[After a while into the beating…]
It was quiet. Too quiet.
The kind of silence that seemed to seep into the bones, chilling the marrow, as though the world itself had decided to hold its breath. The only sound that cut through the stillness was the frantic, pounding thrum of Jason Todd's heartbeat. It hammered in his skull, relentless, a grim reminder that life was slipping from him with each tortured beat.
His vision was a crimson blur—his blood, thick and sticky, dripping steadily from the gash on his forehead. His face felt cold, but the pain was an inferno. His limbs ached like they were being torn apart, each breath a struggle, ragged and shallow as if his lungs were too broken to draw in air properly. He could feel the weight of his own body, the oppressive pressure of his wounds, and yet, all that registered in his mind was the pounding of his heart, each throb louder than the last, louder than everything else.
Somewhere, far away but painfully close, there was the sound of footsteps, slow and deliberate, echoing in the hollow vastness of the abandoned warehouse. The faintest hint of a presence that Jason could not escape. His eyes, barely open, flicked toward the source, but his blurred vision offered little clarity. What he could make out, though, was enough.
The Joker stood over Jason like a predator inspecting its prey, a wide, sickening grin stretched across his face. Bloodied and battered, Jason could barely lift his head to acknowledge him, but the Joker didn't seem to mind.
"Been fun, hasn't it, kiddo?" The Joker's voice was disturbingly casual, as though he were speaking to an old acquaintance, not someone he'd just beaten within an inch of their life. His eyes sparkled with perverse delight as he casually twirled a bloodied crowbar between his gloved fingers. The sound of it scraping against the floor made Jason's skin crawl, but there was no strength left in him to even flinch.
Joker's laugh—high-pitched and unnervingly cheerful—rang through the warehouse. "Aw, don't be like that, Boy Blonder. Giving me the cold shoulder already?" His grin deepened, and he straightened his tie with exaggerated flair, savoring the moment like it was a fine wine. "Maybe this wasn't as fun for you as it was for me, but hey, you can't win 'em all."
Jason's body was a wreck. His limbs were stiff, his muscles screaming in agony with every slow, deliberate move he managed to make. He couldn't feel his fingers anymore, only the dull throb of the brutal hits to his chest and ribs. His breath came in strained, panicked gasps, a struggle to stay conscious.
Joker ignored him now, his hands moving to adjust his coat, speaking as though Jason were simply an afterthought. "Anyway, be a good little soldier. Finish your homework, and don't forget to brush your teeth before bed. Oh, and tell Batsy I said… hello." His words were soaked in mocking affection, as though he were a warped, twisted father bidding his son farewell. The laughter bubbled up again, echoing off the crumbling walls, bouncing around the cold, empty space like a maniacal choir.
With a theatrical flourish, Joker swept his coat over his shoulders, the fabric swirling dramatically in the air. His steps toward the door were slow and deliberate, each one a final punctuation mark to the twisted performance. And then, just as quickly, the heavy door slammed shut, and the sound of footsteps faded away into nothingness, leaving Jason alone in the stark, cold silence.
Jason's body trembled as he struggled to push himself up, the effort overwhelming his senses. His hands, still cuffed behind his back, scraped against the cold concrete floor. Every inch of him felt like it was unraveling, but still, he fought against the overwhelming fatigue, the pain that threatened to crush him.
He rolled onto his side, gasping for air, each movement sending shockwaves through his ravaged body. His right hand reached for the cuffs, twisting painfully as he tried to bring them to the front. His face, streaked with blood, was a mask of exhaustion and determination. He would not die here. Not like this.
Every movement was an eternity. Jason managed to get his hands in front of him and pushed himself to his feet, his legs shaky, like they might collapse at any moment. His mind raced, desperate for a plan, for a way out, but his body betrayed him. He stumbled, barely able to catch his balance, before crashing to the ground with a sickening thud, his head slamming against the cold concrete.
But Jason Todd was nothing if not stubborn. He dragged himself, inch by inch, his arms trembling with the effort. Each movement was a struggle, his blood pooling beneath him as he left a crimson trail across the warehouse floor. Every inch forward felt like it could be his last, but he refused to stop. Not when the man who had done this to him was still out there. Not when there was still a chance to survive.
