This is a blog where I will be posting and reblogging mature themes! This will predominately be a whump and angst blog, so keep that in mind as you scroll. There isn't a lot that I avoid, so just be careful.
Asks and requests are usually open, though I make no promises that I will actually answer them. Commissions for both art and writing are also open!
#ghost writes : My writing tag
#ghost draws : My art tag
#ghost speaks : My general talking tag
Wrapped in the cloaks of typical League assassins, Jason and Damian make their way through the somewhat crowded streets of âEth Althâaban, weaving between the assassins, mercenaries, and benefactors that reside here. The gargantuan statue of Raâs lords over the expanse of the cavern, the artificial sun in his hand glowing brilliantly to illuminate the city in an imitation of sunset.
Jason takes the liberty of taking the lead, the Prince keeping nearly in step with him. He glances back every so often to assure himself that Damian is keeping pace, but his attention is mostly focused on the mission.
Thereâs something about these streets that feels so familiar as he confidently turns down back alleys and hops walls for shortcuts. Itâs not the streets themselves that feel familiar, but the energy of them. The vibe, if you will. Criminals running around the streets, doing their business, selling their wares. It almost feels like home, in a really dysfunctional and fight-or-flight inducing way.
âWe should take to the rooftops,â Damianâs voice cuts in quietly, just loud enough to knock Jason out of his almost-memories. âIt would allow us a birdâs eye view, and many forget to look up for pursuers, even here.â
Jason tilts his head consideringly as Damian turns into an empty alley and begins climbing up the intricate Arabian architecture. He sets his shoulders and moves to stand beneath him, ready to catch the Prince if he falls. Itâs not likely, but it makes his nerves settle a little bit.
Before long, the boy is at the top and waiting with crossed arms for Jason to make his way up, despite being much faster and much more confident than the small prince. From there, they make their way across rooftops towards the building the target is supposed to reside in.
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The two pause on the roof of a building, crouched near the edge and overlooking a neighboring one, watching four of the main entrances. One front door, two windows on the second floor, and a roof hatch exit. Arguably, too many entrances for a house in a city like âEth Althâaban, but Jason digresses. The important thing is that the target is currently in the house and one the phone with⊠someone.
âWe must get closer,â Damian murmurs, shifting his weight impatiently. Instinctually, Jasonâs hand comes to rest on the nape of the impatient boyâs neck to still his movementâ to which Damian makes an aborted sound of indignanceâ and points his gaze towards the hints of numerous security measures around the house.Â
Damian scoffs. âYou could have simply said somethingââ
Jason turns back to look at him with a deadpan expression. Damian blinks, as if surprised by his own oversight, then turns away with the lightest dusting of blush on his cheeks. Jason, for all that heâs able to, grins sardonically under the muzzle before turning back to the task at hand.
From their previous perimeter check of the building, Jason knows thereâs a back door and three other windows, all on the first floor, one for each side of the building. Most of the windows are crafted with a glass thatâs hard to see through, leaving only the blurry outline of a figure that may pass by them. From what he could tell, there are alarm systems on every entrance and cameras that watch the outside of each one. Not very well hidden cameras either. Ameteur.Â
The key to this will be sliding in between the wall and the blindspot to disable the alarm, then slipping in undetected. The man himself is downstairs, if the cracked window they can just barely hear his voice from is anything to go by.Â
Jason taps his thumb on Damianâs neck to get his attention, then sharply nods towards the upstairs window thatâs nearly flat against the wall, hardly a lip to hold onto. Itâs the hardest window to get into, and thus why it (presumably) has the lowest amount of security.
Damian nods, staying low as he guides the two of them to the best space for climbing up. Unfortunately, the first handhold is way too high for Damian to even attempt to reach, so Jason gets to enjoy the look of pure petulance and embarrassment while he lifts the smaller boy up to it.
Fortunately, however, heâs the perfect size to slot onto the wall by balancing on the smallest of lips coming off of it, and still manage to stay out of the view of the camera, if the lack of change in the noise coming from the downstairs window is to be believed.
Itâs a quick minute before Damian gives Jason the all clear and they both slip into the house with little to no problem. Itâs decorated sparsely and the lights are off, though now the target has paused talking on the phone. Seems before he was giving a report of some kind to someone else, though he canât be sure on what.
Of course, itâs at the moment they land that they hear the softest of footfalls heading up the stairs.
In a matter of milliseconds theyâve both sequestered themselves to the darkest corners of the roomâ Jason on the side so the door will open in front of him, stopping him from being seen immediately, and Damian slotted into the shadow of space between a wardrobe and the curtains on the now-closed window.
They both watch with silent breaths as the door swings open and the target walks in, looking annoyed.
âI told you this was a mistake to send him. He wasnât ready!â
A beat of silence. The man kicks the door closed, looking up at the ceiling with a sigh. Jason is careful to avert his gaze to just over the manâs shoulder, wary of the targetâs instincts kicking in before they get information.
âYes, Iâm leaving soon. The Demonsâ guard dog was⊠an oversight, on all our parts. Last I was informed he was still being trained, how was I supposed to know heâd be in the room? Even besides that, Casey shouldâve seen him and called it off, that was our deal: if anyone got in the way, we call it off and try again another time. For him to have not done that⊠who the hell even is this guy? Iâve never heard a name for him.â
Jason tilts his head, sizing the target up in his peripheral. Talia has definitely been keeping him on the down low then outside of the ones within the main palace, if this in combination with the targetâs sonâs reaction is anything to go by.
âYes, yes, Iâll send someone to figure it out and get us the information while we regroup so we can try again. And this time, weâre sending in someone with proper experience.â
With that, he hangs up the phone and sighs, running a hand down his face before turning to leaveâ that is, before he freezes as his gaze locks onto Jasonâs, now gleaming an eerie green beneath his hood.
Head still tilted, Jason takes a step forward.Â
Then another.Â
Once more.Â
With each one, the target takes a half step back, unable to look away from the predator stalking towards him. Damian stays in his hiding spot, to Jasonâs confusion but who is he to question the Prince?
âWho the hellââ
Jason cuts him off with a lightning-quick swordpoint to his throat, forcing the target to step back even further until his back hits an empty wall.
âWho were you speaking to on the phone?â Damian asks sharply, pitching his voice down to a frankly impressive degree and throwing it through the room.
âNone of your damn business, get out of my house!â
âYou were sent here to organize an assassination of the Prince. Why?â
The target huffs, but quickly rights himself when a trickle of blood begins to make its way down his neck.
âIâm not telling you shit, freak!â
Jason hums, taking a moment of consideration before decapitating him in a clean slice. Arterial spray splatters across his chest around the collarbone area with a little bit landing on his muzzle. Besides that, the rest of him stays clean, seeing as he quickly takes a step back from the collapsing body, rolling head, and quickly growly pool of blood beneath them.Â
âTt. That was severely uninformative.â Damian steps out from his hiding spot, crossing his arms as he gazes at the body. âTake anything that may identify who he was working for. We still may yet glean something from them.â
Jason obliges, taking the moment to wipe his katana off on the body before collecting the targetâs phone, and a strange vial of what is probably poison from a pouch. He then meets Damian at the window they broke into and does a little bow and gestures for him to pass through first.
âWe shall go inform my mother of the completion of your task. I suppose you are adequate after all.â
Jason watches with a little smirk as the Prince climbs through the window, quick to follow behind him and head back to the palace with the targetâs head in hand.
------------------------
By the time they make it back to the palace itâs mostly cleared out of the bulk of the assassins, though a few still roam the near-silent halls. None of them even spare the two of them a glance besides bowing as the Prince walks past. A servant trails after them to clean up the drops of blood and viscera from the decapitated head, low and quiet.
Damian is quick to find one of his motherâs personal servants and ascertain her location, which leads them to Raâsâ office. The Prince knocks on the door, waits for the familiar gruff response, and opens the door.
Raâs himself is sat behind his desk, paperwork neatly strewn in front of him. Talia sits across from him, leaning over with a pen in her hand pointing at a line of text Jason canât make out from this angle. Both boys bow to a respectable depth before standing at attention, with Jason holding up the head of the target. Talia nods approvingly.
âI see youâve completed your task,â Raâs mutters, gesturing for a servant who stands just outside the door. âTake the head away, get rid of it and the rest of the body, wherever it may be.â
The servant bows before shakily taking the head from Jasonâs grasp, refusing to meet his eyes and quickly scurrying off. He tilts his head curiously, watching her go before his attention is drawn back in and he folds his hands behind his back in a matching stance to Damianâs, their chins dipped respectfully.
âHowever, next time, a photo or simple confirmation will suffice. It would do no good to carry a head around on a long mission all the way back.â
Jason blinks and glances at Talia, confused. Isnât this what he asked for? Did he do something wrong?
âI trained him to follow orders, Father. It is no surprise he followed yours to the letter.â
Raâs tuts under his breath. âPerhaps. Was there anything else, or did you simply come here to deliver part of a corpse?â
Damian straightens up, hands folded behind his back and ramrod straight. âIf I may give my report, Grandfather?â
âYou may.â
âAt our time of arrival, the target was on a phone call with someone else. The location was too well guarded for us to attempt to eavesdrop beyond knowing that. Once we were able to infiltrate the building, we heard him mention that he was not aware of the Sword. It seems the bulk of the people here do not know of his existence yet. On top of that, he spoke of sending a spy of some kind to acquire more information on him, as well as a more qualified assassin to come after me some time in the future once theyâve gathered enough information. However, it was unclear whether that would be the same person or someone else.â
Raâs hums, and Taliaâs gaze slides to Jasonâs. She raises a single manicured eyebrow just so, and he dips his head in response. She nods, turning back to Raâs.
âIn that case, we should send Alzali to learn from other teachers. He needs to be on the level of the best of the best, and he has already received his training from my Beloved. He is ready to begin his training with Lady Shiva.â
Thereâs a spark of recognition at the name, something comes in the echoes of a stern, gruff voice telling him to be careful, to use his panic button if he ever comes across her.
A panic button? Who wouldâve ever given him a panic button?
Raâs steeples his fingers in front of him. âI suppose that would be optimal to avoid his being detected. Will the training hold?â
âIt will,â Talia answers with surety. âAnd once Alzali returns, it will be refreshed, along with new commands.â
His name brings the present situation back into sharp focus, the echo of the voice fading into the gentle waves of green lapping at the edges of his mind.
âGood. Then arrange it swiftly. And ensure my heir does not fall in the meantime. He is not at an ideal age to be thrown into the Lazarus Pit, Iâd much rather avoid that hassle.â
âOf course, Father. The arrangements will be made promptly.â Talia dips her head to Raâs before moving fluidly towards the door. âDamian, Alzali, follow.â
Jason waits for Damian to step ahead of him before falling in step behind the Prince, closing the door softly behind him on his way out.Â
Itâs a silent walk to Taliaâs office, where she takes her seat behind her desk and they both stand before her. She looks them both over with a critical eye before speaking.
âI do not remember mentioning that Damian was to accompany you on this mission, Alzali. You would do well to remember that in the future.â
Her tone is scolding, but something in her eyes makes Jason think sheâs more than satisfied with the outcome. Still, he nods in acknowledgement and a promise to do better.
âGood. Damian, you are to focus on your studies and your training while Alzali is away. You are to be on your guard at all times, as there is certainly still a plot against us afoot.â The Prince in question nods, a peculiar expression flittering across his face before it disappears under a practiced guise of indifference. âAlzali, I will be arranging for your transport to Lady Shivaâs current residence. You will train there for the foreseeable future until she deems you ready to return or we decide to pull you back, under more dire circumstances. However, you are to complete your training as quickly as possible, so do so swiftly.â
Jason nods, a hand clenching behind his back and a mote of anxiety seeding in his stomach at the thought of being away for long.
âYour things will be packed for you, and you shall leave within a few days time. Until then, you will shadow me and make your presence unseen. Now, Damian, off to bed, You have lessons to attend at dawn.â
âOf course, Mother.â
With that, Damian sweeps out of the room, not casting a second glance back at Jason, who watches him go out of his peripheral vision as much as he can. The door soon closes, and the Princeâs footsteps disappear with it.
