To say Bruce Wayne was tired was an understatement. As Batman, he was used to running on little sleep. A few hours here and there, and he would be fine. He wasn't getting those few hours now. There was his usual work as Batman and Wayne Enterpirses to run. Then, time was carved out for visiting Jason. But most of it was spent trying to find an antidote for Venari.
It wasn't easy. It took everything Bruce had in him to stay clinical as he looked at Jason's latest MRI scans and compared it to the other victims. They were all very much the same.
The image unfolded like a ghostly map, an intricate, tangled forest of shadow and light where the higher human faculties had all but vanished. The delicate web of the cerebral cortex—the seat of reason, memory, and self-awareness—lay quiet and dim as if a heavy shroud had settled over it, muting the once bright sparks of thought.
The frontal lobes, where decisions are made and empathy thrives, were eerily quiet, their once vibrant dance of neurons now a mere whisper. They had been forsaken, relegated to darkness, leaving behind only the basic drives that sustained survival. What remained, however, flickered deep within the brain's core—like an ancient fire smoldering in the ruins of a once great city.
The limbic system, responsible for emotion and instinct, was unnervingly active, a pocket of light among the shadows. The amygdala, the brain's fear center, shone with a stark intensity, as though it had become the new master of the mind. It glowed, signaling a hypervigilant awareness of threats, a brain on constant alert, trapped in a loop of raw, unfiltered emotion. Anger, fear, hunger—these primal forces pulsed through the amygdala and its neighboring structures like old gods reclaiming their dominion.
The hypothalamus, controlling hunger, thirst, and the drive for reproduction, was similarly illuminated, its circuits humming with animalistic power. It was the engine of the body's most fundamental cravings, pushing the person forward on instinct alone, detached from higher thought. The basic rhythms of life—eating, drinking, surviving—had become the totality of existence.
Further down, the brainstem, the body's most ancient and automatic core, blazed with stark persistence. Here, autonomic functions carried on—breathing, heart rate, the cycles of waking and sleeping. It was as if the brain had retreated to its most primordial form, clinging to the instincts forged over millions of years, a life sustained only by the raw imperatives to survive and react.
What was once a symphony of higher reasoning, emotion, and individuality had been reduced to a pulsing, throbbing survival machine. The regions that once housed the complexities of language and empathy, art and introspection, were dark and silent. In their place, only the ancient centers of fear and desire remained active, their lights flickering steadily, like embers in the darkness. This mind was pared down to its essence—driven by a relentless, unconscious force, a being that existed in the moment but was no longer truly human.
Bruce stared at the MRI scans before him, feeling a tightening in his chest that he hadn't allowed himself to acknowledge before. He'd seen these images of Jason's brain countless times over the last few weeks, but it didn't get any easier. The person Jason had once been—the fierce, intelligent, brave young man—was barely there anymore.
Reduced to nothing but primal instincts, Jason was trapped in a body that only knew how to survive and react. Bruce swallowed hard, forcing down the overwhelming guilt that threatened to surface every time he looked at these scans. He'd failed Jason, just as he'd failed to protect Gotham from Venari.
In the stillness between fighting crime and working tirelessly in the lab, the weight of the situation bore down on him. Wayne Enterprises required his attention, and every visit to Jason felt like a hollow, desperate attempt to bridge the unbridgeable gap. But the moments with Jason were the hardest. He would sit at his bedside, watching his son breathe, feeling the cruel irony that the fight they'd won on the streets was one Jason had lost within himself.
Bruce clenched his fists as he studied the MRI, his mind racing through possible solutions avenues that might lead to a cure or at least a way to reverse some of the damage. But everything pointed to the same conclusion—Venari didn't just strip away cognitive function; it reprogrammed the brain, and rewired it to operate on its most basic levels.
The frontal lobes, once vibrant with Jason's intellect, humor, and defiance, were dark now. What remained of Jason was trapped beneath layers of primal instinct, unreachable.
He tried to focus on the medical data, to find any small detail he might have missed, but his mind kept wandering—back to Jason, back to the moment they'd brought him home a week ago.
It had been a quiet affair, with none of the usual triumphs that came with bringing someone out of a hospital. There were no celebrations, no feelings of relief. Just a grim acknowledgment that Jason's battle wasn't over—not by a long shot.
