crusaded | what do you deserve?

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jason todd

what do you deserve?

"When will the absolute failure of your mission to defend Gotham become as apparent to you as it is to others?"

They say that no man is an island. That which we call man's greatest strength, or even his greatest weakness, only surfaces when he reaches outside of his immediate sphere. Changed by those who know him. Accountable for more than his own. I suppose the tale of my life only seems to support this fact. Returning home every day to the promise of a warm meal, and someone to remove the cape from my shoulders. Hands slightly worn, though to my eyes no more than the first day I came to realize that so long as Alfred Pennyworth remained, I would never be truly alone. I drew hope from boys far too young to understand the weight of what stood right before their eyes, the shadows that Gotham would forever envelop them in. For a man as reticent as I to be surrounded by such people isn't the result of chance or an act of providence so much as the inability of any single man to close himself away. The sheer and simple physics that tells us how every ripple, no matter how small, will spread.

Indefinitely.

I feel my hand, gripped tight around Tim's shoulder, and realization slices through with its sharp edge. It is only my imagination that holds me here. To glance across the sky and watch a bird's wings flap in time with the beat of my heart, to hear the cacophony in a breath freshly turned, and watch as I tangle in a trap of my own making, a web of my own design. I spot the same imperfections that I have all my life, but where memory fails me, I find none. It's the same room, age cracking through concrete and an acrid scent permeating the area. Jack Drake lies on the floor, and clouds push his gaze into the distance, unmoving, not a single breath on his lips. Memories spill over in my mind like photographs. One here, another there, the same shade of crimson that reminds us that all men bleed. I feel cold, and suddenly my arms are empty. I stand, and my breath hangs in the air.

"I've heard it all before." No echo in my voice, and I know that the walls have been removed at last, the walls that no longer listen for how often they yell instead. "Show yourself."

"You'll have to forgive me, Master Bruce." Alfred stands before me again, the shadows green where they settle against his skin, and in the line of his lips I see a struggle— the mind, so impossibly intricate, yet buckling easily under its own weight, raising a red flag now. "The Lump is... is using me to speak through." I listen for the other voice, and it rumbles about, shaking the ground beneath my feet. I hold firm.

"How can you fight me?" There's a snap of air, and the flow changes. No longer do my thoughts bleed through the fissures I am now only beginning to see. A flood of color washes away cast shadows, a sickly shade of flesh, teeth shining pearly white in contrast. Is it that he intended to have me see him now? Or are the tides turning, crashing, obscuring everything in their wake, and widening that slip of air through which I will walk again? I feel my breath rise, and this time it turns under my eyes in whorls. "I am life without form— I have no nerves. I feel no pain. In the kingdom of pure thought, the Lump reigns supreme! In your mind, the Lump can be anything. Do anything!"

Tables, turning.

"Your enemies have operatives and technology beyond your capacity. They're stealing your DNA. Your memories. To imprint unstoppable soldiers. Driven by your trauma."

There are no shortcuts, and the gun that rests suddenly in my hands, heavy and cold from disuse, is only there to further dispel the smoke. A soft click, heard only by my ears. An edge running against the pad of my thumb, and with that line, I taste his fear. Pain? He should only be so lucky. He should only be so fortunate. Its predecessor will always arrive first, numbing, still after a heartbeat.

"Then tell them they can have it," I tell him. "You can have it, too. If you can bear it all at once." And my eyes narrow, for all I find myself curious to hear the answer.

"What do you deserve?"

Suddenly it all fades into black, and a weight rests over my eyes— I don't know whether to trust the fading red at the edges. In the distance, a steady drip of water falls against stone. I raise my chin until the bridge of my nose presses against a groove, unyielding, and tighten my fists as I struggle against a pair of cuffs that dig into my skin. Whatever this device is, it doesn't matter. Steel, glass, stone— all have their weaknesses, none of which I haven't exploited before. What bothers me more is the fact that I know, this time, that I wasn't the one to break the link.

I doubt I have more than thirty seconds to break out of this hold.

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Be prepared. Don't ever assume you're safe. Even in your own home.

He taught me that. Words meant to keep me alive, I think, and they stuck, even if we all know how that turned out.