Through the haze of pain, a faint sound reached his ears—a low, mechanical beeping. His eyes, unfocused and blurry, darted around the room. He couldn't see it at first, but then… a faint shape, hidden under a tarp, caught his attention. A crate. And with it, the ticking of a timer.
His blood ran cold as he crawled toward the source. With trembling hands, he yanked away the tarp, revealing a cluster of dynamite sticks, wired to a timer counting down—ten seconds. Jason's heart skipped a beat.
He froze. Time seemed to stretch out around him, each second stretching into eternity, mocking him with its inevitability. His hands trembled as he reached for the timer, but there was nothing he could do. He couldn't disarm it. He couldn't escape.
Closing his eyes, Jason let out a shuddering breath, as if willing the pain to disappear, willing the world to stop spinning. He had fought. He had given everything. And now, there was nothing left but the inevitable.
Outside, Batman's motorcycle roared to a halt in front of the warehouse, its tires skidding on the icy ground. His cowl hidden the grimace of worry etched on his face, but his eyes were locked on the tracker blinking in his radar, showing him Jason's last known location. He was close—he had to be close.
He sprinted toward the door, urgency driving every step, but just as he reached for the handle, the ground shook beneath him. The explosion was deafening, a violent roar that ripped through the night and tore the building apart. The heat of the blast burned through the cold air, and the shockwave sent Batman crashing backward, his body slamming into the snow.
The warehouse erupted in flames, the sky now illuminated by the inferno, the fire curling up into the blackness above, roaring as though the very heavens themselves had opened in fury. For a moment, everything was still. Silent.
But then, slowly, the sound of debris settling and the crackling of fire was all that remained. Jason Todd was gone.
"Jason!" Batman's voice cut through the stillness, ragged and desperate, as he leapt to his feet and charged toward the charred remnants of the warehouse. His cape billowed behind him, but it was the sound of his boots striking the debris that filled the air—the only sign of his presence in the midst of the roaring flames.
The fire crackled, sending waves of heat into the night, but Bruce paid it no mind. His hands bled as he dug through the wreckage, recklessly scraping at the broken beams. His gloves were slick with soot and blood—his own, perhaps, but more so from the boy he had failed to save. His heart thudded in his chest with every passing second, each beat pulling him deeper into the vortex of guilt that seemed to threaten to swallow him whole.
"Jason!" he called again, his voice hoarse with emotion. The flames hissed and popped around him, but he couldn't stop. He wouldn't stop.
And then, through the smoke and chaos, he found him.
Jason's body lay limp beneath a pile of twisted metal and shattered concrete. His face was ghostly pale, streaked with blood, his eyes closed in eternal stillness. His once vibrant, rebellious spirit was now a faint echo in the shadows. Batman's breath caught in his throat as he knelt beside him, his hands trembling as they gently cradled the boy who had once been his son.
"Oh no…" The words slipped from Bruce's lips in a broken whisper. The weight of his failure pressed down on him like a leaden cloak. He had failed to protect him, to keep him safe, and now there was nothing left but the crushing reality of loss.
He lifted Jason's body with the careful tenderness of a father, his own emotions threatening to tear him apart. "Jason…" His voice cracked, the sound raw and filled with an anguish he had buried for so long. It was too much. It was always too much.
*
Later, Bruce stood outside the morgue, the night heavy with the scent of rain. He had brought Jason's body there under the guise of his civilian identity, Bruce Wayne—donating a large sum to ensure no questions were asked, no details revealed. The cause of death was registered simply as "explosion." The world would never know the truth of what had happened. But Bruce knew. And that knowledge, that brutal truth, would haunt him forever.
At Wayne Manor, Alfred, Barbara, and Dick gathered in the study, their faces grim, their hearts heavy with the weight of the tragedy. Bruce sat in silence, his head bowed, his hands pressed against his face. The clock ticked on, indifferent to the storm of emotions brewing within him.
Alfred, ever the steady presence, placed a gentle hand on Bruce's shoulder, offering the only comfort he could. "There was nothing you could have done," he said softly, his voice full of quiet understanding. "You didn't know he would be in Bosnia."
