This is my take on the after-effects of "Countdown to Final Crisis." There will be emotional trauma, Jason Todd, rats, and a resurrected James Jesse in later chapters. For now, a prologue. Enjoy!
"I guess if I can take one thing away from this experience, It's that I've been given another chance. A chance to settle some unfinished business…
This time on the side of the angels."
-The Pied Piper, Countdown to Final Crises #01
PROLOGUE
Gotham was a cold and unyielding city. That was an impression that was easy to come by, even on Hartley's first fitful night in a dark alleyway, nestled between an oil drum and a small tower of discarded boxes, and it was an impression, he was soon to find, that would be difficult to shake. Yes, he spent his first night in Gotham City sleeping in that alley. It was uncomfortable, littered with trash and empty beer bottles, and the night air rang of yowling cats and frantic police sirens, but he had endured much worse. He still stank of Apokolips, and if he concentrated, he could swear he still heard that snake, Desaad's betrayed screams and snarls, but then again- he seemed to have picked up a habit of hearing sounds and voices that were simply not there recently. "It's funny," he quipped to a rather large brown rat sitting by his knee, "that I should be here- alive- after all this." The rat wiggled his nose as if in understanding, and hopped up to settle comfortably on his leg, yawning wide and stretching his little arm. Hartley smiled and reached down to scratch the rat's shoulders. "It's good to see you too."
He supposed he should go and find a hotel, somewhere he could rent a nice quiet room, grab a bite to eat (or as much as he could manage anyway- he knew he was hungry, but the thought of food still made him nauseous. He wondered when the last time he ate real food was…) and shower until there was no hot water left. He smelled of smoke, and sweat, and another more pungent odour he was not yet ready to identify. But as another, shaggy looking rat, and then two more, and then three crawled up his shoulders or onto his lap, his willpower dissolved. And besides, it wasn't as if he could get that far anyways. Now that the adrenaline and the fury and the pure need for survival had worn off, he found that it was hard to so much as move his legs if he tried. So he stayed where he was, in a dank, filthy alley in the heart of the most sobering city in America, with nowhere to go and no one to go to, but surrounded by dozens of warm, furry bodies, all happily singing him a ratty lullaby; and he allowed himself to think, for the first time in a long time, that everything might finally be okay.