Jason had been terrified when they tried to move him. The doctors, despite their best efforts, couldn't get near him without triggering panic. His eyes had been wild, his body rigid with fear, and Bruce had been forced to hold him down more than once when the nurses came to change his bandages. Even now, the sight of white coats or the sterile smell of antiseptic sent Jason into a state of frozen terror, his instincts overriding whatever small connection to rational thought might have been left.
When they'd finally gotten him into the manor, it had been a delicate operation to keep him calm. He was skittish afraid, his eyes darting around the unfamiliar space like a trapped animal. It had taken days for him to grow even remotely accustomed to Bruce, Dick, and Alfred. Their presence was the only thing that could ease him, and even then, it was tenuous.
Bruce closed his eyes, the memory still fresh—Jason curled up in the corner of his room, the blue blanket he'd clung to since the hospital wrapped tightly around him. The blanket had been Alfred's idea, something soft and familiar to ground him, but even that only worked some of the time. Jason would sit there for hours, staring at the walls, occasionally whimpering, his body trembling as though he expected the next horror to come crashing down at any moment.
Eating had been a challenge, too. At first, Jason wouldn't touch any food. They'd had to coax him to take small bites, but even then, he struggled to keep it down. His body, still recovering from the physical damage done during the purification process and the effects of Venari, had turned against him.
Couldn't use silverware and had a hard time getting the food into his mouth. He'd flinch at the sight of food, his stomach rejecting anything that wasn't in its most basic form.. Most nights, Bruce or Alfred would sit beside him, urging him to take one more bite, but it often ended with Jason curling up tighter into his blanket, too overwhelmed to continue.
Dick had tried as well, sitting with Jason for hours at a time, speaking softly, offering small bits of food, telling stories about the days they'd worked together. Sometimes, it seemed like Jason understood—there would be a flicker of recognition, a brief pause in his endless fear—but it never lasted. His mind remained locked in survival mode, a place where no words could reach him.
Now, as Bruce sat in the Batcave, the silence around him broken only by the hum of the computer, his mind drifted to the one thing that had terrified them all the most: Jason's heat.
It hadn't come yet, but it was only a matter of time. Between the damage done to him during the purification and the havoc Venari had wreaked on his body, they all knew it would be far from pleasant. Bruce had been through many horrors in his life, but the idea of Jason going through heat in this state—where fear and pain would control him more than his own body—filled him with dread.
None of them were sure what to expect. The doctors had told Bruce that Jason's body might react violently, the mix of trauma and Venari making his system unpredictable. His heat could trigger pain, or, worse, could drive his fear and instincts to the brink, making him lash out at anyone who tried to help.
Bruce clenched his jaw, his hand tightening around the edge of the desk. The fear was there, always lurking beneath the surface. Not for himself, but for Jason. What would happen when the heat came? What would happen when Jason's body pushed him into a state he couldn't control, a place where the pain and the fear would overwhelm him entirely?
He exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. Jason had already been through more than most could bear, and now, another trial was waiting for him. Another battle they couldn't fight for him.
"He's not ready," Bruce muttered under his breath, the weight of it pressing down on him.
The door to the lab slid open softly, and Bruce barely looked up as Alfred stepped inside. The older man's presence was a constant—steady, dependable, always there when Bruce needed it, even if Bruce rarely acknowledged just how much he relied on him.
"I thought you might appreciate a break, Master Bruce," Alfred said gently, setting a tray with a cup of tea and a small sandwich on the nearby counter. "Though I suspect you'll stubbornly refuse to take it."
"I can't stop, Alfred," Bruce muttered, not lifting his gaze from the images. "There has to be something I'm missing. A way to reverse this."
Alfred stepped closer, his sharp eyes taking in the endless research scattered across the table—the brain scans, the chemical compositions of Venari, the medical reports. "I'm afraid, Master Bruce, that running yourself into the ground won't bring the clarity you need. Jason's condition…"
"I know," Bruce interrupted, his voice harsher than he intended. "I know what the scans say. I know what it means." His jaw tightened, and he forced himself to take a breath. "But I can't accept it. I can't accept that this is it, that Jason will never come back."
Alfred's expression softened, though there was a sadness in his eyes. "Jason is a fighter; that much is true. But this fight, Master Bruce, may not be one you can win on your own. There are limits to even your abilities."
