Stages of Deterioration

by aradian nights

AU. After Bruce finds Jason Todd, catatonic and traumatized, miraculously alive on the streets of Gotham, Tim, Dick, and Barbara attempt to fix their broken brother.

4. the ghost of your laugh

stages of deterioration

{the ghost of your laugh}

Jason had ignored Tim's voice at first. He'd turned the microphone off his communicator, and he'd been close to tossing it away. When Tim's strangled voice came fluttering through the speaker, Jason had been holding Harley Quinn by the hair, his hood hiding his lips that were curled into such a vicious snarl that it felt animalistic against his mouth.

When Tim spoke, Jason had gone stock-still, his muscles locking and freezing over, icy and rejecting all common sense. No. No, it wasn't possible. "Where's the Joker?" he hissed at Harley. She looked up at him, her one blue eye already blackening, swollen shut and reddened internally. And she grinned so big, he wanted to scream.

"Oh, puddin'," she breathed, her voice low and mocking. "Ya shouldn't've followed me."

A scream split through the communicator, mingling with Tim's erratic laughter, and Jason's entire body felt weakened and heavy. "Fuck," Jason whispered. "No! No, no, no!"

Harley tilted her head, and she shrieked in delight, her laughter ringing in Jason's head as he tossed her back against the wall, her laughter bouncing off the walls of the alleyway, slithering into Jason's heart and constricting it. There was a darkness that drowned him then, a hissing voice that bled into his head and scratched at the walls of his mind, a demon that wrecked the labyrinth he had built to trap himself in so he would be able to pretend. It took him, and it broke him, and it laughed as it did so.

A strident, wheezing voice breathed heavily into the communicator, tickling Jason's eardrum and then clawing at his insides, gnawing and pulling and ripping. "Batman," the voice whined. "Your new boy blunder isn't as fun as the last one. He's too easy. Can't I have your girly bat? Oh, I'd just love to get my hands on that batty beauty— you know how I love the color red!"

Don't you dare, Jason thought, so close to hysterics he dove into traffic, jumping over cars and rolling over moving hoods. Don't you fucking dare take any of them from me!

Dick wasn't answering. Jason couldn't blame him. The fear of not sounding enough like Batman was getting to him, Jason knew, and if the Joker realized that Dick was playing at being the Batman… Jason felt sickened at the thought. He was ill, and he was scared to the point where joints were quaking. His hands, and his knees, and his shoulders. He was so scared, and there was a scream in his throat that was choking him.

"Batman," the Joker sang. His voice was lilting and breaking and sickeningly sweet sounding. "Don't you care? Ooh, the shame! Baby bird, Batsy doesn't love you!"

"Don't call him that!" Jason screeched, his voice raw as it tore from his throat. No one heard him though. He felt disgusting, and he felt hopeless. And this was all his fault. I thought he would go home, Jason thought frantically. I thought… I thought he'd have more sense than me!

"I ruined him, too," Jason murmured, jumping from roof to roof, wind whistling against his helmet.

"Aw, well," sighed the Joker. "Guess we'll just have to play by ourselves, bird boy! I've got lots of games planned!"

"Don't touch him," Jason breathed. "No, no, no, no, no…"

"Joker," Dick growled, the sound of his voice startling Jason. It was dark, and it was piercing.

"Oh, so you are there!" The clown sounded amused, and he cackled gleefully. Then he stopped short. "Batman, you sound funny."

"Let Robin go," Dick said, his voice a frightening mimic of Bruce's. It made Jason stumble to a stop, just so he could listen. It was dark, and threatening, and it was just cold enough to inspire fear. And Dick had perfected it. Somehow, someway, in the past two years, Dick had soaked up Bruce's entire persona like a damn sponge, and now he spewed it when needed, like it was some factoid he had come across in a textbook. He was the perfect child. And right now, he was Batman.

"Hmmmm…" The Joker hummed. "I don't think I will! I like this birdy, Batsy, he's so… uptight. Like… you. I love that. I want to look inside him. I want to see what makes him tick."

Jason was shaky and scared, and he tore off his helmet, screaming into the foggy Gotham night, his voice bouncing off car horns and sirens and echoing back at him. He couldn't listen. He couldn't speak up either. Because all of his courage had gone from him. He didn't know how to speak to the Joker now that he had Tim. He had planned it, but now everything was ruined. Now… now Tim was going to go through exactly what Jason went through. How badly would he come out? The thought was a knife in Jason's gut, and it twisted.

"I'm going to find you," Dick swore, his voice so sharp, so cool and unyielding, that it sent a shudder down Jason's spine. "And when I do, you better pray for your life."

"Oh," the Joker sighed, breathy and exhilarated. "You're good at this. But!" The monster gave a shrill rip of laughter. "I never did get to carve you up, my little bird, did I?"

Jason's forehead was sweaty. There were fingers running down his spine, cold, decaying fingers, bones digging into his skin and clawing at his flesh. He wanted to scream some more, but he felt sick and clammy. He was dizzy too, the sound of the Joker's voice ricocheting inside Jason's head. He couldn't fathom it. He didn't want to. He wanted Tim. He just wanted Tim back, and regret bubbled inside him, festering and puss-filled, as if someone had severed a limb from Jason and left the stump to rot.

Dick was silent for a few moments. Jason could hear him breathing, and he could hear Barbara as well. Why weren't they with him yet? What was taking them so long. They're making the same mistakes. Just track the communicator! But Jason couldn't speak. He feared vomiting. Jason put the helmet back on his head, his eyescreens blinking as he ordered a GPS on Dick's signal. Then on Tim's.

"I'll give you one chance, bird boy," the Joker said. His voice was oddly serious. Dark. Threatening. Jason had to take a deep breath. "Where's Batman?"

And Dick could not answer. Jason didn't know if he blamed Dick for that. But damn, the guy tried. "Batman's not currently available," Dick said, his voice softening a bit in desperation. "Can I take a message?"

The Joker's laughter sent a sharp shudder of nausea through Jason's skinny body. It made him tip precariously at the edge of the building he was perched upon. I should just let myself fall, he thought bitterly. He didn't though. Because then who would help Tim?

"Oooh, I forgot!" The Joker snickered. "You've got an appreciation for humor, I like that! But… that's not what I wanted to hear."

The line was cut abruptly, and the whistle that blared through the earpiece as Tim's was destroyed was so sweaty, it pained Jason to stand straight. He had a lock on Tim's signal, and he could see Dick closing in on it, and he felt relieved at that, so he took a deep breath and told himself that it would be okay. Now that the communicator was destroyed, Jason was going by the tracker in Tim's belt— additionally there was one burrowed in his costume.

Jason moved quickly. He followed the signal, the wind whipping at him, clawing and murmuring softly in his head. Oh, Jason, the wind would sigh. If you had left well enough alone, perhaps he would be safe right now. But no. you are a selfish creature by design. And rotten to the core. He couldn't breathe, he was so panicked. Because it was true. It was all so, so true, and this was all his fault…

He got to the warehouse a few minutes after Dick. But by then, he already knew it was too late. The tracker had been turned off. Jason stood in the doorway, and Barbara looked at him, eyes wild and relieved and concerned all at once. "Jason," she said, her voice barring all emotion. Dick did not look up. He was bent upon his knees, his body bowed over a pile of crumpled clothes, a startlingly bright belt, and a drying pool of blood.

Jason stumbled forward, and he stood for a moment, unable to speak or breathe or move any longer. The clothes were Tim's. The belt was Tim's. The blood was Tim's. The fault was Jason's. And he didn't want to live with that. He didn't want to be responsible for this monumental fuck up, and he just wanted to scream.

"He—" Jason's voice came out gnarled against his tongue and lips. "He stripped him?"

"And took him." Dick's shoulders were rigid, and his entire body was taut with tension and rage and— Jason could sense anguish as well. But as Dick stood, there was a strong resolve there. Jason took a deep breath. Dick won't let the Joker keep Tim, Jason reasoned. Not for long. It won't happen again. It can't.

"The blood—" Jason began.

"Don't." Dick turned to face Jason, his face hard. "Tim's alive. The Joker wouldn't have taken him otherwise."

"It's a lot of blood," Jason choked, feeling lightheaded. He tried to steel himself against the guilt, but he couldn't. He was so culpable for this entire situation, he was sick. He was sickened, and ready to keel over. He was sinking, and he was falling, down and down and down, straight into the very heart of his despair. "I… I'm—" I'm so sorry that I let the Joker out, it was so selfish and stupid and reckless, and you should just leave me here, lock me up until I die. It's what I deserve. "Please tell me you have a tracker on him."

"No." Nightwing closed his eyes. "Batman was experimenting with surgical trackers, but he wouldn't allow any of us to have one installed until he was certain there were no repercussions."

Jason was shaking. He remembered the gnawing emptiness that had consumed him only weeks before. He missed it. He reached for it, and pleaded with it to come back, but it only mocked him and fed him more guilt and wishes and dreams of normalcy. "There's something I—" Jason's tongue felt heavy in his mouth. Heavy, and dry, and inflexible.

Dick watched Jason, and there was something unreadable about his expression. When Dick grabbed Jason by the shoulder, he flinched, because he thought Dick was going to yell at him. What a silly assumption. No, Jason wished Dick had yelled at him. He wished with all his heart, because it would make him feel better than the soul crushing weight that dropped onto him as Dick dragged him into a hug.

"I didn't know," Dick breathed against Jason's helmet, his grip on Jason so tight that his body was aching in response, unable to mold into the hug. "For a minute I thought… I thought that both of you had—"

"I let the Joker out," Jason blurted. The air was chilly. The words were a confession that stung. They were a thousand tiny knives, all laced with poison. And they dug. And they twisted. And they drew blood and imbedded fire, rage, confusion, terror— oh god, what had he done?

"Jason…" Barbara said, her voice very soft. Jason couldn't look up, because he was far too scared to face either of them. Dick was still holding him in a tight hug, but something in him had gone rigid.

"I gave Harley a keycard," Jason breathed. "The last time I fought her, and then… I tracked its movement, but… Harley had it, I don't know if she still does."

Dick pulled back, his expression unreadable. "Give me the data on the card," Dick said. Ordered. Commanded. "We'll try it, and if it doesn't work we'll go the old fashioned route and sleuth."

"We won't make it in time," Jason murmured.

"I think we'll have more time than we did for you," Dick said. His voice was bitter. Jason didn't know who this bitterness was directed at. Perhaps Dick was simply bitter at the world. It was frightening. "The way… the way the Joker was talking about Tim…"

"He wants to make this one last," Barbara observed, her lips twisted in disgust. "The only reason the Joker killed you so quickly is because he hated you for not being… well, he said his Robin."

"I'm not his anything," Dick spat. Then he seemed to slump his eyes cast forward at nothing. "He knew it was me."

"He's smarter than we give him credit for."

"No, he knew from the very beginning that Batman was gone. He was toying with us." Dick bent down scooping up Tim's clothes, looking shaken. "Red, are you tracking that card?"

"Y-yes," Jason stammered. He tried to compose himself. "Yeah. Um, right, the—

the card is going eastward, um—" He couldn't. He simply could not speak properly. "I'm sorry," he breathed.

They hate me, Jason decided. They'll never forgive me for this. Never.

"It's fine," Dick said. He didn't sound convincing. Not to Jason, anyway. "Batgirl, take Red home."

"No!" Jason and Barbara gasped in unison. They exchanged a look, and Jason let Barbara take the lead. "There is no way in hell you're going to be alone right now," she said. Her voice was steady. "We've got a lead. Let's follow the signal, and then we can all sit down and talk about this like functional human beings, alright?"

"Speak for yourself," Jason spat. He was angry. He was pissed beyond all recognition, and he wanted nothing more than the Joker's face on a dish, bloody and gnarled with bits of bone from his grinded skull. Barbara looked at him, and there was a spark of fear and concern and desperation there. It dispersed quickly. Batgirl knew how to wrangle her emotions. It was Red Hood who was falling apart.

"Okay—" Dick took a deep breath. "Okay. We need to move fast. I'm not— we thought we had time before, but…" His voice trailed away into something small and pitiful. It made Jason want to kick him. "You know what? Let's just go."

Jason didn't need to be told twice. He spun away his back turning to the discarded Robin uniform and the puddle of Tim's blood, which was drying up and soaking against the warehouse's cement floor. It sent him spiraling, the entire room shaking like an earthquake had seized the ground beneath them, and the room smelled like blood and loss and long since tainted innocence.

He heard something blow behind him, and Jason knew it was the bloodstain. Evidence linking back to Tim would be a horror in itself. Jason was cold and nauseated, and he wanted to scream, but there was something caught in his throat. Guilt and confusion and fear gnawed at his insides, clawing at his stomach and gnashing at his ribs.

They followed the signal of the card to an abandoned pub not far from where Jason had confronted Harley. Jason didn't know what he expected. But it still made him kick over a table, snarling in frustration when they found the card hanging from the snapped wing of a battered ceiling fan. The Joker on its face was not recognizable from the bloody streak of a horribly twisted script.

PLAY?

The card spun lazily with the dusty, busted ceiling fan. The blood glistened against the light streaming in from the partially caved in ceiling. Debris littered the floor and spare tables, dusting the bar and the discarded and shattered shot glasses. The card spiraled, and the backside glittered, the words scrawled and big and bold and so red that the letters appeared black.

START

An arrow pointed to the thin strand of string holding the card to the fan.

"Is he kidding?" Jason breathed, flinching away from Barbara when she tried to place a hand on his shoulder. He didn't want her to pretend. He knew they hated him for what he had done. Jason watched Nightwing peer closely at the card. "You aren't going to take it, are you?" Jason asked, horrified.

