AN: This is old. This is literally like three years old. I forgot it existed. :p Title from a lyric in A Perfect Circle's 'Pet'.
Guest: UH-UH. I want a cremation. He can do whatever he wants after, I won't be around to care.-Jason
Jason probably shouldn't have come into the abandoned apartment complex, but he's on a tight schedule and if he doesn't find his informant, things could get ugly. Little fucker's probably skipped town or somehow screwed him over, if his excuse isn't perfect…
Well. They'll worry about that when they get there. Or, rather, his informant will. Jason's not worried. Much.
"…f'you OD'd on me, I swear to God I will resurrect you and kill you painfully…"
S'dark in here, n'cold, and some combination of Common Sense and Trained by Paranoid Asshole is screaming at him to GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT. He ignores them both. If he turned tail at every dark, spooky building, nothing would ever get done.
It is creepy, though-a fire ripped through here a few years ago, gutted the place. Parts of it are crumbling and every so often he'll stumble upon a burned piece of somebody's life. A doll's head, melted into a Burton-esque thing. A stainless steel kettle. A television, warped and sooty but still reflecting the dark room.
Something white flashes across the screen, just for a second, and Jason whirls around. Nothing. He doesn't believe in ghosts-if anywhere had 'em, it'd be Arkham, and he hadn't seen any during his time there-but he does believe in desperate druggies, serial killers, and assassins.
Though it could have been a homeless person, or some thrill-seekin' kid. He hopes it's not the latter, then he'll have to take them home (or at least somewhere safer) and he doesn't have time. He'll do it, but still.
He steps out into the hall. Dark. Empty. Quiet, save for the creaks of the settling building.
He draws one of his guns. Better to be on the safe side.
Most of the rooms are empty, but one, near the busted elevator, contains his informant. Lazy bastard's sitting in a chair by the window. Probably high as a kite, God dammit…
Jason holsters his gun and stalks over there, intending to give him an earful. He puts his hand on the guy's shoulder and yanks. If the little shit falls outta the chair, well, that'll teach him to wander off when he knows they've got a damn meeting scheduled.
Too late, he spots the restraints. The chair topples back, informant with it.
He's dead, that's clear, and looking at the expression of horror tells Jason everything he needs to know about how.
Shit. He didn't come prepared for this.
"Oh, dear."
He turns, stepping over the corpse, and finds the explanation for the flash of white. Kitty Richardson grins at him from the doorway, hands stuffed deep in the pockets of what was once a straitjacket.
"You're not the Bat."
"Damn right," he spits, hoping Batman won't have tracked them here. Not tonight, or at least not at this exact second.
Dark goggles seem to laugh at him and she steps back, a glowing spot of white in the black hallway.
"Pity. You'll do, though, I suppose."
What-
He senses someone behind him and half-turns in time for a syringe to slip between his helmet and his armor, liquid fire clawing its way into his veins.
"Surprise!" He fumbles for his gun as Scarecrow steps back, spidery limbs melting into the shadows. A needle-clad finger lays across the stitched mouth. "Hush, hush, little bird."
"Don't-"
The floor pitches beneath him and he stumbles to his knees. Richardson's boots cross the floor and something hard connects with his helmet, knocking him onto his back. The room drips like a Dali clock and beside him, his informant's corpse jerks, roachlike, against charred floorboards.
S'just drugs s'not real fight it Jay THIS ISN'T REAL
"Think he took you a bit literally." Richardson says. "Not even a peep out of him."
"Give it a minute, Kitty. You're always so impatient."
Just for that, Jason's not making a single sound.
"I always loved that determination, Todders." No. No, it's not real, it's NOT. REAL. "Remember how sure you were that Batman would come for you?"
He squeezes his eyes shut and pretends that the floor beneath him isn't Arkham's freezing tile, wishes his gloves were off so's he could give himself a splinter. From somewhere behind his head, the Joker cackles and Jason feels him lie down on top of him, yellow teeth inches from his ear. Helmet or no helmet, he can feel hot breath against his skin and maybe Joker's here too, maybe Crane called him-
"I'm always here," the clown hisses. "Whenever you need me, little Jay-bird. And hell, even when…you…DON'T."
There's the rattle of the medical cart, the one with the loose wheel and the bloodstained sides, and he feels the thing bump gently against his boots.
Not real. Not real. Just…just a hallucination, just please stop I don't want-
"Isn't it good to be home?"
He pinches his lips shut in an effort to not to scream, to beg for Bruce or Dick or anyone to help him, can't they hear, he's just on the other side of the wall, down a few dozen steps, why can't they hear him-
His chest hurts when he tries to take a breath. Bruce won't come, nobody's gonna come and he can't breathe, just please…
"Naughty boy, running away from your Uncle Joker like that! I've been so worried…"
Purple fingers pull his head against the Joker's own and he whimpers, tries to twist away and can't.
"Stop…"
"Shh, shh. I'm not going to hurt you, Jason. I'm going to help you, to TEACH you!"
"Please…"
The cart pulls away from his boots, rattling away towards the wall. The floor begins to undulate beneath him, knocking his head gently against the clown's. The Joker cackles again, high-pitched and painful in his ear, and rolls away at last.
"Call me if you need me!"
The floor. The floor's not cold any more, and it's rough under his body. His fingers are touching something and he forces his head to turn stiffly towards it.
His informant. The corpse is still lying next to him, stiff with rigor mortis and staring unseeingly at the ceiling. Jason's fingers are touching the side of the man's neck.
He's trembling and slick with sweat and he's not sure he can get up. Crane and Richardson are nowhere to be seen.
Okay. Okay, he can get up. He's gonna get up, if only out of spite.
Well. He, uh…he's half-up. He's sitting up, anyway, back against the wall. S'easier to breathe. He wants desperately to take his helmet off, but that's not an option right now. Thing has filters, this is psychological, he'll be fine.
A flash of movement, noticeable only because he's used to looking for it, appears in the corner of his eye. Time to go. Last thing he wants or needs is fucking Batman pestering him.
He hauls himself up, refusing to be sick or to collapse back to the floor, and lets himself out through the window. He's dizzy when he gets down, and his joints feel like they're stuffed with broken glass, but there's no sign of anyone and he makes it to his bike without incident.
Later, when he's curled on his couch with a glass of ginger ale (a who'd'a-thunk-it remedy for Crane's toxin), it's an effort to convince himself that the giggling in the bathroom is all in his head.
THE END