Bruce shook his head slowly, his voice barely a whisper as he spoke through clenched teeth. "For someone who's lost so many, you'd think I'd be used to it by now. But I'm not." His chest tightened with the weight of his grief, his failure. "I failed him, Alfred. I should've protected him."
Alfred said nothing more, simply allowing the silence to settle around them. Sometimes, there were no words that could ease the pain.
Dick, restless and torn between his own grief and the need for answers, stepped forward, his face a mixture of confusion and barely contained anger. "What exactly happened in Bosnia?" His voice was sharp, his frustration evident. "How did a mission tracking Ra's al Ghul lead to... this?"
Barbara, her eyes fierce despite her wheelchair, rolled closer to Bruce, her hand resting lightly on the arm of his chair. Her voice was calm but firm, a reminder to them all of the strength that remained even in the face of overwhelming loss. "Not now, Dick," she said, her words cutting through the tension that had thickened in the room. "This isn't your fault, Bruce. You did everything you could."
Bruce didn't respond. He couldn't. He didn't have the strength to explain, to confront the questions that gnawed at him. He stood in silence, the weight of his failure settling deeper within him, suffocating him in the shadows of his own mind.
Without a word, he turned and walked toward the staircase. The quiet hum of the house, the faint murmur of his family behind him—none of it could drown out the voices in his head, the haunting echo of the Joker's laughter that still reverberated in his ears. The laughter that had led them here. To this point of no return.
As he ascended the stairs, his footsteps heavy with guilt and grief, the voices below him faded into a distant hum, drowned out by the cold, relentless sound of his own heartbeat.
And Jason's absence, more deafening than any laugh, echoed through the hollow halls of Wayne Manor.
The rain fell in torrents, a relentless downpour that seemed to mirror the sorrow hanging heavy in the air. Each drop splattered against the earth, the rhythmic sound a constant companion to the quiet procession making its way toward the small graveyard behind Wayne Manor. The somber procession trudged through the rain-soaked grass, each step weighed down by the gravity of their grief. The storm seemed to seep into their very bones, an unspoken reminder of the pain that hung over them all.
Dressed in black, the Bat family stood united yet isolated in their shared loss. Their faces were obscured by a mixture of rain and unshed tears, their expressions unreadable beneath the wet fabric of their umbrellas. The umbrellas offered little protection against the downpour; their fragile coverings barely held against the storm's fury. Still, they raised them high, as if attempting to shield themselves from the weight of the world pressing in around them.
At the front of the procession, Bruce Wayne walked with his usual commanding presence, though now it was as though an invisible weight had settled onto his broad shoulders. His figure, always so imposing, now appeared hunched under the burden of grief. His face, usually masked in stoic determination, was softened with an unspoken sorrow, the anguish in his eyes betraying the calm exterior he fought to maintain.
To his right stood Alfred Pennyworth, the ever-faithful butler, whose face was a picture of quiet grief. His eyes, though calm, were shadowed by the pain of years spent alongside Bruce, witnessing the tragic losses that had marked his life. Alfred's unshakable composure did little to mask the heaviness in his gaze.
Behind them, Dick Grayson walked with his head bowed, his shoulders slumped under an invisible weight. Once the bright and confident Robin, he now carried the burden of memories—some joyous, some filled with the bitterness of regret.
As Nightwing, he stood not only as a brother but as a man haunted by the loss of his sibling in arms. Beside him, Barbara Gordon moved forward with quiet determination, her wheelchair seeming to glide across the wet earth as if nothing could stop her. Her strength, her resilience, stood as a quiet testament to the unwavering love she had for those around her, despite the unbearable ache of their shared grief.
The grave was ready, the coffin standing solemnly beneath the darkened sky, draped in black. Red roses had been placed around it by those who had come before, their vibrant color a stark contrast to the rain-soaked scene. The water pounded against the polished wood, creating a mournful rhythm that resonated in the silence that had fallen over the mourners. The only sounds were the rain, the wind, and the faint rustle of fabric as each person gathered around the gravesite, waiting for Bruce to speak.
He stepped forward, his movements deliberate and measured, though every step seemed to cost him more than the last. The others gathered behind him, their faces solemn, their gazes fixed on the coffin. Bruce paused before it, his jaw tightening as his eyes lingered on the polished wood. His thoughts seemed distant, his voice thick with emotion as he finally spoke.