Talia motions for him to take up his post, then pulls out a phone from one of her desk drawers and begins her tasks for the night, leaving Jason to a typical night in the Demonâs Palace of âEth Althâaban and his whirling thoughts about leaving the city to go train with someone heâs never met before.
Chat I just remembered I have like 4 fully written Febuwhump posts I never actually posted because they were the last ones of the event and I initially wanted to do them in order. They're a series btw, but also technically a sequel to a long fic I haven't written yet. Do people still want those or should I wait until the long fic is written
Where before it mostly consisted of what were essentially beatdowns until he learned a skill, now they were actual lessons. Which isnât to say he walked away unscathedâ in the League, they believed in pain being a powerful motivator. Jason will be the first to admit that theyâre right. But now, his lessons were taught by specialistsâ weapons, battle tactics, you name itâ he learned it.Â
Nothing that would allow him to actually make it on his own, however. Nothing that would allow him to⊠rebel. Only things he needs to know to be an effective Sword for the Demons.
He still got punished. With every mistake Jason made, every hint of resistance to the Demons, there would be a session to enforce his training.
(The word âconditioningâ was used once. It made something nauseous swirl in his gut. He decided to ignore it.)
Along with this, however, with every time he obeyed without a moment of hesitationâ which was more often than not nowâ he received rewards. Staying in the bigger cell. Food, water, taking a shower, a portion of his day dedicated to shadowing one of the Demons as they went about their days.
More importantly, and his favorite of the rewards: shadowing the Prince. Damian, despite his age, had almost as many lessons as Jason did. Different topics, and not nearly as⊠bruising, but still a lot. He got to learn the childâs schedule, the types of classes he took and the weapons he was trained in. Of course, he never interjected himself into the classes, never made his presence known.Â
Jason would only sidle up behind him, silent steps just a couple paces behind the small prince. Damian typically never paid him any mind, seemingly content to ignore him while he went about his business and Jason just stood guard over him when Talia could not. There became a sort of easy air between them, where Damian could be sure more often than not that Jason was somewhere nearby and Jason could be comforted by the fact that the Prince was safe under his watch.
Itâs a day like any other when Jason makes his way into Damianâs shadow, hands folded behind his back as he follows the boy through the compound (another advantage to his newfound responsibilities: he was allowed to see and memorize the rest of the palace the League resides in. Heâs not yet been given the opportunity to see the rest of the underground city, but he thinks that wonât last forever). He absently traces his thumb over the blade of the dagger hidden in his sleeve, hidden by the black and gray robes heâs been fitted with. The red accents and designs stand out against the dark fabric, but not nearly enough to hinder his ability to hide. Not even the comforting weight of the red hood is able to impair thatâ heâs too used to having to blend into dark nights in a suit the color of a fucking traffic light for that to even moderately matter.
(And where did that come from? His blurry, broken memories of his past? Potentially. Itâs not like his past matters at this point, anyways. The phantom ache in his bones tells him he doesnât want to remember it anyways. He gets the feeling what he has now is better anyways.)
Damian leads him to the training room typically reserved for his blades lessons, not bothering to hold the door open a little longer despite the fact that Jason knows the boy knows heâs there. Itâs not a surprise, of course. Raâs didnât, Talia did more often than not, but sometimes she didnât.Â
Raâs always seemed content to pretend Jason wasnât there, similar to Damian. Or maybe sometimes he doesnât even realize Jason is there at all. He knows tells, he knows body languageâ itâs one of the arts heâs being trained in, but something about it is just instinctual to him at this pointâ and heâs sure heâs seen the milliseconds of hesitation when the centuries old assassin turns his head just enough to spot Jason in his peripheral, whether thatâs trailing behind him or just simply blending into the shadows of whatever room the man is currently occupying.
And thatâs just what Jason does now. He glides across the edge of the wall to find his usual spot where he observes Damianâs lessons. He notes that the two of them are here before the teacher assigned to the boy, which is fairly unusual. Certainly not common.
Damian seems to be thinking the same, based on the frustrated twitch of his eyebrow before he begins his own warmup stretches.
Almost ten minutes laterâ long past the typical start timeâ both of their bodies tense with the sound of footsteps drawing closer just as the door opens and someone meanders into the room. Jasonâs gaze immediately moves to track the man, whoâs a different assassin than the one whoâs always been assigned to Damian. Then it flickers back to Damian, who, after a split second of surprise and confusion, carefully smooths his expression back into its typical haughty scowl.
âApologies for the delay,â the man says casually, almost flippantly, like he isnât talking to the Demon Prince himself. Damianâs scowl deepens and he stands, back ramrod straight and somehow managing to glower down his nose at the assassin despite his significantly smaller stature.
âYou will address me properly, or your tongue will be cut from your mouth,â Damian hisses. The assassin doesnât so much as look even vaguely apologetic, instead drawing two katanas from the rack along the edge of the mats. Jason stiffens when he tosses one of them to Damian and draws one for himselfâ not because theyâre tosses, but because instead of the wooden training ones Damian has been using up until this point, theyâre real steel. Sharp. Dangerous. Deadly.
If the boy is surprised he doesnât show it, too busy being upset over the lack of respect the assassin is showing him. âI have not yet been cleared to train with live steel,â he mutters half-heartedly, glancing between it and the nameless assassin.
âConsider this your clearance. Ready yourself.â
With that, the lessons commence.
Despite the difference in weight and feel of a training weapon versus the real thing, Damian adapts quickly. The sounds of metal on metal fill the room, both parties on the mat laser focused on their spar.
Jason, meanwhile, isnât actually watching Damian. Much of the time, whether itâs him, Talia, or Raâs that he shadows, he is not actually watching them. He is watching the rest of the room, the inhabitants of it, cataloguing every twitch of movement, every shift of weight, every threat. Heâs always scanning for forms in the shadows, listening for footsteps creeping around, feeling for shifts in the air that signify a presence trying to keep itself hidden.
So he watches the assassin. Unlike many in the compound, his face is fully on display, making him far easier to read. There are no real lines of tension in his face, pointing towards holding himself back from using his real skills (which, yeah, considering heâs fighting a fucking four year old heâd hope so). Thereâs a slight uptick in his eyebrow and lipsâ heâs enjoying the fight and is simultaneously amused by it.
Jasonâs fingers thrum restlessly against his arm as he watches the fight progress. The assassin is too quick to let Damian get any hits in, blocking or parrying anything that comes even somewhat close. He barks out instructionsâ or rather, ordersâ to the boy as they dance around each other. Normally this would be fine, normally this wouldnât make Jasonâs shoulders tense with a need to step forward and throw the assassin as far as he can away from the Prince, but thereâs⊠thereâs something.
Maybe itâs the way the assassin uses his superior, practiced speed to cut into the kid in ways he couldnât possibly hope to block or deflect simply due to reaction time and lack of experience to predict it. Maybe itâs the way he fights dirtyâ dirtier than most League assassins do, from what Jason has experienced in his own training and observed from othersâ training. Maybe itâs the way his eyes flash every time another streak of blood appears on his blade, his lips tugging up just a fraction of a centimeter.Â
Damianâs strikes begin to slow as the spar stretches on, a clear thread of weariness winding his muscles tighter than they should be. Blood is dripping down his arms and legs freely at this pointâ shallow cuts, nothing to be particularly worried about in any other case.
But then the assassinâs blade cuts into Damianâs hipâ too fast for him to dodge or deflect, too deep to be anything but purposefulâ and his vision becomes a little clearer when his eyes narrow, tracking the trajectory of the blade as it swings past, and up, and back around towards the princeâs throatâ
The knife leaves Jasonâs fingertips and heâs rushing forward with his own katana drawn before his mind fully catches upâ pure instinct slotting his body between the assassinâs and Damianâs.
He deflects the knife out of the air just before it hits his throat, surprise flashing across his features before smoothing back out into something calculating, eyes raking over Jasonâs form, clearly trying to decipher who he is based on appearance alone.
Whatever he finds makes him frown, anger clear in the tight lines around his mouth. âOut of the way. I donât know who you are, but this is a private lesson between me and the Prince.â
The venom he spits the title with makes Jason shift into a ready stance, something dawning on him. Less of a thought, more of a feeling, a gut instinct based on a collection of observations.
The assassin isnât someone Jason is familiar with, and he figures heâs seen most of the assassins that frequent the palace itself. He was ten minutes late for the lesson. He traipsed into the training room without a care in the world, not paying the respect to someone of Damianâs status and blatantly ignoring the reprimand he received for it. He had gone for the blades without hesitation, no preamble, no explanation (however meager) of the lesson, no expectations, nothing. No introduction. Clearly audible footsteps.
But the most damning? His surprise at Jasonâs presence. Him not knowing Jasonâs place here, in this room.
Damian seems to have sensed something wrong as well, because he doesnât stop him. His presence, small as it is, stands quietly behind him.
âI said move. Stand down. This lesson must continue.â
Jason stands his ground, faintly glowing green eyes in the shadows of his hood watching the assassinâs evenly.
The smallest pivot in his stance is the only moment of warning he gets before a blade is cutting through the air and heâs meeting it with a loud clang of his own weaponâ a generic League blade, from what Talia told him when it was given to him.Â
A younger voice behind him makes his head tilt back slightly. âDo not kill him,â Damian orders. Jason only turns fully back to the fight at hand in response, content with the fact that the Prince is safely behind him and out of harmâs way. Based on the lack of continuing words, he knowsâ or at the very least trustsâ that Jason heard him.
The assassin is fast, but clearly he underestimated him, despite Jasonâs huge frame and the fact that he went unnoticed for the entirety of the lesson before he actually made himself known. Heâs able to push forwardâ taking every opportunity to press into the manâs defenses, finding the chinks in the armor and taking advantage of every one of them until heâs riddled with gashes that threaten to spill whatever meager life essence the man may have left onto the padded floor.
After a perfectly executed slice to the tendons on the back of one of his knees, the assassin crumbles to the floor. Jason takes the opportunity to press him into it with his boot on the manâs back, katana blade pressing threateningly into his neckâ a promise of swift death if he dares try anything else despite being disarmed and slowly bleeding out onto the floor around him.
Jason turns his gaze to Damian, who has located pressure bandages from the medical closet housed in the room and wrapped them around the wound on his hip, ignoring the rest of the slashes littering his limbs. He tilts his head at the boyâ partially in concern, partially in question, awaiting his next order.
âBlind him. We will bring him to Mother. Whoever this charlatan may be, he is not League.â
With only a momentâs deliberation, he cleans the blade of his katana off in the crook of his elbow before sheathing it, withdrawing a dagger, and pulls the manâs head back by his hair. Jason casts one last look at the Prince to confirm, who simply nods.
The assassin screams as the dagger is slashed across both his eyes, two swift, clean cuts that leave no room for repair. With another wipe to clean off the daggerâ this time on the manâs clothesâ itâs sheathed and Jason is hauling him up by the scruff of his uniform, following Damian out the door back into the corridors of the palace.Â
Anyone lingering in the halls averts their eyes when they hear them coming, bowing their heads to the Prince as he passes. Jason, as always, follows like heâs the boyâs shadow, though he supposes this time heâs a particularly loud shadow due to the squirming, half sobbing man he drags behind him.
By the time they arrive at the meeting room Talia was due to be in at this time, the nameless man has reduced himself to begging, which had gone completely ignored by Jason, Damian, and anyone else who may be in the vicinity to hear it.
He shuts up quick when Damian pushes open the door and Jason follows in, eyes scanning the room out of habit. When no true threats are detected, he turns his attention to Talia, who stands next to Raâs at the head of a long table where several other assassins are sitting, previously listening intently to whatever they were talking about before the two entered.
âEveryone out,â Talia orders sharply as soon as her eyes land on the squirming man being hauled forward. Swiftly, the League members in the room file out, only whispers of clothing and gentle breezes passing Jason before the door clicks shut quietly behind them.
âWhat is this, hafidi?â Raâs asks gruffly, pinning Damian with his cold stare.Â
âThis man attempted to pose as my instructor,â he reports, body stiff at attention despite the injuries he so clearly displays. âI have reason to believe he is an infiltrator. His goals were⊠unclear. I thought it best to present the matter to you.â
Talia hums, glancing between Damian, Jason, and then the man kneeling on the ground.
