Chapter Text
He was four when Willis deemed him big enough to act as his punching bag. He was seven when he realised his mother was on drugs. He was ten when he first plotted his escape.
Escape to where? He wasn’t sure, but anywhere else had to be better than Crime Alley. Gotham was going to be the death of him if he stayed. He knew that in his heart.
But Catherine. He couldn’t leave her. He was shackled to his mother like how she was shackled to Willis.
Sometimes he wondered why he wasn’t enough for her, why she always chose Willis over him.
Willis didn’t care for her the way he did. Willis didn’t contribute scraps to pay their rent. Willis wasn’t safe the way he was. So what if he was a child?
He decided, so what if he had no power, no money, no connections to get his mother clean, to save her from this never ending cycle of debt and abuse?
He wouldn’t abandon her the way Willis abandoned them. He would stay and pray, just like how she taught him to. His love had to be enough for her to stay.
But it wasn’t. When had it ever been?
When she finally took her last breath, Jason packed his bags and never looked back. Willis was in prison. His neighbours were dealers. His landlord was merciless. Nothing else was left to shackle him there.
Running away from the apartment, he left a brief sense of freedom. The next few years, however, let him realise Willis had never been the problem. At least not the root of it.
There wasn’t a way to survive Crime Alley without losing a part of yourself. Humility, integrity, compassion, these were all privileges none of them could afford.
Willis had given up his kindness and love for power and anger. Catherine had sold her sanity to drugs for a chance to keep her kindness and ability to hope.
Both choices caused pain. But to different people. Either you suffer or you cause others suffering. Dog eat dog world.
And he refused to be eaten alive, so he learnt to adapt. He dealt in all sorts of things. Even tried some to help him feel alive again.
Drugs, alcohol, cigarettes, none of these vices gave him the same pleasure as stealing.
It started out small, harmless. A Hotwheels car from a four year old. He wouldn’t even notice. Even if he did, his parents had no way to track him down.
Apples, canned food, sometimes an entire grocery bag, would disappear within minutes. Survival was his priority.
Watches, wallets, handbags, things of monetary value were next. As time went on, the luxury goods snatched just increased in size and value.
The thrill that came with each successful getaway. The familiar yet sickeningly comforting pain that came with each failure. The hollow feeling of disappointment after escaping empty handed. Stealing was like his newfound love.
Car tires were his specialty. They called out to him. The absolute symbol of luxury and fortune in his opinion.
He’d always wanted to drive. If he had been able to, maybe he could have escaped this city.
Snatching tires off cars was his way of taking away others' freedom to drive away. Drive away and never look back at this hellhole. A foolish part of him still dreamed of saving up enough to buy a car out of there.
Besides, if they had the money to spend on a car, that meant they had to have tires to spare for sure. In a way it lessened his guilt, and fueled his envious spirit knowing they had money to spare unlike him.
Maybe that was why he’d been drawn to the Batmobile. The absolute epitome of luxury and hypocrisy.
If Batman had the resources to build such state of the art equipment, why couldn’t he have saved this part of Gotham from ruin. Why couldn’t he have spent time on getting proper social services? Why couldn’t he have spent money building new buildings? Why couldn’t he have spent resources to stop the drug trade? Why couldn’t he have saved his mother?
He’d been struggling to survive for so long he hadn’t realised the amount of pentup anger had been boiling inside.
Maybe that was why he aimed for those car tires. Those sleek, pristine, well-loved tires off that stupidly batshaped vehicle. Batman deserved to be grounded in this hellhole just like him—even just for a night. He deserved to experience some of the hurt most Gothamites in Crime Alley lived daily.
Parading around like he knew better. Not all the goons he threw in prison were sadists or psychopaths. He beat them up indiscriminately. Beating some of them up for trying to survive.
One tire for Billy’s father who had been a lower ranking goon of Two-Face, tortured half to death for information, simply because the unfortunate guard on duty when Batman swooped in.
Another tire for Samantha, a working girl acting as Penguin’s informant as part of a deal. A deal to get her sick sister her much needed medicine. Instead, she paid the price with a prison sentence and now dead sister.
A third tire for Tyler, a teenager whose only crime was being at the wrong place at a worse time. They coerced him into being a decoy for the Joker. It was either that or to die immediately. The price of accidentally stumbling into Joker’s warehouse, looking for food. But clearly Batman wasn’t in the mood for games. After getting the information, he left Tyler tied up on the rooftop for the cops to handle. And in his haste to capture the Joker, Batman failed to inform them of the decoy. So, poor Tyler died wearing a monster’s face.
A final tire, for Catherine, who—
A shadow loomed over him. A gloved hand grabbed his arm. He swung and ran.
He refused to be caught by Batman.
When he saw that outstretched gloved black hand again, he almost refused but he remembered Catherine.
The way she laid in her bed helpless and high.
The way her sky blue eyes turned a dull shade.
The way she prayed for him and his happiness.
It was too late for Catherine. Maybe it was too late to be happy. But it would be safe. Probably.
Absent-mindedly, he wondered if Catherine had felt the same as when Willis took her hand, fear and uncertainty, but with hope most prevalent.
So, he took the hand that promised freedom, and seized his opportunity to live.