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@gotham-harbours-rats
Just a normal colony of rats who live by the docks, nothing to worry about here <333
Fun facts:
We only eat people occasionally
Only one of us is the size of a dog (Louie), most of us are cat sized
We have a rat-only book club on Wednesdays :)
Notice:
This blog is run by one lil rat, still a pup, not fully-grown 😎
I am totally a normal rat and you should not be worried whatsoever about my going into shadows. Or the Mistress I specifically serve of whom I shall not name.
Now that sounds like quitter behavior. Oh well, time to inflict you with some madness. Fair warning, your whole system might go into shock for a few minutes and the mood swings are going to be terrible. Like, elation to the point of feeling on par with the Gods and rage so etched into your bones that you may be literally seeing red. Side effects may include nausea, jealousy, obsessive behavior, discombobulated trains of thought, heightened senses, a desire to be constantly moving, and upped creativity and strategic planning, but you probably won't use those for anything bad. Also, you're going to be getting visions that could easily be mistaken as prophetic, but they pppprobably won't be.
"What..?" He asks, staring. He pales. "I can.. that's fine. That's fine. Easy to deal with."
He leans back again, sly. "It can't be that bad. Not really. I'll be fine." Knight says, proud. Then he trails off, glancing around boredly. After a moment he freezes, eerily still.
Then he turns. "I don't feel it." He says, slowly. "You want to get a reaction. I won't give you one. I won't give you one. Why would I? I'm not weak."
"No. No, no." The voices in his head are worse with the madness, it seems. "I'll kill you for this!" He says, suddenly, and stands up. But he stumbles forwards, grabbing a cup of pens and throwing them at the wall.
He stands up again, walking forward, anger melting like ice. "You're gone." He says, distantly. Almost crestfallen. "Why did you leave? Where did you go?" He asks, and it's almost a dread in his voice.
"Knight of Arkham." A voice cuts through like an especially dull knife through fabric. Leaving jagged edges. It sits where that cup of pens previously sat. He is watched, it does not hide itself. The lights naturally dim, and the shadows stretch over him. His observer is uneffected, it seems.
Whiskers and tails twitch. The knight does not look like a particularly inviting host, even if the rodent did break in. This is of no concequence. Caution is thrown to the wild in favour of duty.
His head turns and he flinches, stepping back with fear in his harried movements. "Get the hell–" He starts, shakily, then stops. "Why are you here?" He asks, suddenly. Suspiciously. The sudden change in emotion is enough to give one whiplash.
"You came back again. Why? You're here for another reason." He accuses, stepping forward. He's twitchy, tapping a hand along the desk as he stalks closer. The rat can't be trusted. The rat is bad, he must be he is. Look at him, Knight. It's not a real rat, is it? No. No.
"I am." It admits, slowly closing its eyes. Then, opening them with the ease of a man trudging through a sandstorm. "The being who leads me requests that I give you the heads up that one of your enemies shall have your head soon, guaranteed, if you act too rashly." What useful advice, since The Knight has been given a bout of some sort of madness. Especially since that madness seems to be encouraging that very thing. "She's seen it in your future and requests you don't. She would find it incredibly disappointing. And boring."
It declares this with absolute certainty. How unfortunate.
"I won't." He says, eyes crinkling with another angry smile. "You're so stupid." Knight says, almost child-like. "I'll kill Sionis. Easily. Easy. You know how easy it is to kill? It's a second nature. My true nature. You know nothing."
He sighs, and crosses his arms, sitting himself on top of the desk, now cleared. The cup he threw at the wall is shattered on the ground. He doesn't seem to notice it.
"I'll have his head. I know it."
"Well, She doesn't believe you." It replies, sounding much too petulant. "I recommend moving up your timeline." The rodent stands, slinking up beside him. Its eyes rise to meet his. A clock ticks in his ears. It shouldn't be. It really shouldn't. "I dont suppose you know what that is?" It asks. The clock decides it wants to get louder at the rat's questioning. And louder. And then off beat. Too loud and not helped by the ceramic shards on his floor shaking. They're probably not supposed to do that.
Now that sounds like quitter behavior. Oh well, time to inflict you with some madness. Fair warning, your whole system might go into shock for a few minutes and the mood swings are going to be terrible. Like, elation to the point of feeling on par with the Gods and rage so etched into your bones that you may be literally seeing red. Side effects may include nausea, jealousy, obsessive behavior, discombobulated trains of thought, heightened senses, a desire to be constantly moving, and upped creativity and strategic planning, but you probably won't use those for anything bad. Also, you're going to be getting visions that could easily be mistaken as prophetic, but they pppprobably won't be.
"What..?" He asks, staring. He pales. "I can.. that's fine. That's fine. Easy to deal with."
He leans back again, sly. "It can't be that bad. Not really. I'll be fine." Knight says, proud. Then he trails off, glancing around boredly. After a moment he freezes, eerily still.
Then he turns. "I don't feel it." He says, slowly. "You want to get a reaction. I won't give you one. I won't give you one. Why would I? I'm not weak."
"No. No, no." The voices in his head are worse with the madness, it seems. "I'll kill you for this!" He says, suddenly, and stands up. But he stumbles forwards, grabbing a cup of pens and throwing them at the wall.
He stands up again, walking forward, anger melting like ice. "You're gone." He says, distantly. Almost crestfallen. "Why did you leave? Where did you go?" He asks, and it's almost a dread in his voice.
"Knight of Arkham." A voice cuts through like an especially dull knife through fabric. Leaving jagged edges. It sits where that cup of pens previously sat. He is watched, it does not hide itself. The lights naturally dim, and the shadows stretch over him. His observer is uneffected, it seems.
Whiskers and tails twitch. The knight does not look like a particularly inviting host, even if the rodent did break in. This is of no concequence. Caution is thrown to the wild in favour of duty.
His head turns and he flinches, stepping back with fear in his harried movements. "Get the hell–" He starts, shakily, then stops. "Why are you here?" He asks, suddenly. Suspiciously. The sudden change in emotion is enough to give one whiplash.
"You came back again. Why? You're here for another reason." He accuses, stepping forward. He's twitchy, tapping a hand along the desk as he stalks closer. The rat can't be trusted. The rat is bad, he must be he is. Look at him, Knight. It's not a real rat, is it? No. No.
"I am." It admits, slowly closing its eyes. Then, opening them with the ease of a man trudging through a sandstorm. "The being who leads me requests that I give you the heads up that one of your enemies shall have your head soon, guaranteed, if you act too rashly." What useful advice, since The Knight has been given a bout of some sort of madness. Especially since that madness seems to be encouraging that very thing. "She's seen it in your future and requests you don't. She would find it incredibly disappointing. And boring."
It declares this with absolute certainty. How unfortunate.
Now that sounds like quitter behavior. Oh well, time to inflict you with some madness. Fair warning, your whole system might go into shock for a few minutes and the mood swings are going to be terrible. Like, elation to the point of feeling on par with the Gods and rage so etched into your bones that you may be literally seeing red. Side effects may include nausea, jealousy, obsessive behavior, discombobulated trains of thought, heightened senses, a desire to be constantly moving, and upped creativity and strategic planning, but you probably won't use those for anything bad. Also, you're going to be getting visions that could easily be mistaken as prophetic, but they pppprobably won't be.
"What..?" He asks, staring. He pales. "I can.. that's fine. That's fine. Easy to deal with."
He leans back again, sly. "It can't be that bad. Not really. I'll be fine." Knight says, proud. Then he trails off, glancing around boredly. After a moment he freezes, eerily still.
Then he turns. "I don't feel it." He says, slowly. "You want to get a reaction. I won't give you one. I won't give you one. Why would I? I'm not weak."
"No. No, no." The voices in his head are worse with the madness, it seems. "I'll kill you for this!" He says, suddenly, and stands up. But he stumbles forwards, grabbing a cup of pens and throwing them at the wall.
He stands up again, walking forward, anger melting like ice. "You're gone." He says, distantly. Almost crestfallen. "Why did you leave? Where did you go?" He asks, and it's almost a dread in his voice.
"Knight of Arkham." A voice cuts through like an especially dull knife through fabric. Leaving jagged edges. It sits where that cup of pens previously sat. He is watched, it does not hide itself. The lights naturally dim, and the shadows stretch over him. His observer is uneffected, it seems.
Whiskers and tails twitch. The knight does not look like a particularly inviting host, even if the rodent did break in. This is of no concequence. Caution is thrown to the wild in favour of duty.
There is a rat on his windowsill. It's lying there where something else should probably be. Such as nothing. It blinks. Once, twice. Hidden in the light streaming in behind it, barely hiding its features in shadow. There is a bow around its neck, a lovely shade of purple with orange stripes and red dots. It's furr is smooth and glossy, the creature is far more plump than it was last time. It yawns softly, disgustingly comfortable.
It is unbothered by his appearance.
He blinks at the rat, from where he sits at the bed. He's still not walking yet. Have the miltia men been helping him? It isn't clear. But, nonetheless, he stares silently at the creature.
The bow is ugly. Foul. His face pulls down, twisting into revulsion. "What is that?" He asks, plainly. "You're back here. Again?"
His words don't feature any disdain. They're hollow, really. Empty of feeling.
It blinks slowly, with the demenor of a queen reclining on her chaise lounge, uncaring of any and all else. And yet, it lies like a child on the floor with a crayon and colouring book. "I've been waiting for you to notice my presence for quite a while." It drawls, "You're getting sloppy, Jason." That couldn't be true, could it? It stretches out a paw, groaning. The ribbon slips from its neck, somehow. The bow must have been looser than previously assumed, the wind stronger, for it carries far into the room. It's neatly, well-made. Silk, no doubt. A waste of such fine, luxurious silk. It slips through his fingers without permission, playfully dancing over his shoulders to rest solemnly in his lap.
The rat still lies there, whiskers flicking with amusement. The wind dies down. "A gift, if you'll accept it, Arkham's Knight. That's what you're going by these days, yeah?" It looks over him, assessing. Its eyes hardly snag on his leg.
The irked look that shades over his face is immediate. He sits up a bit, leaning forwards. Hand already clutched in an angry fist. Does the rat even notice? He stares at it like its very being is ostentatious.
"I'm not sloppy." He warns. Eyes widening, he stares at the ribbon in his lap like it might give him a virus. He doesn't bother touching it– only pretends it isn't there. Ignores it.
"That ribbon is horrendous." He argues, as if it isn't right there, anyways. Oh well. The ugly, stained silk can't hear him. That thought gets a giggle.
It huffs a laugh, stretching out. Limbs pop into place, a soft grunt is punched out of its lungs. "Really? I'm rather fond of it, Knight." It basically hisses, straightening up, fur puffing out unnaturally. "The red is such a lovely, violent, effective shade, and the orange is hard not to love. I suppose the purple is a bit... covered. Truly a shame."
It cocks a head to the side, staring at his angry fist. It is safe, though. It knows it is, considering how it can scurry quicker than the Knight can walk.
There's another ribbon, which floats in through the window. It is a horrendous shade of purple. Too red, too blue. Too bright, too dark. Far to saturated, not saturated enough. The rat plucks the luxurious, scraggly thing from the air, no longer looking to the man on the bed in favour of investigating its new curiosity, tugging teeth on it and scratching down on the poor thing with its claws.
It seems incredibly pleased.
Jason watches, stiffly. "Why is it a shame?" He asks, apprehensive. He sits back, leaning against a few pillows, features shadowed in the dark.
The rat is strange. Rats don't.. exactly, speak. His eyes linger on the thing, assessing. If it's not a rat, then what is it?
Something else? The thought creeps in like blood soaking into fabric. He can't get rid of it, like the wounds carved into his own flesh.
The new ribbon is shiny. Still ugly, still purple. A shade that can't be pinpointed, flickering through the spectrum of hue before the rat claws it down. He winces.
"What's with that ribbon?"
"The ribbon is a ribbon. What isn't with the ribbon?" It glances at him, now rubbing its nose against the, now far more wet, ribbon. It has a few puncture holes in it now, thanks to the teeth and the tearing. "And, to answer your earlier question, it's a shame because I do like purple. It's such a lovely colour."
The being holds up the ribbon over where his face must lie in its vision. "It looks nice on you. Orange and red as well... to a lesser extent. A shame you don't wear purple often, if ever. It suits you." It proclaims, not the least worried about how he feels on the matter, considering it feels the need to continue, "It looks nice with your eyes, hair. Softens you a bit. Visually, I mean."
It pauses, blinks. Then, it finishes off by saying, more to itself than him, "Ah, that's why you don't wear it."
The purple ribbon — once shiny, has quickly dulled in the rat's grip. Torn up, bitten, it now looks more like a shredded chunk of fabric. Or, the smaller bit of a larger tapestry.
"If you like purple, then why are you tearing the ribbon?" He asks, bluntly. He eyes the thing like it's a piece of trash, even as purple is the colour that looks best on him. Denial– even as he is closer to purple now than ever.
He scowls. "I don't like purple." Joker wore purple as a suit. The colour is ruined for him, no?
It hums and bobs its head. "By tearing it up, now there's more of it, no? Who doesn't like more?" A scrap stumbles in from the sill on the wind. The torn, shredded purple falls to his bedside, weeping in grief as it lies to rest. A shimmer of silvery thread runs through it, gently. Something previously unseen due to distance. It mocks him in its grief, the grief of not being whole and the mourning of what it once was. It delights, even so, in its newfound state. It is beautiful and made anew in its grief and trauma. It is nearly dead.
"Hm. Makes sense you wouldn't like it, I suppose. The purple is what you make of it, who you make of it. What it is made of for you. How you see it. The threads could build a blanket or a bat, or even a crowbar, if you'd like."
"More?" He echoes the word, swinging it around in his mind. More. More of what? He can't stop being the Knight. Can't stop that. And he.. he can try to be like Robin. But that never works. It won't work, not when Robin is a doll, stained, with its mouth sewn shut and its eyes ripped out and insides stuffed with anything but simple, pure cotton and wool.
Robin is Batman's assistant. Joker's victim. Batman's victim, in the end. He will kill Batman. Rip his bones from his body while his flesh revolts and tries to hold on. He will die.
The ribbon is garish, as beautiful as it seems to the rat. The silver thread is nothing but the obvious scar, ruination of a ribbon. Mocking. Cruel. He glowers. It is nothing and everything at once, silver for what he now is and purple for who he refuses to be.
"I don't need it to be anything. What else could I make of a single ribbon– a foul, torn one, but have it as a ribbon?"
"You're thinking too far into it while also thinking too small, Jason." It hums, pushing the rest of the scraps in through the window. "It could be a mosaic, it could be art. It could be a keepsake, it could be the gem on a ring. Anything and everything, whatever you want it to be. It doesn't, shouldn't have to stay a ribbon. Not if it doesn't want to be. It doesn't even have to be fully purple anymore. Change is natural. It comes with age."
The tear of ribbon shifts and shimmers under faint light. It glints at him, as if crying softly. It wants comfort. Why won't anyone love it? Why mustn't it be worth the effort of care? Why did its mama and papa leave it? It's so sad, with fraying threads reaching up toward him. It hopes that maybe, just maybe, he will take pity on it.
It is a scrap of torn thread. Others join it, joining it as it mourns and weeps. The other ribbon keeps its distance.
"I don't know how to change it." He sighs. For a moment the words are almost a plea– sorrowful, but he cuts off the sound the moment the whine reaches his ears.