"Batgirl, take Red outside."

A bout of fear slipped down into his stomach, cold and gnarled and clenching. "No," he choked. "It's rigged to blow up. You know it is!"

"Nightwing," Barbara said, her voice soft and pleading.

"BG." He didn't look away from the card, and his entire body seemed to be frozen. His voice however, had taken on the same pleading tone as Barbara's. "Please?"

There was a half-moment's beat of contemplation. And then Barbara had him by the arm, dragging him with a startling amount of force toward the door. Jason struggled against her, but the fact was that she was just stronger. "Stop!" Jason cried, twisting to grab something from his jacket. She grabbed both his wrists and dragged him as if he was a child, his heels digging into the debris littered floor. "He's going to blow himself up! You can't—!"

"I trust him," Barbara hissed into Jason's ear. "And you should too."

You trusted me too, Jason thought, finally giving in and allowing her to pull him into the street. Look where that got us.

"We should get out of range," Barbara mused aloud, her fingers still tight around Jason's wrists. He had no will to fight her. Her words, however, disturbed him greatly.

"Are you telling me you're not scared at all that he'll get caught in an explosion?" Jason growled, looking up at her with narrowed eyes.

"He won't."

"You don't know that!"

"I can believe it, though," Barbara said. She stared into his eyes, and though her face was a mask of tranquility, her eyes gleamed with terror. "Please believe it too."

Jason felt his own panic crushing him. Losing Tim, and now this? It was torture, and it squeezed him from within and threatened to tear him apart, tissue and flesh and blood and viscera shreds all fluttering like rain. It felt like there was a knife pressing up against his lungs, sticking but never quite puncturing. Jason pulled his hands from her, and he stood in the middle of the street, his body sinking forward as if there was a weight on his shoulders.

"I can't."

She stood, her body sagging as well. Then her head snapped to the side, and Jason heard it too, the heart-stopping sputter, and he stumbled forward, but Barbara tackled him, her body pinning him against the road. He thrashed against her cape as she draped it over him, the roar of the explosion sending him back, sending him screaming as the impact shot him in the head and the chest and the legs and shook his heart until it jolted and stopped—

But no. That was a lie. He was still alive. Batgirl's cape slipped from him, and he sat up, his heart pounding so hard that his chest was aching. She rolled off him, jumping to her feet and staring at the spitting, fiery wreckage that had been the pub. Jason was shaking, his legs numb as he scrambled to his feet, stumbling and shouting. Batgirl caught him around the shoulders, dragging him back.

"Wait!" she gasped. "Jason, wait! It's okay, look!"

He did. And he saw Dick, jumping down from fuck knows where, looking a little shell-shocked, but otherwise fine. Jason pushed Barbara off him, and he glared up at Nightwing, glad that his helmet was masking his expression. Jason felt rage boiling within him, and he dove at Nightwing, his knuckles catching him in the jaw. The man stumbled back, looking startled, but Jason wasn't satisfied. He shoved Dick back with all his strength, the light of the flames illuminating his shocked face as Jason kicked him so hard that he fell onto his back, the Joker card clattering beside him.

"I hate you!" Jason cried, pinning Dick down with his knees and slamming his fist over and over against his cheeks, watching his head snap from side to side. Barbara was screaming his name, but Jason could only hear a blurb and a whimper and his own hitching voice, terrified and screeching. "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!"

"Jason, stop—!"

When she pulled on his shoulders, Jason began to pound on Dick's chest, clawing at the blue bird and leaving long red trails like streaks of bloody feathers. "I hate you!" Jason rasped. He felt tears in his eyes, and his throat was raw and burning, aflame like the pub before them. The flicker of fire sent him spiraling into that crushing darkness he'd escaped, that grave, those months in a shut away place, a labyrinth, and a screaming bomb. "How could you? How could you do that? I hate you! I hate you!"

Barbara tore him away, but even then he was thrashing, his screaming echoing against the sound of crackling flames. "Get a hold of yourself!" Barbara snapped, whirling him around to face her. There was still his helmet though, and it kept him safe, kept his broken expression from meeting her gaze. It didn't fool her though. "We need to find Robin, not beat each other to death!"

"He'll be dead by the time we find him anyway," Jason said in a hollow tone.

"Jason…"

"No." He pushed away from her, his gloves smearing Dick's blood on her arms. "You don't get it. You just don't! You're just giving him exactly what he wants!"

"And you letting him out of Arkham?" Barbara's eyes flashed dangerously. "What was that?"

"I wanted to do what I knew Batman could never do," Jason spat. He saw the shock in her eyes, and the way she recoiled, and sprung back, trying to cover her alarm. "I wanted him to come after me. Not Tim, or you, or him." Jason gestured to Dick, who was keeled over, spitting blood onto the roadside. "I thought he would come after me…"

"You wanted to face him?" Barbara looked as if she wanted to grab him and throttle him. "Alone? Jason, what possessed you—?"

"You don't understand," Jason repeated. "You'll never understand, because he's not there. In your head, all the time, laughing! I just wanted to make him feel the suffering he's caused. I wanted him to pay for it!"

"Killing him—" Dick's voice was muffled from the blood, from his swollen lips, from the obvious pain he was trying to hide. "Killing him would do nothing, Jay."

"It would prevent a hell of a lot of pain," Jason whispered. "He's scum. He's less than scum, he's the shit-stain on the soles of Gotham's finest pair of Jimmy Choos, and don't even try to deny the fact that the world would be better off without him!"

"It's not about that," Barbara said, letting her voice become a bit more delicate. "Killing is just… it's not what we do."

"I'm not you." Jason stood up straighter, his mind beginning to clear. There were sirens. They were shrieking in the distance, creeping forward steadily. "I'm not either or you, and I'm not Tim, and I'm sure as fuck not Batman. I'm me. I'm the one who fucked up here, and then, and all the time, so why can't I just set something right?"

"Because we can't lose you too," Dick said, out of breath and rasping. Blood trickled from his swelled lips, wet and glistening against the firelight. Dick ran his fingers through his hair, wincing a little as he bent down to pick up the Joker card. "I'm going to call M'gann, see if she can zeta—"

"Zeta tubes are offline," reminded Barbara in a terse voice. Dick flinched.

"Damn it," he swore softly. "They would be…"

"She won't get here in time," Jason breathed. Smoke filled his mouth, and darkness swept like a cold, gaping wave, swallowing him up and chewing him out. His body felt numb to all emotions except fear and anger and guilt. He felt the sting of the smoke, even through the helmet, as if it was creeping through the covers and lashing at his skin.

He looked away as Barbara and Dick exchanged a sharp, desperate glance. Because they knew it was the truth.

---

Waking up had been the worst possible thing Tim could have done. The pain that tore through his upper thigh was blinding at first, and it took a few deep breaths and faint reminders of meditative techniques to keep him from crying aloud. It was too dark to see where he was, but he felt naked. Literally naked, his bare back scraping against frosted gravel, and the vulnerability that came with the knowledge of this sending him jolting upright. Chains sang around him, growing taut around his wrists and slamming him back onto the broken ground.

"What…?" Tim gasped, his tongue feeling thick and heavy against his teeth.

"Ah! Awake, bird brat?"

The voice crowed in the vacuous pit he was in. He looked around sharply, his heart thundering inside his chest at the very shriek of the Joker's shrill voice, and Tim had to take another deep breath. I got kidnapped, Tim thought, his emotions going haywire. By the Joker. Is… is this it for me? Tim thought about Jason, and his haunted eyes and vacant expressions and ceaseless nightmares. He wondered how Jason would deal with this. He won't deal with it. He'll just shut himself down again.

This thought was a worm of guilt slithering through Tim's stomach, just as the pain in Tim's thigh became so intense that he hissed, turned his head from side to side. Suddenly the room sparked with light, and Tim was unable to see from the stark shock of fluttering flame against the metal beams arching high above. There was a tarp overhead, and skylight pooled somewhere through the holes of the plastic. His indistinct location was on the tip of his tongue, but the pain was swallowing it up.

"You are so disappointing," sighed the Joker. His shadow draped over Tim's sprawled body, and there was a torch burning in his fist, long tongues of fire creeping upward, illuminating the man's crazed expression. "The first Boy Blunder… oh, he was just so good! And I hated him. I wanted him under my knife so bad, birdy! But he kept slipping me, ya know, like a little slippery snake, and every time I thought I had him, he'd just… poof! Like a magician! Poof!"

Tim glared up at the Joker, the feeling of his mask the only assurance he had. He was sweating beneath it, and his body felt achy and clammy and his leg was afire against the rub of stone. The Joker stared at him expectantly. "What?" He grinned madly, his eyes going wide and bright and excited. "No witty quip? Oh, you pain me! Is it the leg thing? Aw, bird boy, I am sorry about that! But you know how it is with Bats— they need a little kick in the buns to get them real riled up. Ha ha ha!"

Laugh all you want, Tim thought, his chest aching as he recalled the laughing gas. You'll get what's coming to you. Someday… if not today, someday, and the joke will be on you.

"Now, the second Boy Blunder!" The Joker whistled. "What an ungrateful little ragamuffin! He was so loud! But he was funny— much funnier than you." His lips curled into the biggest, most malicious smile Tim had ever seen. "Of course, he was a betrayal. Batman never asked if I wanted a new Robin around. He never asked, bird boy, isn't that just the worst?"

The Joker put a mighty sort of emphasis on his words, spitting them as if they were acid. Tim shifted, discomfort seeping into his bones. The gash in his thigh was so painful, the thought of moving his joints made him need to suppress a wince. Tim squeezed his eyes shut. "Right," Tim hissed through gritted teeth. Amuse him. "Excuse me for not singing the potential break-up song."

The Joker laughed and laughed and laughed, and it sounded like something snapping inside Tim. "And then there's you!" The Joker's eyes flashed in the glow of the flame. "Now… what to do with bird boy number three… a crowbar is so two years ago, hmm?"

Tim watched, horrified, as the Joker dipped his torch, and the flames bent forward, the heat of them radiating in waves, smacking him with unease. Tim squeezed his eyes shut, the feeling of the fire so close to his navel forcing him into a state of utter terror. He didn't know what to do. The chains were digging into his wrists, biting and cutting, and the lower half of his body felt ablaze and mangled. Tim prepared himself mentally for the burn. But the burn never came.

"Oh wait," the madman gasped. "I don't want you dead! Silly me! Better start smaller."

Tim's eyes snapped open, just to see the Joker spin around, bouncing on his feet and humming. He doesn't want me dead? Tim didn't know whether or not that was a relief. His body was taut with apprehension. He didn't know what to expect. The longer the torture is prolonged, Tim reasoned, knowing well what was coming for him, the longer Dick has to find me. The logic seemed sound. It was something to hold onto, through the pain. When he began to slip…

The air was cool, but he felt warm and sticky. There was blood drying on his legs, and he felt dizzy from the pain. He knew what would happen if the wound wasn't closed up properly. He didn't want to loose a leg. The thought made him imagine Arsenal, and something akin to regret bubbled within Tim. He laid, trapped and scared and wondering— if this truly was it…

He had so many regrets! Not just about Arsenal. Life in general— he could have lived it better. He should have been more social— he shouldn't have let the Robin thing dictate his life. He was scared, because… yeah, he had the Team, and they were great, but… who else would care? Outside the hero community, he had no one he could truly call a friend. No one at Gotham Academy noticed him. That had been his fault. He liked being alone.

Not to mention Jason. The last thing Jason would remember of him was a fight. A stupid, petty fight! After everything was growing smoother! How stupid was Tim to let this happen? It made him sick to imagine Jason— Dick— Bruce… how they would react… It would be awful. The guilt was already eating him alive. Tim pulled tentatively at his chains, but they only dug deeper into his wrists, and he felt the skin break, and he hissed as he felt the warmth of blood trickling against the inside of his arms.

"Say, Boy Blunder," the Joker called. "Is your favorite color red by any chance?"

Tim groaned internally. He glowered at the tarp above him, watching it waver in the wind. Whatever keeps me alive, Tim vowed. I can't die. I can't let it happen again. "How'd you guess?" Tim asked, his voice thick with the pain from his leg. He wondered if he'd be able to stand if he somehow got free. He squinted, and saw that the Joker had leaned the torch up against something out of Tim's vision range. But the spacious room was illuminated just enough for Tim to see the glitter of a knife. Of course.

"You know, your Red Hoodie did a real number on Harley," the Joker said conversationally. "I'm just a wittle teensy bit miffed— after all, that was my thing back in the day! But, life goes on! Well— not all lives. Huh? Huh, geddit, birdy?" He grinned, and he laughed, and he caught Tim by the chin. "Say, bird boy, you don't smile much, do ya?"

Tim stared up at him, and he was frozen in terror. He was afraid to breathe, and he kept his jaw set, because if he didn't— if the clown got that knife in his mouth— Tim's heart was pounding so hard that he could hear it, feel it in his head, and ready to burst from fear. The Joker's long yellow fingernails dug deep into Tim's skin, and his fingertips were callused and scathing. It made Tim feel sick, knowing how many lives those hands had ended.

"Smile!" The Joker shouted. Tim blinked, feeling the knife bite into his cheek. "Come on, come on! If you don't show me your smile, I'll just have to give you a new one! But this one will be better. It'll be a forever smile. Just like mine!"

Tim stared up at the Joker, and he felt his chest ache with a bitter longing. He wanted Batman. He wanted Bruce. He wanted Dick, and Barbara, and Jason. The thought made tears prickle in his eyes. I'll do it for them, Tim decided, his lips curling into a tremulous smile. I'll do whatever it takes. For them.