I've been working for weeks now, gathering food, clothes, water, light, whatever could sustain me in the deeps of Rapture, hidden and alone and alive. They were just supposed to be precautions. First Batgirl, then Robin. There'd been no reason for me to truly believe he would be next, but here he is, strapped upright into some machine smack in the middle of the Welcome Pavilion, his paranoia proven right yet again. I wasn't safe. I've prepared, but.

I'm not ready.

Is that sound coming out of me?

Curled low on the ground, Jason locks his arms around his knees. His body aches like he's fallen, but he can't remember, his palms raw and sore. He'd been on his way out, out and up into the sunshine, to Lux, to Bucky, to everyone he loves, only to stop dead at the sight of...Bruce.

Jason says it again, the same half-strangled whisper all that he's been able to summon since he got here. "Bruce."

Dad. Oh fuck, oh my god, not yet why did it take so long?

It's like a spell, some incantation Jason would not have uttered if he'd known. At his rising voice, the figure in the machine begins to struggle, and Jason knows to the depths of his soul that it's not Dick or anyone else to have ever worn the cowl. The rest of the world might be too afraid to see what's in front of them, but not Jason. He knows that jaw, that tip of nose, that particular curl of lip that comes when Bruce is truly angry.

Jason skitters forward across the stone floor, drawn despite not knowing what he means to do. The last time they met, he'd joked unto the last, traded a quip for every one of Batman's bellows until he had a gun to the Joker's head, but Jason can't think of a single thing to say now. He reaches for it, the persona he'd created to withstand the horrors of a life resurrected, but it won't come. It's Bruce, and Jason doesn't know who to be.

Red Hood. Robin. Jason. Jay. Son.

Stretching his hand against the metal, Jason breathes, and waits.

Edited 2011-11-06 03:13 (UTC)

Dreams are nothing new to me. Even the thought of memories twisted and altered or perceptions skewed, these are all weapons that have been thrown at me before, repeatedly. But it's only ever effective now when I shape them myself. Driving cracks into the ground right around my feet. I hear a whisper on the air, and I know whose it is, though that fragile shake of fear is so resounding and almost unfamiliar. Jarring qualities. I'm not foolish enough to think that Jason would come out of the woodwork to save me from a threat that no one anticipated— if the same weapons were used against him, I have no doubt that he would fall into himself sooner. If not in a rush of flames.

I wouldn't want that for him.

If there ever was a nightmare to draw out of thin air, maybe this truly would be it. To find myself trapped— my arms work at the restraints, trying to find the weakest spot, somewhere in the hinges, and I feel my skin burning with the sudden shift of movement and impact— and his voice reaching out from a distance. To know that I might again find myself that step too far. It's been years, though my mind tells me differently today, and chances are that even if Jason was in trouble now, I wouldn't be of much help. That doesn't make it drive any less under my skin.

(The metal creaks; I consider throwing myself to the side.)

"Are you going to help me out?" I ask, deciding that no matter where the movement is drawn from, it does me no good to keep that person at a distance. People often fall under the assumption that the more immediate threats are the ones to worry about. Such is almost never the case. "Or are you simply going to wait?"

Already, I feel anger burning under my skin. A weakness.

"I don't know," Jason exhales, his face so expressionless that were any there to witness it, they'd say he hadn't meant to speak at all. He spreads his fingers against the opposite side of the machine that holds his father, and thinks,

batarang in my gauntlet, stalactite twenty meters at eight o'clock, point five seconds to deploy, six seconds to safe distance, how -

Batman shifts inside his metal prison, and Jason jumps.

Jesus christ, I'm close enough to touch him.

Jason pulls back. "What is this?" he asks, louder, and thinks he should have made a threat instead, thinks he should circle round the other side of this machine, but he can't bring himself to let Bruce even that far out of sight. He has no control here, no plan, had no expectation that Bruce would show up in the very place Jason meant to hide.

disoriented but not drugged, reaction time no less than ninety percent full capacity, I need -

I need an arsenal to win this.

Dancing back again with a hiss, Jason stares, watching the muscles beneath the Batman's kevlar move and flex, and the realization is terrifying enough that Jason rocks back on his heels.

He'll find his own way out soon enough.

"Stop."

Between the echo of the voice and the tiniest of pressures against my temple, I can't help wondering where we are. Underground, most likely. Somewhere far from notice, where scans don't normally reach. That the voice continues, coming to an end with a request, slows my movements down. Deliberation is key. Flexing my fingers, moving each arm and leg slowly until I'm able to test the restraints, no fast movements for how he might have a gun in hand. (Another example of how sometimes, arms are too easy to bear.)