âI am inclined to believe this notion, Father. If someone is seeking to infiltrate our ranks and managed to elevate themselves to this station undetected, it could be cause for worry,â she murmurs. Raâs chooses this moment to stand, walking to the man and looking down at him, scrutinizing in his study of him.
âDaughter, begin Alzaliâs information extraction lessons,â Raâs finally orders. Talia nods once, despite being positioned behind her father.Â
With a sweep of his cape, Raâs leaves the room, only a whisper of rustling clothing signifying his departure. Thereâs a moment of silence before Talia moves.
âHabibi, tend to your wounds. Ensure you are not late for your next lesson.â
âOf course, mother.â
âAlzali, follow.â
------------------------
The weeks after Jasonâs first interrogation lesson are back to normal, with the addition of more interrogation (torture) lessons as Talia works on getting to the bottom of who the man was working for and what they want. The whole event had her on edge, but it was only obvious to the ever-observant Jason.
The ever-observant Jason whose mind ran a mile a minute with the new mystery before him, despite the fact that he wasnât supposed to think, let alone theorize.Â
Unfortunately, somewhere deep within his mind he was following the clues he gathered from Talia on instinct, something engrained deep within him from far too long ago. The deepest shadow of the night hovering over his shoulder, teaching him how to find the clues, how to follow them like a bloodhound, and how to nail down your target without a shadow of a doubt to their guilt.
Of course, it wasnât long before the mastermind was foundâ if you can even call them that. A scrawny man from within the massive underground city of âEth Althâeban. From there, it was a simple matter of direction.
âAlzali,â the Demonâs Head barked from his end of a massive table in one of the many war rooms throughout the palace, âYou are to hunt this man down. Bring me his head.â
Jasonâs gaze drifts from Raâs to the screen beside him, analyzing the features of the man and committing them to memory. Heâs middle aged, with streaks of patchy grey starting to peak out from his roots. Heâs a mid-level assassin residing within the city, though in the case of the League of Assassins that means heâs good enough to put up a decent fight. His associate, the one who was actually trying to kill the Prince? The manâs son.
Jason gives one sharp nod, waiting until Raâs waves him off to begin his hunt, walking briskly through the halls andâ
He nearly skids to a stop when spiky black hair catches the corner of his eye, pausing in front of the small prince. Damian looks up at him with crossed arms, a haughty sparkle in his eyes.
âYou are to seek the blood of the assassin who was too cowardly to make an attempt on my life,â the boy states plainly. Jason tilts his head, unwilling to simply walk away from Damian without explicit dismissal but also antsy to get going, knowing his window for catching the man grows shorter with each passing moment.
âTake me with you.â
Despite the mask and his extensive⊠training, Jason canât help but snort at the notion of Damian accompanying him on this mission. The smaller boyâ toddler, reallyâ glowers.
âI did not ask, I am commanding you to bring me along. I have progressed much further than expected with my studies of both book and blade, and I demand you bring me under the command of my mother to further my experience.â
Jason raises an eyebrow, apprehension coiling in his gut. What were the chances Damian is lying? What are the chances heâll receive punishment for not abiding by this command?
He sighs, resigned to his fate. Damian smirks, turning sharply on his heel.
âCome. I will secure my disguise and the hunt shall begin.â
Will we be getting a part 3 to Vocal Chords? I love the 2 parts we have so far so much, and Iâd love to see the aftermath after all of the bats leave the cave.
If the muse ever strikes me, then perhaps. I do still want to finish all the Febuwhump prompts like I said I was going to, but at the moment I'm taking a break from fanfiction writing to focus on my D&D campaign I started with friends. I don't want to burn out on creative stuff so I'm trying to pace myself.
If I had a nickel for every time my favourite character was pronounced dead, buried, and then "came back to life" - I'd have two nickels. Which isn't a lot, but it's weird that it happened twice.
I love the Gotham Knights knighthood abilities because Dick, Barbara, and Tim theyâre all just like âCool, Iâm inspired by Bruceâs tech and can upgrade my abilities with his to become a better fighterâ. Then thereâs Jason who starts smoking and gains the powers of the Lazarus pit.
Before, there was quiet, comforting darkness. The kind that wrapped you up, swaddled you like a baby and made you feel like you were floating in eternal bliss.
It was nice.
It was peace.
It was rest.
And then⊠it faded away.
Something happened. It's a blur, lost to a fractured mind's memory.
But then there's green.
Acidic, toxic, evil, disgusting green.
Green like maniacal, cackling laughter reverberating through a broken bird's skull.
Green like swishing robes and hushed whispers and fear and a twisted perversion of life.
Green like drowning, burning liquid filling his lungs, filling his veins and ripping him apart and stitching him back together and everything is pain and everything is hurt and everything is green green greenâ
The boyâ not a boy anymore, not with how the green, the Pit has rewritten himâ screams a guttural, agonized scream as he claws himself to the surface andâ
And why does that feel so familiar? Choking and drowning and burning and stabbing and hurting and dad it hurts so much, please help me, pleaseâÂ
Hands burning against his skin like acid rip him out of the toxic water, ignoring his thrashing in favor of following orders. Orders he can't hear, not over the blood rushing in his ears, not over his gagging as he throws up that glowing green nectar of hatred and carnage, not over his awkward scrambling for anything of use as he finds his own body to be unfamiliar and foreign to him.
The hands move him around, pushing and pulling and shoving and hitting and hurting. His nerves are alight, the slightest touch feeling like an open flame against his skin. He doesn't know how many there areâ too manyâ that shove his shoulders to the ground and drive a knee into his back, pinning his legs so he can't kick them off while a fistful of his hair is yanked back. More force his mouth open and shove something inside, something harsh and metallic that fits almost perfectly to the backs of his teeth and doesn't quite let him bite down all the way, but close. Enough that he can close his lips and nothing more. Something else, attached to that, pushes down on his tongue, keeping it flat and pinned to the floor of his mouth. Useless.
He rips his head out of the grip holding him there, roaring at everything else that comes even close.
It doesn't deter them. They grab at him again, this time more forcefully, the metal pressing painful lines into the roof and floor of his mouth. Something hooks and slides and snaps into place over his mouth, and briefly, he panics, but it subsides when he finds himself still able to breathe, if with a little more difficulty than before. It's solid, and heavy, and digs into his skin under his jaw and across his nose and cheeks, but only just barely obscures his breathing. Not nearly enough to hinder him in any way, but when he tries to open his mouth he finds itâs plenty to keep him from doing that ever again.
Despite that, he fights. He snarls, he growls, he struggles. Even when his arms are pinned behind him with thick metal shackles, he tries to squirm his way out of the grip of the hands.
Eventually, it works. The handsâ they let go, and he's blissfully aware of the respite it gives his skin, his nerves that feel like a naked live wire.
When they try to return, he lashes out on instinct, in desperation, to get them away from him again. Blinded by the green as he is, he's painfully aware of the warm wetness splashing over his hands and his arms and his face and his chest as he moves from one obstacle to anotherâ just trying to get away, to get safe, to get homeâÂ
When nothing reaches out to touch him he pauses, breaths heaving and irregular and stuttering and raspy. Something within him settles, for now, at least. The green bleeds away andâÂ
His eyes widen at the scene around him. Blood splatters coat the stalagmites and pool under the twelve bodies surrounding him. All the forms are unmoving, crimson coating every surface in sight. The only other color is that wretched green, shining brightly, acidically, despite the gore piled around him like a fucked up ritual circle.
He falls to his knees, uncaring of the way the blood splashes up onto his bare legs and the rough stone digs into his knees. Something stirs and twists within him. It's not guilt. He doesn't feel guilty. It was self defense.
It's⊠he doesn't want to say it's satisfaction. It's not satisfaction. Thisâ he isn't satisfied by this. He doesn't take any pleasure in this. The blood, the gore, the senseless violence of it all, the way it makes his blood burn hotter, brighter, excitement and adrenaline coursing through his veins as the green takes and takes and takesâÂ
âAlzali,â a man's voiceâ smooth and oily, like a snakeâ barks from behind him. He whips his head around, staring up at the man who called him by that nameâ it's wrong, he knows it's wrong, but he doesn't know what's rightâ with narrowed eyes and a growl building in his chest. The woman beside himâ she's younger, but they look similar (and very familiar)â tuts, manicured nails hooking into the underside of the muzzle and pulling up. The metal hooked to the inside of his mouth digs into the back of his teeth and forces him to follow the motion. He is left teetering dangerously on his knees with his hands useless behind his back, the smallest misplacement of weight ready to send him careening so only the metal digging into his teeth holds him up. She produces a chainâ thinner than a traditional one, but no less strongâ that gets hooked into a small gap across the front crease of the muzzle.
âAs I said. The perfect candidate to become the Sword of the Al Ghuls,â the woman murmurs, her voice thick and sweet as honey, but with a bitter, deadly undercurrent that sets his instincts on edge. Her hand that had hooked under the muzzle before now rests heavily in his hair, idly combing through it. He growls, lurching away, but she just pulls the chain attached to the muzzle taut and the metal in his mouth follows the chain, dragging him back to her side so she can rest her hand in his hair a little more firmly this time. âSome training will be required, but that was predicted.â
âSee to it that it happens swiftly,â the older man replies, glaring through bright green eyes at him. He levels the man with his own heated glare, not backing down until there's the cold press of razor-sharp metal against his throat. âYou would do well to respect your betters. Always remember that you exist at my sufferance. You are a weapon, a Sword, who answers to the Demons alone and will serve only to be used by the Demons alone. You exist to kill, and nothing more.â
When he responds with nothing more than his defiant, continued glare, the woman tugs sharply on the chain with another tut of disappointment. âHe shall spend his time in the Cage for the foreseeable future.â
âBegin its training following that. I expect results by the year's end,â the man hisses, sheathing his katana and turning with only the whisper-quiet swish of his cape signaling his departure.
The woman watches as he leaves, then tugs sharply on the chain again. âAlzaliââ she snaps, only waiting a mere few moments for him to begrudgingly scramble to his feet before he's tugged along by the muzzle.
She keeps the âleashâ short as he's led through the compound. Memories flitter about in the dark haze that is his mind, and somewhere along the way, whether he remembers it or simply puts the context clues together, or some combination of the two, he deduces that this is the League of Assassins. Or Shadows, depending on who you ask. The man from before was Ra's Al Ghul, the leader of the League. The woman currently leading him to who fucking knows where? Talia Al Ghul, Ra'sâ daughter. Both master assassins, incredibly dangerous, and people he really does not want to be in this position with.
Alas, it seems that even with his new lease on life he was still dealt a shit hand.Â
------------------------
Through the winding, nearly identical passageways of the Nanda Parbat, it's not long before he's all sorts of turned around and confused. Not that he can turn his head to take in any potential details, with the chain keeping his head pointed forward.
Talia stops before a large, plain door, at least compared to all the others. When she leads him inside, he's surprised to see it open into a wider arena. Not the actual floor of the arena, but instead to the outer stands of it. It's not big, could maybe hold between a hundred and two hundred people in the stands. Despite the size, it's not nearly full.
Figures clad in dark robes line the stands, heads snapping to stare at him. Calculating, assessing, predatory eyes, from every angle, from every side. He can feel them tracing over his every step and movement, noting every imperfection, cataloging every weakness.
He has a lot of those. He knows. Because with every step, he nearly stumbles. His weight is all off. His balance, as a result, is fucked. He can't even imagine what it might look like, might feel like, to go through any more complicated motions that used to be muscle memory, because his skin itches and pulls and it's not right, it's not fucking right.
Talia stops him on the edge of the sunken arena, unclipping the chain off the muzzle and letting the shackles clatter to the dusty ground behind him.
He only gets a glimpse of everything around him before Talia shoves him over the ledge and he falls the ten or so feet down into the sand-floored arena.