"Meh," the Joker wrinkled his nose. "I mean, I guess it'll work— for now."

Tim choked on a gasp as the knife grazed his bare chest, sharp and imprecise, slashing a thin line from nipple to navel. "Sing, little birdy!" the Joker crowed, laughter soaking his gleeful words. "Sing until your feathers molt!"

He was only shocked. The pain in his leg was worse. It was much worse. Tim closed his eyes, and he shook his head. He shook it profusely. And he grunted, tears stinging against his masked eyes, as the Joker slid the blade inside the fresh wound, slipping the flat of it under his skin. The pain lanced all throughout Tim's torso, shaking him to the core, and his body buckled a little, quaking against gravel and threatening to twist against the pain.

And suddenly there was the sound of flesh sliding, and Tim had to bite his tongue, the echoing skisch-skisch-skisch of knife sawing against meat sending him into a state of absolute shock. Disgust and agony rolled through him, rising in his throat. Was it vomit or a scream? Tim's neck snapped back, and he breathed sharply through his nose, pain… it was ripping— his skin was ripping— oh god—

He wasn't sure how long this went on. The pain was so strong… it took all of his willpower to keep from screaming. In his head, he was happy and safe and home, curled up in a blanket and watching his synthetic stars as they whirred around his room. There, he was content, and there he was with the people who would come for him. Soon. They would. He knew it. He knew it. He knew it!

The Joker kept talking, but it was all a buzz inside Tim's head. The pain in his leg was like a fire, a poisoned flame licking all up and down his legs, swollen knee cap and ruddy, blistered flesh. A wound that needed sewing. A wound that could kill him. But Tim didn't expect the Joker to know how dangerous open wounds were. Tim couldn't expect the Joker to know anything other than how to laugh and torture and kill. Chaos was his specialty.

"Okay, Boy Blunder," the Joker chortled. "Now give me that smile!"

Tim couldn't move his face. He was too tired, too pained, so his head merely lolled, and his lips twitched. Otherwise, his body remained still. He blinked twice at the flash, his mind not registering that the Joker had taken a picture of him. A picture? It seemed so silly. So mundane. So Tim. I like photography, Tim had to remind himself. Once I told dad that I wanted to be a photographer, and he got really mad. Not a real profession, Tim. Not real. Remember? I remember. I do.

Pain made him forget. But, it made him remember too.

When the motley-clad figure bowed over him was swapped for Harley Quinn, Tim had never been so thankful for anything in his life. Harley was a little bit of an airhead, but she had common sense. He was only half conscious when she decided to sew up his leg, and even some of the deeper wounds on his chest. Except…

"Oh, don't you worry, puddin'," Harley giggled as she threaded his skin together. "It'll stop hurting soon, and then we can cover up all the bad stuff!"

She was treating him as if he was a doll. One of her ragdolls, and she had to stitch him up piece by piece so he wouldn't break apart. It was there his gratefulness ended. He wasn't a toy, he was a human being. He was Robin. He was going to come out of this torture alive, and he was going to go home, and everything would be fine.

He lost himself in a heavy mass of darkness, like some kind of tattered shroud, silky and battered, pulling over his face like a linen sheet.

My name is Tim Drake, he thought, reminded, slipping into a cold, stifling sleep. Pain rang there, rang and chimed and pleaded with him not to stay under water too long. His thoughts were a blur, a fading motion and as disconnected as a faulty chain. My name is Tim. And I'm going to live.

There was a tightness to the thought, a constricted feeling that wrapped him up and pressed him to a pillowed bed, and smiled and cried and whispered.

What a pretty lie…

---

Jason was convinced that Tim was dead by the third day. Time passed in such a slow, languid fashion, and none of them had slept since the night the Joker got his grimy hands on their Robin. Jason had been sent away to go sleep multiple times, but Jason couldn't do it. He laid in his bed, overcome with shaking fits and stupors, and it happened so often that there were lapses in his memory that lasted for hours.

"It's okay," Tim said. Jason didn't look at him. He was curled up in his blankets, evening rays of sunshine glistening through his open window. The gentle waver of spring wind calmed him a little, but it made him cold and shaky. "You should go out. Get some air."

"You're not real."

Jason could sense him standing over him, scrawny and doe-eyed and too innocent for the Joker, far too innocent. "Why are you so convinced that I'm gone?" Tim asked, his voice echoing. Jason rolled onto his side, grabbing his pillow and shoving it over his head. It didn't muffle Tim's voice. Tim's presence. "I'm still alive! Jay, come on, get up!"

"Get out," Jason breathed. "Get out of my head!"

"Jason, get up!"

"You're not real!" Jason screamed, bolting upright and flinging his pillow across the room. It missed Tim by a few inches. "Shut up! You're dead!"

Tim looked horrified. "Jason…? No, listen—" Tim staggered back in shock when Jason dove out of bed, smacking him across the face. The resounding slap startled Jason into reality. Tim's body melted away, and Jason found himself staring into Barbara's glassy blue eyes. Jason took a step back, his mouth falling open.

"I…" he choked. "Barbara…?"

Her cheek was turning a bright, angry red, but her face had gone stony. "The zeta tubes are up and running again," Barbara said softly. "The Team is coming soon to help us search."

Jason slumped forward, his body shaking so much he thought he might spill onto the floor. He bit his lip, his insides squirming and scratching and scathing. "I… I thought you were…" He couldn't speak. He felt so ashamed and idiotic.

"I know," Barbara said. She reached out for him, but he flinched away from her touch, stumbling back, his legs tangling. He fell flat against his bed, dizzily watching the ceiling. "Jason, I know you don't believe Tim is alive, but the Joker would have made it plain if he was dead. Please have a little faith."

"Why haven't you found him?" Jason's voice was blank, and his body had gone limp against the twisted blankets. "Three days? That's like a month in Joker-time."

"I know," Barbara repeated. She took a deep breath. "I know. But the… there's so many places they could be, and the Joker is laying low. Off the grid low. There's no lead yet. But we'll get one."

"We're horrible detectives."

"The Joker is better than we expected," she said. "Do you want to help us in the field?"

"Yes." Jason sat up, his body rejecting the motion. He was exhausted, and so was she. He looked at her, and saw that her eyes were glassy and bloodshot and puffy, mauve circles sunken deep into the hollow underneath them. "I want to be there when you find him. Dead or alive."

That made her stiffen. But she nodded anyway, a curt little jerk of her chin, and she spun around, all but running from the room. Jason wondered if he'd made her cry. He sat alone, his body still recovering from the shakes and the hallucinations and the confusion. He had no idea what had happened. But it hurt. It hurt too much. The manor felt empty, and it was hard to breathe.

I got so attached to him, Jason realized, bitter at himself and the world, that I can't deal with my own head. I got used to him being here to help me.

Jason stood, wandering into the hall and walking until he reached Tim's room. The door was ajar, and it had been that way for three days. Jason nudged it, slipping into the pristine looking room. It was as if Alfred had just cleaned it, but Jason knew the butler had not been on this floor for two days. The last time Jason had seen him, Alfred had brought up a plate of food, but Jason had gotten angry and refused to let the old man in. After that Alfred knew not to bother him.

Jason stood for a moment, feeling a wave of déjà vu. His eyes swiveled, and they found the glassy lamp, the bottled sky, Tim Drake's source of comfort when nightmares plagued his cluttered mind. The room felt chilly. Empty. The sun was setting in a way that sent shadows spilling across the carefully organized books, illuminating the empty bed and the closet door. Jason tilted his head back, looking at the ceiling with a furtive fascination.

When I was little, Mom put stars on my ceiling, Jason remembered, rage and confusion and desperation clinging to his insides like ice. His did too.

"You're not okay," Jason whispered to the stale air. Dust swirled in the startling rays, the pool of yellow sunset splashing against the yawning night. "But… I hope you're alive, baby bird."

Jason reached out, his fingers brushing against the cool glass of the star lamp. It stung like ice, biting his fingertips, and he let them linger there as he breathed deeply. Be alive, he prayed. Please, please be alive. He let his arm drop back to his side, and he stood, seconds, minutes, an hour, maybe, ticking by in a moment. Jason had to pull himself from the room, his body not really wanting to be anywhere. His mind agreed, for once.

He spun around, pushing out of the room with a frantic sort of haste. He didn't want to deal with the loss. He knew well what it was like, and he didn't want to deal with any of it. Jason knew that no matter how hard he tried, no matter what sort of act he put up, he'd still be small, sad, helpless fuck up of a little boy just praying for some absolution.

He dressed quickly, his limbs feeling heavy as he buckled a holster across his back. Whatever happened now, Jason knew one thing for sure. I'm going to kill that son of a bitch, Jason thought, feeling a familiar sink of barrenness as he looked at himself in the mirror. The boy who stared back was a ghastly thing, all protruding bones and pallid flesh and deep, rotting hollows where his eyes should have been. His lips were cracked and dry, ridges as parched and sickly as a desert. His eyes were heavy, and the blue of them which had once been striking and vigilant was now glassy and overcast with a mental fog. He remembered that once he'd been sturdily built, but now his arms were so feeble looking, he was certain just about anyone could snap one like a toothpick. He looked just about five years younger than he actually was, and felt decades older.

Jason shrugged on his jacket, feeling it wrap around him with a heavy comfort. The feeling of its many pockets full of certain little toys of destruction made him feel a little better, so he faired. He rubbed his eyes, but the dark circles seemed to be permanent, so he settled himself with combing the knots out of his hair. There were a lot. By the time his hair looked even remotely close to presentable, his scalp was throbbing, and he had a clump of hair in his palm.

Going downstairs was awkward. He knew that they were all unhappy with him— no that was an understatement. They hated him. He could sense it in the way they moved, the way they looked at him. He didn't blame them. He hated himself too, more than he hated anyone— maybe even more than he hated the Joker. There was a deep, penetrating self-loathing that plagued him, and it was only growing more grotesque.

"Any leads?" Jason asked, tentatively creeping a few feet away from Dick. The boy Jason had lived with two years before was a sad memory. Jason saw him shrinking smaller and smaller with every movement of Nightwing's broad shoulders, his aloof demeanor, his calculating manner. Batman had taught him well. He handled pressure as if it was simply a linen sheet— perhaps near weightless, if truthful, but then there was the icky burden that was slung with the very purpose of it. Maybe the idea alone would kill him.

"None." Dick pushed back from the monitor, taking everything without giving a hint of despair. His strength was something that Jason desperately envied, and yet it made Jason hopelessly enraged. He had no right to be so calm. "But the Team's going to meet us at Barbara's apartment, so I think we have a good chance of getting somewhere tonight. By all probability, someone is bound to find something."

Jason stood for a moment, his hood clutched tightly in his bony fingers. "Fuck probability," Jason said, sliding the helmet over his head. "I'm not leaving shit to chance."

Nightwing was stony, and it was so strange to see. It wasn't Dick Grayson standing before him, but Batman's prodigal son, and that was unnerving to Jason, who had once lived with a boy who smiled too much. Dick had never been so detached before. He had still been a child when Jason had died— a little jaded for all things considered, but still a boy wonder in his own bright, contented way. Jason saw Dick's childhood, which had been torn from him and discarded in a grave somewhere far away, a distant glimmer in a stifling little box.

I'm sorry I forced you to grow up, Jason wished he could say, watching Dick turn from him. I'm sorry I died, and I'm sorry I came back. None of this would have happened if I had just… never been here at all.

Jason didn't know how to think or feel anymore. He thought about his own childhood as he followed Nightwing in a dejected sort of silence, his willpower cut down to a stump. They met on the roof of Barbara's apartment complex, while the Team arrived via their own transportations. Some arrived by bioship, some by the Super Cycle, some flew, some ran. It was a sort of blur, but the result was the same.

"The squads will be groups of two, for time's sake. The more squads we have, the more ground will be covered." Dick had the same eerily calm tone that he'd had in the Batcave. "I'm going to warn everyone now. If you locate the Joker, do not— I repeat, do not under any circumstance— try and engage in combat. Contact me or Batgirl first. If it's unavoidable, do not leave your partner's side."

"Is this chum really so dangerous?" La'gaan wondered aloud. Jason watched him, and he wanted to throttle him for a moment. But he decided to excuse the Atlantean. He didn't quite know what he was asking, and who to. "I mean, Neptune's Beard! He's just a man— not even trained or anything! Robin's strong. Strong enough for that bastard, I'd think!"

"That bastard killed me," Jason informed him. He wondered why this wasn't common knowledge by now. La'gaan looked at him, and his expression softened a bit into something akin to regret. "What makes him dangerous is because he's 'just a man'. He's a unhinged, homicidal scrap of scum— and every single time we underestimate him. That's a mistake that cost me my life, and now it's cost me Robin's too. So for fuck's sake, don't question the risk just because the Joker is a man."

In his head he could hear laughter, but he buried it beneath a heavy cape and the scent of sweat and the taste of smog and the feeling of wind rushing beneath him. Jason saw Nightwing's face, and he looked away, his stomach twisting into knots. He hates me, Jason thought bitterly. I practically killed Tim. I hate…

"Robin's still alive," Nightwing said steadily. "Alpha, Miss Martian and Impulse, you'll be searching in Upper East Side. It's a lot of ground, but I think—"

There was a rush of air that kicked up around them as a bright yellow blur skidded to a stop before Nightwing, body bent to keep itself balanced. He stood up straight, Wally West's bright green eyes flashed to Dick Grayson's face, concern glowing there despite the silly smile sitting listlessly on his lips.