"No," I reply, the only answer to an unreasonable request, and a warning that I only give because of the man behind the voice. With a sudden tilt of both the suit's weight and mine, the machine topples. It was a gamble, of course— there's only so much that one can glean from weight shifted under such restraints, but it proves to be enough, and I brace myself for the shock of impact as the metal clangs loudly against a hard surface. Stone, possibly, or concrete. The lighter sheets buckle in the back, and it's just enough, my knees pressing against a cool surface as I duck enough to free my eyes from the cover.

I spot a pair of eyes, and I don't have the time to wonder.

One cuff happens to be loose enough to jar, my hand slipping through with relative ease. A moment later, and I'm picking at the lock of the other, hoping the rest of the machine serves as enough cover for now. It strikes me that I haven't considered the other possibility. Would Jason— would he— anything to bring them closer to where I was inevitably going to fall—

About ten seconds left.

Ten seconds.

The only thing left to do is run, and Jason wastes three of those seconds frozen still, caught between the choice to fly upward and out or to go deeper into Rapture.

Either way requires a bathysphere.

Seven seconds.

Jason takes off at a dead run. He can't get lower, but he can get further away, and however brilliant the Batman might be, he doesn't know this underground world like Jason does. Jason might not make it to a bathysphere, but he can make it into hiding. Stolen time might be the only advantage he has.

He trusts only his own two hands and feet, uses no tricks or tools that Bruce might hear and track, running swift and silent through the Welcome Pavilion for the greater chaos of Medical. He thinks, briefly, about screaming for Bucky, and thinks right after that Bucky hadn't come home last night.

He hadn't come home, and Bruce is here, and the trade is so cruel in its symmetry that Jason finds he'll scream after all, running sloppy and hard through the endless echo.

Three seconds in, and I hear Jason take off at a run. He's never been as light-footed as Dick was, never had the same type of training as he grew up. too impulsive to always go by the exercises I suggested for him. Once a person passes their formative years, it's difficult for habits to change. Had my parents died but four years later, maybe five, I doubt my steps would have led me to where I am today. I find myself still caught in that glimpse of a past removed before it even had a chance at play, of time spent still saving lives, if in a different context. Time spent only conscious of crime, but never understanding. Time in which a thief was nothing more than humiliation, rather than invitation to play.

I look at the details and they align, enough so that I believe it's Jason tearing down the hall, enough that I tear right after him, seven seconds later. Running through screams that pass through me, chilling in my spine, and as much as I turn and follow, I can't help but wonder. It's the same fear I've meant to inspire in others, but him?

"Jason!" I yell, voice rough. Closer. I can feel that I'm getting closer, but all I have are sounds to follow, caution thrown in the wind, an unfamiliar setting that I barely even note as it flies by in all a blur. "Jason, stop."

Jason pants his refusal. It's buried so deep beneath his panic he almost doesn't hear, but the voice speaks on, the part of him hell bent on survival ticking away his options.

pursuit too close, medical too far, restaurant too open, Footlight shitty but best chance

Jason doesn't register the stairs beneath his feet, misses more than half of them for the way he flies downward, bursting into the theater with no time for anything better than desperation. He should've done better, should've rigged every corner of Rapture and it's not fair, it's not fair that he'd have to make this place a deathtrap just to be safe.

Right arm flung outwards, Jason fires a grapple high into the rafters above the stage, winging into the safety of the darkness overhead.

I arrive at a final pair of doors and step inside, suddenly blanketed in darkness. Wherever we are, light seems to be a commodity that's scarce at best, but in here, the only way I'm able to see much of anything is when I turn on night vision, resting my eyes on row after row of seats, as though Jason's brought me here to set the stage. He's never been the theatrical type, in my memory. Even when everything came clear and in the open, one moment too long and a decision too forced, leaving us at odds for the rest of days, he never needed an audience. Except with me.

Sending out a signal through the cowl, Alfred doesn't answer. Out of reach, surely too far below ground. Perhaps my first priority should be to return to the surface, to speak of all that I've seen, and to make sure that those who still spend the days waiting for my return should be made aware of the fact that I am not gone, no matter how much time has slipped. Yet I find myself standing in front of the impossible admission, sheer disbelief over the fact that with each passing second, it becomes clear that what Jason fears right now is not some intangible threat that he tries to lead me to, but instead myself. In a way that I don't remember.