"Jason Todd," he began, his voice steady, though laden with an undercurrent of pain. "Was more than just a partner. He was a fighter. Brave. Stubborn. Fierce." His voice cracked slightly as he continued, "He believed in the mission, in making Gotham a better place. Even when we disagreed... he never stopped trying to do what he thought was right."
The rain continued to pour down, but it did nothing to mask the tremor in Bruce's voice. He cleared his throat and pressed on, the words coming slower now, quieter. "He made mistakes, like we all do. But he was still... my son. And I failed him."
Dick stepped forward then, placing a hand on Bruce's shoulder, grounding him in the moment. His voice was soft, but firm. "You didn't fail him, Bruce. Jason knew the risks. He wouldn't have wanted you to blame yourself for this."
Bruce didn't respond, his eyes still fixed on the coffin as if he could will it to come back. The weight of his silence was unbearable, but he couldn't bring himself to look away.
After a long, still moment, he stepped back, making room for the others to say their goodbyes.
Dick knelt first, his movements slow, measured. His hand rested briefly on the coffin, and then he spoke, his voice tight with emotion. "You were a pain in the ass, Jason. But you were my brother, and I loved you. I'll never forget that." His voice cracked as he placed a red rose atop the coffin. He stood and took a step back, his eyes glistening with unshed tears.
Barbara followed, her hands steady as she gripped the rose. She leaned forward and spoke quietly, though her voice carried an unmistakable weight of affection and regret. "You were reckless, but you had so much heart. Too much, maybe. I just wish you could've seen how much you meant to all of us." She placed the rose gently on the coffin and took a step back, her head lowered in reverence.
Alfred's turn came next. He approached with the calm dignity that had defined him for decades, his movements deliberate, each step filled with quiet resolve. His hand trembled slightly as he placed his rose on the coffin, and his voice, barely audible above the rain, whispered the words that carried decades of care, loss, and fatherly affection. "Master Jason," he murmured, "you were far from perfect. But you were ours. Rest well, young man."
With the final rose placed, the coffin began its slow descent into the earth. The sound of the mechanism whirring as it lowered, combined with the steady beat of the rain, created an eerie dirge, a mournful soundtrack to their collective sorrow.
Bruce stood motionless, his face set in an expression of quiet torment, watching as Jason was slowly swallowed by the earth. The rain soaked through his coat, the cold seeping into his skin, but he remained frozen. A part of him wanted to reach out, to pull Jason back, to undo the irreversible, but he knew that it was impossible. Jason was gone.
As the grave was filled, a simple headstone was placed, bearing Jason's name, the dates of his birth and death, and the words: Beloved Son. Fierce Protector. Taken Too Soon.
The family lingered for a moment, each lost in their thoughts, their grief too heavy to speak of. Finally, it was Alfred who spoke, his voice gentle but firm. "Master Bruce, it's time to go. The rain will do us no favors if we linger much longer."
Bruce didn't move immediately. His eyes remained fixed on the headstone, his thoughts swirling with memories of Jason—the boy who had challenged him, frustrated him, and, above all, made him proud.
After what felt like an eternity, Bruce turned away, the weight of his sorrow too much to bear. The family began their slow walk back to Wayne Manor, the rain continuing to fall, relentless as ever, as though mourning alongside them.
Inside the manor, the silence was deafening. The rooms, once alive with the sounds of laughter and bickering, now felt hollow, as if Jason's absence had left an irreparable void. Bruce retreated to the Batcave, seeking solace in the work that had long been his only refuge. But no matter how hard he tried, he could not escape the memory of Jason's lifeless body, the image that haunted him even in his most isolated moments.
The others gave him space, understanding that grief was a battle Bruce had to fight on his own. But they, too, carried the weight of Jason's loss, each in their own way, each unable to escape the shared sorrow that lingered in the house like an unshakable shadow.
That night, as the rain finally ceased and the clouds parted to reveal a pale moon, Bruce stood alone in the Batcave, staring at the Robin suit encased in glass. His hand reached out to rest against the cold, transparent surface. The silence enveloped him, broken only by the faint sound of his voice, barely a whisper.
"I'm sorry, Jason. I should've been there. I should've saved you."
The suit remained still, its silent presence a stark reminder of what had been lost.