He pauses his fiddling with the blankets, gripping them tightly. He doesn't seem to notice how his own scarred, mangled hands shake.
Then he glowers at the ribbon. Reaches forward, clasps it unto a hand, and crumples it in his palm, crushing it. It doesn't matter. He can't change. He can't. There's nothing beyond the two faces he knows; who he was and who he is supporting to be. He can't allow anything else. Can't find a way back to a soul, to spirit. To reality.
The purple dulls, burning dark under his palm. Reflectant of only blood soaking into satin. Of a stain, of something dark on carpet. Of a shadow in a corner, shied away.
"Well, what do you want to create?"
The rat is sitting at the foot of his bed. It's hard to tell when it got there. It blinks at him, understanding. The creature almost seems like it knows exactly what he's asking, what he's asking. Its voice is soft, pushing but not shoving. It noses at one of the scraps of purple. It takes it, just to hold. Carefully, gently. As it's precious. Fragile.
Like it cares.
"We can turn it into anything, whatever you want. Whatever you want it to be. Moon's the limit and all that."
He pauses. Stares at the rat, then the ribbon, still in his palm. Fingers tremble, and his grip loosens. With an intake of a shaky, fine breath, he holds the ribbon to his chest for a moment.
Then his hand curls, tossing it down. "Nothing. There's nothing that can be changed. That I can change."
The words are bleak, bitter. Starched and cold. He's already close to what he was always supposed to have done— giving up. Raking the smouldering coals of Robin under the rug. But he can't seem to let go. Why? Holding onto whatever this is pricks him like a thorn, stuck too deep to push any further, impossible to get out.
Robin is a shroud he has worn ragged, but even the threads won't let go of him. And Knight— powerful as he is, can't stain all that bright, faded orange. The purple in between may as well be grey.
"Sure there is. Get a needle and thread and you can stitch more on. Get some bleach and you can take out the colour. Get a lighter and burn the edges. Nothing is truly concrete." It practically purrs, slinking closer. Before his eyes, it sheds fat and silky smooth fur, gaining length and a darker coat. "Anything you want. It just takes the choice.
You're a creative boy, come to grips with reality. There is very little stopping you beside yourself." It takes another scrap of ribbon and hums gently as it cradles the precious, torn and ravaged silk. It would not be out of place to see tears. Unfortunately, humans seem to be the only ones capable of such a relieving task, so it is stuck there looking to him with pity and sadness unbefitting of such a recipient.
He blinks at the rat, gulping. The change gives him a splinter of revulsion, sliding down his back in a shiver.
The way the rat behaves towards the fabric is unsettling. The way it cradles, as if holding a child or a precious, family heirloom. No scrap should be treated that way. Nothing as insignificant as a ribbon.
"I don't.. why?" He asks, voice dropping. It's soft, barely a rough whisper. "Why bother trying? I can't.. be who I'm not. I can't be that. I can't be Robin. And.. nor do I want to. I don't want to. Batman," He sneers, now, a grotesque look on his marked face– and his voice reaches higher again. A mocking intonation.
"Batman is nothing. Batman is foul."
"This isn't about Batman. What I am saying isn't about Robin. It isn't about Jason or the Arkham Knight or a ribbon." It sets the ribbon down, leaving it with a soft lick. It then slowly creeps closer to Him. It gets close enough, able enough, to set a small paw on His chest. Right over the heart. "I am talking about this. You. You are You. Who are you? Who am I speaking with? I don't seek a name, mind you. I am not talking about who you should be."
Its paws rest calmly, but there's a slight twitch that betrays its wants. It wants to grip onto him, it doesn't want him to slip away. "Don't be who you're not. You're right, there is no point in trying to do that. But there is value to darning a hole in your sock over buying a new one."
The creature speaks with a strange sort of desperation and worry. It sounds hopeful, it sounds like a little boy begging his mama to wake up. It sounds like the sound before a crushing grief and immense disappointment. There will be no surprise. But maybe, maybe it's holding out hope that there will be. Because the eyes looking up into his have a confidence in him that anyone would know at a glance is unfounded.
And yet, and yet...
Brightly, he watches the Rat step closer. By now it's dark, the brightest thing to see is the whites of his eyes and their glare in the dark. He doesn't like it, but he lets the rat move up.
"I'm–" He starts to say, then stops when the rat continues. Don't be who you're not. But who is he? Who? Is he Knight? He certainly isn't Robin. He wasn't Jason for a while. He doesn't know.
"Is it?" He whispers. "Really? Because I tend to shed identities like skin. Like blood from a wound. None of them fit."
"Is there a real me?" He says, looking away, now. His face is in the shadows. Completely obscured. Not even a sliver of moonlight reaches him.
"So I can't. I can only play what I know best." He says, bringing up his knees. The rat is in his lap now, surely. Swaddled by the blankets. He's silent again, starting to shake . It's silent. Laughter or tears?
His hands reach up, hiding his face— as if the rat could see through the darkness it's been swallowed by.
"There is a you. You might be a Jason. You might be a Knight. You might be a Man. You might not be. Life is learning how to, when to, play. And when to step out of the role. Some people are comfortable in a name that isn't their own. And that's okay. Whoever you say you are is who you are at the moment. But everyone has something beneath it all. A little flicker of black in their center of which everything is held." Its face is barely visible. It lets him do as he will with its vessel. There is some innate knowledge somewhere that tells him that it won't leave until he's ready for it to.
"What parts of each mask feels right? Why does it feel right? We as creatures are our own little Frankensteins, freakish and garish and ugly and unknowing in the beginning. We learn as we go. Some of that learning is good. Some of it is bad. That's normal. It's normal not to perfectly fit in the skin of something that isn't you. Mix and match. Find a combination you like."
He's quiet, steeping in the rat's words. Who is he? Who? Who? Who? The thought sounds like an owl's hoot, repeating and repeating. He doesn't have an answer.
Is the rat still there? His eyes dart down. It is. He's miffed as to why it is.
"I don't know how. Or if I want to." He says, clipped.
"Either way, think about it. Think. Give it time. This is a wound you can let fester, I promise." It truly seems to settle atop him. As if the action is natural, as if he's safe to be like that around. "You are who you want to be." It murmurs from where it is, nice and cozy in his blankets. It looks safe.
He can't bite back the scowl. The rat isn't safe, as much as it looks so. Why is it trusting him? As if he couldn't blow a fuse any moment.
"... Okay." He says, wearily. He draws his knees back down, putting as little pressure on his bad ankle as he can.
It huffs softly. "You're fickly with yourself. In a good way. It's a good trait to have." It mumbles, jostled, but otherwise fine. It settles right up to him with ease. "Have you gotten rest?" Its eyes fall to his leg. Even so, the medium-sized rat pushes its fragile body up and snug to his. Safe. It knows he can't hurt it. His body shields its own, towering over like a great wall. For once, his body is large enough to shield something, to cover something besides, maybe, a child. A defenseless child. A child crying in a sea of laughter. As always, the cries will be cut short.
He nods, blinking slowly. "I've gotten rest, yeah.. ?" Jason says, yawning. "Why're.." He trails off, staring a bit lightly at the rat in the dark. Why does it trust him? Why does it bother?
He sighs, and tries to get a bit more comfortable. Will he manage to get some sleep? He has no idea, but he's ever grateful for being able to try.
But how long will the rat stay? He has no real idea of that, either. Normally he wouldn't like being watched while he sleeps.
"Mm?" It asks, and it buries its face in fabric as it does so. Scraps of ribbon settle around them, refusing to leave on the winds which swirl softly through his room.
The rat's eyes are hidden from the world. Its lungs expand as it breathes in. It exhales, still awake. It's small in a sea of blankets, looking far more... tiny, than it seemed before. Whatever the creature is, it doesn't seem to be very good at ataying one size for long. Or it just has bad control over whatever makes it change.
Or maybe that's another way it expresses the strange amount of trust It puts on Him.
There is a rat on his windowsill. It's lying there where something else should probably be. Such as nothing. It blinks. Once, twice. Hidden in the light streaming in behind it, barely hiding its features in shadow. There is a bow around its neck, a lovely shade of purple with orange stripes and red dots. It's furr is smooth and glossy, the creature is far more plump than it was last time. It yawns softly, disgustingly comfortable.
It is unbothered by his appearance.
He blinks at the rat, from where he sits at the bed. He's still not walking yet. Have the miltia men been helping him? It isn't clear. But, nonetheless, he stares silently at the creature.
The bow is ugly. Foul. His face pulls down, twisting into revulsion. "What is that?" He asks, plainly. "You're back here. Again?"
His words don't feature any disdain. They're hollow, really. Empty of feeling.
It blinks slowly, with the demenor of a queen reclining on her chaise lounge, uncaring of any and all else. And yet, it lies like a child on the floor with a crayon and colouring book. "I've been waiting for you to notice my presence for quite a while." It drawls, "You're getting sloppy, Jason." That couldn't be true, could it? It stretches out a paw, groaning. The ribbon slips from its neck, somehow. The bow must have been looser than previously assumed, the wind stronger, for it carries far into the room. It's neatly, well-made. Silk, no doubt. A waste of such fine, luxurious silk. It slips through his fingers without permission, playfully dancing over his shoulders to rest solemnly in his lap.
The rat still lies there, whiskers flicking with amusement. The wind dies down. "A gift, if you'll accept it, Arkham's Knight. That's what you're going by these days, yeah?" It looks over him, assessing. Its eyes hardly snag on his leg.
The irked look that shades over his face is immediate. He sits up a bit, leaning forwards. Hand already clutched in an angry fist. Does the rat even notice? He stares at it like its very being is ostentatious.
"I'm not sloppy." He warns. Eyes widening, he stares at the ribbon in his lap like it might give him a virus. He doesn't bother touching it– only pretends it isn't there. Ignores it.
"That ribbon is horrendous." He argues, as if it isn't right there, anyways. Oh well. The ugly, stained silk can't hear him. That thought gets a giggle.
It huffs a laugh, stretching out. Limbs pop into place, a soft grunt is punched out of its lungs. "Really? I'm rather fond of it, Knight." It basically hisses, straightening up, fur puffing out unnaturally. "The red is such a lovely, violent, effective shade, and the orange is hard not to love. I suppose the purple is a bit... covered. Truly a shame."
It cocks a head to the side, staring at his angry fist. It is safe, though. It knows it is, considering how it can scurry quicker than the Knight can walk.
There's another ribbon, which floats in through the window. It is a horrendous shade of purple. Too red, too blue. Too bright, too dark. Far to saturated, not saturated enough. The rat plucks the luxurious, scraggly thing from the air, no longer looking to the man on the bed in favour of investigating its new curiosity, tugging teeth on it and scratching down on the poor thing with its claws.
It seems incredibly pleased.
Jason watches, stiffly. "Why is it a shame?" He asks, apprehensive. He sits back, leaning against a few pillows, features shadowed in the dark.
The rat is strange. Rats don't.. exactly, speak. His eyes linger on the thing, assessing. If it's not a rat, then what is it?
Something else? The thought creeps in like blood soaking into fabric. He can't get rid of it, like the wounds carved into his own flesh.
The new ribbon is shiny. Still ugly, still purple. A shade that can't be pinpointed, flickering through the spectrum of hue before the rat claws it down. He winces.
"What's with that ribbon?"
"The ribbon is a ribbon. What isn't with the ribbon?" It glances at him, now rubbing its nose against the, now far more wet, ribbon. It has a few puncture holes in it now, thanks to the teeth and the tearing. "And, to answer your earlier question, it's a shame because I do like purple. It's such a lovely colour."
The being holds up the ribbon over where his face must lie in its vision. "It looks nice on you. Orange and red as well... to a lesser extent. A shame you don't wear purple often, if ever. It suits you." It proclaims, not the least worried about how he feels on the matter, considering it feels the need to continue, "It looks nice with your eyes, hair. Softens you a bit. Visually, I mean."
It pauses, blinks. Then, it finishes off by saying, more to itself than him, "Ah, that's why you don't wear it."
The purple ribbon — once shiny, has quickly dulled in the rat's grip. Torn up, bitten, it now looks more like a shredded chunk of fabric. Or, the smaller bit of a larger tapestry.
"If you like purple, then why are you tearing the ribbon?" He asks, bluntly. He eyes the thing like it's a piece of trash, even as purple is the colour that looks best on him. Denial– even as he is closer to purple now than ever.
He scowls. "I don't like purple." Joker wore purple as a suit. The colour is ruined for him, no?
It hums and bobs its head. "By tearing it up, now there's more of it, no? Who doesn't like more?" A scrap stumbles in from the sill on the wind. The torn, shredded purple falls to his bedside, weeping in grief as it lies to rest. A shimmer of silvery thread runs through it, gently. Something previously unseen due to distance. It mocks him in its grief, the grief of not being whole and the mourning of what it once was. It delights, even so, in its newfound state. It is beautiful and made anew in its grief and trauma. It is nearly dead.
"Hm. Makes sense you wouldn't like it, I suppose. The purple is what you make of it, who you make of it. What it is made of for you. How you see it. The threads could build a blanket or a bat, or even a crowbar, if you'd like."
"More?" He echoes the word, swinging it around in his mind. More. More of what? He can't stop being the Knight. Can't stop that. And he.. he can try to be like Robin. But that never works. It won't work, not when Robin is a doll, stained, with its mouth sewn shut and its eyes ripped out and insides stuffed with anything but simple, pure cotton and wool.
Robin is Batman's assistant. Joker's victim. Batman's victim, in the end. He will kill Batman. Rip his bones from his body while his flesh revolts and tries to hold on. He will die.
The ribbon is garish, as beautiful as it seems to the rat. The silver thread is nothing but the obvious scar, ruination of a ribbon. Mocking. Cruel. He glowers. It is nothing and everything at once, silver for what he now is and purple for who he refuses to be.
"I don't need it to be anything. What else could I make of a single ribbon– a foul, torn one, but have it as a ribbon?"
"You're thinking too far into it while also thinking too small, Jason." It hums, pushing the rest of the scraps in through the window. "It could be a mosaic, it could be art. It could be a keepsake, it could be the gem on a ring. Anything and everything, whatever you want it to be. It doesn't, shouldn't have to stay a ribbon. Not if it doesn't want to be. It doesn't even have to be fully purple anymore. Change is natural. It comes with age."
The tear of ribbon shifts and shimmers under faint light. It glints at him, as if crying softly. It wants comfort. Why won't anyone love it? Why mustn't it be worth the effort of care? Why did its mama and papa leave it? It's so sad, with fraying threads reaching up toward him. It hopes that maybe, just maybe, he will take pity on it.
It is a scrap of torn thread. Others join it, joining it as it mourns and weeps. The other ribbon keeps its distance.
"I don't know how to change it." He sighs. For a moment the words are almost a plea– sorrowful, but he cuts off the sound the moment the whine reaches his ears.
He pauses his fiddling with the blankets, gripping them tightly. He doesn't seem to notice how his own scarred, mangled hands shake.
Then he glowers at the ribbon. Reaches forward, clasps it unto a hand, and crumples it in his palm, crushing it. It doesn't matter. He can't change. He can't. There's nothing beyond the two faces he knows; who he was and who he is supporting to be. He can't allow anything else. Can't find a way back to a soul, to spirit. To reality.
The purple dulls, burning dark under his palm. Reflectant of only blood soaking into satin. Of a stain, of something dark on carpet. Of a shadow in a corner, shied away.