He manages to catch himself before he completely crashes into the sand, and it's a good fucking thing too because not even two seconds later there's someone on top of him with something bright and sharp and dangerous and the green flares up in response. He's suddenly aware of everything and nothingâ the gloved hands grabbing him, punching him, beating him, his desperate and clumsy struggle to fight back, the inferno rushing through his veins that tints everything that horrible, awful green, making the roar of blood in his ears sound like that evil, haunting cacklingâ but not the silence of the crowd, not the scuffling of feet against the sand, not his own gasps of pain when the dagger or sword or whatever rips into his body ruthlessly, mercilessly. If he thought his body was strung like a fucking live wire before it's nothing compared to now, and he screams, he knows he screams, but he doesn't hear it, not over the cackling, not over the feeling of his flesh fucking meltingâ or at least what feels like itâ and certainly not over that shrill, ear-piercing whistle that manages to break through everything else. It's sharp as the katana that nearly sliced open his throat earlier, an unspoken command he doesn't know the meaning of, can't quite place the intent.
He throws the body off him, snarling and using the wall to help him find his balance.
That whistle fucking burrows into his brain, ringing in his ears.
The green flares from an inferno to an erupting volcano, and everything elseâŠ
Disappears.
------------------------
Everything becomes a haze of green.
His life becomes a cycle of pain, a desperate struggle to fight off every attacker that comes for him, then choking (usually, sometimes it's just his restructured bones cracking and grinding together until unconsciousness takes him if heâs not choking on his own blood from his throat being slit), then drowning, then everything hurting way too fucking much, and then it repeats.
Over.
And over.
And over.
And over.
Until he doesn't know how many times it's been that he's died and been forcefully sewn back together with fiery green threads.
Until he doesn't know how long it's been since the first time he learned to breathe again, and that godawful muzzle was fitted onto him, and he was called âAlzaliâ for the first time.
Until the last time he drank anything other than the venomous green he drowned in and the blood he after choked on is nothing but a distant memory.
Until he doesn't even remember what anything tasted like in his mouth besides the metal hooked behind his teeth to keep the muzzle in place, and the grains of sand that made it in through the little gaps.
Until rest and respite were just two distant words with no meaning, no hope to them, because even in unconsciousness he never got the rest, and in death he would always be ripped from it back into the cold.
Heâs learning to expect it.
------------------------
Somewhere along the way, he stopped needing to be thrown in the Pit as often as he used to.
And when that happened, somehow it all got worse.
When he used to be brought to the Cage to be pitted against the League's members, he was now brought there for formal training to refine his skills. Of course, that was just a glorified way to say he was still being beaten within an inch of his life, just, now he couldn't kill the person doing it to him.
Not for lack of trying.
With the beginning of every match, he would start on the defensive. Talia would watch on impassively until he was unable to get up, and throw him into the little two-by-four foot cell she liked to shove him in to recuperate. When the injuries were bad enough, he was tossed right back in the Pit, then the cell. When they weren't, the residual healing effects would take care of it in the three or so days at a time he'd spend curled up in the silent, suffocating darkness.
After long enough of only minimal improvement, it became clear that even with them forcing him to fight, he would have no motivation if all he knew was pain and suffering.
So one day, after god knows how long of him being locked up in that cramped, suffocating cell, Talia came to let him out. Instead of leading him back to the Cage, however, she led him to another cell that was devoid of anything resembling a room besides the fact that it was big enough to let him spread out at least twice over, and contained a small mat in the corner. He was tossed in, but that didnât stop his exhausted gaze from turning confused and suspicious at the sight of the space, the small bottle of water, and small thermos of⊠something, on the ground.
âDrink. You will have six hours here. When your skills improve, you will be brought back here instead of the cell.â Talia tugs him closer before fiddling with something on the front of the muzzle, and, amazingly, takes it off. The metal bit remains in his mouth, but just the feeling of the air on the lower half of his face is more of a balm then he ever wouldâve thought it would be. âYou will be rewarded for your learning and cooperation, and punished for your continued resistance. There is always more that can be done. Remember that.â
With that, she takes the muzzle and leaves, locking the cell door behind her.
He wastes no time following the direction, stretching himself out and finally getting some actual food and water in his system, enjoying the six hours of peace heâs been given.
------------------------
After that first reward, it became very apparent to him that he didnât actually have a choice in improving.
Because every time he even seemingly disobeyed, every time he hesitated to snap to attention at Taliaâs sharp command from the stands of the Cage, or when he glared at her for calling him to her side, there was a punishment. Not right away, of course, or at least, not the big ones. A short reprimand, a single tug to the muzzle or a knee to the gut was the immediate punishment. The big punishment was at the end of the day, when the tally was counted.
Those punishments were worse than the beatings heâd receive in training. They usually consisted of lashes, where he would be forced to his knees with his wrists chained to a post in front of him. Talia wouldnât do the punishments herself, just watch impassively off to the side. Sometimes she just stood there with crossed arms, sometimes she would sip a cup of tea, sometimes she would simply be doing paperwork or making calls for whatever work she did for the League.
Suffice to say, he started learning.
But the muzzle never came off again, only replaced by a new one with space between the metal for a straw to drink the water and broth provided to him.
------------------------
The first time, he was desperate. It was after a punishment, a whipping of thirty lashes. He was already unchained from the post, crumpled in a heap on the rough ground. Blood leaked from the wounds, old and new, on his back. His body was a mess of blood, sweat, searing pain, and barely held in tears. Talia stopped in front of him, arms crossed and looking down at him.
âAlzali,â she ordered tersely, intense, emerald-green gaze trained on his form. The order is the final test for the day. After every punishment, sheâd call him to her side with that name, that command. If he failed to heed it, another five lashes were administered and his wounds were dressed, but only with the bare minimum effort and materials, and then he was thrown back in that cramped cell that makes him nearly freeze up with the thought of being shoved in there again.
He breathes out a slow, measured breath, limbs shaking as he tentatively unfolds himself and forces his aching, burning muscles into some mockery of a kneeling position heâs seen the other assassins doing. His form is not nearly as rigid as it should be, heâs half curled over and using his hands to support himself from falling over, but his head is bowed and no reprimand comes.
He holds himself tense and still as he can be as shifting weight steps lightly out of the room, until itâs just him and Talia. Him, kneeled and bowed in a pool of his own blood that still drips off his back. Talia, who watches him with the smallest, triumphant smile. Itâs barely anything, only people who really know her would even be able to see it.
He certainly doesnât.
âCome, Alzali,â Talia orders, almost⊠softly. Itâs not actually soft, but itâs as close to it as heâs heard from her in the months of him being here.
Itâs slow, and agonizing, but he manages to push himself to his feet before her. He towers over her, despite his hunched form and trembling body. Despite this he does it without a sound, long since having any sort of sound-making beat out of him, whether it be in pain, anger, or god forbid, defiance.
Talia turns with an approving nod, letting the chain hang limply between them as she leads him back into the Nanda Parbatâs corridors. It acts more as a guide and a threat these days than a leash. A constant reminder that he canât run, even if no one is actively pulling on it, tugging him forward with it.Â
That night (he presumes) heâs brought to the more spacious cell he was brought to for that first reward. Thereâs no water and no food, but thereâs enough space for him to stretch himself out and thatâs good enough, in his book.Â
------------------------
The second memorable time was during a regular morning of Talia coming to retrieve him for training. He had been allowed to stay in the bigger room that night, had even been allowed some water and proper dressing of his wounds for snapping to attention any time Talia called for him. He still got a punishment for all his other mistakes, but it was only twelve lashes and the treatment afterwards made up for it. He was improving, according to Talia.
She unlocked the cell door and stepped in, where he was already waiting on his knees with his head bowed and hands folded in his lap. She hums approvingly, as she always does whenever she finds him like this. It makes him relax, just a touch, to know sheâs happy with him.
Sheâs just tipped his chin up to clip the chain onto the muzzle when a soft ringing interrupts the near silence. Talia straightens, pulling her phone from her pocket. She glances between the device and him, his gaze impassive as he waits.
âStay here,â Talia mutters, lifting the phone to her ear and taking the chain with her as she leaves.
He watches her leave, lowering his head to look straight ahead rather than up. Her voice echoes from the hallway outside his room, slowly becoming quieter, as if sheâs walking further away. His gaze lingers on the cell door, left wide open. His fingers twitch as he stares at it.
This is the first time heâs been left alone with an open door.Â
A means of escape.
No one in sight, or even nearby, if he had to bet. No one came down here very often, other than Talia and himself.
He could⊠he could run.
He could escape.
He could try.
Would he succeed?
He probably wouldnât succeed.
A compound of assassins, one he doesnât even know the layout of? Why is he even slightly entertaining that stupid idea?
Plus, when he would inevitably be caught, he would be put through so much worse than he goes through right now. It would be like the beginning, whenever that was. Worse.
It feels like a lifetime ago.
It feels like just a few days ago.
It doesnât matter. None of it matters.
Talia told him to stay here.
If he stays here, he doesnât have to go back to that cramped cell. He doesnât have to be thrown back in the Pit.
So he stays.
He doesnât know how long he stays there. By the way his knees and back begin to ache, he guesses at least an hour or two.
When he finally hears footsteps again, his body reflexively straightens and tenses. He watches the doorway with sharp eyes, narrowing them when he sees more than one shadow on the ground.
Talia rounds the corner, that pleased pull to the corner of her lips reassuring him, his gaze turning less intense in response. Following her is the flowing form of Raâs Al Ghul, dark green cape swishing dramatically as he enters the small cell. His face remains impassive and calculating, even once his gaze lands on him, but heâs able to detect the brief sparkle of genuine surprise before itâs gone.
âAs I said before,â Talia indicates matter-of-factly, stopping beside him in a scene that gives him deja vu, âhe has improved immensely. It is only a matter of time before he is ready.â
Raâs hums flatly. âAnd when shall that be, daughter? I grow weary of its reluctant progress.â
âSoon,â she assures him. âSince the first time, the time it takes for him to learn has shortened dramatically.â
âI wanted results by the yearâs end,â Raâs hisses, and he tenses in response, more of a reflex than anything else.Â
Talia motions for him to stay, before stepping forward. âIt has not yet reached the end of the year, and these are results. This is not an endeavor that can be completed effectively within a single year, father.â
âFine. Then we shall test its combat prowess,â Raâs huffs, turning his attention back to him before barking a sharp âAlzali!â
He goes to move before glancing at Talia, who gives him a minute nod. With the affirmation of Raâs being someone to obey, he stands, averting his eyes down in an effort to avoid Raâsâ gaze with the hope heâll take it as a show of respect and submission.
Raâs just turns and walks out of the room, him falling just two steps behind the father and daughter. Close enough to shadow them, far enough that they retain their space and can move freely as if he isnât even there.
They bring him back to the Cage, where the stands are once more lined with assassins eager to fight in the ring. Having been through this plenty of times, he waits for Talia to direct him to the edge of the wall before hopping down. Her and Raâs take their seats, and Raâs motions for them to begin.
------------------------
The third time, arguably the most important time, was during a training session.
He was just doing his normal sparring session with the assassin who was teaching him bladework. Katanas and daggers for the most part, but he was being trained to use almost any weapon containing a blade. It was going well. He learned every move the assassin had to teach him, and was holding his own in the sparring match.
That being said, when the assassin retreated once more after knocking him to the ground again, he was reminded of his inexperience despite the training having been happening for the past months.
He brandishes his knivesâ a kris and a karambitâ dropping into a ready position across from the assassin, whoâs leveling their katana at him steadily.
The assassin rushes at him, sweeping the long blade across the air at him. Itâs easy to dodgeâ but the following strike twisted towards his abdomen isnât.
Despite this he flips over it, movement flowing smoothly into a swipe at the assassinâs neck. They lean back just a hairâs breadth out of the way before the katana is coming up at him from below. He blocks with the krisâ swings out a legâ wrenches the blade out of the assassinâs grip in the same movementâ
A shrill, ear-piercing whistle splits the air. His eyes narrow on his opponent.
In the half second after his foot hits the ground heâs already pivoting into a bent knee. His kris dagger acts as a bladed shield against the kick aimed at his head while his karambit digs into the assassinâs thighâ then drags up up upâ right through the assassinâs abdomenâ through their ribsâ their chestâ up to their shoulderâ before slashing a ravine all the way across their neck. Warm blood sprays across his face, drenching most of the front of his robes.
