Clark met Bruce in the Batcave after the press conference, his expression uncharacteristically somber. He had shed his mild-mannered reporter guise and now stood in his full Superman suit, the red and blue vibrant against the cave's dark interior. The usual warmth in his eyes was gone, replaced by a grim determination that sent a chill down Bruce's spine.
"Clark," Bruce said, his voice gravelly as he descended from the Batcomputer's platform, dressed in full Batman armor. "Did you find anything?"
There was a long pause, which set Bruce's teeth on edge. Clark was not like Batman. He's not a man of few words. He's Superman, vibrant and talkative. He's also Clark Kent, a reporter who knows how to get straight to the point. Something is very, very wrong for him to be quiet like this.
Bruce forced himself to remain calm. As Batman, he couldn't lose control. Not then, not ever. Clark didn't speak immediately. His eyes, usually so full of hope and certainty, were shadowed with something far more troubling—helplessness. Bruce felt his heart sink, the silence stretching on longer than he could bear.
"Bruce," Clark finally began, his voice low, careful. "I've searched everywhere. I started in Gotham, expanded to every inch of the city, then went further—across the country, across the globe. I listened, scanned, and even tried to pick up the faintest trace of his heartbeat. There was nothing there, Bruce, not a single trace."
Bruce's blood turned to ice. He knew what Clark was about to say, but he wasn't ready to hear it. He couldn't be prepared. Not now, not ever. Jason Todd was a survivor if Bruce had ever known one. He had survived three years on the streets with nobody there to help him. He was the little alpha who, at the age of 12, had the kahunas to try and flitch the tires of the Batmobile.
No Joker, no Scarecrow, no major players had been our. And Jason hadn't been out as Robin anyway. He would have been able to handle a civilian threat. He would…
Clark held out his hands placatingly. "Bruce, I'm not saying this lightly," Clark said gently, trying to bridge the growing chasm between them. "You know I wouldn't give up if there was even the smallest chance. But I've searched everywhere, and I found nothing. If he were out there, I'd have heard him by now. I know this isn't what you want to hear, but—"
There's a rage growing in Bruce's chest. He's all too familiar with it. The alpha rage and anger help fuel the mission that keeps him going even when he's running on 48 hours without sleep when his ribs are bruised and broken. It is as familiar to him as breathing. But usually, he can classify it enough only to be a tool, to control it and not let it control him. This is not usually.
"I don't care what you think, Clark!" Bruce's voice cut through the cave, raw and edged with fury. "Jason isn't dead. He's out there, somewhere, and I'm going to find him." Jason could not be dead. He would know if his Jay-Lad were dead, would have felt the fraying of the bonds between them.
Quick and painful as a knife, just like his parents. None of his injuries, not even his broken back, had been so agonizing as the loss he felt that night. But Jason's bond was silent, as quiet as a ghost. There was no pain.
Clark took a step back, giving Bruce the space he needed. He probably knew Bruce wanted nothing more than to punch him square in the jaw. It was better for Bruce's hand that he didn't get the chance. "I'm sorry, Bruce," he said softly. "But if he's not on Earth, and I can't find him, then… we have to face the possibility that he's gone."
Bruce turned away from Clark, his mind racing. Clark's words were logical; they made sense, but Bruce refused to accept them. Jason was his son—his responsibility. And as long as there was nobody, no definitive proof, Bruce would not accept that he had lost him.
He couldn't. He wouldn't. Batman did not close a case with no evidence, and Bruce Wayne would not either, especially not when it was Jason. The boy was vexing, but he was one of the best things that ever happened to him.
He was the kid who said being Robin was magic. He filled the cave with laughter and the house with warmth. He raged right along with Bruce when the Gotham Knights lost a game. He loved helping Alfred in the kitchen, the only family member ever given the privilege. He couldn't just be gone for good.
"He's not gone," Bruce muttered to himself, almost as if he was trying to convince himself as much as Clark. "I'll find him. I don't care how long it takes or what I must do. I'll find him."
Clark watched him, eyes watering and scent growing sour with grief. He sighed. "If there's anything else I can do…" Clark started, but Bruce cut him off.
"I'll handle it," Bruce said, his voice hardening. "I appreciate your help, Clark. But this is my problem. My Robin…" he shook his head and paused. No, Jason was so much more than Robin. "My son. I'll find him, no matter what it takes."
Clark nodded, You know where to find me if you need anything," he said quietly. Bruce didn't respond, already turning back to the Batcomputer, his mind focused on the task ahead. He wouldn't stop. He wouldn't rest until he knew the truth until he found Jason—alive or… otherwise.
But deep down, buried beneath layers of iron resolve and determination, there was a sliver of doubt. A fear that Clark was right. And that thought terrified him more than anything else. Bruce didn't want to live in a world without his son.