"Well, what do you want to create?"
The rat is sitting at the foot of his bed. It's hard to tell when it got there. It blinks at him, understanding. The creature almost seems like it knows exactly what he's asking, what he's asking. Its voice is soft, pushing but not shoving. It noses at one of the scraps of purple. It takes it, just to hold. Carefully, gently. As it's precious. Fragile.
Like it cares.
"We can turn it into anything, whatever you want. Whatever you want it to be. Moon's the limit and all that."
He pauses. Stares at the rat, then the ribbon, still in his palm. Fingers tremble, and his grip loosens. With an intake of a shaky, fine breath, he holds the ribbon to his chest for a moment.
Then his hand curls, tossing it down. "Nothing. There's nothing that can be changed. That I can change."
The words are bleak, bitter. Starched and cold. He's already close to what he was always supposed to have done— giving up. Raking the smouldering coals of Robin under the rug. But he can't seem to let go. Why? Holding onto whatever this is pricks him like a thorn, stuck too deep to push any further, impossible to get out.
Robin is a shroud he has worn ragged, but even the threads won't let go of him. And Knight— powerful as he is, can't stain all that bright, faded orange. The purple in between may as well be grey.
"Sure there is. Get a needle and thread and you can stitch more on. Get some bleach and you can take out the colour. Get a lighter and burn the edges. Nothing is truly concrete." It practically purrs, slinking closer. Before his eyes, it sheds fat and silky smooth fur, gaining length and a darker coat. "Anything you want. It just takes the choice.
You're a creative boy, come to grips with reality. There is very little stopping you beside yourself." It takes another scrap of ribbon and hums gently as it cradles the precious, torn and ravaged silk. It would not be out of place to see tears. Unfortunately, humans seem to be the only ones capable of such a relieving task, so it is stuck there looking to him with pity and sadness unbefitting of such a recipient.
He blinks at the rat, gulping. The change gives him a splinter of revulsion, sliding down his back in a shiver.
The way the rat behaves towards the fabric is unsettling. The way it cradles, as if holding a child or a precious, family heirloom. No scrap should be treated that way. Nothing as insignificant as a ribbon.
"I don't.. why?" He asks, voice dropping. It's soft, barely a rough whisper. "Why bother trying? I can't.. be who I'm not. I can't be that. I can't be Robin. And.. nor do I want to. I don't want to. Batman," He sneers, now, a grotesque look on his marked face– and his voice reaches higher again. A mocking intonation.
"Batman is nothing. Batman is foul."
"This isn't about Batman. What I am saying isn't about Robin. It isn't about Jason or the Arkham Knight or a ribbon." It sets the ribbon down, leaving it with a soft lick. It then slowly creeps closer to Him. It gets close enough, able enough, to set a small paw on His chest. Right over the heart. "I am talking about this. You. You are You. Who are you? Who am I speaking with? I don't seek a name, mind you. I am not talking about who you should be."
Its paws rest calmly, but there's a slight twitch that betrays its wants. It wants to grip onto him, it doesn't want him to slip away. "Don't be who you're not. You're right, there is no point in trying to do that. But there is value to darning a hole in your sock over buying a new one."
The creature speaks with a strange sort of desperation and worry. It sounds hopeful, it sounds like a little boy begging his mama to wake up. It sounds like the sound before a crushing grief and immense disappointment. There will be no surprise. But maybe, maybe it's holding out hope that there will be. Because the eyes looking up into his have a confidence in him that anyone would know at a glance is unfounded.
And yet, and yet...
Brightly, he watches the Rat step closer. By now it's dark, the brightest thing to see is the whites of his eyes and their glare in the dark. He doesn't like it, but he lets the rat move up.
"I'm–" He starts to say, then stops when the rat continues. Don't be who you're not. But who is he? Who? Is he Knight? He certainly isn't Robin. He wasn't Jason for a while. He doesn't know.
"Is it?" He whispers. "Really? Because I tend to shed identities like skin. Like blood from a wound. None of them fit."
"Is there a real me?" He says, looking away, now. His face is in the shadows. Completely obscured. Not even a sliver of moonlight reaches him.
"So I can't. I can only play what I know best." He says, bringing up his knees. The rat is in his lap now, surely. Swaddled by the blankets. He's silent again, starting to shake . It's silent. Laughter or tears?
His hands reach up, hiding his face— as if the rat could see through the darkness it's been swallowed by.
"There is a you. You might be a Jason. You might be a Knight. You might be a Man. You might not be. Life is learning how to, when to, play. And when to step out of the role. Some people are comfortable in a name that isn't their own. And that's okay. Whoever you say you are is who you are at the moment. But everyone has something beneath it all. A little flicker of black in their center of which everything is held." Its face is barely visible. It lets him do as he will with its vessel. There is some innate knowledge somewhere that tells him that it won't leave until he's ready for it to.
"What parts of each mask feels right? Why does it feel right? We as creatures are our own little Frankensteins, freakish and garish and ugly and unknowing in the beginning. We learn as we go. Some of that learning is good. Some of it is bad. That's normal. It's normal not to perfectly fit in the skin of something that isn't you. Mix and match. Find a combination you like."
He's quiet, steeping in the rat's words. Who is he? Who? Who? Who? The thought sounds like an owl's hoot, repeating and repeating. He doesn't have an answer.
Is the rat still there? His eyes dart down. It is. He's miffed as to why it is.
"I don't know how. Or if I want to." He says, clipped.
"Either way, think about it. Think. Give it time. This is a wound you can let fester, I promise." It truly seems to settle atop him. As if the action is natural, as if he's safe to be like that around. "You are who you want to be." It murmurs from where it is, nice and cozy in his blankets. It looks safe.
He can't bite back the scowl. The rat isn't safe, as much as it looks so. Why is it trusting him? As if he couldn't blow a fuse any moment.
"... Okay." He says, wearily. He draws his knees back down, putting as little pressure on his bad ankle as he can.
It huffs softly. "You're fickly with yourself. In a good way. It's a good trait to have." It mumbles, jostled, but otherwise fine. It settles right up to him with ease. "Have you gotten rest?" Its eyes fall to his leg. Even so, the medium-sized rat pushes its fragile body up and snug to his. Safe. It knows he can't hurt it. His body shields its own, towering over like a great wall. For once, his body is large enough to shield something, to cover something besides, maybe, a child. A defenseless child. A child crying in a sea of laughter. As always, the cries will be cut short.
There is a rat on his windowsill. It's lying there where something else should probably be. Such as nothing. It blinks. Once, twice. Hidden in the light streaming in behind it, barely hiding its features in shadow. There is a bow around its neck, a lovely shade of purple with orange stripes and red dots. It's furr is smooth and glossy, the creature is far more plump than it was last time. It yawns softly, disgustingly comfortable.
It is unbothered by his appearance.
He blinks at the rat, from where he sits at the bed. He's still not walking yet. Have the miltia men been helping him? It isn't clear. But, nonetheless, he stares silently at the creature.
The bow is ugly. Foul. His face pulls down, twisting into revulsion. "What is that?" He asks, plainly. "You're back here. Again?"
His words don't feature any disdain. They're hollow, really. Empty of feeling.
It blinks slowly, with the demenor of a queen reclining on her chaise lounge, uncaring of any and all else. And yet, it lies like a child on the floor with a crayon and colouring book. "I've been waiting for you to notice my presence for quite a while." It drawls, "You're getting sloppy, Jason." That couldn't be true, could it? It stretches out a paw, groaning. The ribbon slips from its neck, somehow. The bow must have been looser than previously assumed, the wind stronger, for it carries far into the room. It's neatly, well-made. Silk, no doubt. A waste of such fine, luxurious silk. It slips through his fingers without permission, playfully dancing over his shoulders to rest solemnly in his lap.
The rat still lies there, whiskers flicking with amusement. The wind dies down. "A gift, if you'll accept it, Arkham's Knight. That's what you're going by these days, yeah?" It looks over him, assessing. Its eyes hardly snag on his leg.
The irked look that shades over his face is immediate. He sits up a bit, leaning forwards. Hand already clutched in an angry fist. Does the rat even notice? He stares at it like its very being is ostentatious.
"I'm not sloppy." He warns. Eyes widening, he stares at the ribbon in his lap like it might give him a virus. He doesn't bother touching it– only pretends it isn't there. Ignores it.
"That ribbon is horrendous." He argues, as if it isn't right there, anyways. Oh well. The ugly, stained silk can't hear him. That thought gets a giggle.
It huffs a laugh, stretching out. Limbs pop into place, a soft grunt is punched out of its lungs. "Really? I'm rather fond of it, Knight." It basically hisses, straightening up, fur puffing out unnaturally. "The red is such a lovely, violent, effective shade, and the orange is hard not to love. I suppose the purple is a bit... covered. Truly a shame."
It cocks a head to the side, staring at his angry fist. It is safe, though. It knows it is, considering how it can scurry quicker than the Knight can walk.
There's another ribbon, which floats in through the window. It is a horrendous shade of purple. Too red, too blue. Too bright, too dark. Far to saturated, not saturated enough. The rat plucks the luxurious, scraggly thing from the air, no longer looking to the man on the bed in favour of investigating its new curiosity, tugging teeth on it and scratching down on the poor thing with its claws.
It seems incredibly pleased.
Jason watches, stiffly. "Why is it a shame?" He asks, apprehensive. He sits back, leaning against a few pillows, features shadowed in the dark.
The rat is strange. Rats don't.. exactly, speak. His eyes linger on the thing, assessing. If it's not a rat, then what is it?
Something else? The thought creeps in like blood soaking into fabric. He can't get rid of it, like the wounds carved into his own flesh.
The new ribbon is shiny. Still ugly, still purple. A shade that can't be pinpointed, flickering through the spectrum of hue before the rat claws it down. He winces.
"What's with that ribbon?"
"The ribbon is a ribbon. What isn't with the ribbon?" It glances at him, now rubbing its nose against the, now far more wet, ribbon. It has a few puncture holes in it now, thanks to the teeth and the tearing. "And, to answer your earlier question, it's a shame because I do like purple. It's such a lovely colour."
The being holds up the ribbon over where his face must lie in its vision. "It looks nice on you. Orange and red as well... to a lesser extent. A shame you don't wear purple often, if ever. It suits you." It proclaims, not the least worried about how he feels on the matter, considering it feels the need to continue, "It looks nice with your eyes, hair. Softens you a bit. Visually, I mean."
It pauses, blinks. Then, it finishes off by saying, more to itself than him, "Ah, that's why you don't wear it."
The purple ribbon — once shiny, has quickly dulled in the rat's grip. Torn up, bitten, it now looks more like a shredded chunk of fabric. Or, the smaller bit of a larger tapestry.
"If you like purple, then why are you tearing the ribbon?" He asks, bluntly. He eyes the thing like it's a piece of trash, even as purple is the colour that looks best on him. Denial– even as he is closer to purple now than ever.
He scowls. "I don't like purple." Joker wore purple as a suit. The colour is ruined for him, no?
It hums and bobs its head. "By tearing it up, now there's more of it, no? Who doesn't like more?" A scrap stumbles in from the sill on the wind. The torn, shredded purple falls to his bedside, weeping in grief as it lies to rest. A shimmer of silvery thread runs through it, gently. Something previously unseen due to distance. It mocks him in its grief, the grief of not being whole and the mourning of what it once was. It delights, even so, in its newfound state. It is beautiful and made anew in its grief and trauma. It is nearly dead.
"Hm. Makes sense you wouldn't like it, I suppose. The purple is what you make of it, who you make of it. What it is made of for you. How you see it. The threads could build a blanket or a bat, or even a crowbar, if you'd like."
"More?" He echoes the word, swinging it around in his mind. More. More of what? He can't stop being the Knight. Can't stop that. And he.. he can try to be like Robin. But that never works. It won't work, not when Robin is a doll, stained, with its mouth sewn shut and its eyes ripped out and insides stuffed with anything but simple, pure cotton and wool.
Robin is Batman's assistant. Joker's victim. Batman's victim, in the end. He will kill Batman. Rip his bones from his body while his flesh revolts and tries to hold on. He will die.
The ribbon is garish, as beautiful as it seems to the rat. The silver thread is nothing but the obvious scar, ruination of a ribbon. Mocking. Cruel. He glowers. It is nothing and everything at once, silver for what he now is and purple for who he refuses to be.
"I don't need it to be anything. What else could I make of a single ribbon– a foul, torn one, but have it as a ribbon?"
"You're thinking too far into it while also thinking too small, Jason." It hums, pushing the rest of the scraps in through the window. "It could be a mosaic, it could be art. It could be a keepsake, it could be the gem on a ring. Anything and everything, whatever you want it to be. It doesn't, shouldn't have to stay a ribbon. Not if it doesn't want to be. It doesn't even have to be fully purple anymore. Change is natural. It comes with age."
The tear of ribbon shifts and shimmers under faint light. It glints at him, as if crying softly. It wants comfort. Why won't anyone love it? Why mustn't it be worth the effort of care? Why did its mama and papa leave it? It's so sad, with fraying threads reaching up toward him. It hopes that maybe, just maybe, he will take pity on it.
It is a scrap of torn thread. Others join it, joining it as it mourns and weeps. The other ribbon keeps its distance.
"I don't know how to change it." He sighs. For a moment the words are almost a plea– sorrowful, but he cuts off the sound the moment the whine reaches his ears.
He pauses his fiddling with the blankets, gripping them tightly. He doesn't seem to notice how his own scarred, mangled hands shake.
Then he glowers at the ribbon. Reaches forward, clasps it unto a hand, and crumples it in his palm, crushing it. It doesn't matter. He can't change. He can't. There's nothing beyond the two faces he knows; who he was and who he is supporting to be. He can't allow anything else. Can't find a way back to a soul, to spirit. To reality.
The purple dulls, burning dark under his palm. Reflectant of only blood soaking into satin. Of a stain, of something dark on carpet. Of a shadow in a corner, shied away.
"Well, what do you want to create?"
The rat is sitting at the foot of his bed. It's hard to tell when it got there. It blinks at him, understanding. The creature almost seems like it knows exactly what he's asking, what he's asking. Its voice is soft, pushing but not shoving. It noses at one of the scraps of purple. It takes it, just to hold. Carefully, gently. As it's precious. Fragile.
Like it cares.
"We can turn it into anything, whatever you want. Whatever you want it to be. Moon's the limit and all that."
He pauses. Stares at the rat, then the ribbon, still in his palm. Fingers tremble, and his grip loosens. With an intake of a shaky, fine breath, he holds the ribbon to his chest for a moment.
Then his hand curls, tossing it down. "Nothing. There's nothing that can be changed. That I can change."
The words are bleak, bitter. Starched and cold. He's already close to what he was always supposed to have done— giving up. Raking the smouldering coals of Robin under the rug. But he can't seem to let go. Why? Holding onto whatever this is pricks him like a thorn, stuck too deep to push any further, impossible to get out.
Robin is a shroud he has worn ragged, but even the threads won't let go of him. And Knight— powerful as he is, can't stain all that bright, faded orange. The purple in between may as well be grey.
"Sure there is. Get a needle and thread and you can stitch more on. Get some bleach and you can take out the colour. Get a lighter and burn the edges. Nothing is truly concrete." It practically purrs, slinking closer. Before his eyes, it sheds fat and silky smooth fur, gaining length and a darker coat. "Anything you want. It just takes the choice.