He stares wide eyed as the body crumples to a pile of blood and gore on the sandy ground. His hands shake, still gripped around the two knives, both slick with the assassinâs blood.
He didnât want to kill the assassin.
He didnât mean to kill the assassin.
âGood job,â Talia praises from behind him. He doesnât turn to look at her, gaze trained on the dead body. âYou listened well. A special reward is in order. We shall get you cleaned up, then you may enjoy your reward. Come, Alzali.â
Thereâs only a moment of his gaze lingering before heâs dutifully following Talia out of the Cage. He feels kind of⊠numb? Or maybe blank is the right word for the spread of emptiness that stems from his chest out to the tips of his limbs, head thick with a cavernous empty space where he thinks his thoughts should be. Itâs not like he hasnât killed before, but every time he has, itâs been out of desperation or when he wasnât in control of himself because of the Pit. That wasâ that wasnât either of those. He was laser focused. Nothing was different. So whyâŠ?
Talia leads him to a different room than his. Itâs huge, at least compared to what heâs used to. Everything looks expensive as hell. There are two beds, which strikes him as odd, but he dismisses it when Talia directs him to the washroom, where heâs told to clean up. Usually she doesnât particularly care how dirty he is after a training session, since he always gets washed up after his wounds have been treated (as long as heâs been good) so he doesnât fully understand why sheâd be telling him to do it now.
Regardless, he listens. He gets changed into different clothes than the ones heâs been wearing his whole time at the League. They feel like a higher quality, and are softer. Quieter when he moves. Brand new, and fitted perfectly to his bulky frame. Theyâre darker than the other ones, all blacks and greys with red accents. Thereâs a hood that shrouds most of his face in shadow, though he doesnât flip it up right now.Â
When he returns, Talia motions for him to sit on the floor behind where she stands, her back to him. He folds his legs underneath him, kneeling and waiting obediently.
âMy father believes you would be best as an unthinking, unfeeling object to be ordered around at his discretion,â Talia muses, swaying slightly. âDespite this, I believe you to be your strongest when you care.â
He furrows his brow in confusion. Talia seems to sense it, despite not facing him.
âI do not believe, even with all we could do, that your emotions could be removed. It is your blessing and your curse. Therefore, you will utilize them.â She turns, but he hardly notices her because his gaze is locked on the toddler in her arms, looking down at him with narrowed eyes. Theyâre the same shade as Taliaâsâ that vibrant, soul-piercing emerald greenâ but their shape is different, akin to his fatherâs presumably, and so, so familiar. âDamian, this is your brother, Jason. Jason, you are the Sword of the Al Ghuls. You will answer to Damian, and you will protect him with your life and more. He is your priority in every situation, no matter what my father may say.â
Heâ Jasonâ Jason nods, watching the boy with wide eyes. She sets him down, and Damian approaches him, studying him intently. His gaze lingers on the muzzle with something like confusion, but he doesnât comment, only turning back to his mother.
âI thought I was the only blood son,â Damian questions.
âYou are, habibi. Jason was taken in by your father, but due to his mistakes, was lost to him. Now, he is here to serve us.â
âThe Sword of the Al Ghuls,â Damian murmurs, turning back to address Jason. âAnd he is adequate in battle?â
âHe would not be the Sword if he was not,â Talia responds easily. Damian nods.
âFine, if we must have him.â
Jason watches him leave, then turns back to Talia, who watches him with a knowing gaze. They stay like that, before she nods.
âCome, Alzali. I have business to attend to. You will accompany me.â
He nods, standing and following silently behind her. Memories, hazy at best, swirl through his mind for the rest of the day while he stands by Talia, a silent shadow while she works. Nothing really sticks in his mind, but he knows one thing. One thing that sticks through it all.
The voice in your head telling you the dog-motif is overdone is wrong. Do not listen to it. Give them a muzzle. Give them a choker or a collar. Chain them to a fence. Give them sharp canines. Give them pavlovian responses. Give them puppy dog eyes. Put them in a cage. Give them themes of obedience, loyalty and love intertwined unhealthy. Give them attachment issues. Make them bite. Give them themes of taming, domestication and ferality. Give them actual, literal, rabies. Kick them while they're down. Microchip them. Scratch their hair behind their ear. Call them a good boy/good girl/etc. and watch them perk up in response. Put them in a shock collar. Give them a metaphorical treat to reward good behaviour. Make them beg for scrapes of affection.
When Alice had been taken, she'd been angry and scared.
Angry, because she'd been stupid enough to get grabbed off the streets of Crime Alley.
Scared, because despite the work Rojo had been doing for years, she could never shake off those trust issues burned into her bones by living on the streets, and she didn't know if he would find her. Scared, because if he didn't find her fast enough, she knew she'd never be able to come back.
Scared, because despite being only nine years old, she was the oldest kid locked in this warehouse, from what she could tell. Which meant she had to be the strong one, protect the others.
It's what Rojo would do.Â
So that's what she did.
Even with the ropes burning her wrists with the tightness, even with the shitty bundle of cloth shoved in her mouth and kept there with a haphazardly slapped on piece of duct tape, she kept the others calm. She let the younger ones cuddle up to her, too sympathetic of their too-skinny, shivering forms to do anything else.
It took an hour, she thinks. Maybe two.
When the first man standing along the edges of the warehouse disappeared into the darkness, she smiles and motions for all the kids to close their eyes. Rojo always told them if they got in a situation like this, that once he got there, to close their eyes.Â
She knew why he always told them that. She's not stupid, and she's not naive, either.
Which is the reason why she keeps her eyes open, and the reason she herds everyone into the furthest corner of the cage they're all in when the guys keeping them there get distracted by seeing their friends get picked off one by one, seemingly by a shadow.
A few gunshots later she sees Rojo jump down from the rafters, a whirl of red and black so fast she can barely make out what he's doing before all the guys are quiet on the ground.
Then he's picking the lock of the cage open, Alice being the first to approach him with a pointed glance down at the gag. A little buzzing, staticky sound comes through his helmet, a sound she's familiar enough with by now to know it's a disbelieving chuckle.
âAre any of you hurt?â He asks first, head tilting towards the others to glance over them before returning his gaze to Alice's.
âJust some cuts, scrapes, malnourishment, and dehydration,â Alice responds. She rubs her wrists after he cuts the rope off, then moves to help the others up. âYou can open your eyes now, it's okay, we're safe.â
âRojo!â One of the kids exclaims, a five year old if Alice had to guess. He runs over to the crimelord-slash-vigilante, beaming brightly. âYou came!â
âOf course I did, Alex. Promised I would. Sorry I took so long.â Rojo helps the rest of the kids out, getting their varied restraints off as he goes. âYou all have safe places to go?â
A vague chorus of affirmatives meets his question, accompanied by a few negatives. The vigilante nods, turning to Alice.
âCan you take the little ones to the safehouse? I'll make sure they get home once I've wrapped this up.â
âYou got it, boss.â Alice salutes seriously, sticking her tongue out at him when he ruffles her hair in response.
He watches the warehouse door while Alice gathers everyone up, and walks with them out the back way. As soon as Alice turns around to guide the younger ones, he disappears from view. She knows better than to think he isn't continuing to watch them, make sure they get out of the area safely, but even in spite of that she still tries to find him in the shadows of the building.Â
She's unsuccessful.
Turning away, she resigns herself to seeing some of the kids off and taking the ones who don't have a safe place to go to the closest of Rojo's shared safehouses, which are actually just apartments he's in charge of that he keeps stocked for kids that need a temporary place to stay. It's a long walk, but not too long. It takes them thirty minutes at a brisk walk to get there.
Alice gets the younger children settled in, fed, and hydrated, before resigning herself to staying up to keep watch while they sleep.Â
Thirty minutes pass.
Then forty-five.
Then an hour.
Alice's gut twists into something like dread when there's still no sign of Rojo's appearance. Dealing with the bad guys at the warehouse shouldn't be taking nearly this long.
She glances between the room housing the three small children and the window.
She hesitates.
She lifts the window glass as gently as possible before speed-walking back to the warehouse, switchblade clutched in her hand. Just in case.
A dark van comes driving around the corner and Alice leaps behind the closest hiding spot, holding her breath and flicking the blade out. The van meanders past, not slow enough to be looking for victims, just a little faster than the average car would be driving.Â
But it came from the direction of the warehouse.
Something niggles in the back of her mind, telling her this is important. As soon as the van passes her, she peeks over the edge of the dumpster to get a glimpse of the license plate. In the darkness she can make out the first couple symbols, but the shadows make it impossible to see the rest.
Repeating the letters over in her head like a mantra, she decides to forego subtlety and sprint the rest of the way to the warehouse once the van is out of sight.Â
When she gets there it's quiet. Silent. It crawls across her skin, but she steels herself, readies her blade, and pushes carefully through the back door into the warehouse.
Contrary to when Alice left, it's barren. The cage is still there, but the bodies Rojo left behind are gone, not even the drops and small pools of blood that should still be here from the fight before are left. It's like the whole place was wiped clean and nothing ever happened.
Even the cage is pushed back further into the shadows of the random crates, shitty tarps left half draped over them.
âRojo? You here?â Alice calls out tentatively, looking around slowly. Only her own echoing voice answers her, before fizzling out.
Again, quiet. Way too quiet. Empty-quiet.
Walking forward slowly, she sticks near the edges of the crates lining the walls as she scans the rest of the room for anything.
The clatter of something sliding against concrete makes Alice flinch in surprise, whirling around towards the source of the noise. Her breathing is heavy with anticipationâ eyes wide as she searches for the sound.
She freezes when she sees the gun on the ground. It wasn't there before. Slowly, the blade lowers as she takes it in. It's big, and dark, with slightly glowing red accents and details on it. Special attachments are fitted to it. When she gently picks it up and flicks the safety back on, it's a lot heavier than it looks.Â
This is a very specific gun Alice has only ever seen one person wield.
This is Rojo's gun.
He isn't here.
She (safely) clutches the gun to her chest, running out the door to see the tire tracks in the slightly muddy front road.
Something went wrong.
They took him.
And she's the only one who knows.
------------------------
Dick groans dramatically as Tim continues rambling over the comm line in his ear, swerving around a car going too slow for his taste.
âBaby bird, I don't need you to re-explain the reason I shouldn't just eat sugary cereal for breakfast. I am aware of the nutrient factors and whatever and I've decided that I deserve that treat in my life,â Dick argues cheerily, a grin plastered across his face. He can hear Tim's exasperated eye roll, despite the fact that it's silent. It's about vibes.
âOkay, but you shouldn't also have it for dinner,â Tim sighs tiredly, like he's had this argument several times before. That's because he has. Dick doesn't know why he keeps trying.
âMaybe you just need a little more joy and whimsy in your life.â Dick shrugs, working the stray strand of hair stuck on the edge of his domino out of it. Tim mocks him in the very little-brotherly way he picked up from Jason as they speed down the main border street next to the Bowery, heading towards Crime Alley and then Bristol.
âWhatever. When you keel over because you've had too much sugar, don't come crying to meâ fUCKING CHRISTââ
Both vigilantes startle when a kid runs out of the Alley and into the street just ahead of themâ tires skidding loudly on the asphalt as they have to swerve opposite ways to miss her, just barely not crashing their bikes.
Dick breathes out a heavy sigh, before hopping off his bike to face the kid. âHey, that's pretty dangerous, maybe look both ways before youââ
âYou have to help him!â The girl cries, running up to Dick with wide, scared eyes. She's heaving for breath and keeping something tucked close to her chest, hidden under her jacket. He crouches down to her level just as Tim jogs over, looking a little wary and confused.
âHelp who?â Dick rests his elbows on his knees, looking up at theâ she's gotta be less than ten years oldâ girl. She unfurls her jacket and hands him something metal and heavy and handle firstâ a gun. A very recognizable gun.
âRojo saved us and then he didn't come back,â she explains, wiping her eyes with her sleeve furiously as she tries to catch her breath. âThey took himâ thereâ there was a van leaving the warehouse. When he didn't come back I went to look for him because he always makes sure everyone gets home and it had been too long andââ
âHey, hey, easy, we'll find him,â Dick assures her, ignoring the spike of anxiety in his stomach in favor of handing the custom black and red Jericho 941 off to Tim, who's speaking lowly into his comm. âCan you show me which warehouse it was?â
------------------------
When Dick and Tim get there to investigate, it's both worrying and disappointing. Between the distinct lack of evidence, the partial plate they were able to get from Alice before sending her to Jason's community safehouse, and the lack of cameras in Crime Alley that make tracking the van impossible, it wasn't looking good.