Bruce pushed the scans aside in frustration. "There has to be a way. There's always a way."
Alfred said nothing for a moment, watching Bruce with a mix of concern and quiet understanding. "Perhaps, Master Bruce, you should consider that the path forward may not be one you can take alone?"
Bruce's hands paused over the table, his fingers still gripping the edge as Alfred's words settled into the air. The silence stretched between them, and the hum of the Batcave was the only sound as the gravity of Alfred's suggestion took hold.
Alfred continued, his voice gentle but firm. "You've always prided yourself on your ability to stand against Gotham's worst on your own, but even you know the Justice League exists for a reason. They could help, Master Bruce. There are resources and knowledge beyond your reach. Even if you don't think this is something they'd typically handle… they might know something. Or someone might."
Bruce's jaw clenched, and for a moment, his mind raced through the possibilities. He wasn't one to lean on others, even his closest allies, and certainly not the Justice League. The League was for galactic threats, metahuman problems, and world-ending events, not personal, intimate battles like this. Jason's condition wasn't something Superman or Wonder Woman could punch or negotiate their way out of.
But the reality was, despite everything he had tried, despite the late nights and hours spent pouring over data, he was getting nowhere. Jason was still lost in the darkness, trapped in a mind that had been stripped to its most basic functions. His son—because no matter how far apart they had grown, Jason was still his son—was slipping further away every day.
"I can't involve them," Bruce muttered, his voice low, almost as if trying to convince himself. "This is personal. They can't help with this."
Alfred sighed softly, folding his hands in front of him, ever the patient figure in Bruce's life. "Perhaps, Master Bruce, this is not about what they can't do, but what they might. You've always taken the weight of the world on your shoulders, but Jason's life… this is not a burden you have to carry alone."
Bruce wanted to argue, but he couldn't ignore the truth in Alfred's words. The League had resources he didn't have, technology, and minds that might see something he had missed. The thought of involving them felt like admitting failure, but failure was already staring him in the face every time he saw Jason huddled in a corner, too afraid to even recognize the people who loved him.
Bruce let out a long breath, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "If I bring them in, there's no going back. This will become bigger than just us."
Alfred gave a small nod, understanding the implications. "I know you value your privacy, sir, but Jason's life may depend on a broader perspective. I would rather you reach out and explore every option than see you burden yourself with regret later."
Bruce didn't respond immediately, his mind turning over the idea of reaching out to his fellow Leaguers. The thought of opening Jason's condition up to others made him feel exposed, and vulnerable in a way he wasn't used to. But wasn't Jason worth that vulnerability? Wasn't saving him worth any cost?
His gaze drifted toward the dark corner of the cave where the Batmobile loomed, parked in its usual place. Jason had been Bruce's responsibility, just like Dick had been before him. He had brought Jason into this life, and even if he hadn't been able to protect him from Venari, he wasn't going to give up. Not now.
"I'll think about it," Bruce finally muttered, though the weight of the decision was heavy in his voice. He couldn't just dive into that option, not yet. There was too much at stake, too many moving pieces. If he did involve the League, it had to be on his terms.
Alfred placed a hand on his shoulder, a rare gesture of reassurance. "That is all I ask, sir. Just remember that we all want Jason back. And sometimes, the hardest part of any battle is accepting help when it's offered."
Bruce nodded, the tension between his shoulders refusing to ease. There was still so much unknown, so many questions about what Venari had done to Jason that even the best minds might not be able to answer. But Alfred was right: they couldn't afford to leave any stone unturned.
The Batcomputer's screens dimmed as Bruce leaned back in his chair, the weight of the MRI scans lingering in his mind. The images of Jason's damaged brain, stripped of everything that had once made him the sharp, brave young man he had been, haunted him. He hadn't saved Jason—not yet—but he wasn't done fighting.
As Alfred turned to leave, Bruce called out, his voice softer than before. "Thank you, Alfred. I… I'll reach out to them. But first, I need to see how he's doing tonight."
"I can't, Alfred, not yet." Bruce implored, looking back at the scans.
Alfred huffed. Master Bruce," Alfred began softly, his voice cutting through the mechanical hum of the Batcave. "You've been at this for hours without rest. Perhaps it's time you took a break."