You're a creative boy, come to grips with reality. There is very little stopping you beside yourself." It takes another scrap of ribbon and hums gently as it cradles the precious, torn and ravaged silk. It would not be out of place to see tears. Unfortunately, humans seem to be the only ones capable of such a relieving task, so it is stuck there looking to him with pity and sadness unbefitting of such a recipient.
He blinks at the rat, gulping. The change gives him a splinter of revulsion, sliding down his back in a shiver.
The way the rat behaves towards the fabric is unsettling. The way it cradles, as if holding a child or a precious, family heirloom. No scrap should be treated that way. Nothing as insignificant as a ribbon.
"I don't.. why?" He asks, voice dropping. It's soft, barely a rough whisper. "Why bother trying? I can't.. be who I'm not. I can't be that. I can't be Robin. And.. nor do I want to. I don't want to. Batman," He sneers, now, a grotesque look on his marked face– and his voice reaches higher again. A mocking intonation.
"Batman is nothing. Batman is foul."
"This isn't about Batman. What I am saying isn't about Robin. It isn't about Jason or the Arkham Knight or a ribbon." It sets the ribbon down, leaving it with a soft lick. It then slowly creeps closer to Him. It gets close enough, able enough, to set a small paw on His chest. Right over the heart. "I am talking about this. You. You are You. Who are you? Who am I speaking with? I don't seek a name, mind you. I am not talking about who you should be."
Its paws rest calmly, but there's a slight twitch that betrays its wants. It wants to grip onto him, it doesn't want him to slip away. "Don't be who you're not. You're right, there is no point in trying to do that. But there is value to darning a hole in your sock over buying a new one."
The creature speaks with a strange sort of desperation and worry. It sounds hopeful, it sounds like a little boy begging his mama to wake up. It sounds like the sound before a crushing grief and immense disappointment. There will be no surprise. But maybe, maybe it's holding out hope that there will be. Because the eyes looking up into his have a confidence in him that anyone would know at a glance is unfounded.
And yet, and yet...
Brightly, he watches the Rat step closer. By now it's dark, the brightest thing to see is the whites of his eyes and their glare in the dark. He doesn't like it, but he lets the rat move up.
"I'm–" He starts to say, then stops when the rat continues. Don't be who you're not. But who is he? Who? Is he Knight? He certainly isn't Robin. He wasn't Jason for a while. He doesn't know.
"Is it?" He whispers. "Really? Because I tend to shed identities like skin. Like blood from a wound. None of them fit."
"Is there a real me?" He says, looking away, now. His face is in the shadows. Completely obscured. Not even a sliver of moonlight reaches him.
"So I can't. I can only play what I know best." He says, bringing up his knees. The rat is in his lap now, surely. Swaddled by the blankets. He's silent again, starting to shake . It's silent. Laughter or tears?
His hands reach up, hiding his face— as if the rat could see through the darkness it's been swallowed by.
"There is a you. You might be a Jason. You might be a Knight. You might be a Man. You might not be. Life is learning how to, when to, play. And when to step out of the role. Some people are comfortable in a name that isn't their own. And that's okay. Whoever you say you are is who you are at the moment. But everyone has something beneath it all. A little flicker of black in their center of which everything is held." Its face is barely visible. It lets him do as he will with its vessel. There is some innate knowledge somewhere that tells him that it won't leave until he's ready for it to.
"What parts of each mask feels right? Why does it feel right? We as creatures are our own little Frankensteins, freakish and garish and ugly and unknowing in the beginning. We learn as we go. Some of that learning is good. Some of it is bad. That's normal. It's normal not to perfectly fit in the skin of something that isn't you. Mix and match. Find a combination you like."
He's quiet, steeping in the rat's words. Who is he? Who? Who? Who? The thought sounds like an owl's hoot, repeating and repeating. He doesn't have an answer.
Is the rat still there? His eyes dart down. It is. He's miffed as to why it is.
"I don't know how. Or if I want to." He says, clipped.
"Either way, think about it. Think. Give it time. This is a wound you can let fester, I promise." It truly seems to settle atop him. As if the action is natural, as if he's safe to be like that around. "You are who you want to be." It murmurs from where it is, nice and cozy in his blankets. It looks safe.
There is a rat on his windowsill. It's lying there where something else should probably be. Such as nothing. It blinks. Once, twice. Hidden in the light streaming in behind it, barely hiding its features in shadow. There is a bow around its neck, a lovely shade of purple with orange stripes and red dots. It's furr is smooth and glossy, the creature is far more plump than it was last time. It yawns softly, disgustingly comfortable.
It is unbothered by his appearance.
He blinks at the rat, from where he sits at the bed. He's still not walking yet. Have the miltia men been helping him? It isn't clear. But, nonetheless, he stares silently at the creature.
The bow is ugly. Foul. His face pulls down, twisting into revulsion. "What is that?" He asks, plainly. "You're back here. Again?"
His words don't feature any disdain. They're hollow, really. Empty of feeling.
It blinks slowly, with the demenor of a queen reclining on her chaise lounge, uncaring of any and all else. And yet, it lies like a child on the floor with a crayon and colouring book. "I've been waiting for you to notice my presence for quite a while." It drawls, "You're getting sloppy, Jason." That couldn't be true, could it? It stretches out a paw, groaning. The ribbon slips from its neck, somehow. The bow must have been looser than previously assumed, the wind stronger, for it carries far into the room. It's neatly, well-made. Silk, no doubt. A waste of such fine, luxurious silk. It slips through his fingers without permission, playfully dancing over his shoulders to rest solemnly in his lap.
The rat still lies there, whiskers flicking with amusement. The wind dies down. "A gift, if you'll accept it, Arkham's Knight. That's what you're going by these days, yeah?" It looks over him, assessing. Its eyes hardly snag on his leg.
The irked look that shades over his face is immediate. He sits up a bit, leaning forwards. Hand already clutched in an angry fist. Does the rat even notice? He stares at it like its very being is ostentatious.
"I'm not sloppy." He warns. Eyes widening, he stares at the ribbon in his lap like it might give him a virus. He doesn't bother touching it– only pretends it isn't there. Ignores it.
"That ribbon is horrendous." He argues, as if it isn't right there, anyways. Oh well. The ugly, stained silk can't hear him. That thought gets a giggle.
It huffs a laugh, stretching out. Limbs pop into place, a soft grunt is punched out of its lungs. "Really? I'm rather fond of it, Knight." It basically hisses, straightening up, fur puffing out unnaturally. "The red is such a lovely, violent, effective shade, and the orange is hard not to love. I suppose the purple is a bit... covered. Truly a shame."
It cocks a head to the side, staring at his angry fist. It is safe, though. It knows it is, considering how it can scurry quicker than the Knight can walk.
There's another ribbon, which floats in through the window. It is a horrendous shade of purple. Too red, too blue. Too bright, too dark. Far to saturated, not saturated enough. The rat plucks the luxurious, scraggly thing from the air, no longer looking to the man on the bed in favour of investigating its new curiosity, tugging teeth on it and scratching down on the poor thing with its claws.
It seems incredibly pleased.
Jason watches, stiffly. "Why is it a shame?" He asks, apprehensive. He sits back, leaning against a few pillows, features shadowed in the dark.
The rat is strange. Rats don't.. exactly, speak. His eyes linger on the thing, assessing. If it's not a rat, then what is it?
Something else? The thought creeps in like blood soaking into fabric. He can't get rid of it, like the wounds carved into his own flesh.
The new ribbon is shiny. Still ugly, still purple. A shade that can't be pinpointed, flickering through the spectrum of hue before the rat claws it down. He winces.
"What's with that ribbon?"
"The ribbon is a ribbon. What isn't with the ribbon?" It glances at him, now rubbing its nose against the, now far more wet, ribbon. It has a few puncture holes in it now, thanks to the teeth and the tearing. "And, to answer your earlier question, it's a shame because I do like purple. It's such a lovely colour."
The being holds up the ribbon over where his face must lie in its vision. "It looks nice on you. Orange and red as well... to a lesser extent. A shame you don't wear purple often, if ever. It suits you." It proclaims, not the least worried about how he feels on the matter, considering it feels the need to continue, "It looks nice with your eyes, hair. Softens you a bit. Visually, I mean."
It pauses, blinks. Then, it finishes off by saying, more to itself than him, "Ah, that's why you don't wear it."
The purple ribbon — once shiny, has quickly dulled in the rat's grip. Torn up, bitten, it now looks more like a shredded chunk of fabric. Or, the smaller bit of a larger tapestry.
"If you like purple, then why are you tearing the ribbon?" He asks, bluntly. He eyes the thing like it's a piece of trash, even as purple is the colour that looks best on him. Denial– even as he is closer to purple now than ever.
He scowls. "I don't like purple." Joker wore purple as a suit. The colour is ruined for him, no?
It hums and bobs its head. "By tearing it up, now there's more of it, no? Who doesn't like more?" A scrap stumbles in from the sill on the wind. The torn, shredded purple falls to his bedside, weeping in grief as it lies to rest. A shimmer of silvery thread runs through it, gently. Something previously unseen due to distance. It mocks him in its grief, the grief of not being whole and the mourning of what it once was. It delights, even so, in its newfound state. It is beautiful and made anew in its grief and trauma. It is nearly dead.
"Hm. Makes sense you wouldn't like it, I suppose. The purple is what you make of it, who you make of it. What it is made of for you. How you see it. The threads could build a blanket or a bat, or even a crowbar, if you'd like."
"More?" He echoes the word, swinging it around in his mind. More. More of what? He can't stop being the Knight. Can't stop that. And he.. he can try to be like Robin. But that never works. It won't work, not when Robin is a doll, stained, with its mouth sewn shut and its eyes ripped out and insides stuffed with anything but simple, pure cotton and wool.
Robin is Batman's assistant. Joker's victim. Batman's victim, in the end. He will kill Batman. Rip his bones from his body while his flesh revolts and tries to hold on. He will die.
The ribbon is garish, as beautiful as it seems to the rat. The silver thread is nothing but the obvious scar, ruination of a ribbon. Mocking. Cruel. He glowers. It is nothing and everything at once, silver for what he now is and purple for who he refuses to be.
"I don't need it to be anything. What else could I make of a single ribbon– a foul, torn one, but have it as a ribbon?"
"You're thinking too far into it while also thinking too small, Jason." It hums, pushing the rest of the scraps in through the window. "It could be a mosaic, it could be art. It could be a keepsake, it could be the gem on a ring. Anything and everything, whatever you want it to be. It doesn't, shouldn't have to stay a ribbon. Not if it doesn't want to be. It doesn't even have to be fully purple anymore. Change is natural. It comes with age."
The tear of ribbon shifts and shimmers under faint light. It glints at him, as if crying softly. It wants comfort. Why won't anyone love it? Why mustn't it be worth the effort of care? Why did its mama and papa leave it? It's so sad, with fraying threads reaching up toward him. It hopes that maybe, just maybe, he will take pity on it.
It is a scrap of torn thread. Others join it, joining it as it mourns and weeps. The other ribbon keeps its distance.
"I don't know how to change it." He sighs. For a moment the words are almost a plea– sorrowful, but he cuts off the sound the moment the whine reaches his ears.
He pauses his fiddling with the blankets, gripping them tightly. He doesn't seem to notice how his own scarred, mangled hands shake.
Then he glowers at the ribbon. Reaches forward, clasps it unto a hand, and crumples it in his palm, crushing it. It doesn't matter. He can't change. He can't. There's nothing beyond the two faces he knows; who he was and who he is supporting to be. He can't allow anything else. Can't find a way back to a soul, to spirit. To reality.
The purple dulls, burning dark under his palm. Reflectant of only blood soaking into satin. Of a stain, of something dark on carpet. Of a shadow in a corner, shied away.
"Well, what do you want to create?"
The rat is sitting at the foot of his bed. It's hard to tell when it got there. It blinks at him, understanding. The creature almost seems like it knows exactly what he's asking, what he's asking. Its voice is soft, pushing but not shoving. It noses at one of the scraps of purple. It takes it, just to hold. Carefully, gently. As it's precious. Fragile.
Like it cares.
"We can turn it into anything, whatever you want. Whatever you want it to be. Moon's the limit and all that."
He pauses. Stares at the rat, then the ribbon, still in his palm. Fingers tremble, and his grip loosens. With an intake of a shaky, fine breath, he holds the ribbon to his chest for a moment.
Then his hand curls, tossing it down. "Nothing. There's nothing that can be changed. That I can change."
The words are bleak, bitter. Starched and cold. He's already close to what he was always supposed to have done— giving up. Raking the smouldering coals of Robin under the rug. But he can't seem to let go. Why? Holding onto whatever this is pricks him like a thorn, stuck too deep to push any further, impossible to get out.
Robin is a shroud he has worn ragged, but even the threads won't let go of him. And Knight— powerful as he is, can't stain all that bright, faded orange. The purple in between may as well be grey.
"Sure there is. Get a needle and thread and you can stitch more on. Get some bleach and you can take out the colour. Get a lighter and burn the edges. Nothing is truly concrete." It practically purrs, slinking closer. Before his eyes, it sheds fat and silky smooth fur, gaining length and a darker coat. "Anything you want. It just takes the choice.
You're a creative boy, come to grips with reality. There is very little stopping you beside yourself." It takes another scrap of ribbon and hums gently as it cradles the precious, torn and ravaged silk. It would not be out of place to see tears. Unfortunately, humans seem to be the only ones capable of such a relieving task, so it is stuck there looking to him with pity and sadness unbefitting of such a recipient.
He blinks at the rat, gulping. The change gives him a splinter of revulsion, sliding down his back in a shiver.
The way the rat behaves towards the fabric is unsettling. The way it cradles, as if holding a child or a precious, family heirloom. No scrap should be treated that way. Nothing as insignificant as a ribbon.
"I don't.. why?" He asks, voice dropping. It's soft, barely a rough whisper. "Why bother trying? I can't.. be who I'm not. I can't be that. I can't be Robin. And.. nor do I want to. I don't want to. Batman," He sneers, now, a grotesque look on his marked face– and his voice reaches higher again. A mocking intonation.
"Batman is nothing. Batman is foul."
"This isn't about Batman. What I am saying isn't about Robin. It isn't about Jason or the Arkham Knight or a ribbon." It sets the ribbon down, leaving it with a soft lick. It then slowly creeps closer to Him. It gets close enough, able enough, to set a small paw on His chest. Right over the heart. "I am talking about this. You. You are You. Who are you? Who am I speaking with? I don't seek a name, mind you. I am not talking about who you should be."
Its paws rest calmly, but there's a slight twitch that betrays its wants. It wants to grip onto him, it doesn't want him to slip away. "Don't be who you're not. You're right, there is no point in trying to do that. But there is value to darning a hole in your sock over buying a new one."
The creature speaks with a strange sort of desperation and worry. It sounds hopeful, it sounds like a little boy begging his mama to wake up. It sounds like the sound before a crushing grief and immense disappointment. There will be no surprise. But maybe, maybe it's holding out hope that there will be. Because the eyes looking up into his have a confidence in him that anyone would know at a glance is unfounded.
And yet, and yet...
Brightly, he watches the Rat step closer. By now it's dark, the brightest thing to see is the whites of his eyes and their glare in the dark. He doesn't like it, but he lets the rat move up.