Oracle managed to remotely activate the tracker on his helmet, but it was just a decoy location that served to throw the Bats off the tail. All they found was his mask and domino, in perfect condition, sitting on a table in a nondescript basement under a shady looking store that was probably a front for money laundering. No note, no ransom, nothing. They just took him and left without a trace.
That fact only made Dick's anxiety about the whole situation worse.
It took hours before they found anything. They had to resort to locating all of Jason's known enemies, then figure out which ones had the means to pull this off, then deduce who would actually have the balls to try it.Â
His list of enemies is long.
Thankfully, most are dead or out of commission, making the process of going down the list a whole lot quicker. Between everyone who had access to anything, they were able to narrow down the list to a few handfuls of people.
That being said, all of them either couldn't have done it or wouldn't have done it.
Which, again, leaves them with nothing.
And then Tim had recognized one of the mob names from a case he was working on after Jason had supposedly dismantled them. Looking further into it, it seemed he only killed the leader before having to get out before finishing the job, for whatever reason. A quick call to Talia tells them that it went down during the time he had been on the run from the League, and that the mob was under Ra'sâ control at the time. After that, the mob, located in Russia, had gone dark. Intel said the main compound was blown to smithereens and not a soul survived it.
She also informed them of the nature of many of the members of this mob. It was possible one of the membersâ meta abilities had led them to survive.
After that, they took to investigating each known member of the mob that had been there, narrowed it down to the metas, and then scoured every source of intel they had for those names and faces.
Thankfully, it wasn't too long of a list, and they managed to get a couple hits. None had been spotted anywhere near Gotham in recent time, but there was one who hadn't been spotted anywhere in the past couple weeks.
Following the money trail from him was done easily enough, and then they were able to find the transport Jason had been taken in.Â
It was at this point Dick and Tim headed back out in the vaguely same direction the mobsters were going while Babs combed through what footage she could find to track them down.
Eventually, they found the location. In a grand total of six and a half hours, give or take, they finally found Jason.
Hopefully.
There were no guards posted outside the derelict house, but that really doesn't mean anything, besides the fact that they have some vague amount of intellect. They circle around to the back, starting on the second floor.Â
Sneaking through the window proves to be the best plan when they're able to soundlessly take out the few armed guards up there. Immediately they notice the unnatural cold that persists within the building, chilling them to the bone despite the very-much-not-winter-weather outside.
Within the next minutes, the brothers are systematically taking out each goon one by one.Â
At least, until they get to the hallway to the basement.Â
It's heavily guarded, five different men standing outside it. They all carry weapons, though some have been flying carelessly to the side. Blunt weapons with little splashes of blood, from what Dick can tell through the night vision of his domino lenses.Â
Silently, he gives Tim a countdown before rolling a smoke pellet into the room and flinging himself in as soon as it goes off. The smaller vigilante is right behind, covering Dick's back while he flips and sounds between the men in the cramped space. He doesn't even bother trying to spare them the trip to the hospital, not when his little brother's life is on the line.
As soon as they're all knocked out cold, Dick throws the basement door open, rushes down the stairs, and throws the (much more expensive and way heavier) second door open as well.Â
He freezes, eyes widening and blood running cold while he tries to take in the scene in front of him.
Immediately, his eyes lock on Jason.Â
Jason, whoâs hanging from his wrists, blood cascading down his arms from whatever wounds are beneath the cuffs.
Jason, whoâs trembling and shaking erratically and involuntarily, broken little sounds heâd never make in a million years slipping between his lips.
Jason, whoâs been stripped of everything except his pants, whoâs injuries are on clear display to anyone that so much as glances at him, blood pooling around his feet.
Jason, whoâs covered in so many scratches that are closer to gouges that ooze blood in steady streams, marks that lead to the burned in handprints and fucking bite marks across his waist, his chest, his arms, his shoulders, his fucking neckâ
The man holding Jasonâ his brother, his fucking little brotherâ is barely a blur of a figure behind his little brother. Dick doesnât see, doesnât process anything past the sight of Jasonâs twitching and squirming, his own body fighting him as little orange sparks of electricity dance over the surface of his skin. Theyâre barely visible, but Dick can still make them out, make out the little involuntary flinches when one of the bolts touches a hidden injury under his skin.Â
At some point, Tim pushes into the room behind him. The guy who has Jason shifts his grip from his hipsâ a placement that makes Dickâs skin crawl and his rage spike, hands shaking with the effort of holding himself backâ to grabbing Jasonâs hair and yanking his head back, holding a wicked-looking knife to his throat. Tim falters, and Dick can feel the way he glances at him for help but all Dick sees is the arc of electricity get biggerâ strongerâÂ
And then Jason criesâ sobs, his voice hoarse and broken and in so, so much agony.
Dickâs will, his fraying thread of self restraint in the delicate situation, snaps.
In the next moment heâs flying across the room, ripping the knife out of the manâs hand and stabbing it through his wristâ the one holding Jason back by his hair. He screams, or, at least, Dick thinks he does. He doesnât really know.
Not when his fists are pummelling into the guyâs face, his ribs, anywhere he can hit to cause damage, to cause pain.
Not when he can feel those phantom hands tracing over his own body, an all-too vivid memory of rain pattering against his face.
Not when the guy is unconscious on the ground and Dick keeps going, because his rage burns hot and fiery in his veins and he canât seem to actually see the face below him.
Not when he can hear her words echoing in his ears, panic and disgust twisting painfully in his stomach as his own body is helpless to push her off, to push her away, to do anything to stop it, to get awayâ
ââing! Hold him up, I need to get the shackles off.â
Dick blinks and he can finally see the mess of the man below him, barely breathing. He blinks again, turning his gaze up to Tim, whoâs holding his shoulders and meeting his gaze with a strange, panicked and worried intensity he never lets show in the field unless someone is gravely injured. He points back to Jason with his words, whoâs gone completely limp despite the clear pain it causes him. His first little brother breathes out a slow, stuttered, despaired keen, muscles twitching under his skin as if he wants to reach out towards them. His shakingâ shivering, ratherâ is so violent and painful it makes Dick choke out a sound somewhere between a gasp and a sob, scrambling away from the body to get to Jason.
Quick fingers take care of the blindfold, but all it reveals is tear-streaked closed eyes, squeezed so tight it has to be in reflex to the pain. Then heâs carefully, gently embracing and lifting him, mindful of the injuries he can see and feel beneath Jasonâs skin. He flinches despite it, another whimper accompanying the action. Dick can feel his breathingâ already fluttery, erratic, and painful just to listen toâ speed up dramatically, but Dick just shushes him calmly, combing his fingers through his little brotherâs hair as Jason coughs weakly.
âShh, shh, Iâve got you, weâve got you, little wing, itâs okay, youâre gonna be okay, youâre safe now,â Dick murmurs, trying to keep his anger and panic and worry out of his voice in some attempt to be comforting. Heâs usually so much better at this, having been doing it since he was nine years old and working the streets as Robin, but when it comes to familyâŠ
A few tense moments pass while Tim works diligently on the best way to get the cuffs off before Jason weaklyâ so weaklyâ tucks his face into the crook of Dickâs neck with a shuddering breath thick with tears he doesnât have the strength to shed. He smooths his free hand through Jasonâs hair, smoothing the sweat-soaked locks out of his face.
âFucking piece of shit put fucking prongs in these cuffs just to torture him a little moreâ I swear to god if he isnât already dead he fucking will beââ
Dick glances up at Tim with a pointed look, the boy just giving him a deadpan stare in response once he notices Dickâs look.
âIâm not calling an ambulance for him. I donât care about Bâs rule,â Tim snaps quietly, mindful of how his volume makes Jason react. Dick raises an eyebrow, but doesnât say anything in response. He watches Tim as he unlocks the first cuff, noticing the high-strung tension in his body, the slightly jerky movements that are usually fluid and smooth, the way his brow is furrowed in concentration when heâs trying to focus on one thought instead of the unwanted ones trying to flying through his head.
Why does it seem like this is personal for him? Past it just being their family.
Personal in the same way itâs personal for Dick.
He subconsciously tightens his grip on Jason when the idea crosses his mind, gut twisting. Surely Tim wasnâtâ?
No.Â
Right?
But then, Tim was never one to share with them, especially in a family as emotionally repressed as this one, where it always seemed weakness wasnât an option (thanks for that mentality, B). Itâs possible he couldâve just not told them⊠god knows Dick doesnât, hasnât.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Dick startles out of his train of thought when Jasonâs second wrist is released and he sags bonelessly into his chest, briefly tensing, twitching and spasming, before going limp again. Dick nods to Tim to help him carry Jason up the stairs, which is done quickly and gently as possible. Thereâs no furniture Dick wants to touch with a ten foot pole, so they just lay Jason down on the ground, head pillowed by Dickâs legs from where heâs sitting leaned against the wall with his legs bent.
He checks Jasonâs pulse and breathing, both fast and fluttery, but not in dangerous levels. Tim gets started on wrapping his wrists, while Dick returns to threading his fingers through Jasonâs hair in that way heâs never said he enjoys, but everyone knows he does.
âHey, hey, open your eyes, Jay. Come on, stay with me here,â he pleads quietly, hoping to keep him from falling asleep just yet.
Slowly, bright teal eyes blink blearily open, finding Dickâs face immediately. He breathes out a sigh of relief, smiling down at him. Jasonâs gaze flicks over to Tim, who meets his eyes for a few moments before nodding to himself and returning to wrapping Jasonâs wounds.
Briefly, Dick panics when his eyes slide shut and his head lolls listlessly into Dickâs abdomen, but itâs washed away when he recognizes the slower breathing pattern of sleep. No surprise heâs exhausted, after what he went through.
Tim tends to the worst of his injuries while Dick holds him, keeping him warm in the cold house. Not too much longer later, the Batmobile arrives and the two of them get Jason loaded in.
Heâs in and out for the whole ride back, drifting between barely awake and fully asleep.
Back in the medbay of the Batcave, both Dick and Tim help Alfred get Jason changed and help dress his injuries.
He just barely manages to keep the bile in his stomach when heâs forced to actually dress the handprints and the bite marks.
By the look on Timâs face the whole time, he guesses heâs having the same struggle.
------------------------
Consciousness comes back to Jason in broken, foggy pieces. Sharp, but unclear.
He knows he hurts. Heâs in pain. Heâs cold. His nerves are still jittery and twitchy.
He doesnât know why.
And then it all slams into him like a fucking truck and he throws himself out ofâ where is he? Laying on something vaguely soft, rapid beeping in the background that abruptly shifts to a long whine that grates on his ears, needling into his skull and it hurts, it hurts so much, so he tries to back away from itâ tripping and stumbling over whatever else is in the room, ignoring the pinpricks of pain over his otherwise trembling body.
âJayâ Jasonâ Jason!â A voice yells worriedly, close, far too close. He flinches, pressing himself further back into the corner. Thereâs so muchâ sound, noise, smells, feelingâ whatever heâs wearing scratches painfully against his chest and back, and suddenly he can hear that voice again and those hands on his body and he just wants people to stop fucking touching himâ
âLittle wing, I need you to open your eyes,â a different voice coaxes, softer than the other one. âYouâre safe, youâre in control here, okay? No oneâs going to do anything you donât want them to. Open your eyes for me, please.â
Jason slowly, cautiously flutters his eyes open, not even aware they were closed. A kind face smiles encouragingly back at him, dark blue eyes searching his tentatively.
âThere you go. Can you breathe with me? Weâre in the Cave, itâs just me and Tim right now. Deep breaths for me, little wing,â Dick murmurs soothingly, exaggerating his own breathing for him to follow. He tries, once he manages to actually focus on it, but itâs hard, god itâs hard because his heart is still beating out of his chest and every instinct in him is screaming at him to move, to fight, to hide, to get away even though somewhere in his mind he knows heâs safe.