"Ugh," Kid Flash sniffed, smacking the bold red lightning bolt on his chest. His obnoxiously yellow suit melted into a somber hue. "I knew I'd be the last one here. Way to wait up for me, 'Wing. So what squad am I in?"

Dick stared for a moment, blinking with wide eyes before his lips curled upward into a relieved, grateful smile that made his entire body go lax. "I think Gamma could use a speedster. Arsenal and Bumblebee, in Diamond District."

"Alright. Cool." Wally looked at Arsenal, and there was something troubled about his expression, but Jason brushed it off. Wally was still mourning Artemis, after all.

"You're back?" Beast Boy whispered excitedly. "Are you gonna—?"

"Sorry," Wally told the little green boy softly. "I'm not out of retirement. But I know when I'm needed."

They deployed after Nightwing gave them their squadrons. He wanted them to focus on warehouses and abandoned factories because it fit the Joker's MO. Jason was scared for exactly that reason. He was Delta with Batgirl, saddled with Crime Alley. Nightwing was with Wonder Girl, and Jason knew well why. Dick didn't want to deal with him. It was the only explanation. Why else wouldn't he want Jason on his squad?

"Gotham isn't that big," Jason insisted, sinking into the shadows as Barbara's arm shot out, cloaking him from the view of some drunkards. When they were out of earshot, Jason looked at her with pleading eyes. "You do get what I'm saying, right?"

"He's alive." Batgirl's resolve was admirable. "I know you don't want to believe it, but the Joker would make a spectacle of Robin's death, and you know it. He'd want us to find the body."

Jason didn't answer. He pressed his back to the wall, letting the shadows melt around him, cool and soothing and shuddering. Barbara had a point, but it simply did not seem logical to him. The Joker had only had Jason for a few hours before killing him. The memory sparked a new spark of self-hatred, a new plea for death. But I don't want to die, Jason reminded himself. I want Tim, and I want Bruce, and I want Dick to not hate me.

The grimy streets piqued at the memories he kept floating inside his mind. He saw himself, young and bold and a fool, slipping through the alleyways with a smile so broad that he could feel it ghosting upon his facial muscles even now. He saw Dick, younger by only a few years, but weightless in a way that only a child could be. He saw Barbara, new and clumsy and irrationally careful, keeping herself distanced from their easygoing way of fighting crime.

"Come on!" he'd gasped, twirling around and kicking a thug squarely in the chest. He'd cone flying into a wall— or perhaps it had been a window? Jason could not recall. "You promised! Both of you!"

Nightwing's laugh had been staccato, bursting at the seams with life as he battled his own thugs, forcing one to head-butt the other, and dancing around a third, knocking him out cold with two swift strokes of his escrima sticks. Batgirl appeared behind him, her leg jutting out and catching another thug in the side, forcing him to flip onto his back. She had him out quickly enough.

"It's still up to B, Robin," Nightwing had said, gesturing around with the tips of his escima sticks. "You know that!"

"Yeah," Jason had moaned. "Yeah, yeah, I know! But, like, it's just not fair! I've been doing this longer than Batgirl, and she joined last week!"

"We only needed her because I couldn't face Queen Bee myself," Nightwing had sighed. "She didn't officially join."

"But still!"

"Calm down," Batgirl said with a face that was blurring with every passing moment. "Red Hood? Red, calm down!"

He was shaking so badly, he was about one dizzy spell away from full on convulsions. The air was hot, and there was bile in his throat, and he had to swallow thickly, breath bated and fingers reaching out desperately for something to keep hold of. They caught on Batgirl's cape, and he clutched at it with his breath rattling softly.

"Sorry," he murmured, pushing away from her and spinning away. He didn't want to look her in the face. "Sorry. Let's keep looking."

"Are you sure—?"

"Yes," Jason snapped. He tugged on his gloves, straightening up as he marched into the street. I'm not afraid of Crime Alley, Jason told himself. I lived in this miserable gutter not so long ago. Though, in truth, it felt like a lifetime ago and then some that Jason Todd had found slumber in the shade of cardboard boxes and tin garbage bins.

They searched a few warehouses, and their trail from there only grew colder— or so Jason thought. They were on their fourth try when Barbara signaled him to here. Jason had a batarang in hand by the time he reached her side, but he realized what she had found, and he felt himself go rigid. There was a note stabbed into the dark wall, stark in the dimness of the night. The knife pinning it in place glistened a little, stained with long dried bloodstains. The edges of the paper were crinkled, a bloody fingerprints were smeared by what Jason could only assume was an accident when scrawling the new message.

YOU HAVE REACHED A CHECKPOINT!

The script was bright and red and erratic. Beneath it, in a smaller, more delicate lettering, another message was inked in blood.

play scene?

check the fence

Jason stood for a moment, locked in terror as Barbara pressed her fingers gingerly against the knife. He was scared, because it felt like a trap. How else could the Joker have known that they'd be there? He watched Batgirl's fingers close tightly around the hilt of the blade, and she licked her rosy lips, her eyes darting fast and calculating her chances.

They couldn't leave evidence. Jason reached forward, his heart pounding, and he shook his head at Barbara. She looked at him, and he knew she saw the pouty, loudmouthed brat she'd trained side by side with once. He closed his fist around hers, the hilt feeling hot beneath her gloves and her skin and his gloves as well— it felt like fire, ready to drag him under and over and to hell and back just one more time.

"Get back," he told her. "I want to do it."

"Absolutely not," she hissed, standing up straight in order to use her height as an advantage against him. It wasn't much, though, because he was nearly her height now anyway. He wondered when that had happened. "The last thing we need is for you to get hurt over something like this."

"Barb," he whispered, looking to her and squeezing her hand. "Please. I've got a mask. It filters everything for me. You've got nothing. Stand back, and put a rebreather in your mouth."

"You think that it's poisoned?" She didn't sound surprised. She had probably been debating it herself.

"I think we need to check now, before someone else finds something similar. This is Gotham. Anything that happens here is our responsibility." Jason felt heavy saying these words. And yet, lightheaded too. And so strangely empty. His heart was weighed down, but it was achingly hollow.

Barbara looked him, her eyes going big, and she searched his red helmet, as if she'd get an emotion out of it. She bit her lip, and took a tentative step back as Jason loosened his grip on her hand. "Be careful," she said, her voice a rapt command. Her eyes were glowing with concern, though, and it startled him. She took another few paces back, slipping her rebreather into her mouth. When she gave Jason a thumbs up, he yanked the knife from the wall. As he'd expected, just as the note fell, and he caught it between two fingers, a thick gas leaked from the crack in the wall.

"Shit." It was better than an explosion. But not much. He looked to Barbara, who was watching the gas with an unreadable expression. Jason gave a command to his helmet to link him up with the rest of the Team. "Delta to Team. Found a note in Crime Alley— definitely from the Joker. If anyone finds something similar, do not go near it unless you have something filtering your air."

"Um, Zeta to Team. This is Blue Beetle." Jason thought that Jaime sounded off, but then, Jason didn't really know the boy. "Guardian found a note too, and now…"

Jason heard the laughing. He couldn't help but groan. This was already a disaster, and the night had barely begun. "Guardian?" Bumblebee's voice was startled. "What do you mean? Is he okay? He's okay, isn't he?"

"I'm not really sure," Blue Beetle replied. "Uh, he's laughing a lot? I… I mean, it's awfully creepy."

"Epsilon to Team," Nightwing said, his voice taking on that awful commanding tone. When Nightwing acted like the leader, he truly took it upon himself, and it frightened Jason. "Anyone else showing the symptoms of Joker Venom, tell me now! Wonder Girl is on her way to Guardian now with the antidote, and it can be distributed to everyone if needed. All squads, check in."

"Gamma is good," Bumblebee said. Kid Flash's voice then buzzed in Jason's ear. "We found a Joker card, but Arsenal sorta destroyed it. It said something like, replay scene?"

"Ours says play scene," Jason said. He felt a strange rush of gratitude for Arsenal for some reason. "Delta is A plus, by the way."

"Beta's in a chase— not with the Joker, with some robber dude!" Beast Boy laughed excitedly. "It's awesome!"

Well, somehow we managed to be even less covert than usual. Jason couldn't even find the energy to be surprised.

"Alpha," Miss Martian spoke up. "We actually just found a note, but all it says is the word "pause"… should we take it?"

Jason held out the knife to Barbara, which she took with out comment, her fingers tightening around the hilt as she spun it carefully, taking in all she could before bagging it. The gas had melted away, never reaching their breaths, and forced to disperse into the air. Jason was staring at the note, his body taut with apprehension. Three days. Even if they got him back… he wouldn't be the same. It would be… be like…

"Check the fence…" Jason murmured. Barbara looked at him, tucking the evidence bag into her belt, and she looked hopeless.

"Take it, Miss M," Nightwing ordered. "But be careful. These notes were planted for a reason."

"Understood."

"The fence?" Jason whispered, allowing Barbara to take the note from his fingers. She looked at it, and then up at him, her blue eyes giving off a salient glow in the darkness. She was pleading, with him, with the universe, and he almost felt guilty. She was hurting too. Barbara Gordon was family, and for her… was this like losing another brother? Jason couldn't be sure, because he was so wrapped up in his own struggles. But he forgot all the time that Barbara felt the backlash of everything they did.

Jason didn't realize he was shaking. He felt Barbara's fingers against his shoulder, and he wanted to recoil, to run away— being touched was so unnerving, he just wanted to melt away at the very brush of physical contact. But he couldn't. He was so tired of everything, and he had no will to push her away. He closed eyes, leaning into her touch, and for a moment they stood with her one arm around his shoulders, and his head bowed somberly.

They left the warehouse, her arm still wrapped tightly around his shoulders for security. Jason wasn't entirely certain, but he felt a visceral sort of tug, a creep that grazed his bones and licked at his skin with a rotten tongue. He stopped, frozen in terror, and Barbara looked down at him, her eyes widening. She called to him, but her voice was so distant, she sounded as if she had been submerged beneath a deluge of rushing water.

There was a fence behind the warehouse. It was chain-linked, rising a few feet above Jason's head. Easy to jump if necessary, but… the links were rusted, stained black in the blanket of night. He shrugged Barbara off, his fingers winding between links, closing against the rusted chains. Wind whistled, breathing between the holes and screaming in his head.

"You go left," Jason said, reaching up, his fingers catching against the fence and pulling his body up. Barbara objected immediately, but he didn't listen. He balanced himself on the metal beam, towering over her with a lifted chin and eyes like slits. He felt more confident now— and that was the worst thing, really. Feeling so disgusting and worthless and withering one moment— and the next, suddenly Jason was the best, and he didn't need anyone to help him. He was hyperaware of how fucked up this was, but he couldn't help it.

He ran right, keeping himself upright with ease. He forgot how fun it was to just… run. He could do so much, be so special, but he wasn't, not really. So he settled for running, balancing and fighting gravity, his body moving quickly, precisely. He dropped down when he saw it, his body curling into a flip, and his boots clapping against the ground. The night was quiet, but there was nothing serene about the sight before him. His body was rigid, muscles locked and joints stiff. He stared with wide eyes, his mouth falling open.

The body was black and bloated, the skin mottled and mauve and bubbling. It was hard to tell whether or not it had been a man or a woman, because the skin was sloughing off the bones, and the clothes were so tattered and faded, they looked like strips of muddy plastic, wavering with every flutter of the wind. It was tied to the fence with wire, glinting silver in the darkness, bony wrists bare for him to see. He bit his lip, his stomach toiling and churning and his knees shaking and his heart pounding, ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum—

"Red Hood," Batigirl said, her voice soft and harsh and scratching and comforting. All at once. She meant well, but he was sick and tired and still half-dead. He realized he'd been standing there for longer than he'd thought. "We really need to have a talk. Me, you, and Nightwing."

"Um, now?" Jason barked a laugh, but it sounded pitiful, part sob and part cough and part rasp. "We have some matters a teeny bit more pressing!"

She sighed. It sounded defeated, and it made his skin crawl. "I know. I already alerted the police about the remains. But you... I'm scared for you. You have to understand that."

"I'm not the one you should be scared for," Jason snapped.

"I know." She looked down, her red hair curling around her cheeks as her shoulders hunched upward. "I'm scared for Robin too. But I know him, and I know you. Robin's stronger than you give him credit for, and… I think he'll be able to bounce back from this. You can too. You've been better, and—" She bit her lip, her breath catching. Perhaps it was because of the smell. "Look. I know you. You think you're alone, and that makes you shut yourself away, but you can't do that anymore."

"I'm not shutting myself away," Jason hissed. He didn't like how accusing she sounded. She blames me for everything, Jason thought. She has the right to.

"You spent three days in your room with barely any human contact or food." Barbara's eyes were narrowed. He stiffened, but at the very least she didn't mention his hallucinations. "What do you call that?"

"Uh," Jason said, folding his arms across his chest. "Meditational fasting?"

"I'm sure."

"Whatever," Jason spat. He looked at the body, his body still reacting in a way that was forcing him to swallow bile. Then he spotted something. Twine, tied around the corpse's awkwardly bent neck. Jason took a few quick steps forward, his joints rejecting the motion, his stomach lurching as he reached out, his fingers brushing decomposing skin. He was glad for his gloves.

"Don't compromise the remains," Batgirl reminded.

"There's something…" Jason tugged at the twine necklace, and from beneath the mud caked rags something slide upward. For a moment, Jason could only stare in confusion. "It's a tape."

Batgirl stepped beside him, peering over his shoulder. He could feel how tense her body was, and could hear her breath catch. She spun away, her hair whipping against the wind, and she pressed her finger to her ear. "Batgirl to Nightwing," she said, her voice thick. "We have a corpse and a tape. From the Joker."