Bruce shook his head, barely looking up from the data. "I can't, Alfred. There's too much at stake. If I stop—"
"You'll lose clarity, sir," Alfred interrupted, his tone firm but understanding. "You know as well as I do that exhaustion leads to mistakes. And Jason… he needs you to be at your best."
Bruce's jaw tightened. He didn't need reminding of that. "I'm trying, Alfred. But every minute I'm down here, I feel like I'm letting him down. Like I'm wasting time I could use to help him."
Alfred stepped closer, his voice softening. "Sometimes, helping means being present, not just working yourself to the bone. When was the last time you sat with him? Perhaps a moment of quiet might do more for Jason than all the research in the world."
Bruce looked away, his hands still resting on the edge of the table, tension visible in every line of his body. "Jason doesn't even know I'm there half the time. I talk to him, but… it's like I'm speaking into a void. He doesn't respond."
Alfred nodded, his expression patient and kind. "But he might sense it, sir. A familiar voice, the warmth of your scent, a comforting presence—it could reach him in ways we can't measure. You've spent so much time trying to fix this from the outside; perhaps it's time to focus on what's inside."
Bruce exhaled slowly, the idea of sitting beside Jason again weighing heavily on him. Seeing his son like this wasn't just painful—it was a constant reminder of his own failure. And yet, he knew Alfred was right. Jason was still there, somewhere, buried beneath the fear and primal instincts. Maybe he couldn't speak, maybe he couldn't understand, but he could still feel something.
"Read to him," Alfred suggested gently. "Like you did when he was younger. He always did enjoy hearing stories from you. It might provide him with a sense of normalcy. And perhaps, more importantly, it might provide you with a moment of peace."
Bruce closed his eyes, the memories of those nights flooding back—Jason curled up beside him with a book in hand, eager to hear the next adventure, the next chapter. Those nights felt distant now as if they belonged to another life. But Alfred was right. If there was anything Jason might hold onto in this nightmare, it was the bond they had shared.
After a long pause, Bruce finally stood, the weight of the decision clear in his movements. "I'll go see him."
Alfred gave a small nod of approval. "I'll be in the kitchen should you need anything. Take your time, Master Bruce."
Bruce said nothing as he turned toward the stairs that led up to the manor. His footsteps echoed softly as he ascended from the cave's cold darkness, each step a reminder of how far they had fallen from those brighter days.
The hallways of Wayne Manor were quiet, the kind of silence that only deepened the weight in Bruce's chest. He made his way to Jason's room, pausing outside the door, his hand resting on the handle for a moment longer than necessary. The fear of what he might find—or what he wouldn't—nagged at him.
Finally, he pushed open the door.
The room was dimly lit, casting soft shadows across the space. Jason sat in his usual corner, wrapped tightly in the blue blanket Alfred had given him. His eyes were distant, fixed on a point somewhere beyond the room, as if trapped in his own world. He was still, unnervingly so, but there was a faint tremor in his body—a constant reminder of the fear that gripped him.
Bruce felt a lump form in his throat as he stepped quietly inside, closing the door behind him. He moved toward the chair beside Jason's bed and sat down, his eyes never leaving his son's fragile form. For a moment, he simply watched, the familiar guilt washing over him. Jason had been so full of life once, so defiant and brave. Now, he was a shadow of that person, lost in a storm that Bruce couldn't pull him out of.
Reaching into the drawer of the nightstand, Bruce pulled out one of Jason's old books—a well-worn copy of The Count of Monte Cristo. Jason had loved this one, often reading it late into the night with a flashlight under his blanket, long after Bruce had told him to go to bed.
He opened the book, running his fingers over the creased pages, and began to read aloud.
"'On the 24th of February, 1815, the lookout of Notre-Dame de la Garde signaled the three-master, the Pharaon, from Smyrna, Trieste, and Naples…'"
His voice was soft steady as he read the words that had once captivated Jason's young mind. He wasn't sure if Jason could hear him now or if it made any difference, but Bruce kept reading. The rhythm of the words filled the room, providing a small piece of normalcy in a world that had been turned upside down.
Every now and then, Bruce would glance at Jason, hoping for some sign of recognition, some flicker of understanding in his son's eyes. But Jason remained still, his body tense beneath the blanket, his gaze far away.
Bruce continued reading, his voice never wavering, even though his heart ached with every word. He didn't know if Jason could feel the weight of his presence, but it was all he had left to give.