"I'm–" He starts to say, then stops when the rat continues. Don't be who you're not. But who is he? Who? Is he Knight? He certainly isn't Robin. He wasn't Jason for a while. He doesn't know.
"Is it?" He whispers. "Really? Because I tend to shed identities like skin. Like blood from a wound. None of them fit."
"Is there a real me?" He says, looking away, now. His face is in the shadows. Completely obscured. Not even a sliver of moonlight reaches him.
"So I can't. I can only play what I know best." He says, bringing up his knees. The rat is in his lap now, surely. Swaddled by the blankets. He's silent again, starting to shake . It's silent. Laughter or tears?
His hands reach up, hiding his face— as if the rat could see through the darkness it's been swallowed by.
"There is a you. You might be a Jason. You might be a Knight. You might be a Man. You might not be. Life is learning how to, when to, play. And when to step out of the role. Some people are comfortable in a name that isn't their own. And that's okay. Whoever you say you are is who you are at the moment. But everyone has something beneath it all. A little flicker of black in their center of which everything is held." Its face is barely visible. It lets him do as he will with its vessel. There is some innate knowledge somewhere that tells him that it won't leave until he's ready for it to.
"What parts of each mask feels right? Why does it feel right? We as creatures are our own little Frankensteins, freakish and garish and ugly and unknowing in the beginning. We learn as we go. Some of that learning is good. Some of it is bad. That's normal. It's normal not to perfectly fit in the skin of something that isn't you. Mix and match. Find a combination you like."
There is a rat on his windowsill. It's lying there where something else should probably be. Such as nothing. It blinks. Once, twice. Hidden in the light streaming in behind it, barely hiding its features in shadow. There is a bow around its neck, a lovely shade of purple with orange stripes and red dots. It's furr is smooth and glossy, the creature is far more plump than it was last time. It yawns softly, disgustingly comfortable.
It is unbothered by his appearance.
He blinks at the rat, from where he sits at the bed. He's still not walking yet. Have the miltia men been helping him? It isn't clear. But, nonetheless, he stares silently at the creature.
The bow is ugly. Foul. His face pulls down, twisting into revulsion. "What is that?" He asks, plainly. "You're back here. Again?"
His words don't feature any disdain. They're hollow, really. Empty of feeling.
It blinks slowly, with the demenor of a queen reclining on her chaise lounge, uncaring of any and all else. And yet, it lies like a child on the floor with a crayon and colouring book. "I've been waiting for you to notice my presence for quite a while." It drawls, "You're getting sloppy, Jason." That couldn't be true, could it? It stretches out a paw, groaning. The ribbon slips from its neck, somehow. The bow must have been looser than previously assumed, the wind stronger, for it carries far into the room. It's neatly, well-made. Silk, no doubt. A waste of such fine, luxurious silk. It slips through his fingers without permission, playfully dancing over his shoulders to rest solemnly in his lap.
The rat still lies there, whiskers flicking with amusement. The wind dies down. "A gift, if you'll accept it, Arkham's Knight. That's what you're going by these days, yeah?" It looks over him, assessing. Its eyes hardly snag on his leg.
The irked look that shades over his face is immediate. He sits up a bit, leaning forwards. Hand already clutched in an angry fist. Does the rat even notice? He stares at it like its very being is ostentatious.
"I'm not sloppy." He warns. Eyes widening, he stares at the ribbon in his lap like it might give him a virus. He doesn't bother touching it– only pretends it isn't there. Ignores it.
"That ribbon is horrendous." He argues, as if it isn't right there, anyways. Oh well. The ugly, stained silk can't hear him. That thought gets a giggle.
It huffs a laugh, stretching out. Limbs pop into place, a soft grunt is punched out of its lungs. "Really? I'm rather fond of it, Knight." It basically hisses, straightening up, fur puffing out unnaturally. "The red is such a lovely, violent, effective shade, and the orange is hard not to love. I suppose the purple is a bit... covered. Truly a shame."
It cocks a head to the side, staring at his angry fist. It is safe, though. It knows it is, considering how it can scurry quicker than the Knight can walk.
There's another ribbon, which floats in through the window. It is a horrendous shade of purple. Too red, too blue. Too bright, too dark. Far to saturated, not saturated enough. The rat plucks the luxurious, scraggly thing from the air, no longer looking to the man on the bed in favour of investigating its new curiosity, tugging teeth on it and scratching down on the poor thing with its claws.
It seems incredibly pleased.
Jason watches, stiffly. "Why is it a shame?" He asks, apprehensive. He sits back, leaning against a few pillows, features shadowed in the dark.
The rat is strange. Rats don't.. exactly, speak. His eyes linger on the thing, assessing. If it's not a rat, then what is it?
Something else? The thought creeps in like blood soaking into fabric. He can't get rid of it, like the wounds carved into his own flesh.
The new ribbon is shiny. Still ugly, still purple. A shade that can't be pinpointed, flickering through the spectrum of hue before the rat claws it down. He winces.
"What's with that ribbon?"
"The ribbon is a ribbon. What isn't with the ribbon?" It glances at him, now rubbing its nose against the, now far more wet, ribbon. It has a few puncture holes in it now, thanks to the teeth and the tearing. "And, to answer your earlier question, it's a shame because I do like purple. It's such a lovely colour."
The being holds up the ribbon over where his face must lie in its vision. "It looks nice on you. Orange and red as well... to a lesser extent. A shame you don't wear purple often, if ever. It suits you." It proclaims, not the least worried about how he feels on the matter, considering it feels the need to continue, "It looks nice with your eyes, hair. Softens you a bit. Visually, I mean."
It pauses, blinks. Then, it finishes off by saying, more to itself than him, "Ah, that's why you don't wear it."
The purple ribbon — once shiny, has quickly dulled in the rat's grip. Torn up, bitten, it now looks more like a shredded chunk of fabric. Or, the smaller bit of a larger tapestry.
"If you like purple, then why are you tearing the ribbon?" He asks, bluntly. He eyes the thing like it's a piece of trash, even as purple is the colour that looks best on him. Denial– even as he is closer to purple now than ever.
He scowls. "I don't like purple." Joker wore purple as a suit. The colour is ruined for him, no?
It hums and bobs its head. "By tearing it up, now there's more of it, no? Who doesn't like more?" A scrap stumbles in from the sill on the wind. The torn, shredded purple falls to his bedside, weeping in grief as it lies to rest. A shimmer of silvery thread runs through it, gently. Something previously unseen due to distance. It mocks him in its grief, the grief of not being whole and the mourning of what it once was. It delights, even so, in its newfound state. It is beautiful and made anew in its grief and trauma. It is nearly dead.
"Hm. Makes sense you wouldn't like it, I suppose. The purple is what you make of it, who you make of it. What it is made of for you. How you see it. The threads could build a blanket or a bat, or even a crowbar, if you'd like."
"More?" He echoes the word, swinging it around in his mind. More. More of what? He can't stop being the Knight. Can't stop that. And he.. he can try to be like Robin. But that never works. It won't work, not when Robin is a doll, stained, with its mouth sewn shut and its eyes ripped out and insides stuffed with anything but simple, pure cotton and wool.
Robin is Batman's assistant. Joker's victim. Batman's victim, in the end. He will kill Batman. Rip his bones from his body while his flesh revolts and tries to hold on. He will die.
The ribbon is garish, as beautiful as it seems to the rat. The silver thread is nothing but the obvious scar, ruination of a ribbon. Mocking. Cruel. He glowers. It is nothing and everything at once, silver for what he now is and purple for who he refuses to be.
"I don't need it to be anything. What else could I make of a single ribbon– a foul, torn one, but have it as a ribbon?"
"You're thinking too far into it while also thinking too small, Jason." It hums, pushing the rest of the scraps in through the window. "It could be a mosaic, it could be art. It could be a keepsake, it could be the gem on a ring. Anything and everything, whatever you want it to be. It doesn't, shouldn't have to stay a ribbon. Not if it doesn't want to be. It doesn't even have to be fully purple anymore. Change is natural. It comes with age."
The tear of ribbon shifts and shimmers under faint light. It glints at him, as if crying softly. It wants comfort. Why won't anyone love it? Why mustn't it be worth the effort of care? Why did its mama and papa leave it? It's so sad, with fraying threads reaching up toward him. It hopes that maybe, just maybe, he will take pity on it.
It is a scrap of torn thread. Others join it, joining it as it mourns and weeps. The other ribbon keeps its distance.
"I don't know how to change it." He sighs. For a moment the words are almost a plea– sorrowful, but he cuts off the sound the moment the whine reaches his ears.
He pauses his fiddling with the blankets, gripping them tightly. He doesn't seem to notice how his own scarred, mangled hands shake.
Then he glowers at the ribbon. Reaches forward, clasps it unto a hand, and crumples it in his palm, crushing it. It doesn't matter. He can't change. He can't. There's nothing beyond the two faces he knows; who he was and who he is supporting to be. He can't allow anything else. Can't find a way back to a soul, to spirit. To reality.
The purple dulls, burning dark under his palm. Reflectant of only blood soaking into satin. Of a stain, of something dark on carpet. Of a shadow in a corner, shied away.
"Well, what do you want to create?"
The rat is sitting at the foot of his bed. It's hard to tell when it got there. It blinks at him, understanding. The creature almost seems like it knows exactly what he's asking, what he's asking. Its voice is soft, pushing but not shoving. It noses at one of the scraps of purple. It takes it, just to hold. Carefully, gently. As it's precious. Fragile.
Like it cares.
"We can turn it into anything, whatever you want. Whatever you want it to be. Moon's the limit and all that."
He pauses. Stares at the rat, then the ribbon, still in his palm. Fingers tremble, and his grip loosens. With an intake of a shaky, fine breath, he holds the ribbon to his chest for a moment.
Then his hand curls, tossing it down. "Nothing. There's nothing that can be changed. That I can change."
The words are bleak, bitter. Starched and cold. He's already close to what he was always supposed to have done— giving up. Raking the smouldering coals of Robin under the rug. But he can't seem to let go. Why? Holding onto whatever this is pricks him like a thorn, stuck too deep to push any further, impossible to get out.
Robin is a shroud he has worn ragged, but even the threads won't let go of him. And Knight— powerful as he is, can't stain all that bright, faded orange. The purple in between may as well be grey.
"Sure there is. Get a needle and thread and you can stitch more on. Get some bleach and you can take out the colour. Get a lighter and burn the edges. Nothing is truly concrete." It practically purrs, slinking closer. Before his eyes, it sheds fat and silky smooth fur, gaining length and a darker coat. "Anything you want. It just takes the choice.
You're a creative boy, come to grips with reality. There is very little stopping you beside yourself." It takes another scrap of ribbon and hums gently as it cradles the precious, torn and ravaged silk. It would not be out of place to see tears. Unfortunately, humans seem to be the only ones capable of such a relieving task, so it is stuck there looking to him with pity and sadness unbefitting of such a recipient.
He blinks at the rat, gulping. The change gives him a splinter of revulsion, sliding down his back in a shiver.
The way the rat behaves towards the fabric is unsettling. The way it cradles, as if holding a child or a precious, family heirloom. No scrap should be treated that way. Nothing as insignificant as a ribbon.
"I don't.. why?" He asks, voice dropping. It's soft, barely a rough whisper. "Why bother trying? I can't.. be who I'm not. I can't be that. I can't be Robin. And.. nor do I want to. I don't want to. Batman," He sneers, now, a grotesque look on his marked face– and his voice reaches higher again. A mocking intonation.
"Batman is nothing. Batman is foul."
"This isn't about Batman. What I am saying isn't about Robin. It isn't about Jason or the Arkham Knight or a ribbon." It sets the ribbon down, leaving it with a soft lick. It then slowly creeps closer to Him. It gets close enough, able enough, to set a small paw on His chest. Right over the heart. "I am talking about this. You. You are You. Who are you? Who am I speaking with? I don't seek a name, mind you. I am not talking about who you should be."
Its paws rest calmly, but there's a slight twitch that betrays its wants. It wants to grip onto him, it doesn't want him to slip away. "Don't be who you're not. You're right, there is no point in trying to do that. But there is value to darning a hole in your sock over buying a new one."
The creature speaks with a strange sort of desperation and worry. It sounds hopeful, it sounds like a little boy begging his mama to wake up. It sounds like the sound before a crushing grief and immense disappointment. There will be no surprise. But maybe, maybe it's holding out hope that there will be. Because the eyes looking up into his have a confidence in him that anyone would know at a glance is unfounded.
And yet, and yet...
There is a rat on his windowsill. It's lying there where something else should probably be. Such as nothing. It blinks. Once, twice. Hidden in the light streaming in behind it, barely hiding its features in shadow. There is a bow around its neck, a lovely shade of purple with orange stripes and red dots. It's furr is smooth and glossy, the creature is far more plump than it was last time. It yawns softly, disgustingly comfortable.
It is unbothered by his appearance.
He blinks at the rat, from where he sits at the bed. He's still not walking yet. Have the miltia men been helping him? It isn't clear. But, nonetheless, he stares silently at the creature.
The bow is ugly. Foul. His face pulls down, twisting into revulsion. "What is that?" He asks, plainly. "You're back here. Again?"
His words don't feature any disdain. They're hollow, really. Empty of feeling.
It blinks slowly, with the demenor of a queen reclining on her chaise lounge, uncaring of any and all else. And yet, it lies like a child on the floor with a crayon and colouring book. "I've been waiting for you to notice my presence for quite a while." It drawls, "You're getting sloppy, Jason." That couldn't be true, could it? It stretches out a paw, groaning. The ribbon slips from its neck, somehow. The bow must have been looser than previously assumed, the wind stronger, for it carries far into the room. It's neatly, well-made. Silk, no doubt. A waste of such fine, luxurious silk. It slips through his fingers without permission, playfully dancing over his shoulders to rest solemnly in his lap.
The rat still lies there, whiskers flicking with amusement. The wind dies down. "A gift, if you'll accept it, Arkham's Knight. That's what you're going by these days, yeah?" It looks over him, assessing. Its eyes hardly snag on his leg.
The irked look that shades over his face is immediate. He sits up a bit, leaning forwards. Hand already clutched in an angry fist. Does the rat even notice? He stares at it like its very being is ostentatious.
"I'm not sloppy." He warns. Eyes widening, he stares at the ribbon in his lap like it might give him a virus. He doesn't bother touching it– only pretends it isn't there. Ignores it.
"That ribbon is horrendous." He argues, as if it isn't right there, anyways. Oh well. The ugly, stained silk can't hear him. That thought gets a giggle.
It huffs a laugh, stretching out. Limbs pop into place, a soft grunt is punched out of its lungs. "Really? I'm rather fond of it, Knight." It basically hisses, straightening up, fur puffing out unnaturally. "The red is such a lovely, violent, effective shade, and the orange is hard not to love. I suppose the purple is a bit... covered. Truly a shame."
It cocks a head to the side, staring at his angry fist. It is safe, though. It knows it is, considering how it can scurry quicker than the Knight can walk.
There's another ribbon, which floats in through the window. It is a horrendous shade of purple. Too red, too blue. Too bright, too dark. Far to saturated, not saturated enough. The rat plucks the luxurious, scraggly thing from the air, no longer looking to the man on the bed in favour of investigating its new curiosity, tugging teeth on it and scratching down on the poor thing with its claws.
It seems incredibly pleased.
Jason watches, stiffly. "Why is it a shame?" He asks, apprehensive. He sits back, leaning against a few pillows, features shadowed in the dark.