There was a crackle on the commline for a moment. Jason pulled the twine necklace from around the corpse's neck, holding his breath despite the fact that the smell was blocked from his nostrils. The dark, decomposing skin chafed against the string, and it oozed. Jason stumbled backwards, gripping the tape with trembling fingers. He's a nobody, Jason told himself. Just a corpse. Not Tim, not anyone I know. It still made him sick, and Jason hated himself for it.

"Can you ID the victim?" Nightwing said, breaking the uneasy silence.

"No." Batgirl's voice was tight. "The remains aren't fresh. They've been decomposing for over twenty four hours. It's not Robin, though. Height doesn't match up."

"Right." If Nightwing was bothered, he didn't let it be heard. "Team, I want everyone to pull back. Back to the base."

The base being Barbara's apartment building, Jason could only assume. The Squads chimed in with acknowledgements, and Wonder Girl alerted them to administering the antidote to Joker Venom to Guardian. Jason took one last look at the corpse, the familiar wail of sirens pounding in his head as Batgirl dragged him away, leaping the fence. He followed without comment, feeling disoriented. He would be lying if he said he felt anything remotely close to okay. It was sad. He wanted to be better.

When they got back to Barbara's apartment, Nightwing wanted a report, and Barbara was the one to give it, along with the knife, note, and tape. When Miss Martian and Impulse showed up, the green girl looked a little distraught and sickened, while Impulse simply looked grave. It was a jolting change from the boy's motor mouth personality, and when he handed over their own Joker note, as well as a blood smeared photograph, Jason had to turn away, his teeth cracking against each other as he tried to calm his rage.

"Wait, what is it?" Beast Boy gasped, jumping up and down beside Nightwing to peer at the photo. Nightwing, pulled it away, shaking his head. M'gann pulled the kid back, her fingers squeezing his shoulder, and he went a little limp for a moment, his green eyes flashing around in confusion, and then terror. "Robin?" he squeaked.

"Everyone under the age of fifteen, out," Nightwing ordered, handing the photograph to Barbara. She took one look at it, and her expression hardened. There was a uproar of objections, Wonder Girl jumping into the air, waving her arms frantically.

"We're not little kids!" she gasped, dodging Barbara's ceiling fan. Impulse nodded vigorously, and Garfield looked up at M'gann with big, pleading eyes. "We can take whatever is on that tape. Don't treat us like we're children!"

"I'm not trying to," Nightwing sighed. "But I know what the Joker is like. If this tape is what I think it is, I don't want… There's a lot of things I can't spare you from seeing. But this is one of them."

"I want to stay," Impulse declared. Wonder Girl nodded in agreement. Jason stood back, his stomach squirming as Beast Boy looked up at him. "Ro— uh, I mean, Red? You're fourteen still."

"Technically I'm sixteen."

"Technically you're dead," Arsenal piped up. Jason and Nightwing both shot him twin glares, which he shrugged off easily. "Anyway, if we went by that logic I'd be old enough to legally drink, which, sadly, is not the case."

"I'm sure that stops you," Jason scoffed. Arsenal looked at him, and shot him a wide smirk.

"I'm not kidding around here," Nightwing said, straightening up. "If I could, I'd send all of you home. But I know now that everyone is involved they'll want to see it. It's not going to be pretty, and it's my job to protect you from things like this."

"It's our choice," Wonder Girl said, lowering herself to the ground to straighten herself up in defiance. "Robin's our friend, and we have the right to know what's happening to him."

"It's no use," Wally said, clapping Nightwing on the shoulder. "Come on, there's no reasoning with stubborn teenagers. We of all people should know that."

Nightwing looked around, and Jason almost felt sorry for him. But really, the asshole should have expected it. Jason sat down on the arm of one of Barbara's couches, feeling uneasy with so many people packed into one tight space. And Jason didn't even want to think about what would happen if Jim Gordon decided to come home early.

"Come on," Batgirl sighed, tugging the string from the videotape. She dusted off the VCR sitting atop her television, and Jason could only suppose they were lucky that she still owned one. She inserted the tape, and took a few steps back. Jason felt jittery, and he could feel the tension in the room, hear a dozen breaths catch as the screen flickered. The camera was shaky, and there was a faint whistling as well as a clack-cla-clack of the camera jostling.

"Testing!" a shrill voice bellowed. It hit Jason hard, and it made him dizzy with rage. He was glad he was sitting down. "Right-o! This one goes out to my favorite boy blunder!"

Jason was gripping the sofa with quaking fingers. He could feel eyes on him, and but he chose to ignore Arsenal and instead focus on breathing regularly. The camera spun for a moment, the lighting so dark and fuzzy that it was difficult to make out the dark blur that the camera settled on. Then the light brightened, the lens lighting up like a flare had been dropped, and Jason chewed on his tongue as the illumination caught on the small, bloody mess curled up the ground. The Joker's foot came into view, nudging the bare, red streaked back of the tiny boy.

"Wakey, wakey, bird brain!" the Joker cooed. The silence in the room was itching, crawling, suffocating, and Jason could feel it building into something else, some thickening tension that was ready to snap and blow and burst up and up and up. Tim did not move, and Jason could only hold his breath, his heart pounding viciously. "Oh, come on! Does your mother have to drag you out of bed in the morning? Tsk!"

The body was limp, and the more Jason looked at it the more he wanted to puke. No one had left the room yet, but he could see M'gann looking uneasy, her arms draped over Garfield's shoulders, pulling him so close he looked about to snap in half. Jason breathed in and out, but there was a soft ringing in his head that just wouldn't go away.

"Up!" a high voice giggled. Harley's blonde pigtails bounced before the camera for a moment before she appeared beside Tim, forcing him upright. Jason watched the boy's head loll, and he saw the bruises and the thin cuts, precise enough to hurt, but not scar. She held a flask above his head, and drizzled what Jason could only hope was water over Tim's soiled face. The boy's eyes snapped open, and Jason felt an odd pinching in his stomach as Tim leaned into the water, the shaky camera capturing his cracked and bloody lips parting for hydration. "'Atta boy!"

Nightwing nor Batgirl seemed to be troubled by the fact that the entire Team was witnessing Tim maskless. His face was too bruised and dirt caked for recognition anyway. At least, that's what they hoped. The room was still cloaked in heavy silence. No one moved. No one even sounded a breath.

"Alrighty, boy blunder! Give a grand hello to big brother and sister and papa Batsy!" The Joker didn't have a hand steady enough to keep the camera straight as an arm reached out, gloved fingers mussing Tim's cropped black hair almost affectionately. A growl formed at the back of Jason's throat.

Tim's eyes flickered for a moment, flashing in pain. After a moment, though, his eyes were blank, and Jason knew he'd only been expecting a blow, not a gentle pat on the head. "W—" Tim's voice was so raw and coarse, he seemed to choke on its thickness. "W-what…?"

"Batsy. You know. Or do you? Are you forgetting, bird brat?" The Joker's laugh pierced through Jason's skin and bone and set a fire deep in the cold recesses of Jason's hollow heart. "I guess I should help you remember."

"I remember." He raised his eyes to the camera, and there was a faint spark there. Jason could only pray it was resilience, and not madness. "I remember f-fine."

"Oh yeah?" The Joker gave a sharp giggle, and Harley echoed it. "What's your name?"

That question made Tim flinch. He squeezed his eyes shut, his breathing becoming heavier, rasping in the poor sound quality. Jason could see the lines running all along his chest, jagged, erratic, sliced and stabbed and whipped… and what else? Beaten with a crowbar? It hurt to look at Tim, but Jason couldn't tear his eyes away.

"I'm Robin," Tim said, his voice a breathy whisper. "And— and you can't kill Robin."

There was a biting silence that followed. Jason felt a rush of pride and fear and fury for his replacement, and he wanted to scream. But he couldn't. He could barely breathe, let alone scream. All around him, teammates were closing in on each other, holding shoulders, hands, waists… Everyone seemed to be almost coping.

There was a soft pop, a cork bursting from a bottle. "Wanna bet?" the Joker asked, his voice going so low that it resonated inside Jason's bones.

Tim stared at the camera, his eyes narrowed. Jason didn't understand what he was trying to say, though, because after a moment a vial flashed before the camera, a dark liquid pooled inside it. Tim took one look at it, and he squeezed his eyes shut, twisting away from Harley Quinn.

"No," he hissed. "No, you can't!"

He sounded so broken and desperate that Jason had to look away from the screen. He didn't want to see Tim beg. He didn't was to witness this at all. But if everyone else could, than he could only suppose that he had to, or else he would seem even more weak and useless than he already was.

"Ooh?" The Joker cackled, bouncing up and down. The camera shook noisily, the screen blurring before refocusing on the wide, tightly closed eyes of the current Robin. "Scared of a little burn, birdy?"

Don't, Jason wanted to snarl, don't you dare!

Tim was shaking. Jason could see that this was obvious, but as the Joker continued to laugh, Tim's body went rigid. He peeled open his eyes, and Jason could see them, looking straight at the camera with soft sort of resignation, a subtle nod jerking at them from a boy who seemed to have given up.

"No," Tim said, his voice a terse murmur. He lifted his head, defiance clear in his soft blue gaze. "I'm not afraid of you."

The worst thing was, Jason couldn't even tell if it was a lie or not. By all accounts, Tim should have been scared. But then, he was pretty damn fucking stupid. Jason hadn't the faintest idea what was going on inside Tim's head. Jason felt as though he didn't really know the boy at all, which… frightened him. After all, Tim had been a huge part of Jason's life over the past few months.

The camera was handed off to Harley Quinn, and suddenly the Joker had Tim by the hair, jerking his head back. Jason could see the whites of Tim's eyes for a moment, wide and flashing, before the boy squeezed his eyes shut again. The vial was held over Tim's face, the dark liquid swishing between gloved fingers. Tim's face was turned toward the camera, and it was contorted in apprehension, anxiety and tension from knowing what was coming next.

Jason heard Garfield's muffled gasp as M'gann clapped her hands over his eyes, twisting him away from the screen. Jason couldn't look away though, feeling his teeth clenched and crack against each other as he shook in utter rage. His breath had caught, and he felt sickened watching the Joker bring the vial over Tim's eyes, inching it closer and closer and closer, tipping it ever so slightly—

The Joker's hand jerked, and instead of the acid splashing over Tim's sad blue eyes, it spilled all down his pale, marred chest, and Jason jolted to his feet, the scream that ripped from the boy's throat so feral and agonized that it sent a wave of shouts throughout the tiny room. The skin of his chest was sizzling, and Jason could hear it even over the erratic screams, and Tim convulsed, his body thrashing fervidly and madly, and the screams only got louder and louder, head whipping back as limbs flailed and bent and—

The screams were cut off, leaving the room in a haunted silence. Jason was standing on buckling limbs, his heart pounding, and his breathing sharp and uneven. No one seemed to notice though. Their eyes were all fixed on the screen, on their broken Boy Wonder, on the world that had just gotten a whole lot darker. Jason was dizzy and sick, and he felt the need to run and run and run and never look back.

Nightwing was peering at the screen, his hand over his mouth as he squinted. Someone spoke, a soft little gasp. "Oh, Neptune…" La'gaan looked between them, pressing his hand to his forehead as if to steady himself.

"Nightwing," M'gann said, her voice somehow steady. "What do we do?"

Nightwing shook his head. Instead of answering, he beckoned Batgirl closer to him, and she reached his side with a strong sense of composure. Only Jason could see her hands shaking. She leaned forward, her head cocking in thought. "Are you seeing what I'm seeing?" Barbara asked, her voice edging on the brink of hope.

Faintly, Nightwing nodded, a trace of a smile sitting indistinctly on his lips. "They're underground," he said, his shoulders slumping. "We've been looking in all the wrong places."

"You can't blame yourself for that." Barbara did not tear her eyes away from the screen. "We couldn't have known the Joker would have changed his MO."

"Of course." Nightwing spun around, and Jason watched him desperately, hoping for the brother he had known years and years ago. What he got was the Team's fearless leader. "I'm sorry all of you had to see that. We're going to take this from here. Thank you all for the help, and… I really wish this had played out differently."

"Nightwing," Superboy spoke up, for possibly the first time that night. "You can't expect us to just leave after this. This is our mission now. We have to help."

"This isn't your mission," Nightwing said in a slow, level tone. "This is something very, very personal between Batman and the Joker. And me. I'm sorry I had to get all of you involved, but I know when backup is needed— and I know when to stop. I can't put any of you in any more danger than I already have—"

"This is your Team!" Arsenal spat, pushing himself up straight and stalking past Jason. "Robin is our teammate, right? Shouldn't we have the chance to help rescue him? Like, okay, whatever, your family bullshit is your issue. But refusing help from us because your dumb morals tell you not to is ridiculous."

Barbara looked up at Nightwing, who was watching Arsenal with narrowed eyes. Then, he sighed, running his fingers through his hair and shaking his head. "Head home," he said. He held his hand up as the group unanimously objected. "There's nothing more you can do tonight. I'll give an alert as soon as we have more information. Trust me, you don't want to handle the sleuth work. It's really boring." He managed a tight smirk, and he turned off the television, letting his words sink in.

"Are you sure?" M'gann asked, hugging Garfield to her chest. The green boy looked distant, his eyes cast toward the ground. You wanted to see it, kid, Jason thought, chomping down on his tongue to keep himself from saying something stupid.

"Try and get some sleep," Nightwing said. Jason wanted to scream at him, to throw something, to shout and cry and destroy. You aren't one to talk! "A fresh start might be what we need right now."