Dick seems to see something in his curled up formâ when did he end up on the ground with his arms wrapped around himself?â because he shuffles back about a foot and it immediately makes something in Jasonâs chest a little lighter, a little less constricting. He finds himself able to follow the pattern, heart slowing down with the more even breaths.
Once he has a handle on his own thoughts, he averts his gaze from Dickâs and takes in the room. Now that heâs not panicking, he can easily recognize it as the Medbay in the Bat Cave. Several cots line the walls, various pieces of medical equipment are scattered around, and the place is pristine as always.
Except for the path of destruction caused by his panic to the corner of the room, of course. Tim stands by what he guesses is his cot, the furthest one from the door. There are medical supplies strewn about the cot itself, mostly bandages and various antibiotic and burn creams.
Well. That explains a lot.
He lets himself relax a bit, unfolding slightly from his little ball but keeping his arms wrapped around his mostly bandaged torso.
âHowâ How long has it been?â He asks, voice scratchy and hoarse. Tim moves in the background, setting a glass of water with a straw a couple feet away and sliding it towards him.
âWe found you yesterday after the sun rose, and youâve been out since. Technically it was earlier today but itâs past midnight, so.âÂ
Dick shrugs, keeping a sort of easy air around him despite the tension threading through his muscles. âNo oneâs left for patrol yet. I was gonna stay in, and Tim has stuff to work on at the computer.â
Jason hums, taking careful sips from the water. They fall into a sort of awkward, loaded silence that no one really wants to break.
âWe, uh. Can we finish up the bandages?â Tim finally asks. Jason tenses up just at the idea, pressing back into the wall. âIf we donât, itâs more likely to leave scars or get infectedâŠâ
He scoffs sardonically, forcing himself to his feet. âSure, yeah, whatever, Timbit. Just make it quick.â
Jason settles back on the cot, sitting cross-legged and facing one of the long sides so they can both have enough room to do whatever it is you need to do. He focuses on a breathing pattern as they tread closer and tentatively resume what they were doing prior to his little freak out, dutifully ignoring the way his skin prickles uncomfortably and his whole body tenses just at their proximity. He definitely ignores how each touchâ half a moment of contact, barely even a brush against his skinâ nearly causes him to flinch away and makes his eyes sting as he forces himself to remain relatively still.
Fuck. Seriously, heâs been through far worse, why the hell does he feel like sobbing?
He tilts his chin up at Dickâs prompting so they can re-bandage his neck, biting the inside of his lip hard enough for it to bleed in an attempt to keep his eyes from betraying him.
Heâs not angry, heâs certainly not sad, so why the hell does his body feel the need to do this to him?
Itâs stupid, thatâs what it is. His childhood on the streets was worse than this. The Joker was worse than this. Hell, the Pit was definitely worse than this. Thatâs not even counting having to dig his way out of his own graveâ that he could definitely understand wanting to cry about. That fucking sucked.
But he wasnât even there for that long. Some electrocution, some freezing, and maybe he really did want to die there for a hot second but thatâs besides the point because itâs a coin flip whether he feels like that on any given day. Really, itâs a fifty-fifty whether he wants to die or if he feels like heâs already dead.
Maybe that says something about him.
He dismisses the thought with a suspiciously choked half-scoff, rapidly blinking his eyes. Dick pulls back, trying to meet his gaze, but he averts it before he can.
âJay, you⊠you know youâre allowed to fall apart, right? Especially about something like this, youââ
âDonât fucking tell me that, Goldie,â Jason snaps, pulling away from them both to curl back up at the head of the bed. Neither try to stop him, glancing between him and each other.
âIâm just saying, weâre here for you. Thatâs what family does, we help pick up the pieces when we fall apart.â
He rolls his eyes, fixing his glare on a random crack between the tiles on the floor of the Medbay. âWhatever. Look, Iâm fine, okay? Donât make a big deal out of something that isnât a big deal. Iâve had far worse. I grew up on the streets, trust me, this isnât my first fucking rodeo.â
The other two exchange glances again.
âI think what heâs trying to say is that we get it,â Tim tries carefully. That makes Jasonâs attention snap to the two of them, scanning them both. Slightly uncomfortable, but no lies. He growls, deep in his chest, a flare of familiar protective rage surging in his chest.
âWho?â
Tim answers first. âRaâsâ sister, when I was⊠looking for B. It didnât actuallyâ I wasnâtâ Cass got there in time,â he finally gets out. It doesnât really help the rage, but it does make him relax slightly.
Dick, on the other hand, is uncharacteristically silent, hands fidgeting. Anxiety is written into every line on his face. Jason and Tim stay silent, waiting for him to speak.
âSheâ sheâs in jail, now. For something else. But sheâs already gone,â Dick finally says, wringing his hands.
Of course itâs at this moment all three flinch as the door slides open, revealing Bruce in the suit, sans cowl. He has a bundle of fabric in his arms, which he sets at the foot of the bed. He glances at the three of them, then clears his throat awkwardly.
âI⊠brought all your favorite clothes you still have here. I wasnât sure which ones you might want.â
Jason blinks, slowly reaching out to grab his favorite Wonder Woman hoodie from the pile and slipping it on with only a little difficulty. Itâs then that he realizes that itâs not just his stuff in the pile. He sends a questioning look at Bruce, who has thinly-veiled pain in his eyes.
âI figured Iâd bring down things for all of you. If⊠if any of you want to, to talk about it. Someday. I understand.â
Itâs the three boysâ turn to look at him incredulously, Tim opening his mouth to ask the question theyâre all thinking before a different, haughty voice echoes across the cave.
âFather! Oracle has requested you at the computer, she insists she must show you something relating to the case,â Damian calls from further into the cave, most likely by the computer. Jason notes the brief stiffness, and the forced relaxing of muscles, before it clicks.
Oh, he was going to put his All-Blades to good use. Demon heads are going to roll.
Bruce clears his throat again, stiffly making his way out while the three eldest brothers of the family exchange glances, collectively agree to not talk about it, and Tim follows them out. Dick grabs his own hoodie from the pile, then turns to Jason with a small smile.
âIf you want a distraction, I bet we could kidnap Tim for some Mario Kart?â
Jason huffs a reluctant laugh, waving him off. âSure, go get the baby bird. Wait until B leaves though. Iâd⊠like a second. Alone.â
âOf course,â Dick smiles, stepping towards the exit. âWeâll be out here, yeah?â
Rain and thunder pound against the abandoned apartment building where two men face off.
âIt's me or him. You have to choose!â
Jason watches with wide eyes as Bruceâ no, Batmanâ turns around, as if he's ignoring a petulant child. He turns his gun from the Joker's head to Batman's.
âChoose!â
In a whirl of motion, he turns and flings his arm out. Laughterâ maniacal, cackling laughterâ echoes in Jason's ears. A bolt of lightning reflects off a dark, moving shape, the metal glinting dangerously.
He watches it fly towards him in slow motion.
He's too slow.
Too slow to move out of the wayâ to slow to processâÂ
Before that batarang is slicing his throat open into a cavernous ravine.Â
He drops the Joker. The Joker laughs. Jason clutches at his throatâ rivers of blood slipping between his fingers, filling up his throat, and he gasps but no air comes.Â
He stumbles back, hand slipping off the wall, slick with his own blood. It pitter-patters against the ground in time with the rain. Green lightâ the color of Jokerâs hair, the color of acid, the color of toxicity and painâ filters in through the windows, the little room where Jason drowns in his own blood starts to fill up with it. It pulls his limbs down, tearing and scratching and burningâ
Jason shoots up with a choked gasp, skin slick with sweat. His blankets are strewn haphazardly around him, twisted in his limbs. His breathing is heavy and labored, heartbeat pounding in his ears as he takes in the unfamiliar dark room.
Right.Â
Heâs hiding out in a clubâs back room while Bruce is conducting his investigation or whatever.
More accurately, heâs hunting Jason down while Tim does the actual investigation.
He drags his hand down his face as he gets his breathing back under control, scrubbing the last dredges of sleep from his eyes before rolling over to sit on the edge of the bed. He rests his elbows heavily on his knees, rubbing at the new scratches heâs made over the scar on his neck. Swallowing feels like rubbing sandpaper over a road rash, so he opts to stop doing that.
Only a moment later, thereâs a soft knocking on his door. His immediate reaction is to point the gun he keeps under his pillow at it, slowly, soundlessly prowling closer. Itâs probably just one of the girls, but his paranoia has been at an all time high these past few days heâs been staying here.
He cracks open the door, body taut with anticipation.
The soft, makeup-painted face of Kat looks back at him, those doe-eyes that make her customers swoon glancing over him. He sighs, leaning against the doorframe and opening the door a little wider.
âWhatâs up, Kat?â Jason asks tiredly, scratching his forehead with the back of his gun. She raises an eyebrow, though whether itâs because of the gun or because his voice sounds like itâs been through a paper shredder, he doesnât know.
âThe little one came back. Said the Bat has requested your presence.â She toes the door open a little further, just the few inches Jason will allow her to before stopping it with his foot. âAre you okay?â
Jason just grunts a vague affirmative, not quite meeting her eyes. She watches him idly rub at his neck, covering the raised scar standing out against his tan skin.
âRight, well, if youâre going to go, take a shower first. And leave the door unlocked so we know. He said heâd be waiting in the back.â
With that, she casts one last glance back at him before he shuts the door and she leaves. He sighs, the sound coming out more clipped and rough than normal.
Fuck. Of course this is the day this shit decides to act up.
Begrudgingly, he cleans up the room from his stay. He has half a mind to just let the little demon wait outside and never go to meet him, but that would just lead to him being annoyed by his siblings until he finally did listen, so itâs best to just get it over with now. The faster he can get Bruce off his back and go back to patrols, the better.
Over the next half hour, he takes his time putting the room back together, taking a shower per Katâs suggestion, and getting back into his suit, sans helmet or domino, seeing as he hasn't been to any of his safehouses since B started hunting him.
He takes the back exit, avoiding anyone who may question why the Red Hood is in the back of a strip club without all of his gear on.
Then again, pretty much anyone whoâs here knows the vague idea of whatâs been happening the past few days so they probably wouldnât question it all that much actually.Â
As soon as he pushes the door open he sees Damian waiting, passively listening to the girls on break with his arms crossed, resolutely ignoring the way theyâre clearly whispering about him.Â
He snaps to attention when he sees Jason, straightening up. âAkhi. Father hasââ
âRequested my presence, yes,â Jason finishes dryly, muttering the words once heâs closer so he doesnât have to irritate his throat any more than needed. Damian still pauses when he hears the words, squinting at him.
âWhat is the matter with your voice?â He asks sharply. Jason brushes past him, waving the girls off as he takes the tarp off his motorcycle he retrieved yesterday. They head back inside, leaving the two vigilantes alone. âAnswer me.â
âNothing's wrong,â Jason huffs, wincing slightly at how the words crackle in his throat. Damian stares at him pointedly.
âTt. You can't truly expect me to believe such an obvious lieââ
âJust drop it, Damian!â He finally snaps, taking a deep breath and pinching the bridge of his nose while resolutely ignoring the stab of guilt in his gut. â...Bad day.â
âI⊠see.â Damian turns to his own bike, throwing his leg over. Jason takes a moment to steel himself before doing the same, pushing through every instinct and every thought protesting the idea of returning to the manor to do just that.
The ride there is hot and dry, even with the summer wind whipping Jason's face. It almost feels dusty, or maybe ashy? There was a big fire somewhere in the city the night priorâ not anywhere close to the club he was laying low atâ but the effects from a fire like that would be felt city-wide. Must've been put out, if Damian is here to pick him up and now that he thinks about it, was definitely smelling of smoke. Really, the whole city does right now.Â
Aka, literally everything terrible for his throat that can happen right now is happening right now. All he's missing is actually being in the fire.
Well, the day's still young, the sun just barely cresting the horizon. There's a nonzero chance he ends up in one.
This is Gotham, after all.
Anxiety twists his stomach into knots as they roll into the secret entrance to the Cave, motorcycle engines roaring quite a bit louder now that he doesn't have the helmet to muffle the sound echoing in the tunnel. Once it opens into the cave, he's almost surprised to see the whole family there until he remembers they probably just returned from patrol. Based on the fact that everyone's still in their suits, he'd wager he's right.