Clark lingered for a moment longer, his eyes fixed on Bruce, clearly torn between wanting to help and knowing there was nothing more he could do. Bruce could feel his friend's concern like a weight in the room, but he didn't have the emotional bandwidth to deal with it. He couldn't afford to.
"Thanks, Clark," Bruce said, his voice clipped, already turning back to the Batcomputer. The dismissal was apparent, and Clark knew better than to press the issue.
With a resigned nod, Clark turned and flew up through the cavernous mouth of the cave, disappearing into the night sky. The rush of air from his departure stirred the dust on the ground, but Bruce didn't notice.
His eyes were glued to the screens, his fingers flying over the keyboard as he scoured the city's surveillance feeds, bank transaction logs, and anything that might give him a lead.
There was another case of the drug, but nothing on Jason. Part of Bruce knew he should let the case take precedence, many more lives at stake than just the one. But he couldn't do that. Maybe it was instinct, maybe not, but Jason had to come first.
Minutes passed, and then the soft sound of footsteps echoed behind him. Bruce didn't need to turn around to know it was Alfred. The older man's presence was like a steadying hand on the ship's rudder, guiding Bruce through even the darkest of storms.
"Master Bruce," Alfred's voice was gentle, but there was a firmness, a steady resilience that Bruce had relied on more times than he could count. World War Three could have started outside, and Alfred would have remained unruffled.
Bruce had depended on that steadiness as a grieving child and was dependent on it once again. "You've been at this for hours. Perhaps it's time to take a moment—clear your head."
"I'm fine, Alfred," Bruce replied, his tone flat, cold even. He didn't look up from the screens, the glow of the monitors casting harsh shadows on his face.
Alfred let out a cough. "If I may, sir, you won't be of any help to Master Jason if you run yourself into the ground first."
"I said I'm fine," Bruce repeated, a bit sharper this time. He didn't want to be coddled or be told to rest when every second he spent away from the search felt like a betrayal to his son. He could feel Alfred's eyes on him, searching for cracks in the armor, but Bruce didn't relent.
After a long pause, Alfred tried again, his tone more insistent. "Perhaps it would be prudent to call Master Dick. He could assist in the search and provide a fresh perspective."
Bruce's jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing at the suggestion. Dick. His first son, who had grown up and moved on, was carving out his own path. Who butted heads with Bruce almost every time they talked now.
Even so, he knew Dick would drop everything and come if he called, if not for his sake, then for Jason's. The boys had been getting along so much better these days. Dick loved to joke that birds of a feather must flock together.
Yes, Dick would drop everything and come if he called, but something in Bruce resisted the idea. This was his responsibility. He needed to be the one to find Jason and bring him home. Involving Dick would feel like admitting defeat, like acknowledging that he couldn't do it on his own.
"I don't need Dick," Bruce said curtly, his fingers still working the keyboard. "I don't need anyone. I just need to find Jason."
Alfred's shoulders slumped slightly, but he nodded, stepping back. He had seen Bruce in this state before—driven, single-minded, and dangerously close to burning himself out. "Very well, sir," he said quietly, though the concern in his voice remained. "But please, do consider reaching out to him. Family is a strength, not a weakness."
Bruce didn't respond; his focus was already on the data streaming across the screens. He was piecing together a map of Gotham in his mind, identifying potential hideouts and tracking patterns that might suggest where Jason had been taken.
He needed to get into the city and be out there, where he could feel the pulse of Gotham and track Jason's trail through the underbelly of the city he knew better than anyone.
"I'm heading out," Bruce said, standing abruptly and striding toward the Batmobile. The car roared to life as he approached, its sleek lines reflecting the cave's dim light.
"Shall I prepare something for when you return?" Alfred asked in a last attempt to offer some form of support.
"I don't know when that'll be," Bruce replied, his voice distant as he climbed into the car. "Don't wait up."
Alfred watched as the Batmobile shot out of the cave, its engines roaring as it disappeared into the night. He stood there for a long moment, the silence of the cave pressing in around him. He had seen Bruce like this before—driven by fear and love, pushing himself to the brink in his quest to protect those he cared about.
But this time felt different, darker somehow. The loss of Jason had struck a chord deep within Bruce, and Alfred feared what might happen if that chord was never resolved.
His heart ached at the thought of never seeing the boy again. Jason had been rough around the edges initially, scared to form bonds, hating being touched, and always with one foot out the door. Given his past, this was to be expected. But time and care had brought the boy out of his shell.
Alfred enjoyed collecting first-edition books with him, going to the theater, and cooking a good meal. After Dick and Bruce's falling out, Alfred feared the house was going to return to its usual cold doom and gloom, but Jason had changed that. If Robin had any magic, it was all the boy's doing.
Meanwhile, as the Batmobile sped through the winding roads beneath Wayne Manor, Bruce's mind was already several steps ahead, calculating, planning, hunting. He would scour every corner of Gotham, tear through every hideout, interrogate every lowlife until he found a lead—until he found Jason.
And may God have mercy on any poor soul who stood in his way.