The Team left begrudgingly, filing out of the apartment with a heaviness to them all. Jason stopped Bart by the door, pulling him aside when Nightwing wasn't looking. Impulse looked up at him through his yellow tinted glasses, eyes wide. He smiled though, keeping up an act that Jason was long since sick of.

"What's up, Hoodie?" Bart chirped. Then he paused, glancing away. "I mean… you know, aside from…"

"Is he alive?" Jason asked, gripping Bart's upper arm tightly. The boy's eyes went so big, he looked younger by half a decade. "In your time, did Robin live?"

Bart shifted fast from foot to foot, staring at Jason's face with something close to panic. But he calmed, and he sighed. "Uh… I'm sorry, Red, but… this never happened in the future that I come from. I'm not sure what changed, but Tim Drake was never kidnapped by the Joker as far as I know."

"Did he die?" Jason asked, pinning Bart in place before he could slip out of his grasp. "Does everyone die?"

"I don't know." Bart kept the details of what had happened post-Reach apocalypse under wraps. "Look, I don't think I should be telling you this stuff, 'cause who knows what's changed in the future. It's all like… wibbly-wobbly, y'know?"

Jason rolled his eyes. He pulled off his hood, the desire for fresh air outweighing his discomfort for anyone seeing his uncontrolled expression. Not that the helmet didn't filter the air, but Jason just… he felt the need to take it off. This conversation needed conveying. He understood that. "I get that," Jason said. "Really, I do. But I have to know."

"You don't," Bart said softly.

"I do," Jason growled, squeezing Bart's bicep hard enough to make him yelp. "I've been through enough bullshit to last me a lifetime. I need to know what happens to them."

"In my time," Bart said, seemingly choosing his words very carefully. "There's no heroes. That's it. That's all you need to know."

Then he broke free, zipping away so fast that it took Jason a few moments to realize he was gone. Jason stood alone then, his fingertips shaking against his helmet. He leaned back against the wall, his breath shuddering in the silence. He couldn't hear Barbara and Dick, so he could only assume they were working. Jason felt himself sliding, and he collapsed onto his knees, his eyes cast down at Barbara's hard wooden floor. He hugged his hood to his chest, chewing at his lower lip in disgust and fear and fury and devastation.

He started crying without meaning to. He scrubbed at his eyes with the heels of his palms, but the tears kept coming, and he could feel sobs building in his chest, his throat getting tighter and tighter. He listened to his helmet clatter to the floor, but he didn't care, because he was so occupied with his own senseless despair. His eyes stung from the tears, so he kept rubbing them with the back of his hand, listening to the tears squelch against leather.

"Jason…"

He recoiled when Dick pressed a hand to his shoulder. "G-get away!" Jason spat, choking on a sob. He was quaking, his body wracking and shuddering and he couldn't help it. He felt so weak and stupid. He couldn't deal with Dick's stupidity, not right now. "I'm fi— fine!"

"Don't lie to me," Dick whispered, his face swimming in the well of tears. Jason tore the dumb domino mask from his face, not caring about the sting, and he whipped it at Dick's face.

"You're a bastard," he accused, his voice trembling. He curled up on the floor, tears glistening on his ruddy cheeks. "I d-don't want you near m-me. I just wa— wa-ant to be alone!"

"I know," Dick said. His voice was soft, and it was simple, and it was stifling. And it was sweet, too, like a lullaby—

—you asleep, Jay? You're missing the best—

"You don't know anything."

Jason was dizzy, and he could see Barbara standing a few feet away, her arms folded across her chest, and a light obscuring her face. Wasn't her father going to come home? Did he just not show up sometimes? He had to wonder. But then, he didn't really give a fuck, did he?

"Yes, I do," Dick said, kneeling beside Jason, careful not to touch him. "I know that you're angry at me for not finding Tim yet. I know that you're scared he might die, or… or worse, and I know that you blame yourself for the entire situation in the first place."

Jason shuddered, a wraithlike hand sliding down his spine, tingling and scraping at his skin. A soft sob broke through his lips, and Jason tried to muffle it with his hands, but it was too late, and he was left hiccupping and clawing thoughtlessly at his cheeks. He shook his head, pushing at Dick's chest as he wrapped his arms around Jason's shoulders.

"You don't know a-anything," Jason repeated. "You don't get it. You can't get it!"

"I understand what you're feeling," Dick said, his voice a quiet sigh in Jason's ear. It sounded like a whimper and a breath and a song all at once. "I understand, because I feel it too. Can you believe me? I don't know what to do, Jay. I have no idea what to do, and that scares me to death."

"You liar," Jason rasped, choking through his sobs. He twisted in Dick's arms. "Get o-off!"

"I can't lose both of you," Dick murmured, clutching Jason with all of his strength. There was no chance of tearing free. And as Jason sat, gasping and sobbing, he found he didn't really want to. He shook, his body slumping, and he buried his face in Dick's chest. He smells like Bruce…

"I'm sorry," Jason rasped, his voice muffled. "I-I'm so fucking so— sorry…"

There was a horribly noticeable difference between Dick Grayson and Nightwing. Nightwing was Batman's perfect protégé, a leader, the golden child Jason could never ever live up to. But Dick was Jason's brother. Dick could fuck up too. And Dick could admit that. He smelled like sweat and Kevlar and dried leaves and rain water. It was an odd smell, the smell of a soldier perhaps, but it was a comfort to a dead boy.

"It's okay," Dick said, his lips pressed against Jason's hair. He sounded close to crying too. "We'll figure this out, okay? Me, you, Babs, and Tim."

Jason wanted to bark a mirthless laugh, but all that would come up was bile and spittle, so he swallowed thickly, and let the whirl of smells overtake his senses. Jason could feel himself swimming between dream and lucidity. "Don't lie to me," Jason whispered.

Dick said nothing more. He merely held Jason, gently combing back his hair with the tips of his fingers, and it was all that he needed. Jason fell asleep content, and for once, he had nothing to be scared of. Vaguely, at the back of his mind, he could feel himself falling into a hazy daydream, a half-faded memory from a time that he could not quite recall, curled into Dick's side as the boy told him stories to lull him into slumber.

---

The smell had grown so putrid, Tim had gotten sick during the night, and now he was laying in half-dried puke. It didn't bother him, though. He was in too much pain to notice. His entire body was covered in deep gashes, wounds of all shapes and sizes marring his bare skin. The leg wound was a ghost of an ache now, the Joker's knife going haywire in its quest to learn every inch of Tim's skinny body. After a while the knife had gotten boring. After a while, Tim had stopped caring how many times his skin had been ripped and torn and flayed and toyed with. All he cared about was surviving now. Pride was just a concept. And it had been torn away from him with his clothes and his skin and his will.

The burns were the worst. They were past the point of bubbling and blistering, and now his skin was pealing, and god, it felt like hellfire was licking at his abdomen. It was everlasting, and Tim knew that it would scar. He was certain a good portion of his body would be scar tissue if— when, when, when— he got out of this. He had no comfortable place to lay anymore, for his sides were stuck full of lazy stitches from deep stab wounds that the Joker had prodded at, making the flesh sort of ooze. His back was nothing but a mess of angry red lashes, bloody and throbbing from the whipping Tim had received sometime during the day. That was the thing about wherever he was. The sky was visible sometimes.

There was a body. Or two. Or five. Tim wasn't sure because he hadn't moved in a while. He didn't want to move. Part of him just wanted to die, to let the pain just melt away… but then, what about Bruce? I can't do that to him, Tim thought. I have to survive. For Bruce, and Alfred, and Dick, and… and Jason too. The scent was so foul that Tim was close to puking again. Rotting flesh mingled with the scent of burnt flesh, of blood and vomit and piss.

Tim pried his eyes open. His eyelashes were crusty from tears and blood, and his eyelids objected vehemently. They felt heavy and thick. His throat was dry, and so were his lips, cracked and dry and bloody. He was parched, and he was starving— his stomach was long since the point of growling, and now Tim was positive it was in the act of devouring itself. I could always eat my fingers, Tim reasoned. I just need to get past my gag reflex. If I can do that, and get my teeth around the ligaments and bite through the tendons—

Of course, Tim wasn't quite so desperate. Not yet.

The smell was getting worse. Had it been that bad the night before? Tim had to suppose so, after all he'd puked over it. He couldn't fathom what it was exactly he'd thrown up, because he hadn't eaten in days. But he had found something, and he could still taste the acridness of bile and vomit. Tim stared ahead of him, focusing on the quick, precise movements of a spider not so far away, spinning itself a web. I bet I could eat you, Tim thought. If you were just a little closer…

He decided to try and get his mind off his pain and hunger. However, the only thing that he could think of was listing the stages of deterioration a body went through post mortem. Well, after the heart stops, the flesh pales and grows taut, Tim recalled numbly. The bowels and bladder empty, and… and…

He was trying to remember. Things were growing so fuzzy lately. Tim had to remind himself sometimes about little things, favorite color and birthday and the month. Tim wasn't sure what day it was. He was tired, and he was teetering on the edge of sane and animalistic. It was almost funny.

"You wanna know why I have you right now, bird boy?" The Joker licked his lips, leaning over Tim with a smile so big it hurt Tim's facial muscles just to look at it. "You've got your buddy to thank. The Red Hood."

Tim bristled at the mention of Jason. He doesn't know, Tim told himself. He can't have any idea that it's Jason. Tim felt himself being hefted up, and his entire body objected, and he gasped, whimpering a little as the acid-burned skin of his chest stretched and pealed and snapped.

"You know, for someone working so close to you… well, he must be a peach. I look forward to meeting him." The Joker laughed, swinging Tim around. Tim collapsed on the ground skidding and gasping and shaking in agony. Tim heaved, his heart pounding, and he looked up, his eyes glistening with tears. The sky… It was a bold blue, somewhere up there, and he could see it between the cracks and steel beams… Tim was on his knees, shakily fending off the pain to just… if he crawled far enough maybe he could find an opening…

The Joker grabbed him back the back of his neck, and Tim muffled a scream by pressing his lips together. "Your Hood friend?" the Joker hissed, laughter edging in his tone. "He set me loose. Just thought you'd want to know."

Tim felt a sinking feeling inside him, and he couldn't help but let a soft sob leave his lips. He couldn't deal with it. He didn't care if it was true or not. It hurt too much. Jason left me to find the Joker, Tim realized. It stung. "He…" Tim's mouth fumbled over the words. His tongue felt heavy and desiccated. "He only… wanted…"

"Save your breath," the Joker giggled, shoving Tim hard. His face hit the ground, grinding against gravel. Pain shuddered through him, and blood pooled around Tim's mouth, flowing from his nose and bursting from the shredded skin of his lips. "Seriously now— do it."

Tim did. He rationed his breaths, and he tried not to cry. The Joker strolled lazily around him, tapping his foot to the beat of an imaginary tune. "Hmm… You know, I was just going to kill you. That was the plan, but… well, I'm not one for planning, see. I just do." The Joker swooped down, catching Tim's chin between two gloved fingers and jerking his head back. Blood smeared against his white cloves, staining them crimson. Tim could only stare up at him, wondering if he was glaring. He couldn't really tell. "So, what are you gonna do?"

There was a soft click, but it sounded thunderous in the silence. Tim didn't know what to do, and his breath had caught in his throat as the barrel of a gun pressed against his temple, cold and threatening to blow his brains to kingdom come. This is it, this is it… Tim tried to compose himself, but… he had never been quite so good at the steel-faced game that the Bats played.

Tim felt it bubbling in his chest before he could stop it. It clawed rapidly at his throat, digging its poisonous claws into flesh, and it burst forward, slipping from busted lips in a spluttering song, blood spurting from his mouth and splattering across the Joker's pallid face. He laughed so hard it hurt. Did he gas me…? The look that passed the Joker's blood flecked face suggested otherwise. Tim laughed, his body at its breaking point, and he laughed until he was sore, and then laughed a little more. He was tired. And he remembered then, that he had sworn to himself. Whatever it takes…

The Joker laughed along. Their laughs were eerily similar when ringing together. Tim laughed so hard, tears were rolling down his grimy, blood streaked cheeks. He was gasping, choking, cackling madly, and his chest screamed for air but he just couldn't stop. He didn't know what he was doing, and it terrified him. Have I gone crazy? Am I crazy now? Why can't I stop…

"You know, bird boy!" the Joker gasped, shoving Tim back to the ground. Tim twitched and tittered and tossed his head back, eyes wide and tear-filled and terrified. "Get up. I just thought of the best joke!"

Tim shuddered, his laughter breaking apart into soft rasps, and he blinked up at the Joker, his vision hazy from the tears. The Joker was nothing but a shadow, a silhouette in the dank prison. Tim wasn't sure he could stand— no, it seemed impossible. How could he get up when his skin was practically peeling of his bones? But… I'm Robin, right? And Robin can do it. Robin can do anything.

Once when Tim had been younger, back when he'd been playing at sleuthing with nothing but a camera and a prayer, he'd seen Robin take down at least half a dozen thugs in an alleyway— Tim had noticed then that Robin had been bleeding rather profusely from the leg. And yet, Robin had been able to overcome that and be the best. Tim tried to remember more, but it was a faded memory, long since buried in the back of his mind. Jason was the best, Tim thought, pushing himself onto his knees. I could never replace him. I could never live up to his standard.

Tim sat for a moment, his breath rattling in the silence. And then he began to laugh again. This laugh was sharp and bitter and it ricocheted across the cavernous prison. He bit down on his tongue as he pushed himself up, his body screaming, shuddering in objection, pain lancing throughout it. He was quaking so badly that he could barely see, tears and haze obscuring his vision, vertigo hitting him hard.