Jason parks his bike in his usual spot, which also happens to be the closest spot to the entrance. The Cave, usually smelling of bat shit and the cold, thick scent of cave water, now seems to be choked with the residual smells of the fire they were surely fighting just an hour prior.
Awesome. Great. Amazing. He can already feel it clogging the back of his throat, sending his ability to speak even further out of reach.
Surely he won't need it for a fucking conversation, right?
Right.
Jason struts over before Damian can, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow expectantly at the various sets of eyes on him.
âWell, I think it's clear we found the culpritââ Tim starts, before Jason raises a hand, turning his glare to the group of Bruce, Dick, and Cass.
Dick clears his throat. âI think it's safe to say an apology is in order,â he begins. âI'm sorry for jumping the gun, little wing. We should have listened to you.â
Cass nods in agreement. âYes. I am sorry. Too fast. Ignored words.â
Jason watched with scrutiny, looking for any sign of a lie. When he finds none, he turns his glare to BruceâŠ
âŠwho isn't even facing him. He's faced towards the Bat Computer, typing away at something on the screen. Jason's jaw ticks, watching the man quietly click away with laser-like focus for a solid thirty seconds before he turns to the rest of his family incredulously. Sparks of anger start to overpower the nauseous anxiety from before.
After another bit of waiting Jason loses his patience and flicks the gun with live ammo out of its holsterâ levels it at the screenâ and fires off a shot. Cracks spider web across the monitor and it goes out, the lack of blue glow making the cave that much darker.
All this before anyone can move fast enough to stop him.
The silence of the normally cacophanous family following the resounding gunshot is heavy. Bats flutter and chitter overhead, leathery wings flapping indistinctly. Steph, Tim, and Dick watch with wide eyes as Bruce spins slowly in the chair. Cass and Alfred watch impassively, seeming unfazed, or, more likely, too good at hiding their true feelings. Damian is the same, but Jason doesn't miss the way his shoulders stiffen and his posture straightens. Everyone is tense, ready to interfere if necessary.
Maybe that should say something about the situation.
Jason dismisses it, just like he dismisses the lingering pain from the injuries he got during that chase and the way his heart climbs into his throat as Bruce slowly stands, glaring at him.
âThat was an expensive monitor,â Bruce growls, all Batman in anything but mask. Jason just scoffs, holstering the gun and resuming his previous stance, keeping most of his weight on his toes, just in case. âYou will pay for the replacement.â
Jason just raises an eyebrow, humming a sarcastic agreement that makes it very clear he will be doing no such thing. Hums are safe enough, he thinks. They hurt his throat like hell but they sound normal enough.
Bruce seems to accept it, because he continues to talk. âWith the chaos of the fire, Firefly got away. You will be relegated to finding her. Once you do, call for backup prior to engaging so we can ensure another large fire is started before she is apprehended.â
Jason blinks.
Blinks again.
Then barks out a laugh.Â
It's loud, and painful, and cracking, and doesn't carry a single ounce of humor. He doesn't miss the way several of the surrounding audience members flinch at the suddenÂ
âAre you fucking kidding me?â Jason practically wheezes, barely louder than a whisper in his bafflement.
âWhat was that?â
Bruce's voice distracts him from his moment of sheer incredulity.Â
âI said, are you fucking kidding me?â Jason repeats louder, forcing the words out despite how it sends stabs of pain through his throat. His scar itches uncomfortably under the skin-tight turtleneck shirt he wears.
Bruce's eyes furrow, but it's Dick who speaks up. âAre you okay?â
âFucking peachy,â Jason grinds out. âI'm here for the apology, old man. Get it over with so I can leave.â
âI summoned you here to coordinate your efforts to help the city with ours seeing as the suspect proving your innocence was apprehended.â
âOh, that's just fucking rich.â His head snaps to Steph, who approaches him with a water bottle like she'd approach a wounded animal on the streets. He glances down at it, then at her, before forcefully relaxing his shoulders and taking it with a grunt of thanks. She nods, clearly trying to hide her concern and failing miserably. He appreciates it nonetheless.
Bruce turns back to the Computer, looking at all the other monitors. âI recommend starting in the Diamond District. That's where she was last seen. Oracle will send you the coordinates.â
Jason savors the last sip he takes before responding.
âNo.â
Even the bats go quiet. The silence grows heavier, tension so thick you could cut it with a fucking butter knife.
âI gave you an order,â Bruce growls. Jason bristles, hands clenching at his side instead of twitching for his trigger like they want to.
âI'm not your good little soldier, B! I'll do what I want, whenever the fuck I want, because you don't fucking control me and you need to get it through your thick fucking skull!â
His voice grows to a hoarse, crackling crescendo before it finally breaks and sends Jason into a violent coughing fit that wracks his body, pulling at the stitches he so carefully sewed into himself. At some point someoneâ Steph, he thinks, by the purple fabric swaying on the edges of his visionâ comes over to rub his back and takes the water out of his hand so he can rub his scrubbed-raw throat.
âOkay, I think we need to bench this conversation for today,â Tim cuts in, closer than Jason last remembered. Huh.
âNo,â Jason croaks, glaring briefly at the small splatter of blood on his hand before wiping it away.
âSeriously, Jay, I think we need to get your throat looked atââ
Jason just growls his dissent, and woo that did not help.
âIf you are to work with this team, you will listen to the orders you are given.â
âFat fucking chance,â he hisses, something metallic making a small pool below his tongue.
âOkay, no, you're getting your throat checked out,â Dick cuts in, getting between Jason and Bruce to put his hands on the farmer's shoulders. âLittle wing, what happened? I know we didn't do that.â
Jason laughs, the sound grating on his throat until a little blood dribbles out from his lips. âYou wanna know what fucking happened? He slit my fucking throat, that's what happened, Dick! He slit my throat with a goddamn batarang and he left me to fucking die! He took the Joker and he ran without so much as a glimpse back at his supposed âsonâ!â
He falls into another coughing fit after that outburst that makes him fully double over, various bodies helping keep him up while trying not to encroach too far into his personal space. He takes the water from Steph's stiff hand, chugging it once he has the breath to do so.Â
âI'm done, Bruce. I'm done with you. So you can fuck right off with your orders and all that bullshit. From now on, I'm cleaning up Gotham in a way that actually fucking works.â
There are a few moments of silence, where no one seems to know what to say.
â...Is that true?â Tim finally asks quietly, so painfully genuine and so close to the edge of scared. It almost makes Jason regret saying what he did.
âFather?â Damian prompts, voice so steely he knows the boy is hiding his true emotions behind a well-built wall around his heart.
Jason glares at Bruce, who simply looks back with a stone-cold expression of⊠disappointment? The resounding silence is telling.
âBabs, find the cowl footage,â Dick orders, grip turning tight on Jason's shoulders. Whether that's in an effort to keep Jason there or to keep himself there, he doesn't know. âSound off.â
It's only a minute or so later the video is pulled up on the second biggest monitor (seeing as Jason shot the first one). Jason keeps his (no doubt glowing) gaze on Bruce, watching for any sort of tell, any sort of twitch that betrays his emotions.
It's also so he doesn't have to see the Joker or his own pathetic face staring back at him. He doesn't want to know what Bruce saw.
When the others gasp, stiffen, or have some other sort of outward reaction, he knows they've seen it. The moment Jason still has nightmares about and is the predominant reason he wears turtlenecks whenever he goes out.
Meanwhile, Bruce remains stoic. Silent. Stony, cold, and not a hint of fucking remorse.
Dick shakes, Jason suddenly notices. Not with fear, not with sobs, but with rage. A type of rage Jason has seldom seen on his golden-boy face. His breaths are controlled, but heavy, andâ oh shit.
In a flash of movement, Dick is in front of Bruce and cracking his knuckles across the man's jawâ no one moves to intercept him. Bruce crashes to the ground under the force of that one hit.
âYou could have killed him! You nearly did!â Dick shouts, all rage in his taut-as-a-bowstring form. âHe is your son! I know you're an emotionally repressed piece of shit but what the absolute fuck was going through your head?!â
Bruce rubs his jaw before answering. âHe was supposed to drop the Joker to move out of the way, so I had the opportunity to catch him off guard to apprehend him.â
Dick takes a deep breath. âWhat then, Bruce? You just cart your own son off to Blackgate? Arkham? Would you stick them in the same transport truck too? Just put your sonâ my little brother in the same place as his killer?â He scoffs out a laugh, more out of disbelief than anything else. âOf course you would. Because the mission always comes first. I should have fucking guessed something happened that night when you came here and scrubbed the footage from the main uploads.â
Jason watches the interaction with wide eyes, something warm curling inside him. Shit, maybe Dick actually did mean what he said before.
âI do not wish to reside here any longer,â Damian announces, though not nearly as dramatic as he usually would. He sounds disappointed. He sounds betrayed. He sounds a little more like the kid he should sound like at his age. âSomeone who would so callously throw away the life of his son is not one I can trust in the field or in my own home any longer. Thus, my home shall be elsewhere.â
âYes. You have broken trust,â Cass finally pipes up, looking down at Bruce from her perch.
âYeahhh! Fuck Batman!â Steph cheers in vindication. âYou always were an asshole, old man.â
Tim shoots her a little grin, before turning back to Bruce. âThis isn't your city anymore, Bruce. I don't think it ever really was. Not after this.â
Jason looks around in wonder at his siblings all standing with him. Tears prick the corner of his eyes. He looks back down at Bruce, who, with the threat of Dick Grayson still standing over him, hasn't moved to get up. Unfortunately, that doesn't seem to stop him from speaking.
âOperating outside my purview will be grounds for me to apprehend you,â he warns. Jason grins, all sharp teeth and malice.
âI ran circles around you for months back when I was seventeen. Between all of us, you'll be lucky if you even get a glimpse.â
âAnd don't think I'm on your side with this either,â Babs chimes in from the Bat Computer speakers. âThis is vile, Bruce. You broke your rule on your own son. Good luck attempting to even leave your cave.â
âI'll be back to pick up Dami's and Tim's things. If you want to walk around with that playboy face you so cherish, I don't suggest showing it while I'm here,â Dick snarls before turning around. âAlright, everyone, let's get going.â
Together, they pile onto their various vehicles, but Jason hesitates when he sees Alfred waiting by his bike.
âI am sorry, my boy. I⊠I was not aware of what had occurred that night,â Alfred murmurs. âTo think we came so close to losing you againâŠâ
âIt'sâ it's fine, Alfie,â Jason whispers, no longer willing to force his voice into anything louder. Alfred offers him a small, pained smile, handing him a small box.
âDrink this when you return home. It will help your throat.â
Jason smiles something genuine at that, nodding. âI'll keep in touch.â
The Demon's Sword
~ A New Life (A New Death)
~ A Princely Problem
Muzzled Wolf
- A Relapsed Past
- Going for the Throat
The Trials and Tribulations of Language Arts Homework (And how it leads to Jason's Very Bad Time)
- What in the Saw Trap Bullshit??
- Death By a Thousand Papercuts
- Gotham River Saga
~ The Gotham River is Not Your Friend
~ Yeah, No, the Gotham River was Not His Friend
5 Times Jason Saved his the Flock and 1 Time They Saved Him
~ Gasoline and Guns Don't Mix
~ Your Mom (And Dad (Are Dead))
~ Deja Vu
~ Maze of Mirrors
~ Batman's Number 1 Rule
~ Second Time's the Charm
Unconnected One-Shots
- Who the Fuck are you Calling a Twig?
- Duct Tape has Universal Uses
- Shock Therapy || Aftershocks
Hi! I was wondering if for the February Whump posts if thereâll be a part to for âLike a Twigâ? I gotta know how it ends, I feel so bad for my manâs Jason đ I also wanna let you know I lover your work sm, thank you for feeding me angst đđ
unfortunately no, just because I don't really have any ideas for a part 2. It's mostly just him being mother-henned for like 3 weeks and at least another 2 of them not leaving him tf alone out on patrol lol
But thank you for the compliment! Hope you enjoy everything I've got lined up for this month :D
