "You're the start of something." Now he regarded the old man from behind the visor he'd adopted as his face. His voice was distorted, dark and bedevilled. The world looked red from beneath his helmet. His words were meant only to torture. "You're the first tick on a brand new clock."
William's eyes widened in clear delight, despite the taste of metal and oil slick on his tongue. The Clock King then straightened his back, rising as tall as he could from his kneeled position. Jason heard the old man's bones creak. He saw McKeever's throat flex as he stifled another gag. The tears had stopped flowing. Instead, pride steamed from the Clock King in the very moment that death threatened to engulf him. He'd realized something that Jason Todd recognized but knew to be wrong. If his death truly was a beginning, William thought, then it would transform him from the man to the clock, from the worshipper to the worshipped. McKeever could finally stand on the stage that he'd praised for his entire life. Jason knew that dream to be wrong because he had died once before. For the dead, it was the beginning of nothing.
Something metallic rolled across the floorboards and Jason's heart stopped beating. He recognized the sound, the weight, and the practiced momentum as the canister came to a stop between his feet. He looked from the face of his enemy to the grenade beneath them. He expected death. It had been coming for any and all who had once associated with the Batman and Jason knew even he would not be exempt. He saw disappointment instead. Concussive, non-lethal; his heartbeat returned like the thunder and the blood raged in his veins. Nightwing had come to stop him.
The grenade exploded in a calamitous white light. The thousand glass faces shattered and McKeever was thrown across the worn, wooden floor. He rolled like a discarded toy atop the shrapnel until he slammed limp against the wall. His breathing was labored. Pulse unsteady. Jason crashed into the nook where the wall met the ceiling and landed hard. His ears were ringing even inside the helmet and the room spun as he climbed back to his feet. He barely heard the sound of another set of heels as they danced across the floor and rushed towards him. He fired a blind shot at the movement. The bullet missed and tore through the open window from where Nightwing had surely arrived.
The Red Hood regained his senses just as the invading hero thrusted a kick into his chest. Jason stumbled and assumed the defensive. He protected his vitals first, his guns second. He couldn't hope to defeat Dick Grayson without his weapons. That knowledge alone was infuriating. Todd couldn't help but to seethe as Richard then pressed his attack. Heels and knees, fists and elbows; Jason's practiced guard shielded him from the strikes that his body armor couldn't absorb. Grayson had always excelled and Jason hated him for that. The blue-and-black vigilante fought like the sea, natural and fluid. The First Boy Wonder, the Most Beloved Son, the Greatest Hero; the Red Hood exceeded Nightwing in only one category. Jason Todd's resolve was forged by the hardest metals and the hottest fires. When the moment came that conflict evolved into war, the Red Hood was steel. Nightwing was plastic.
An uppercut passed his open jacket and sunk into Jason's ribs. He spat through gritted teeth. Blood sprayed the inside of his helmet. Todd quickly slammed the base of his gun into Grayson's temple and shoved Nightwing towards the window. Richard was stunned. Jason could see the stars in the hero's eyes even through the white lenses of Grayson's mask. Before the sea of Nightwing's assault could crash back down upon him, the Red Hood raised his gun. Richard gasped. He reached out and rushed forward but wasn't fast enough. Jason put a bullet in the Clock King's throat.
The old man had been shuffling to his hands and knees when his esophagus splattered on the wall beside him. Blood pooled like hot, dark oil around his fingers. Dick arrived at his side in a panic and McKeever wrapped an arm around the young man's shoulders. William mouthed an unintelligible babble of apologetic misery. Wicked men all died sorry. Not all of them got to die in the arms of Dick Grayson though. Jason hadn't known earlier just how right he would become, but the Clock King really should have felt honored.
Todd growled from behind the heap of hero and victim. "Time's up." McKeever was choking on the last of his blood when Jason's boot struck the side of Nightwing's head. Grayson was rattled again. He fell to the floor and slipped in the blood of the man he'd failed to save. The blue symbol on his chest was streaked red. This time Richard fought through the pain and the disorientation. He leapt upright and blocked the fist that soared for his cheek bone. He grabbed Jason's arm, pivoted and threw the Red Hood over his shoulder. Fighting Dick Grayson was like fighting the sea. He could be hit, broken, parted. The sea always regained its shape. The sea always hit back.
Jason Todd was standing yet again. He was steel, beaten and burned and built into a weapon, but even steel could be pushed by the tide. The brothers broke through the frame of the open window and crashed to the pavement below. The heavy thud of meat softened by concrete was followed only by the skidding of Jason's gun across the sidewalk. Nightwing and the Red Hood lay still. They breathed hard and thick and fought to be the first to forget the ribs splintered in their chest. It was the ocean that recovered first. Dick Grayson soon towered above Jason Todd. He pointed the barrel of the Red Hood's own weapon back down and towards Todd's helmet.
Jason barely saw the gun. He looked passed it, to the pain stretched over Nightwing's face. It covered his expression like a plastic bag tied at the neck, stealing away the hero's air. On the other side of the red visor, Todd could not help but to smile. He had seen that pain so many times before. The Red Hood then sighed and shifted, knowing that Nightwing would recognize that he'd given up for the night. He was ready for the cell and the ceremony of imprisonment. Grayson steadied his aim and tightened his jaw. Jason froze. The gun was aimed for the center of his helmet. They both knew that Richard wasn't going to pull the trigger.
The gun roared all the same and Jason's world went black. His head rocked against the sidewalk. Smoke rose from the bullet lodged in the center of his mask and cracks spread from the impact like the threads of a spider's web. Grayson's arms lowered. He dropped the pistol to the ground and fell to his knees, still atop his brother. He stared at Jason, beaten and unconscious, with wide eyes and parted lips. He whispered two words, then he raised his fists and slammed them into Jason's helmet.
He struck again and again. Each time the words were spoken louder. His knuckles were bruised and bloodied. Richard struck him again. He yelled those two words and with one final blow broke away the mask that separated him from Jason Todd. Grayson finally spilled from his mount and slumped to the pavement. Tears welled in his eyes but he fought them back. He had cried too much already. Richard muttered once more as he scooted towards the Clock King's lair and rested his back on the outside wall. "I know." In that moment, Jason Todd and Dick Grayson had never looked so alike. Their misery binded them in a way that only their father had hoped for.
It was a shame that Bruce Wayne had died before he had the chance to see it.