He stood on unsteady bones, biting back sobs and laughter and bile and a long, defeated sigh. Tim understood now. There was a game to play, and Tim was just a tiny piece. And if he was not careful, he'd crumble. Of course, he was already unstable. Just a little push was all he needed to…

"Now," the Joker breathed, cocking the gun and pointing, one eye squinting closed. "What are you gonna do?"

Tim swallowed, his breath rattling and his head ringing and laughter building in his chest. He stared at the Joker, a grin twitching at the corners of his lips. Whatever it takes…

---

The screaming was worse the longer it was listened to. The bare terror and agony that tore at the air with every vicious peal was chilling, and it made everything seem muddled and hot and unbearable. The more he listened, the more he felt as though he was losing his mind. The image of Tim's pale, writhing body as the acid ate at his chest, the ringing laughter that followed every shaky, pain-filled scream.

Jason was rewatching the video, three days later, and once again he was beginning to doubt. He wasn't trying to be pessimistic, but the more he watched the video, the less he could believe that someone could come out of this situation alive. Tim was strong, but not that strong. Jason wasn't strong. He wasn't strong enough for this, and it hurt, because Tim had helped him. Despite everything, despite all of Jason's bullshit, Tim had cared and had tried, and Jason was repaying him with cynicism and doubt.

This is all my fault, Jason thought bitterly, biting down hard on the cap of his pen. I just wanted to make things right. I never wanted you to get hurt.

But the harsh truth was prevalent. Jason Todd's presence had caused nothing but grief and destruction, and it was only a matter of time before someone else wound up dead. It wasn't worth it. He wasn't worth the pain. Why was he alive? Why did he have to be alive again? Obviously things had been better off when he'd been dead. Everything was going to shit, and he was the reason why.

Jason heard the doorbell ring through the screams, but he decided to ignore it, scribbling down useless notes about the extent of Tim's injuries. They were all trying to dissect the video as much as they could, hoping they'd be able to find Tim through the clues left for them. Dick was getting close— but then, that could just be a lie told to Jason in order to keep him calm. Who knew?

It was obvious Jason should have gone upstairs when he'd heard the doorbell ring, but honestly? He just didn't give a fuck anymore. If someone found out he was alive, some elaborate cover story would be thought up. Case closed. Not important. But Jason paused the video and listened, and what he heard forced him to his feet with a sigh. He tossed his headphones down on the table, tucking his pen behind his ear as he wandered into the foyer. Alfred looked at him with raised eyebrows.

"Sir?" Alfred asked, the underlying question resonating there. What on earth are you doing?

Jason ignored it though. He stepped up beside Alfred, leaning against the doorframe. "Stephanie Brown?" he asked, already knowing the answer. The girl was skinnier than she had been the night they'd been rescued from the Reach, but otherwise she looked the same. Her blonde hair was loose, framing her round, inquisitive face. She was still as doe-eyed and innocent looking as he remembered.

"Uh, yeah," she said slowly. Her eyes flickered between Jason and Alfred for a moment, and she folded her arms across her chest. "You're the creepy brother, right?"

"I resent that." Jason felt empty as he smiled placidly. Ah, he thought, so this is how they do it. "Did he really call me creepy?"

Stephanie shrugged, tucking her hair behind her ears. "So, uh, Alfie here says Tim's sick?"

"Dangerously contagious," Jason lied easily. "He's been in bed for like, a week."

A pale eyebrow was quirked at him. "Sounds serious," she said. She looked between them again, and she cocked her head. "You two don't seem sick. So he can't be that contagious, right?"

Jason's eyes narrowed at her. "Look, he can't talk to you right now," Jason said. He was done caring whether or not he sounded harsh. "Sorry you had to come all the way here for nothing, but you have bad timing."

Stephanie looked down, biting her lip nervously. Alfred watched her, his old eyes filling with pity and sadness, and Jason felt sad too. Sad, because Tim had been helping this girl. Who knew if he'd be able to finish what he'd started?

"Is he going to be okay?" she asked Alfred, eyes widening a little.

I don't know, blondie, Jason thought sadly. "Master Timothy just needs a good rest," Alfred told the girl. "I'm certain he'll be back soon. Once he's himself again, I'm sure he'll want to talk to you."

The lie was unbearable. The way her eyes lit up with hope, the eager nod she gave as she clasped her hands behind her back and smiled. The girl had no idea, and that was what hurt. They were giving her false hope. Her dad hurts her, Tim had said. Jason could only stare, watching her grin, and nod, and duck away, waving back at them brightly.

"Master Jason," Alfred said gently as they watched Stephanie leave. "That was not very wise. Suppose she happens to see a picture of Jason Todd, and recognizes you?"

"Then she recognizes me," Jason said, shrugging. The blonde had tugged a hood over her head, walking at a steady pace. "What is she gonna do? She's a runaway. No one is gonna listen to her."

Jason turned away, wandering back into the house. The truth was, Jason wasn't sure what to do anymore. He felt… disgusting and useless, but that was nothing new. He wondered about Stephanie Brown, and he wondered about who would help her if they failed. Jason plopped down before his computer again, pulling his pen from behind his ear.

Jason scrawled down at the corner of the page he'd been working upon. Save S. B. It was all he could do for the moment. After all, he didn't know her, and he didn't really care… but Tim did. That was what was important. Tim cared about everyone, and Jason? Jason cared about himself. That was the fact of it. It stung to know that he was such a selfish bastard. But he could try, maybe.

"Sir, perhaps you should eat something?" Alfred offered, keeping a careful distance from Jason.

He hummed, shaking his head. For a moment Jason simply sat, the butler standing before him expectantly. And then Jason sighed, pushing back his headphones and looking up at Alfred tiredly. "Stephanie was a Reach captive," Jason explained slowly. "We talked to her a little. I don't know, I guess she caught Tim's eye, or something. I mean, she's hot? I don't get the way Tim's mind works, okay?"

Alfred looked amused. "Alright, sir," he said, chuckling. The old man studied him for a moment. "I do think you should eat something, however. Keep your strength up."

"I have plenty of strength, Alf'," Jason said, gritting his teeth. What I'm missing is a little brother.

Alfred had no choice but to relent. Jason took a deep breath, pulling his headphones back over his ears, and he listened. Screams, and laughter, and the sound of flesh sizzling. The marks running all along Tim's body, angry red lacerations winding around his arms and legs and torso, erratic cuts and gashes and lashes. Wounds that would never properly heal. Jason could almost hear the mantra ringing with every rasping scream, sharp and agonized— Batman's gonna come, they're gonna come for me, they are—

Jason couldn't watch the video anymore. He felt sickened, disturbed to the point that he could no longer breathe correctly. He just wanted to let the world slip away, to slip into the passage of time and sleep forever. But he couldn't. He had no choice but to keep at the endless search, and every passing moment felt like a lifetime. Jason didn't really understand it. He felt so horrible all the time— and he just… he just didn't know how to fix it.

For a few hours Jason kept himself busy with looking at the files on the growing list of Joker victims. Since the first victim had been found by Batgirl and Red Hood, two more had popped up. The Joker wasn't hiding them. He made a spectacle of his kills, dressing them up and motley and tying crude notes to their necks. Usually Joker victims didn't have any connection to each other— the Joker didn't care about patterns. Just causing mayhem.

It didn't take much digging to realize what was similar about the three victims.

"Oh," Jason breathed, leaning back against the couch behind him. The room felt hot then, hot and stifling and clawing at his skin with fiery breath. The ghost of a long quelled fire licked at Jason's skin, piercing his skin and bones in a ferocious explosion. Jason swore under his breath, his heart pounding in his ears, and he shook his head, checking Batman's database with numb fingers gliding across the keys. He knew what he was looking for. He knew that praying he was wrong made him an awful person. But, then, he was already the worst. A demon from hell, right? A zombie, a freak, an anomaly so rotten to the core that everything good that grazed him withered up on contact.

"Fuck," he hissed, staring at the screen with wide eyes. "Shit, shit, shit!"

That motherfucker, Jason thought, staggering to his feet after scribbling across the page in his notebook in bold letters, CONSTRUCTION SITE. He left his laptop open on the table with the tab still open so they would know what he had found. He would activate the tracker in his hood on the way. He knew we'd never check the place I died, not in a million years. That stupid fucking clown!

The victims had all been construction workers. They'd all been working at the same site, a building that had taken the place of an old warehouse that had blown several years back in a gas accident. That was the lie told to keep Robin's death from being perverted into something it hadn't been. Batman had been very… very careful to keep Robin's memory squeaky clean. He'd died. Honorably. Not many people knew how, apparently.

Alfred, thankfully, had not been hanging around enough to notice him disappear into the Batcave. Jason figured he'd have a good ten minutes before someone got on his tail. That was enough time. The world had sputtered and frozen, and it was like Jason was the only one alive now, running against the current and the ticking off of seconds before everything went to hell again.

Jason stocked up on weapons, mostly the lethal kind. Bombs. Extra pointy batarangs. Guns. Jason had been hiding his holster behind his jacket as of late, but now he kept it in plain sight. Hell, he added two more. He wanted to be ready for the kill. Jason was almost jealous that Arsenal had a weapon attached to him 24/7. It could come in handy real quick in a pisspot like Gotham.

I shouldn't be going alone, was a thought that stung him as he loaded his pistols. This is what got me killed the first time.

Yes, that was true. The first time, Jason had gone after the Joker in a rush of brash words and misguided judgment. He'd been an idealist, a child, an innocent lost in a sea of fire and blood. Death had given Jason the clarity he needed. Survival was not necessary tonight. Jason would gladly put himself in another coffin, as terrifying as the prospect was— but only if he could drag the Joker down with him.

Jason saw his reflection in the monitor as he reached for his hood. Something stirred within him, an emotion that he had thought died with him two years before. Jason stared, the dark screen distorting his face. He looked younger and gaunter, like a ghost in a mirror. There was something nagging at him. There was something that he owed, a debt and a few words that he had never gotten to speak the first time.

With a heavy heart, Jason sat down in Batman's chair, feeling like a very small child trying on his father's shoes. He was swallowed by the space. I should go, Jason thought, his one hand resting on his helm, the other pressing against the screen. It lit up, and Jason could only bow his head in shame, tears prickling his eyes. They were tears of anger and resentment and fear.

Bruce would be disappointed in him. That was something Jason knew to be true. And yet, Jason couldn't stop himself. If I survive, I can just delete it, Jason reasoned. And so he pressed record.

---

Getting there had been simple. The sable hues of outer-city Gotham made Jason think of a funeral shroud, tattered and ready to be used once more. Jason ditched Nightwing's bike a block or so away from the construction site. Jason was dizzily trying to sort out his own mangled emotions, his heart hurting and his anger rising. He was furious, and he was terrified, and god fucking damn it! He was going to kill the bastard clown!

Jason had never been quite so naturally light-footed as Dick, so it took some effort to keep himself as silent as a wisp in the night. All of Jason's instincts told him to flee. It was a frantic push that hissed in his ears, pleading with him to run back, to leave the skeletons where they lie. But Jason Todd was no coward, and he was no fool. He understood the risk he was taking. He could only hope that he was not too late.

The night was unnaturally cool for spring, and it chilled him to the bone. Wind whipped against his jacket, whistling against his helmet and murmuring soft warnings in his ear. Jason Todd did not recognize his surroundings. He tried to remember that night, but it had been a harsh blur of fire and pain and the breathless sound of laughter.

It was unclear when nearing the site, tarps wavering in the breeze, whether or not this was the Joker's current residence. A steel skeleton rose into the sky, glistening against the darkness, half covered in plastic draperies and unsteady platforms. The wind wafted a rancid scent toward him, a scent that the hood had masked once before. Now it seemed it was much too strong.

Decomposing bodies. Jason stood for a moment, dizzy and enraged. Then he was moving, his body curling against the wind, and his feet sliding against steel beams, easily catching in ruts and pushing off, sailing in absolute quiet. He was a shadow. That was how Batman had taught him to be, and now he had no choice but to be a shadow of the night, crawling back on its hands and knees to the monster that had spawned it.

His back hugged a support beam, arms hooking behind him as he attached an explosive to the base of the steel. There was a sinking pit below him, a cavity in the earth that stretched down and down and down— hell in a dark chasm. It looked endless, and it was something perhaps from a nightmare. It whispered to him, as things tended to, and it told him to run. But instead, Jason braced himself, his heart thudding in his ears, the beat erratic and heavy… and he dove.

The fall was nothing, really, but a lurching in his stomach as he tumbled downward in a spiral, his fingers digging into his belt. He rolled upon impact, grimacing as he listened to gravel spitting under the pressure. Not even he could have accounted for the loose pebbles littering the bottom of the pit, and there was no way to avoid it. So Jason went with it, on his feet in seconds and whirling around and around, scanning the area.

His nose led him to the rotting corpses laying piled on top of each other not far from where Jason had landed. They were all torn up, skin hanging and dried blood caking their dark, bloated skin as well as the gravel beneath them. Jason stared at them, at their broken limbs and beaten bodies, and his stomach stirred in revulsion. Jason had activated his tracker already, and he knew he didn't have long before Dick and Barbara showed up.

A laugh pierced through the darkness, and Jason threw himself to the ground as a knife cut through the air overhead. Jason flung himself to his feet, spinning around in a swirl of gravel and faintly blinking pellets. They were tossed into the air, flashing dimly in the darkness, and Jason dove away they exploded, sending trails of fire through the air, sending the pit aglow.