"Where are we?" I ask, though I don't stop moving, I don't trust anyone involved not to strike out at first chance. "What is this place?"

Huddled up against a beam, Jason feels better for something solid at his back, his eyes slitting open for the first time in whole moments. Far below, Batman is still moving, and Jason might be crazy, but it's a practical crazy, his mind intact enough to make the rational choice, even if everything else in his being is pushing him away from it.

He can't fly any further than this.

"It's not Gotham," he calls down, moving to a new beam. "It's not your town, it's mine." Adds, impossibly, hopefully, "You should leave."

I suppose an answer is something. More than I've expected. The words themselves are another matter, almost nonsensical— I know that Jason has been elsewhere, beyond my reach, fighting crime the only way that he knows how. Miring himself in every last inch of it. And although I know that it's wrong, the world doesn't afford any us enough time, doesn't allow us a single minute more of sleep, and makes taking that extra second a crime. I haven't stopped him as fully as I should, and I wouldn't call that sentimentality. It's futility.

But he stands now, in the way of many things. I should return to Gotham; I don't need him to tell me that. Yet there are no details that he offers, no light that he sheds on the exit, and I can't tell if it's a trap meant for me to step unknowingly into, or if there's reluctance in his tone. What right do I have to assume anything on his part? None. Not since I made that crucial error.

So I am forced to consider all eventualities, and somehow the thought that there's more to be seen in this city seems to be the natural first step.

"Your town?" I ask, lightly incredulous. "Jason, I have not sensed a single living soul down here, aside from the two of us. Where are we?" Still slipping after each word shared, I glance up for movement. I could, perhaps, turn on the infrared vision. It would help me spot him with relative ease, and my patience is growing thin.

"Tabula Rasa."

Threading his fingers through an empty bolt hole, Jason holds on. Looks down. It's hard to tell when he holds himself so tall, but Jason thinks the set of Bruce's shoulders means he's pissed.

Good.

"The dead city is Rapture. The bathysphere where you came in will take you up and out, but you can't get back to Gotham." Jason's teeth cut white through the darkness. "I didn't kidnap you. But you can't go back. You're not in the same universe anymore."

Universe. How many times have I heard it said that there are other timelines, other worlds beyond our reach? Clark makes no effort to keep such information from me, and isn't in the habit of keeping secrets in general. I've probably kept more than twice as much from him as he ever has from me, but there are times when the thread of trust still holds strong, for all that's left in the dark. He knows, too, that being able to keep some of my life away from his eyes is what holds me there in friendship, as well as it's developed between us. But for all that he's told me about other worlds, I find that it isn't in my place to dwell on the matter. I don't have the power to cross time, to leap from one existence to another; my hands are tied with Gotham, and that doesn't change even now.

Does this explain the change in Jason's behavior? Am I the only one who's been brought to where I stand?

I consider asking him for any other names. He would know, if this has been his town, whether or not anyone else has stepped in these buildings. That much, I know I've taught him well— and he has made no small effort to learn even more wherever the knowledge is offered him.

Then again, I have no reason to trust that he would take me to them. And to believe that no lie would go unnoticed is just asking for a first.

I turn, figuring that there's nothing to be done while he hides in the shadows. "A dead city is no place to stay," I point out, before deciding to try, heading out to find a bathysphere that may, supposedly, take me to the surface.

Jason bites down the retort that wants to follow, but he takes comfort in his indignation, not so far gone to surprise and fear that he can't resent Bruce his patronizing. He lets him go, watching from the shadows until the last trailing edge of the cape is gone, and realizes he's at another crossroads.

He could go, now, back to the home he's made in the lower levels. He could follow Bruce, make certain that he gets out where Batgirl and Robin can better introduce him to his new life. He could send word to Bucky. He could sit up here, where it's safe, forever.

Strangely, it's Bucky's face that pops into his head then, the smirk he wears when the danger's at its worst, and Jason finds himself leaping down, renewed control rendering his footsteps silent when he moves across the stage. Head cocked to catch the sound, Jason can't hear Batman, but that doesn't mean a goddamn thing. In fact, the silence is probably worse, but Jason's said enough to intrigue him. The detective in Bruce won't let him linger here for long, not when there's a whole world promised to him beyond the bathysphere, and Jason moves closer to the mouth of the stairs, following them up and peeking, carefully, into the outer hall.