The rat is strange. Rats don't.. exactly, speak. His eyes linger on the thing, assessing. If it's not a rat, then what is it?
Something else? The thought creeps in like blood soaking into fabric. He can't get rid of it, like the wounds carved into his own flesh.
The new ribbon is shiny. Still ugly, still purple. A shade that can't be pinpointed, flickering through the spectrum of hue before the rat claws it down. He winces.
"What's with that ribbon?"
"The ribbon is a ribbon. What isn't with the ribbon?" It glances at him, now rubbing its nose against the, now far more wet, ribbon. It has a few puncture holes in it now, thanks to the teeth and the tearing. "And, to answer your earlier question, it's a shame because I do like purple. It's such a lovely colour."
The being holds up the ribbon over where his face must lie in its vision. "It looks nice on you. Orange and red as well... to a lesser extent. A shame you don't wear purple often, if ever. It suits you." It proclaims, not the least worried about how he feels on the matter, considering it feels the need to continue, "It looks nice with your eyes, hair. Softens you a bit. Visually, I mean."
It pauses, blinks. Then, it finishes off by saying, more to itself than him, "Ah, that's why you don't wear it."
The purple ribbon — once shiny, has quickly dulled in the rat's grip. Torn up, bitten, it now looks more like a shredded chunk of fabric. Or, the smaller bit of a larger tapestry.
"If you like purple, then why are you tearing the ribbon?" He asks, bluntly. He eyes the thing like it's a piece of trash, even as purple is the colour that looks best on him. Denial– even as he is closer to purple now than ever.
He scowls. "I don't like purple." Joker wore purple as a suit. The colour is ruined for him, no?
It hums and bobs its head. "By tearing it up, now there's more of it, no? Who doesn't like more?" A scrap stumbles in from the sill on the wind. The torn, shredded purple falls to his bedside, weeping in grief as it lies to rest. A shimmer of silvery thread runs through it, gently. Something previously unseen due to distance. It mocks him in its grief, the grief of not being whole and the mourning of what it once was. It delights, even so, in its newfound state. It is beautiful and made anew in its grief and trauma. It is nearly dead.
"Hm. Makes sense you wouldn't like it, I suppose. The purple is what you make of it, who you make of it. What it is made of for you. How you see it. The threads could build a blanket or a bat, or even a crowbar, if you'd like."
"More?" He echoes the word, swinging it around in his mind. More. More of what? He can't stop being the Knight. Can't stop that. And he.. he can try to be like Robin. But that never works. It won't work, not when Robin is a doll, stained, with its mouth sewn shut and its eyes ripped out and insides stuffed with anything but simple, pure cotton and wool.
Robin is Batman's assistant. Joker's victim. Batman's victim, in the end. He will kill Batman. Rip his bones from his body while his flesh revolts and tries to hold on. He will die.
The ribbon is garish, as beautiful as it seems to the rat. The silver thread is nothing but the obvious scar, ruination of a ribbon. Mocking. Cruel. He glowers. It is nothing and everything at once, silver for what he now is and purple for who he refuses to be.
"I don't need it to be anything. What else could I make of a single ribbon– a foul, torn one, but have it as a ribbon?"
"You're thinking too far into it while also thinking too small, Jason." It hums, pushing the rest of the scraps in through the window. "It could be a mosaic, it could be art. It could be a keepsake, it could be the gem on a ring. Anything and everything, whatever you want it to be. It doesn't, shouldn't have to stay a ribbon. Not if it doesn't want to be. It doesn't even have to be fully purple anymore. Change is natural. It comes with age."
The tear of ribbon shifts and shimmers under faint light. It glints at him, as if crying softly. It wants comfort. Why won't anyone love it? Why mustn't it be worth the effort of care? Why did its mama and papa leave it? It's so sad, with fraying threads reaching up toward him. It hopes that maybe, just maybe, he will take pity on it.
It is a scrap of torn thread. Others join it, joining it as it mourns and weeps. The other ribbon keeps its distance.
"I don't know how to change it." He sighs. For a moment the words are almost a plea– sorrowful, but he cuts off the sound the moment the whine reaches his ears.
He pauses his fiddling with the blankets, gripping them tightly. He doesn't seem to notice how his own scarred, mangled hands shake.
Then he glowers at the ribbon. Reaches forward, clasps it unto a hand, and crumples it in his palm, crushing it. It doesn't matter. He can't change. He can't. There's nothing beyond the two faces he knows; who he was and who he is supporting to be. He can't allow anything else. Can't find a way back to a soul, to spirit. To reality.
The purple dulls, burning dark under his palm. Reflectant of only blood soaking into satin. Of a stain, of something dark on carpet. Of a shadow in a corner, shied away.
"Well, what do you want to create?"
The rat is sitting at the foot of his bed. It's hard to tell when it got there. It blinks at him, understanding. The creature almost seems like it knows exactly what he's asking, what he's asking. Its voice is soft, pushing but not shoving. It noses at one of the scraps of purple. It takes it, just to hold. Carefully, gently. As it's precious. Fragile.
Like it cares.
"We can turn it into anything, whatever you want. Whatever you want it to be. Moon's the limit and all that."
He pauses. Stares at the rat, then the ribbon, still in his palm. Fingers tremble, and his grip loosens. With an intake of a shaky, fine breath, he holds the ribbon to his chest for a moment.
Then his hand curls, tossing it down. "Nothing. There's nothing that can be changed. That I can change."
The words are bleak, bitter. Starched and cold. He's already close to what he was always supposed to have done— giving up. Raking the smouldering coals of Robin under the rug. But he can't seem to let go. Why? Holding onto whatever this is pricks him like a thorn, stuck too deep to push any further, impossible to get out.
Robin is a shroud he has worn ragged, but even the threads won't let go of him. And Knight— powerful as he is, can't stain all that bright, faded orange. The purple in between may as well be grey.
"Sure there is. Get a needle and thread and you can stitch more on. Get some bleach and you can take out the colour. Get a lighter and burn the edges. Nothing is truly concrete." It practically purrs, slinking closer. Before his eyes, it sheds fat and silky smooth fur, gaining length and a darker coat. "Anything you want. It just takes the choice.
You're a creative boy, come to grips with reality. There is very little stopping you beside yourself." It takes another scrap of ribbon and hums gently as it cradles the precious, torn and ravaged silk. It would not be out of place to see tears. Unfortunately, humans seem to be the only ones capable of such a relieving task, so it is stuck there looking to him with pity and sadness unbefitting of such a recipient.
There is a rat on his windowsill. It's lying there where something else should probably be. Such as nothing. It blinks. Once, twice. Hidden in the light streaming in behind it, barely hiding its features in shadow. There is a bow around its neck, a lovely shade of purple with orange stripes and red dots. It's furr is smooth and glossy, the creature is far more plump than it was last time. It yawns softly, disgustingly comfortable.
It is unbothered by his appearance.
He blinks at the rat, from where he sits at the bed. He's still not walking yet. Have the miltia men been helping him? It isn't clear. But, nonetheless, he stares silently at the creature.
The bow is ugly. Foul. His face pulls down, twisting into revulsion. "What is that?" He asks, plainly. "You're back here. Again?"
His words don't feature any disdain. They're hollow, really. Empty of feeling.
It blinks slowly, with the demenor of a queen reclining on her chaise lounge, uncaring of any and all else. And yet, it lies like a child on the floor with a crayon and colouring book. "I've been waiting for you to notice my presence for quite a while." It drawls, "You're getting sloppy, Jason." That couldn't be true, could it? It stretches out a paw, groaning. The ribbon slips from its neck, somehow. The bow must have been looser than previously assumed, the wind stronger, for it carries far into the room. It's neatly, well-made. Silk, no doubt. A waste of such fine, luxurious silk. It slips through his fingers without permission, playfully dancing over his shoulders to rest solemnly in his lap.
The rat still lies there, whiskers flicking with amusement. The wind dies down. "A gift, if you'll accept it, Arkham's Knight. That's what you're going by these days, yeah?" It looks over him, assessing. Its eyes hardly snag on his leg.
The irked look that shades over his face is immediate. He sits up a bit, leaning forwards. Hand already clutched in an angry fist. Does the rat even notice? He stares at it like its very being is ostentatious.
"I'm not sloppy." He warns. Eyes widening, he stares at the ribbon in his lap like it might give him a virus. He doesn't bother touching it– only pretends it isn't there. Ignores it.
"That ribbon is horrendous." He argues, as if it isn't right there, anyways. Oh well. The ugly, stained silk can't hear him. That thought gets a giggle.
It huffs a laugh, stretching out. Limbs pop into place, a soft grunt is punched out of its lungs. "Really? I'm rather fond of it, Knight." It basically hisses, straightening up, fur puffing out unnaturally. "The red is such a lovely, violent, effective shade, and the orange is hard not to love. I suppose the purple is a bit... covered. Truly a shame."
It cocks a head to the side, staring at his angry fist. It is safe, though. It knows it is, considering how it can scurry quicker than the Knight can walk.
There's another ribbon, which floats in through the window. It is a horrendous shade of purple. Too red, too blue. Too bright, too dark. Far to saturated, not saturated enough. The rat plucks the luxurious, scraggly thing from the air, no longer looking to the man on the bed in favour of investigating its new curiosity, tugging teeth on it and scratching down on the poor thing with its claws.
It seems incredibly pleased.
Jason watches, stiffly. "Why is it a shame?" He asks, apprehensive. He sits back, leaning against a few pillows, features shadowed in the dark.
The rat is strange. Rats don't.. exactly, speak. His eyes linger on the thing, assessing. If it's not a rat, then what is it?
Something else? The thought creeps in like blood soaking into fabric. He can't get rid of it, like the wounds carved into his own flesh.
The new ribbon is shiny. Still ugly, still purple. A shade that can't be pinpointed, flickering through the spectrum of hue before the rat claws it down. He winces.
"What's with that ribbon?"
"The ribbon is a ribbon. What isn't with the ribbon?" It glances at him, now rubbing its nose against the, now far more wet, ribbon. It has a few puncture holes in it now, thanks to the teeth and the tearing. "And, to answer your earlier question, it's a shame because I do like purple. It's such a lovely colour."
The being holds up the ribbon over where his face must lie in its vision. "It looks nice on you. Orange and red as well... to a lesser extent. A shame you don't wear purple often, if ever. It suits you." It proclaims, not the least worried about how he feels on the matter, considering it feels the need to continue, "It looks nice with your eyes, hair. Softens you a bit. Visually, I mean."
It pauses, blinks. Then, it finishes off by saying, more to itself than him, "Ah, that's why you don't wear it."
The purple ribbon — once shiny, has quickly dulled in the rat's grip. Torn up, bitten, it now looks more like a shredded chunk of fabric. Or, the smaller bit of a larger tapestry.
"If you like purple, then why are you tearing the ribbon?" He asks, bluntly. He eyes the thing like it's a piece of trash, even as purple is the colour that looks best on him. Denial– even as he is closer to purple now than ever.
He scowls. "I don't like purple." Joker wore purple as a suit. The colour is ruined for him, no?
It hums and bobs its head. "By tearing it up, now there's more of it, no? Who doesn't like more?" A scrap stumbles in from the sill on the wind. The torn, shredded purple falls to his bedside, weeping in grief as it lies to rest. A shimmer of silvery thread runs through it, gently. Something previously unseen due to distance. It mocks him in its grief, the grief of not being whole and the mourning of what it once was. It delights, even so, in its newfound state. It is beautiful and made anew in its grief and trauma. It is nearly dead.
"Hm. Makes sense you wouldn't like it, I suppose. The purple is what you make of it, who you make of it. What it is made of for you. How you see it. The threads could build a blanket or a bat, or even a crowbar, if you'd like."
"More?" He echoes the word, swinging it around in his mind. More. More of what? He can't stop being the Knight. Can't stop that. And he.. he can try to be like Robin. But that never works. It won't work, not when Robin is a doll, stained, with its mouth sewn shut and its eyes ripped out and insides stuffed with anything but simple, pure cotton and wool.
Robin is Batman's assistant. Joker's victim. Batman's victim, in the end. He will kill Batman. Rip his bones from his body while his flesh revolts and tries to hold on. He will die.
The ribbon is garish, as beautiful as it seems to the rat. The silver thread is nothing but the obvious scar, ruination of a ribbon. Mocking. Cruel. He glowers. It is nothing and everything at once, silver for what he now is and purple for who he refuses to be.
"I don't need it to be anything. What else could I make of a single ribbon– a foul, torn one, but have it as a ribbon?"
"You're thinking too far into it while also thinking too small, Jason." It hums, pushing the rest of the scraps in through the window. "It could be a mosaic, it could be art. It could be a keepsake, it could be the gem on a ring. Anything and everything, whatever you want it to be. It doesn't, shouldn't have to stay a ribbon. Not if it doesn't want to be. It doesn't even have to be fully purple anymore. Change is natural. It comes with age."
The tear of ribbon shifts and shimmers under faint light. It glints at him, as if crying softly. It wants comfort. Why won't anyone love it? Why mustn't it be worth the effort of care? Why did its mama and papa leave it? It's so sad, with fraying threads reaching up toward him. It hopes that maybe, just maybe, he will take pity on it.
It is a scrap of torn thread. Others join it, joining it as it mourns and weeps. The other ribbon keeps its distance.
"I don't know how to change it." He sighs. For a moment the words are almost a plea– sorrowful, but he cuts off the sound the moment the whine reaches his ears.
He pauses his fiddling with the blankets, gripping them tightly. He doesn't seem to notice how his own scarred, mangled hands shake.
Then he glowers at the ribbon. Reaches forward, clasps it unto a hand, and crumples it in his palm, crushing it. It doesn't matter. He can't change. He can't. There's nothing beyond the two faces he knows; who he was and who he is supporting to be. He can't allow anything else. Can't find a way back to a soul, to spirit. To reality.
The purple dulls, burning dark under his palm. Reflectant of only blood soaking into satin. Of a stain, of something dark on carpet. Of a shadow in a corner, shied away.
"Well, what do you want to create?"
The rat is sitting at the foot of his bed. It's hard to tell when it got there. It blinks at him, understanding. The creature almost seems like it knows exactly what he's asking, what he's asking. Its voice is soft, pushing but not shoving. It noses at one of the scraps of purple. It takes it, just to hold. Carefully, gently. As it's precious. Fragile.
Like it cares.
"We can turn it into anything, whatever you want. Whatever you want it to be. Moon's the limit and all that."
There is a rat on his windowsill. It's lying there where something else should probably be. Such as nothing. It blinks. Once, twice. Hidden in the light streaming in behind it, barely hiding its features in shadow. There is a bow around its neck, a lovely shade of purple with orange stripes and red dots. It's furr is smooth and glossy, the creature is far more plump than it was last time. It yawns softly, disgustingly comfortable.
It is unbothered by his appearance.
He blinks at the rat, from where he sits at the bed. He's still not walking yet. Have the miltia men been helping him? It isn't clear. But, nonetheless, he stares silently at the creature.
The bow is ugly. Foul. His face pulls down, twisting into revulsion. "What is that?" He asks, plainly. "You're back here. Again?"
His words don't feature any disdain. They're hollow, really. Empty of feeling.