The Joker wasn't hard to find. Jason stood with his muscles tense, his body ready to pounce at a moment's notice, and luckily for him he was ready. The last time, Jason had been severely unprepared for the monster behind the pallid face and manic grin. But then, back then Jason had been a boy with too many fantasies, too many precious beliefs that had been shattered with the majority of his bones the night he'd died.

"You!" laughed the Joker, his voice breaking through the silence like a thunderclap. "Ooh, Hoodie, I'm just—" The Joker choked on his laughter, pulling a long, polka-dotted handkerchief from his breast pocket. He gave a throaty sob, his yellow teeth flashing in the darkness. "I'm just so happy to see you!"

"Well, I'm charmed." Jason wasn't in the mood for banter. Not with the Joker. The snark felt empty and bitter, and his fingers locked around one of the guns holstered to his chest. Just… just one shot could do it…

The atmosphere felt heavy, the air thick and inexorably stifling, clawing at his insides and crawling in his lungs. The scent of decaying flesh hit him, and it hit him hard, like a series of sharp, blunt blows smacking straight at his stomach, over and over and over, precise yet erratic, pushing and beating and dragging bile up and up and up. Jason could feel the bodies, so close to him he could just feel the flesh sloughing off the bone. He felt it, and he was locked in a paralyzing fear.

Where's Tim?

He was conscious of the fact that Tim was nowhere in sight. He was also aware that the chances of his body being pinned under the pile of withering corpses were pretty damn good. The thought made Jason's knees buckle, and his body went rigid his fingers going taut around the gun as he whipped it out of its holster. The Joker took one look at it, handkerchief still in hand, and he barked a laugh so obnoxious and shrill, it pierced Jason to the bone and burrowed into his heart, clawing and squirming at his innards.

"Oh, gosh, Hoodie, a gun? For me? You shouldn't have!"

Jason had to take a deep, shuddering breath before speaking. "I'm gonna give you thirty seconds to tell me what you did with Robin before I put ten bullets through your chest," Jason said stolidly. He knew thirty seconds was too long. He knew it, and so he lied. He'd shoot at fifteen. "Start talking, clown. One. Two…"

"Now, now," the Joker tsked, waggling his finger at the air. He sauntered, long, gangly legs stretching forward as he cocked his head, eyes widening in a delighted madness. "All things come to those who wait, eh, Hood? Now, about your… well, you. Listen, I appreciate the homage, really… but might I give you some fashion advice? A hundred and one tips from your good ol' Uncle J!"

"Twelve," Jason spat, cocking the gun. "Thirteen."

"I'm not really in the interrogation mood…" the Joker drawled. "Buuuuut…"

Fifteen. Jason knew that there was a chance that he might never get the information he needed if he killed the Joker now. But it was so tempting… he was just standing there, grinning madly, and Jason knew he could do it, oh he knew it… but then, maybe that was a lie. Maybe he'd been lying to himself this entire time. Maybe he couldn't do it.

Jason decided to shoot anyway. It was only one shot, and his hands were shaking so badly that he missed, the gunshot sounded so deafeningly that his ears were ringing afterward. The thing was, he felt nothing as he watched the Joker choke on his chuckles, pointing and shrieking in hilarity about how he'd missed. And Jason could only feel himself falling backwards, his mind warping in time as he recalled drawing that same, laughing face on a wall, taking a knife in his hand. And he remembered how he missed then, just as he'd missed now.

If there was ever an award for fucking up, Jason thought, his fingers tightening around the gun. I'd win a gold medal so fucking shiny, I'd see my sorry face in it every single time.

"Oh, Hood," the Joker said in his thin, breathy voice. "You're sooo disappointing. I thought you'd be funnier! Why does no one in this lousy town got a sense of humor, anyhow?"

"Because clowns like you take everything good about Gotham," Jason said, taking a step forward, "and you twist it up and spit it out tainted." His words were bitter, but in his heart he felt very much like a black hole. A big gaping destructive force, sucking up all emotions into pure void.

"I'm flattered!" The mad man's eyes gleamed in the darkness, crazed and flashing like hot beacons. "So, I'm just dying to know why you sprung me… but, I think someone else wants to know a teensy bit more!"

Laughter bounced around in the darkness, shrill and horrifying, ripping through the air like talons in flesh. It struck Jason to the bone, and then dug further, clawing within him and settling in the deepest chasm of his heart. And all the while, Jason could only stare at the Joker, bile stirring in his stomach. Because though the Joker was smiling, his grin big and wide and terrible— the laughter had not come from that unnatural mouth.

Jason had heard the whistle of the crowbar before it hit his back. But… he was too shocked, too startled in his own epiphany to dodge. It connected with his spine, sending him sprawled across the grown, pebbles flying and his gun sliding away. He was denying the inevitable truth even as it stood over him, pallid face glowing in the blackness.

No, Jason thought, scrambling backwards, falling over his limbs in panic. It's a trick. A low one, but still. It's just not real. This isn't real.

Tim's face was a youthful echo of the Joker's. A pale, stretched face, with a smile too big and too crazed, and eyes wide and gleaming in the dark. It was like every nightmare Jason had ever had, and it was condensed into one piercing stare. There was nothing for Jason to do but gape, because he could not have imagined this, not in a million years. This wasn't Tim. It couldn't be Tim, because Tim was stronger than this!

"Harley told me just how possessive you are of our precious birdy," the Joker cooed from behind Jason. There was a pounding in his head, a ferocious scream that was beating at the walls of his mind, snarling and ripping— because no, no, no, this wasn't happening! "I saw the charm!"

Tim stood half-cloaked in shadow, but the crowbar glistened all the same. Jason saw that it was still caked with his blood, and that made him gag a little. He felt hot, sweat building at his neck, and he knew he might throw up, but he couldn't— he couldn't do a single blessed thing, because this wasn't Tim Drake, it wasn't, it wasn't— just a trick, just a lie, it's not real, wake up, Jay, wake up—

"Now, after we've wrapped up this little reunion, we'll move onto the first Boy Blunder, and the girly bat. I think we'll gift wrap them, hmm? Put pretty little bows on their snapped femurs! Ha ha!"

The Joker sounded distant. His voice was disembodied, a faint cackle that resonated inside Jason's head, and shook him at the core. Once, not so long ago, Jason had felt nothing. He'd give anything to go back to that stage, that somnolent state of half-life and half trudging on and on. At least then he could deal with pain. Now he was just sort of sitting, shaking, body rejecting all commands, and betrayal and shock and terror and anguish rushed through his heart, waves and waves and waves of unbearable emotions pushing him backwards, deep into his own cracked mind.

Not you. You're better than this, better than me, you've always been better, so why? Why? Why? "Why?" he choked, his voice brittle. "Why?"

Tim stared at him for a moment, and his eyes narrowed. They were hazy, glossed over with a vestige of being only semi-present. They were not the same blue they had once been, not the same curious, innocent gaze of a boy who was far too wise, and still far too naïve. They were not the Joker's eyes either, though, and that was not a reassurance. The Joker had eyes wide and flashing, never stilling and always alert. Tim's eyes were dim, as if a light within them had been extinguished.

His laughter sounded forced, crushed glass in his throat, and he spat the cackles like blood and curses and cigarette smoke. None of that belonged in Tim's throat, no— Jason was the one who swore and choked and breathed in toxins. Tim was the goody-goody— the perfect replacement. And behind it all, Jason could hear Tim screaming, hear him pleading, and it hurt worse than the crowbar connecting with his jaw did.

He could hear the helmet crack, but Tim kept going, laughter spilling from his shattered smile, and Jason curled up against the ground, his mind brimming with a sea of memories and laughter and screams, and thoughts of Bruce, Bruce— they're gonna come, they will, keep it together Jay— but no, he'd lost all sense of composure long ago, and now he was a broken bird, and he was screaming.

He felt blood on his face, and he realized that his helmet had caved, broken apart and sliced against his skin, and now more of his blood caked that goddamn fucking crowbar. Tim's laughter mingled with the Joker's, and it was so grating, Jason snarled a curse, spat something so foul and inaudible that it came out like a garbled hiss.

This was all he knew. This feeling? The dark, gnarled pit of rage and loathing that curled around his heart and squeezed. With every smack, every harsh pang of pain, Jason's rancor grew. He was too volatile to let this happen. He gave himself to his instinct, and he rolled out of the crowbar's path, listening to it clang against the gravel. He dove, his fingers closing around the gun, and he flipped onto his back, his mind screaming at him to squeeze the rigger, his heart hissing just the same.

The gun felt heavy in his trembling hands, his body aching all over, and his helmet half shattered, one eye visible beneath the blood and cracked red paint. I hate you, Jason decided, staring up at Tim, who held the crowbar very far from him, as if it was something utterly repugnant. It was. It was a monstrous piece of filth, and he wished it would just disintegrate. I never hated you before, but I think I do now. I hate you, but I hate myself even more, 'cause I did this. This is my creation. You're my fault, Timmy, and this is just… this is just another fuck up.

His fingers were on the trigger. His breath was shaky, and his eyes were wide and teary. This wasn't fair. He didn't want any of this. But everything in him told him to shoot.

The gun dropped, clamoring against the ground. Jason stared at it, and he slumped in resignation. No, he thought, breathing in blood and dust and decomposing flesh. No, that's not true. I can't hate you. I just can't. He bowed his head, watching with red hazed vision as his blood split against the pebbles below. He felt as though he was kneeling before an executioner, with Tim holding the crowbar like an axe, and Jason— well, it was an apt end for one guilty of such a heinous crime.

Tim had scooped up the gun. Jason felt it hovering over his forehead, its presence vaguely familiar. Ah, it was the incorporeal sense that had clung to the hallucinations Jason had of Tim. The soft imbalance, the nagging thought— no, nope, not a chance, this isn't real. And yet it was very, very real. It was just so silly. Tim, holding a gun? Yeah, right! But then, was this even Tim anymore? Perhaps Tim was dead, and this was just his corpse, strung up into a living marionette of bones and blood, but not quite there all the way. Like Jason.

Maybe Jason should have put Tim out of his misery after all.

After the laughing had died, Jason realized that Tim was hesitating. Something swelled inside Jason's mangled heart, something akin to hope (stupid, so stupid), and he raised his head. Tim's face was a pale, twitching canvas, blood splattered against his white cheeks, and streams of tears running steadily down them. The barrel of the gun was between Jason's eyes, but it was quivering, just in the same way it had in Jason's hands.

He couldn't say anything. He couldn't beg, or apologize, because his voice was stuck inside his throat, and was came out of his mouth was a breathy sigh. Because Tim was in there somewhere. That opened up two startling realizations. One, Tim could be salvaged from this cataclysm. Two, Tim was in there. Aware of what he was doing.

We're not so different, Jason thought, his own tears threatening to pool over as they stared at each other. Jason could sense a cape above him, the familiar sound escaping any ear untrained to it. You and me, Timmy. Maybe we always were damaged goods, huh? Even thinking that made him feel like a piece of shit.

"Well?" the Joker asked, and Jason inhaled sharply at the sound of his voice. "Tick tock! We've got a schedule!"

Tim's eyes didn't leave Jason's face as he laughed, a sharp, erratic chuckle that shook the gun, pressing it up against Jason's forehead. And Jason closed his eyes, half-wondering if he'd imagined hearing the cape.

A gunshot pierced the air, splitting the night in two halves— the living, and the not-quite-dead.

Jason's eyes snapped up, and he looked up at Tim in confusion, in awe, and he let out a gasp, his body shaking as relief washed over him. He twisted around, listening to the Joker choke and gasp and laugh, calling out words that just didn't reach Jason's brain, because his heart was pounding too loud. Then, a dark form dropped down before the Joker, red hair flashing in the faint spill of moonlight. Another form dropped behind Tim, and the gun dropped, once again clattering against the ground.

Tim dropped just as fast, clapping his hands over his mouth to muffle the earsplitting scream released from his quivering lips. Jason and Tim knelt across from each other, staring into each other's eyes with the same wide-eyed, terrified expression. Only Tim was shaking with sobs, and Jason was shaking with relief. And guilt. The guilt was overwhelming. It gnawed at his insides, clawing and beating like a wild animal.

Jason watched as Dick knelt beside Tim, gloved fingers brushing away the vast stream of tears streaking the boy's ashen face. It was about time they'd arrived, but then, what did Jason know? Other than the immense guilt that consumed him, and he could barely look at Dick, barely look at Tim, because this was all his fault. And Tim fell against Dick's chest, muffling his screams and laughter and sobs against the blue bird emblazoned there.

As Dick held Tim, his head moved toward Jason. There was a moment where they stared at each other, Jason's one eye wide and welling with tears. Jason jumped to his feet then, not even vaguely away of the arm reaching out to him, and he ignored the blazing pain as he clambered up from the pit, his feet catching against the steel beams as he fled, up and up and up, flinging himself into the night with fear and guilt and uncertainty pushing him farther and farther, rushing him away from the place where the Joker had killed him, and destroyed Tim.

And when he ran from Gotham City, he couldn't bring himself to look back.

---

I split it again. Yeah. Will I ever finish?

Anyway, I have a reason for splitting it. It's been over a month, and I didn't get to the point I wanted to, so I split it.

I edited some of this, but not all, so there will be mistakes. Also, about the Joker Jr. plot? It's my favorite. Like, one of my first YJ stories was about Tim being Joker Jr. I chose this plot because I needed something that would drive Jason to run away, but I didn't want to kill anyone off so... yeah, I figured this would do the trick.

=] It's shorter than the last one, but hey, unlike the past three chapter which span over months, this one is like, six days? Maybe?