Only when I reach the mangled, twisted metal of the machine do I stop. The bathysphere sits, awash in a strangely golden light, drawing me to its existence, encouraging me to step in. I find that I don't. The silence left in my wake is unsettling. Again, the sound of water dripping, leaking, is steady in the background; a part of me wonders how structurally sound this city is. I could, perhaps, step into the bathysphere with little effort. I could trust the fact that it functions properly, in spite of how all elevators prove to be somewhat of a trap, enclosing a man in a small space, little room for escape. But I find myself turning to face the silence, seating myself on the stair leading up to the bathysphere. Waiting.

When I catch a flicker of movement in the distance, I rise to my feet. After so many years of being the one who chases, I find myself waiting for the opposite, today.

Or perhaps it's always been a process. More and more of the crazed seek me out with each passing day. Maybe I invite that kind of behavior.

"Are you coming?"

Jason stills.

The island isn't what it was an hour ago. It won't ever be the same again, either, not now that Bruce is here. It doesn't matter what approach Bruce takes next - to contain Jason, to elude him, to haul him outside by the scruff of his neck. His mere presence is no less destructive than a wrecking ball, already swinging through every facet of the life Jason's made for himself here.

He finds -

talking to me like it's nothing

- it makes him angry.

"Why are you talking to me?" Jason hisses, his face upturned and bearing the beginnings of fury. "Is this our new dance? We make conversation until you find the right window to cut my throat?"

Diversion. Distractions. His words intend to take me away from the answer that I wanted, an answer that has nothing to do with an encounter from months ago. But his anger is familiar, and it would be in my best interest not to step where it will only ensnare me further, though I feel the hold of it around my ankle already, anchoring me in place. Blind. He is blinded right now by an anger I've done nothing to solve— nothing that's lasted; I wouldn't know how— and somehow, I feel that anything I say will only make it worse.

"You have an entire city," I point out, voice even and elbows still resting on my knees, although my stance proves to be anything but relaxed. "I don't plan on chasing you through it. I only asked if you were coming."

"I only came to make sure you left," Jason snarls in return, annoyed, if not surprised to find the edges of his vision blurring, his eyes too wide and hot. So out of practice, so uncontrolled. Talia and Ducra would have his hide in turns.

If you pick a fight, you'll lose.

"Your son's up there. Your real one. Batgirl, too."

Real son. I can't tell who that's meant to refer to— Tim or Damian. Tim knows how to handle himself— I trust him to be nearly as capable as Dick in that respect, and having Cassandra up there would only help. They've walked the path long enough to know which choices are the right ones to make, no more liable to make mistakes than I am, for all that I've seen. Perhaps more importantly, they're allies, capable of working in tandem. But Damian— I find my eyes narrowing in spite of myself.

What wouldn't I put past Jason, at this point? What wouldn't I expect for him to do in response to the one action I could never take for him— pulling that trigger on a cresent smile, painted red.

I stand, turning on a heel; removing myself from the scene might be the only reasonable course of action. If I don't find them up there, Jason can be sure of this much— I'll make my way back down to the depths, come what may. Lifting open the door to the bathysphere, I keep my focus on him. Turning my back may prove dangerous.

Jason watches him shift away, Bruce's focus unrelenting even when he's through the door, and tries to be proud he's still considered this big a threat. He should've mentioned them earlier, the other kids. Damian, Bruce's own blood, and Stephanie, who came back to him after everything. The good kids, the honor role to Jason's bad seed.

His face breaks wide in a smile he can't control, and Jason laughs his way through a sob.

I think. Maybe. I'll pull a building down.

There's a slip of a window to peer through once the door closes. Scratched on the surface, grimy with a lack of care and maintenance, but enough that I can see through to the other side. Whether or not I should find it surprising that Jason makes no move to follow, I'm not sure. What I do know is that everything about this moment, leaving him behind in this city, turns my stomach. It's not a place for him to stay, it's not a place that will pull him out of a destructive frame of mind. Although I believe, wholeheartedly, that I am making the right choice at the moment, that doesn't make each action a good one. I am leaving behind unfinished business, and that can never be allowed to wait for long.

The bathysphere rumbles, creaks, and I feel the lurch of movement. And before all else fades into black, I catch a glimpse of his expression.

Possibly the flash of a smile.

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