Betting on Losing Dogs (Arkham Knight! Jason Todd x Toxic! Reader)
Summary: The best way to understand a fighter is to become its handler. While betting on losing dogs is considered foolish, the after effects of its unexpected win (or expected loss) is a great look into the human brain.
Warnings/ Tags: brief mentions of suicide (no actions taken; barely touched on), Jason Todd is Arkham Knight, Reader is a bad person, hurt/ no comfort.
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Occasionally, guilt sets in heavy. It weighs into their heart, pressing down on half-filled lungs in a mockery of sorrow. Psychology of the human brain is intense. It's all-consuming. What makes the brain work? Genetics, that's part of it. Traumas, especially untreated, pick apart the brain, morphs it into candy. Gnawing on the history, entrusted by the Arkham Knight himself, feasting on the monologue of a hideous, scarred brain.
He clutches his helmet, visor flickering between the holographic blue and red beneath. He's paler than normal and the branded 'J' seems especially... alive tonight. They hum, stepping into the Arkham Knight's space loosely. Hands find his, resting atop. He doesn't look up, the addictive sight of frustration painting him. The light is soft, a far-off desk lamp lighting up the room awfully. Shadows dart across the room, though he remains vaguely illuminated. His posture is hunched, the man folding in. One angry, lost soul shattered into reflections of when he was failed.
The first sound the Arkham Knight makes is a borderline whimper. Beautiful. A sharp inhale follows suit; does he cry when he's angry? lost? Reluctantly, he scooches aside. The couch is minuscule, an ugly thing plucked off the side of the road, groaning as his weight shifts. The exchange is silent, save for the heavy breaths of grief. The helmet finds itself on the floor, kicked into the corner. It faces away, just like the Arkham Knight-- no, Jason-- does with his face. He tucks it into their chest. The tears are familiar, unmistakable things. "Bad night?" They whisper, beginning to card their fingers through sweaty hair. Has he showered recently? The lilt is minuscule, going by unnoticed. It's cruel to want him to know, isn't it? That his trust is undeserved, placed into the wrong person? He shutters for a second. His shoulders drop, in the same way they always do when he confesses. "I just want this to be over with."
Perhaps it's depression; unrelenting numbness overshadowing, anger and worthlessness uniting in a front. Would he try to kill himself? When Batman lives? Or maybe after celebrating the death of Batman, what would he do? Paranoia wracks Jason's brain, years of torment waiting behind every corner and through every alley. The paranoia was already there before the Arkham Knight even existed. Swirling, consuming, like father, like son. The confessions eat away at Jason in the same way every confrontation leaves his helmet flickering. "Tell me about it." It comes out more command than an offering of sympathy.
How does trauma warp the brain?
It's the prize winning question and the answer is never truly found. Individuals are haunted separately and yet the same. Jason Todd became a magical boy, Robin, and returned haunted. Bruce Wayne could've become haunted like this. The ghosts of the past morph into failures of the future-- Batman was created in order to prevent other people in Gotham from suffering just like the creator had. Yet, the embodiment of hope still fell short, his protegee becoming a failure of the past. Covered up, sheets draped over the name. Jason Todd. Abandoned. How did such a happy boy turn into something so... vengeful? The answer is in the history.
The proponents of flight, flight, or freeze do not spare anyone. Adrenaline and cortisol, racing heartbeat, paranoia devouring. Case study after case study and yet... Nothing is good enough. Perhaps that's why Dr. Crane uses fear itself. Weaponize the knowledge, learn more 'organically'. The response is triggered, fear toxin bullying its way through.
But it still isn't really 'organic'. Forcing the chemicals isn't the same as--Jason's voice is small. Exhausted. "He ambushed my men by the docks. They were not prepared. I thought I was." The words are unsaid but heard-- I'm not doing good enough. The expectations he created, the weight of revenge on his shoulders in the shape of Gotham's skyline. "I know you think you're failing. It must be heavy with those thoughts." He winces, tensing up in their neck. "You'll win, Jason... It'll just take some more time."
Most people would say 'it isn't worth betting on losing dogs; there are better chances at winning elsewhere'. They'd say 'you're going to lose money'. Most people haven't considered the thrill of it possibly winning. Getting closer, claws gleaming with blood of its opponents, jaws snapping. If you give it enough to fight for-- food, a home, life-- it will bark. It'll snap and in a number of cases, it has won.
And what's the psychology behind that? How does the brain maneuver around years of offense and defense? The best way to understand a fighter is to become its handler; feed into its behaviorism and yank away the foundational circumstances... Crane is curious too. What will the Arkham Knight do after Batman dies? The purpose will be fulfilled, Jason's sole motivator to exist a success. Will he revel? Don the cowl, stain the fabric it was founded on? The other side of it, the question Crane won't entertain, 'what if Batman lives? Retakes Gotham?', will Jason continue his mission or just... die?
The bet is on: Jason, dearest Jason, is unaware. He remains curled in on himself, breaths heavy. The armor digs into the cloth of their uniform, pressing into their skin. Nights have passed like this a lot lately, with his resolve weakening. His 'scent of guilt' is merely a man unbathed; too worked up to shower, the opportunity to slow down an indulgence he won't take. With arms wrapped around him, a faulty embrace, his eyes droop. After all, grief is an exhaustive thing. It doesn't just 'disappear' either. It will consume until it doesn't and with that, the thrill of possibly witnessing a losing dog win is addicting, just as watching a winner fall short.