*
[Meanwhile]
Jason Todd drifted in the void, a dark, empty expanse where there was no light, no sound, no sense of time or place. The absence of everything was suffocating, an oppressive silence that pressed in from all sides. He had no sense of how long he had been there, but his thoughts were sharp—razor-sharp—and they cut through the nothingness with a clarity that felt almost wrong.
"Where the hell am I?" he muttered, his voice breaking the stillness, but even as it echoed into the void, it felt too quiet. He paused, staring into the vast blackness, and then the realization slammed into him like a freight train. "Oh. Right. I died."
The memories hit him all at once—raw, vivid, and unforgiving. The Joker's maniacal laughter, the sickening crack of the crowbar against his skull, the blinding explosion that followed. The pain, the panic, the final, fleeting moments of life. It all replayed in brutal detail, each image searing into his mind like a brand, a reminder of everything he had lost.
"Is this it?" Jason's voice cracked, the question escaping him before he could stop it. "Is this where people end up when they die? Some pitch-black nowhere?" He tried to move, to lift his hands, to do anything, but his body refused to cooperate. It was as though he was paralyzed, trapped in this empty space with only his thoughts for company. Helpless. Frozen. A prisoner in his own mind.
Then, suddenly, a voice broke through the silence—deep, mocking, reverberating inside his skull rather than his ears. It was a voice that seemed both familiar and alien, like a shadow of something he couldn't quite place.
"You finally ended up dead. Killed by a fucking clown, no less. How poetic."
Jason's heart—or whatever remained of it in this strange place—skipped a beat. The voice felt like a jolt of electricity, a surge of shock and confusion. "Who the hell's there?" he demanded, his voice sharp and filled with a sudden unease. He strained, trying to pinpoint the source of the voice, but it was everywhere and nowhere all at once, an omnipresent echo that seemed to invade every corner of his mind.
"You can't guess?" The voice taunted, a smug, almost gleeful tone dripping with a familiarity that made Jason's stomach twist. "Come on, partner. You should know this one."
Jason frowned, confusion beginning to replace his initial anger. He had nothing but time here in this void, so he might as well try to figure out what was going on. "Why do you sound like me?" he asked, his voice quieter now, but still sharp with suspicion.
The voice chuckled darkly. "That's because I am you. Or at least, I'm the part of you that's actually got some sense left. You know, the voice in your head that's been trying to keep you alive all these years. The one that's been screaming for you to ditch Bruce, to stop pretending you needed him. But you didn't listen, did you? You just kept crawling back, like some desperate mutt, begging for scraps of affection."
Jason's jaw tightened, his frustration starting to boil over. "Oh, great. I'm stuck in some twisted version of hell, and my tormentor is... me?"
The voice scoffed, as though Jason had missed the point entirely. "Hell? Nah, this isn't hell. Though, it might as well be, considering how royally you screwed up. Let's face it, kid: You spent your whole life chasing Bruce's approval. And what did it get you? Dead. Beaten to death by a damn clown. And where was dear old Batman when you needed him? Nowhere. He wasn't there to save you. And guess what? He doesn't even have the guts to admit he failed you."
Jason gritted his teeth, anger and frustration surging through him. "Alright, enough of the pity party," he snapped. "What is this place, then? If it's not hell, then what the hell is it?"
"Questions, questions," the voice mocked, its tone annoyingly calm, like a parent humoring a child. "Don't worry, we've got all the time in the world to get to the answers. But first, let's play a little game. How about a nice stroll down memory lane? Let's revisit the events that led to your oh-so-tragic demise. Maybe seeing it all laid out will help you understand just how badly Bruce screwed up your life—physically and mentally."
Jason scoffed, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Oh, sure. A recap of my greatest hits sounds like exactly what I need. Not like I have anything better to do, right?"
The void seemed to pulse in response, the oppressive darkness shifting as if acknowledging his words. Then, a faint light flickered in the distance. At first, it was so small it seemed insignificant—just a pinprick of brightness in the endless blackness. But as moments passed, it began to grow, its light pulsing steadily, drawing Jason's attention like a moth to a flame.
Want more chapters? Kindly visit my p@t to read ahead of all public release. pàtreøn.cøm/Da_suprememaverick