It blinks slowly, with the demenor of a queen reclining on her chaise lounge, uncaring of any and all else. And yet, it lies like a child on the floor with a crayon and colouring book. "I've been waiting for you to notice my presence for quite a while." It drawls, "You're getting sloppy, Jason." That couldn't be true, could it? It stretches out a paw, groaning. The ribbon slips from its neck, somehow. The bow must have been looser than previously assumed, the wind stronger, for it carries far into the room. It's neatly, well-made. Silk, no doubt. A waste of such fine, luxurious silk. It slips through his fingers without permission, playfully dancing over his shoulders to rest solemnly in his lap.
The rat still lies there, whiskers flicking with amusement. The wind dies down. "A gift, if you'll accept it, Arkham's Knight. That's what you're going by these days, yeah?" It looks over him, assessing. Its eyes hardly snag on his leg.
The irked look that shades over his face is immediate. He sits up a bit, leaning forwards. Hand already clutched in an angry fist. Does the rat even notice? He stares at it like its very being is ostentatious.
"I'm not sloppy." He warns. Eyes widening, he stares at the ribbon in his lap like it might give him a virus. He doesn't bother touching it– only pretends it isn't there. Ignores it.
"That ribbon is horrendous." He argues, as if it isn't right there, anyways. Oh well. The ugly, stained silk can't hear him. That thought gets a giggle.
It huffs a laugh, stretching out. Limbs pop into place, a soft grunt is punched out of its lungs. "Really? I'm rather fond of it, Knight." It basically hisses, straightening up, fur puffing out unnaturally. "The red is such a lovely, violent, effective shade, and the orange is hard not to love. I suppose the purple is a bit... covered. Truly a shame."
It cocks a head to the side, staring at his angry fist. It is safe, though. It knows it is, considering how it can scurry quicker than the Knight can walk.
There's another ribbon, which floats in through the window. It is a horrendous shade of purple. Too red, too blue. Too bright, too dark. Far to saturated, not saturated enough. The rat plucks the luxurious, scraggly thing from the air, no longer looking to the man on the bed in favour of investigating its new curiosity, tugging teeth on it and scratching down on the poor thing with its claws.
It seems incredibly pleased.
Jason watches, stiffly. "Why is it a shame?" He asks, apprehensive. He sits back, leaning against a few pillows, features shadowed in the dark.
The rat is strange. Rats don't.. exactly, speak. His eyes linger on the thing, assessing. If it's not a rat, then what is it?
Something else? The thought creeps in like blood soaking into fabric. He can't get rid of it, like the wounds carved into his own flesh.
The new ribbon is shiny. Still ugly, still purple. A shade that can't be pinpointed, flickering through the spectrum of hue before the rat claws it down. He winces.
"What's with that ribbon?"
"The ribbon is a ribbon. What isn't with the ribbon?" It glances at him, now rubbing its nose against the, now far more wet, ribbon. It has a few puncture holes in it now, thanks to the teeth and the tearing. "And, to answer your earlier question, it's a shame because I do like purple. It's such a lovely colour."
The being holds up the ribbon over where his face must lie in its vision. "It looks nice on you. Orange and red as well... to a lesser extent. A shame you don't wear purple often, if ever. It suits you." It proclaims, not the least worried about how he feels on the matter, considering it feels the need to continue, "It looks nice with your eyes, hair. Softens you a bit. Visually, I mean."
It pauses, blinks. Then, it finishes off by saying, more to itself than him, "Ah, that's why you don't wear it."
The purple ribbon — once shiny, has quickly dulled in the rat's grip. Torn up, bitten, it now looks more like a shredded chunk of fabric. Or, the smaller bit of a larger tapestry.
"If you like purple, then why are you tearing the ribbon?" He asks, bluntly. He eyes the thing like it's a piece of trash, even as purple is the colour that looks best on him. Denial– even as he is closer to purple now than ever.
He scowls. "I don't like purple." Joker wore purple as a suit. The colour is ruined for him, no?
It hums and bobs its head. "By tearing it up, now there's more of it, no? Who doesn't like more?" A scrap stumbles in from the sill on the wind. The torn, shredded purple falls to his bedside, weeping in grief as it lies to rest. A shimmer of silvery thread runs through it, gently. Something previously unseen due to distance. It mocks him in its grief, the grief of not being whole and the mourning of what it once was. It delights, even so, in its newfound state. It is beautiful and made anew in its grief and trauma. It is nearly dead.
"Hm. Makes sense you wouldn't like it, I suppose. The purple is what you make of it, who you make of it. What it is made of for you. How you see it. The threads could build a blanket or a bat, or even a crowbar, if you'd like."
"More?" He echoes the word, swinging it around in his mind. More. More of what? He can't stop being the Knight. Can't stop that. And he.. he can try to be like Robin. But that never works. It won't work, not when Robin is a doll, stained, with its mouth sewn shut and its eyes ripped out and insides stuffed with anything but simple, pure cotton and wool.
Robin is Batman's assistant. Joker's victim. Batman's victim, in the end. He will kill Batman. Rip his bones from his body while his flesh revolts and tries to hold on. He will die.
The ribbon is garish, as beautiful as it seems to the rat. The silver thread is nothing but the obvious scar, ruination of a ribbon. Mocking. Cruel. He glowers. It is nothing and everything at once, silver for what he now is and purple for who he refuses to be.
"I don't need it to be anything. What else could I make of a single ribbon– a foul, torn one, but have it as a ribbon?"
"You're thinking too far into it while also thinking too small, Jason." It hums, pushing the rest of the scraps in through the window. "It could be a mosaic, it could be art. It could be a keepsake, it could be the gem on a ring. Anything and everything, whatever you want it to be. It doesn't, shouldn't have to stay a ribbon. Not if it doesn't want to be. It doesn't even have to be fully purple anymore. Change is natural. It comes with age."
The tear of ribbon shifts and shimmers under faint light. It glints at him, as if crying softly. It wants comfort. Why won't anyone love it? Why mustn't it be worth the effort of care? Why did its mama and papa leave it? It's so sad, with fraying threads reaching up toward him. It hopes that maybe, just maybe, he will take pity on it.
It is a scrap of torn thread. Others join it, joining it as it mourns and weeps. The other ribbon keeps its distance.
There is a rat on his windowsill. It's lying there where something else should probably be. Such as nothing. It blinks. Once, twice. Hidden in the light streaming in behind it, barely hiding its features in shadow. There is a bow around its neck, a lovely shade of purple with orange stripes and red dots. It's furr is smooth and glossy, the creature is far more plump than it was last time. It yawns softly, disgustingly comfortable.
It is unbothered by his appearance.
He blinks at the rat, from where he sits at the bed. He's still not walking yet. Have the miltia men been helping him? It isn't clear. But, nonetheless, he stares silently at the creature.
The bow is ugly. Foul. His face pulls down, twisting into revulsion. "What is that?" He asks, plainly. "You're back here. Again?"
His words don't feature any disdain. They're hollow, really. Empty of feeling.
It blinks slowly, with the demenor of a queen reclining on her chaise lounge, uncaring of any and all else. And yet, it lies like a child on the floor with a crayon and colouring book. "I've been waiting for you to notice my presence for quite a while." It drawls, "You're getting sloppy, Jason." That couldn't be true, could it? It stretches out a paw, groaning. The ribbon slips from its neck, somehow. The bow must have been looser than previously assumed, the wind stronger, for it carries far into the room. It's neatly, well-made. Silk, no doubt. A waste of such fine, luxurious silk. It slips through his fingers without permission, playfully dancing over his shoulders to rest solemnly in his lap.
The rat still lies there, whiskers flicking with amusement. The wind dies down. "A gift, if you'll accept it, Arkham's Knight. That's what you're going by these days, yeah?" It looks over him, assessing. Its eyes hardly snag on his leg.
The irked look that shades over his face is immediate. He sits up a bit, leaning forwards. Hand already clutched in an angry fist. Does the rat even notice? He stares at it like its very being is ostentatious.
"I'm not sloppy." He warns. Eyes widening, he stares at the ribbon in his lap like it might give him a virus. He doesn't bother touching it– only pretends it isn't there. Ignores it.
"That ribbon is horrendous." He argues, as if it isn't right there, anyways. Oh well. The ugly, stained silk can't hear him. That thought gets a giggle.
It huffs a laugh, stretching out. Limbs pop into place, a soft grunt is punched out of its lungs. "Really? I'm rather fond of it, Knight." It basically hisses, straightening up, fur puffing out unnaturally. "The red is such a lovely, violent, effective shade, and the orange is hard not to love. I suppose the purple is a bit... covered. Truly a shame."
It cocks a head to the side, staring at his angry fist. It is safe, though. It knows it is, considering how it can scurry quicker than the Knight can walk.
There's another ribbon, which floats in through the window. It is a horrendous shade of purple. Too red, too blue. Too bright, too dark. Far to saturated, not saturated enough. The rat plucks the luxurious, scraggly thing from the air, no longer looking to the man on the bed in favour of investigating its new curiosity, tugging teeth on it and scratching down on the poor thing with its claws.
It seems incredibly pleased.
Jason watches, stiffly. "Why is it a shame?" He asks, apprehensive. He sits back, leaning against a few pillows, features shadowed in the dark.
The rat is strange. Rats don't.. exactly, speak. His eyes linger on the thing, assessing. If it's not a rat, then what is it?
Something else? The thought creeps in like blood soaking into fabric. He can't get rid of it, like the wounds carved into his own flesh.
The new ribbon is shiny. Still ugly, still purple. A shade that can't be pinpointed, flickering through the spectrum of hue before the rat claws it down. He winces.
"What's with that ribbon?"
"The ribbon is a ribbon. What isn't with the ribbon?" It glances at him, now rubbing its nose against the, now far more wet, ribbon. It has a few puncture holes in it now, thanks to the teeth and the tearing. "And, to answer your earlier question, it's a shame because I do like purple. It's such a lovely colour."
The being holds up the ribbon over where his face must lie in its vision. "It looks nice on you. Orange and red as well... to a lesser extent. A shame you don't wear purple often, if ever. It suits you." It proclaims, not the least worried about how he feels on the matter, considering it feels the need to continue, "It looks nice with your eyes, hair. Softens you a bit. Visually, I mean."
It pauses, blinks. Then, it finishes off by saying, more to itself than him, "Ah, that's why you don't wear it."
The purple ribbon — once shiny, has quickly dulled in the rat's grip. Torn up, bitten, it now looks more like a shredded chunk of fabric. Or, the smaller bit of a larger tapestry.
"If you like purple, then why are you tearing the ribbon?" He asks, bluntly. He eyes the thing like it's a piece of trash, even as purple is the colour that looks best on him. Denial– even as he is closer to purple now than ever.
He scowls. "I don't like purple." Joker wore purple as a suit. The colour is ruined for him, no?
It hums and bobs its head. "By tearing it up, now there's more of it, no? Who doesn't like more?" A scrap stumbles in from the sill on the wind. The torn, shredded purple falls to his bedside, weeping in grief as it lies to rest. A shimmer of silvery thread runs through it, gently. Something previously unseen due to distance. It mocks him in its grief, the grief of not being whole and the mourning of what it once was. It delights, even so, in its newfound state. It is beautiful and made anew in its grief and trauma. It is nearly dead.
"Hm. Makes sense you wouldn't like it, I suppose. The purple is what you make of it, who you make of it. What it is made of for you. How you see it. The threads could build a blanket or a bat, or even a crowbar, if you'd like."
There is a rat on his windowsill. It's lying there where something else should probably be. Such as nothing. It blinks. Once, twice. Hidden in the light streaming in behind it, barely hiding its features in shadow. There is a bow around its neck, a lovely shade of purple with orange stripes and red dots. It's furr is smooth and glossy, the creature is far more plump than it was last time. It yawns softly, disgustingly comfortable.
It is unbothered by his appearance.
He blinks at the rat, from where he sits at the bed. He's still not walking yet. Have the miltia men been helping him? It isn't clear. But, nonetheless, he stares silently at the creature.
The bow is ugly. Foul. His face pulls down, twisting into revulsion. "What is that?" He asks, plainly. "You're back here. Again?"
His words don't feature any disdain. They're hollow, really. Empty of feeling.
It blinks slowly, with the demenor of a queen reclining on her chaise lounge, uncaring of any and all else. And yet, it lies like a child on the floor with a crayon and colouring book. "I've been waiting for you to notice my presence for quite a while." It drawls, "You're getting sloppy, Jason." That couldn't be true, could it? It stretches out a paw, groaning. The ribbon slips from its neck, somehow. The bow must have been looser than previously assumed, the wind stronger, for it carries far into the room. It's neatly, well-made. Silk, no doubt. A waste of such fine, luxurious silk. It slips through his fingers without permission, playfully dancing over his shoulders to rest solemnly in his lap.
The rat still lies there, whiskers flicking with amusement. The wind dies down. "A gift, if you'll accept it, Arkham's Knight. That's what you're going by these days, yeah?" It looks over him, assessing. Its eyes hardly snag on his leg.
The irked look that shades over his face is immediate. He sits up a bit, leaning forwards. Hand already clutched in an angry fist. Does the rat even notice? He stares at it like its very being is ostentatious.
"I'm not sloppy." He warns. Eyes widening, he stares at the ribbon in his lap like it might give him a virus. He doesn't bother touching it– only pretends it isn't there. Ignores it.
"That ribbon is horrendous." He argues, as if it isn't right there, anyways. Oh well. The ugly, stained silk can't hear him. That thought gets a giggle.
It huffs a laugh, stretching out. Limbs pop into place, a soft grunt is punched out of its lungs. "Really? I'm rather fond of it, Knight." It basically hisses, straightening up, fur puffing out unnaturally. "The red is such a lovely, violent, effective shade, and the orange is hard not to love. I suppose the purple is a bit... covered. Truly a shame."
It cocks a head to the side, staring at his angry fist. It is safe, though. It knows it is, considering how it can scurry quicker than the Knight can walk.
There's another ribbon, which floats in through the window. It is a horrendous shade of purple. Too red, too blue. Too bright, too dark. Far to saturated, not saturated enough. The rat plucks the luxurious, scraggly thing from the air, no longer looking to the man on the bed in favour of investigating its new curiosity, tugging teeth on it and scratching down on the poor thing with its claws.
It seems incredibly pleased.
Jason watches, stiffly. "Why is it a shame?" He asks, apprehensive. He sits back, leaning against a few pillows, features shadowed in the dark.
The rat is strange. Rats don't.. exactly, speak. His eyes linger on the thing, assessing. If it's not a rat, then what is it?
Something else? The thought creeps in like blood soaking into fabric. He can't get rid of it, like the wounds carved into his own flesh.
The new ribbon is shiny. Still ugly, still purple. A shade that can't be pinpointed, flickering through the spectrum of hue before the rat claws it down. He winces.
"What's with that ribbon?"
"The ribbon is a ribbon. What isn't with the ribbon?" It glances at him, now rubbing its nose against the, now far more wet, ribbon. It has a few puncture holes in it now, thanks to the teeth and the tearing. "And, to answer your earlier question, it's a shame because I do like purple. It's such a lovely colour."
The being holds up the ribbon over where his face must lie in its vision. "It looks nice on you. Orange and red as well... to a lesser extent. A shame you don't wear purple often, if ever. It suits you." It proclaims, not the least worried about how he feels on the matter, considering it feels the need to continue, "It looks nice with your eyes, hair. Softens you a bit. Visually, I mean."
It pauses, blinks. Then, it finishes off by saying, more to itself than him, "Ah, that's why you don't wear it."
There is a rat on his windowsill. It's lying there where something else should probably be. Such as nothing. It blinks. Once, twice. Hidden in the light streaming in behind it, barely hiding its features in shadow. There is a bow around its neck, a lovely shade of purple with orange stripes and red dots. It's furr is smooth and glossy, the creature is far more plump than it was last time. It yawns softly, disgustingly comfortable.
It is unbothered by his appearance.
He blinks at the rat, from where he sits at the bed. He's still not walking yet. Have the miltia men been helping him? It isn't clear. But, nonetheless, he stares silently at the creature.
The bow is ugly. Foul. His face pulls down, twisting into revulsion. "What is that?" He asks, plainly. "You're back here. Again?"
His words don't feature any disdain. They're hollow, really. Empty of feeling.
It blinks slowly, with the demenor of a queen reclining on her chaise lounge, uncaring of any and all else. And yet, it lies like a child on the floor with a crayon and colouring book. "I've been waiting for you to notice my presence for quite a while." It drawls, "You're getting sloppy, Jason." That couldn't be true, could it? It stretches out a paw, groaning. The ribbon slips from its neck, somehow. The bow must have been looser than previously assumed, the wind stronger, for it carries far into the room. It's neatly, well-made. Silk, no doubt. A waste of such fine, luxurious silk. It slips through his fingers without permission, playfully dancing over his shoulders to rest solemnly in his lap.
The rat still lies there, whiskers flicking with amusement. The wind dies down. "A gift, if you'll accept it, Arkham's Knight. That's what you're going by these days, yeah?" It looks over him, assessing. Its eyes hardly snag on his leg.
The irked look that shades over his face is immediate. He sits up a bit, leaning forwards. Hand already clutched in an angry fist. Does the rat even notice? He stares at it like its very being is ostentatious.
"I'm not sloppy." He warns. Eyes widening, he stares at the ribbon in his lap like it might give him a virus. He doesn't bother touching it– only pretends it isn't there. Ignores it.
"That ribbon is horrendous." He argues, as if it isn't right there, anyways. Oh well. The ugly, stained silk can't hear him. That thought gets a giggle.
It huffs a laugh, stretching out. Limbs pop into place, a soft grunt is punched out of its lungs. "Really? I'm rather fond of it, Knight." It basically hisses, straightening up, fur puffing out unnaturally. "The red is such a lovely, violent, effective shade, and the orange is hard not to love. I suppose the purple is a bit... covered. Truly a shame."
It cocks a head to the side, staring at his angry fist. It is safe, though. It knows it is, considering how it can scurry quicker than the Knight can walk.
There's another ribbon, which floats in through the window. It is a horrendous shade of purple. Too red, too blue. Too bright, too dark. Far to saturated, not saturated enough. The rat plucks the luxurious, scraggly thing from the air, no longer looking to the man on the bed in favour of investigating its new curiosity, tugging teeth on it and scratching down on the poor thing with its claws.
It seems incredibly pleased.
There is a rat on his windowsill. It's lying there where something else should probably be. Such as nothing. It blinks. Once, twice. Hidden in the light streaming in behind it, barely hiding its features in shadow. There is a bow around its neck, a lovely shade of purple with orange stripes and red dots. It's furr is smooth and glossy, the creature is far more plump than it was last time. It yawns softly, disgustingly comfortable.
It is unbothered by his appearance.
He blinks at the rat, from where he sits at the bed. He's still not walking yet. Have the miltia men been helping him? It isn't clear. But, nonetheless, he stares silently at the creature.
The bow is ugly. Foul. His face pulls down, twisting into revulsion. "What is that?" He asks, plainly. "You're back here. Again?"
His words don't feature any disdain. They're hollow, really. Empty of feeling.
It blinks slowly, with the demenor of a queen reclining on her chaise lounge, uncaring of any and all else. And yet, it lies like a child on the floor with a crayon and colouring book. "I've been waiting for you to notice my presence for quite a while." It drawls, "You're getting sloppy, Jason." That couldn't be true, could it? It stretches out a paw, groaning. The ribbon slips from its neck, somehow. The bow must have been looser than previously assumed, the wind stronger, for it carries far into the room. It's neatly, well-made. Silk, no doubt. A waste of such fine, luxurious silk. It slips through his fingers without permission, playfully dancing over his shoulders to rest solemnly in his lap.
The rat still lies there, whiskers flicking with amusement. The wind dies down. "A gift, if you'll accept it, Arkham's Knight. That's what you're going by these days, yeah?" It looks over him, assessing. Its eyes hardly snag on his leg.
There's a rustle of fabric, a screech of an owl. A letter flutters into the night's bedroom. It's fine, luxurious. Soft under his fingers, edges unable to even dream of cutting his skin. Tied with an orange ribbon (now undone, if he shall please read) and penned in expensive ink, his sender writes,
Patience.
A rodent, small and far too thin, sits at his window sill after dropping the letter into his room. It is far more still than any creature ought to be. Bones jut out, with fur hardly covering the sculpted bone resting beneath its skin, sharp enough to stab him. Beady eyes watch, unblinking, like it's a statue or grotesque.
"Arkam's Knight." It greets, voice low, yet soft. It flows like the wind, like a mother's lullaby. Hardly fitting for any creature of that appearance. Hardly familiar, despite how it stares at him like... like it knows him.
He picks up the letter, inspecting it quickly. His eyes pool over the simple word, a frown pulling at his lips. "Patience?" He asks, looking up. He eyes the rat, but isn't bewildered. This feels familiar, somehow.
AK pads closer to the rat, staring widely in the dark. He doesn't like the sight of it. It's eerie, sending an icy chill down his back. It almost looks like it's watching him– but it's a rat. Just a rat. Surely.
His jaw drops as he hears it speak, eyes cracking wider. This Knight seems more open in his emotions, surely. Less confined, more sure of who he is, maybe? Less forgiving of what he's lost.
"A rat." He replies, slowly.
It huffs softly, likes it's amused. "Look at you, knowing your animals." It nearly croons with how sweet its tone gets. The creature cocks a head to the side, blinking. Slowly. The curtains flutter softly around them both. Rat and boy man, man and Rat.
"Jason, what have you become?" Wrong. Wrong wrong wrong. Everything about this creature is. It is not a rat. It is a rat. It is and yet it isn't. It towers over him, it cowers beneath him. Shadows stretch far too far. Then in a blink? They're back to normal. Just a rat staring up at him, a normal rat with beady black eyes. Its teeth brux a moment, then stop.
"Hm. Do you not recognise that name anymore as your own?"
He stares at the rat, frowning slightly. His eyes are narrow, but big, and wide. Childish. Almost fearful, maybe. Night isn't a good time for the Knight.
"What are you?" He asks, brows stitching together. In the darkness, his face doesn't look that bad. Sure, there's long shadows from each scar, and the tilt of a scar along his bad eye. His nose is crooked, part of his lip is torn. Jaw is clearly only in place from surgery. Hair is barely grown out of a militant buzzcut, showing thread-like scars on his scalp.
"That's not my name." He frowns, head tilting forwards. And in that instant, the childish fire in his grey eyes is gone; extinguished.
"Thought so, wanted to check," it murmurs, "but, for your information, I am a rat. Thought you knew that already." It scoffs. Paws pad toward him, nose twitching. It leaped to the floor with the ease of a cat and the caution of any creature born of Gotham's soil. It does a figure eight around his legs before sauntering over to his bed. It glances at him, then back to where he lies his head at night.
It makes no move to touch. "Hm." Is all it has to say on the matter, unwarrented and unwanted as it appears to be either way. It slinks back to The Knight, where the man (boy?) stands. It slinks past him, to the far wall. Such an invasive pest, and it knows it innately, it seems. Sticking its face in his stuff. Judging his home. Uninvited, unknown.
"I think you're more than a rat." He says, the words soft and hostile. "Rats cannot speak." Knight turns, watching the thing as it moves, like a dark stain on his vision. Its fur looks foul, grey and dirty on its skinny bones. Knight is repulsed.
"You should leave." He says, eyeing a cabinet by the bed. It's where his guns are. He has no hesitation at the thought of shooting the thing.
"You aren't supposed to be here, you know. Whatever you are."
"And I think you're more than a human." It counters, its own words excited, yet hushed. "Humans do not survive many of the injuries you have."
It twists and turns in an ugly little dance. Mocking him with grace and beauty such a starving little thing shouldn't be afforded. With the last of its worry over him melting away, it chirps a high-pitched, "Thank you for the offer. I think I shall stay a little longer" out of its tiny vocal chords.
"What?" He says, face turning to confusion. "I don't know what you mean." Knight defends, confusion turning to anger. He is a human. Isn't he?
Knight's face pulls with disgust as it dances, and he turns away. What is this creature trying to get at? He is a human. You're more, Knight. He is?
He has to be, he counters, chewing on his lip. "If I'm not, then what am I?"
"I don't know, darling Knight. I am the Jester (at this moment, I mean. I am so many, after all), and She, the Queen of Gotham's court. How am I, a mere jester, meant to know who you, the Knight, are?" It chirps, pirouetting. It leaps, landing on its legs, then falling back to sit on its hunches. It stares. It seems rather amused.
"Who are you? Who are you? Who are you?"
It goes unnaturally still once more, hardly a breath visible.
"You are who you want to be. That's all I can say on the matter."
He blinks, closing his eyes for a moment. Then he opens them, finding the rat in his vision, again. His hands are tightly clenched.
"I am the Arkham Knight." He says, coldly. "Gotham's true Knight." Truer than Batman. Batman is a false knight, a pawn to be played. But who does Gotham prefer? Batman is, after all, still a man. In comparison to whatever the Knight really is.
"Then that," It continues, "is who you are. You are Gotham's shield and sword. If that changes, and it one day may, then do not hesitate to accept the change. But for now, that is who you've made yourself to be. Like the character of a fairytale. From a pauper to a prince to the defender to..." And it keeps rambling. On and on and on. And on. And on and on. Like it has nothing better to do. It won't shut up, not now. Hopefully one day. "-and the light shine upon-" Mmmm, so much to say. So much perceived time. It all blends together. Perhaps this is purposeful, psychological warfare. "-which is when he shall die a glorious death." It finally ends with after... a good seven minutes of chattering.
He tilts his head at the Rat finishes talking, bored out of his mind. What is it trying to get out of this? He thinks, with a frown. He won't be manipulated by the thing. He's smarter than that. You're smarter, Knight,
Knight's eyes stay on the rat for another long moment. He doesn't have much to say, it seems. "Well." He hums, shifting onto his heels. His ankle. Ouch. "Is that all?"
"Give or take. Hope you were paying attention, especially around the middle of the rant." It starts doing figure eights around his legs, seemingly bored. "It's good to be able to pick up on subtext. Even the most strange of sources have good information. And rats? We see everything."
It hums, running faster. He could disrupt the creature just by shifting his leg slightly. It doesn't seem to either acknowledge that as an option or know it is. Instead, it keeps on going, endless amounts of energy harshly contrasting the previous stillness greatly.
"I'm sure none of that spiel really mattered." He says, dismissing the Rat quite easily. His life isn't some fairytale this rat can get all starry-eyed over. "Do rats see everything?"
"And I know about subtext." Knight points out, crossing his arms. "I'm not stupid. Not stupid."
He seems to be in a.. sudden mood, now. He hinges his bad foot to the side, forcing a block in the Rat's path.
And the rat uses that to scuttle up his leg. "Where is a place you've never seen a rat in Gotham, hm? We're everywhere."
It pulls itself up onto his shoulder, a gleam in its eyes as if it's planning on Ratatouille-ing him. Thankfully, it reaches no higher. "We the rats have broken through every bit of rubble and swarmed every tree. Getting rid of us is more expensive than Gotham can maintain. We hear everything.
I, for example," its voice drops back to an amused hush, "spent the last few years in Arkham, living in the walls and wiring. Watching."
He frowns, stepping back as the rat crawls up his leg. It's not a very comfortable feeling, as it darts up. He tries to shake it off, loosen its grip on his shoulder little by little. But it stays.
"You keep saying you hear everything." He scoffs, sighing harshly. "I'm sure rats don't even have that good of a hearing ability."
His small huffs and shifts freeze completely at the mention of Arkham. Knight's face twitches, pulling with some hidden emotion. "What?"
"Well, our hearing lies in our reach, our ability to pass on information. Some rats are quite the gossips." It's stays on his shoulder, eyes glinting a sort of giddiness. "We can get places no ither can or will. Stay undetected. And in some places...
Well, they just don't bother shooing us away."
The rodent keeps staring, expectant. It knows. And it's flaunting that it knows. It is holding it over Ak like the blade of an axe. Staring, staring. "Ya know? I mean, you weren't a rat, but they sure did call you one."
"Stop." He says, jolting back. Trying to get farther away from the rat even though it's sitting on his shoulder.
How does it know? Why does it know? It shouldn't know. What is there to know? It doesn't know. It wouldn't understand.
He's at a loss for words, fumbling. He's losing something from this– or maybe he's already lost it, long ago.
It falls silent. Claws dig delicately into the fabric of his shirt. It stares, eyes big. Black holes looking to greedily suck up everything around them, shining with stars they've already eaten. Shining with the ones they will steal away next. It's careful, not to dig into the meat of his shoulder. Just the skin.
"Hm." Is all it has to say. "Hm." Is all it deems sufficient. "Hm." Is what it feels about his... peril, powerlessness, and fear. Its eyes relax, its body untenses. Trying to calm him with itself. Its heart thumps against his shoulder. Steady, almost pleasant.
He winces, and closes his eyes. All of a sudden, he's tired, so tired. But he cracks an eye open again, trying not to look into the rat's large eyes. His own eyes are dull, glistening more like a dead man's than the bright eyes of anyone else his age.
"Hm?" He echoes, quietly. What is that supposed to mean?
"Hm." It agrees. Its heart thumps softly, and lungs expand as it inhales. Then it exhales. Its breath brushes against his face. It's as if the rat had never been taught the concept of personal space. It keeps on staring. He sees a boy in the rats' eyes reflecting back at him. The boy is young and tired, as if he hasn't relaxed in a long, long time. He holds an eye cracked open, just like he himself is. The rat blinks, interuppting the portrait.
The creature looks where Ak's body faces. It has the nerve to sigh, as if disappointed. A car alarm sounds in the distance. Some yelling doen the street. The city is alive, even this late in time.
He stares at the rat, in this silence. Night crawls further down the walls in this dark room. The moon is never visible, not really, here in Gotham. He almost wants to turn on the light. Would that make the rat go away? But there's more he wants to leave than the rat.
He doesn't like the way it looks at him. Or how it still sits on him, so uncomfortably. The feeling is almost like bugs, crawling over his skin. But he has no interest in touching the rat. Picking it up. The thought is sickly.
It looks back to him and blinks slowly. "Mm. Be careful, will you? They would hate to bury you as well." It murmurs. And with that, it leaps off of his shoulder, landing with the elegance of a feline far bigger than itself. It scurries off, disappearing into the shadows. Clearly, that is not the average Gotham wildlife.
The slight sliver of light coming from the window shifts. The beam lands on a ribbon, handsome and orange. The ends fray, and it seems well-worn, if not for the vibrancy of the colour. It skids over his floor, moved by air. Yet, it stays in the spotlight, able to be seen by everyone. Paid attention to by everyone. Favoured by everyone
Remembered, by everyone.
