Chapter Text
The crunch of asphalt beneath Jason’s boots made him uncomfortable. Winter in Gotham meant workers would halt all construction until it was summer again, leaving the roads and buildings half done and moldy. He didn’t blame them; it was damn near freezing. But the insistent crunch, step after step only reminded him of nightmares from the night before.
He turned a corner, crossing a tiny newsstand on display. Buildings on this block were all the same, gray and uniform – the only life coming from people bustling in and out of them in their colorful winter wear.
Bones shattering, the crowbar coming down on his ribs…
Jason swallowed, a wet block not smooth enough to go all the way down his throat. It made him feel icky. Above him, a streetlight dripped an occasional beat of water on the shoulder of his leather jacket. It was too small to seep in, but it made him shiver nonetheless.
He knew he was where he was supposed to be. Looking up at the dirty, tattered sign only confirmed it. ‘Joker’s Survivors Support Group – A Safe Place for Lives Marked By Tragedy’ it read. Tragedy was one way of putting it. The sign was almost blown away by howling, blustery winds. Winds that sounded almost like a laugh.
He felt a warm hand on the middle of his back startle him.
“Oh, I’m sorry dear,” said an old woman, about half his size. “Didn’t mean to scare ya.”
Jason smiled and shook his head for a lack of better words. He thought that would reassure her, keep her moving along, but she only stood there beside him and turned her gaze up to the sign he was looking at. “I’ve been trying to get the Mayor to spare a few funds for years now to no avail.” She shrugged. “Guess he’s busy.”
“I guess so.” Jason replied, feeling his gut coil with formidable tension. He didn’t really know what he was thinking, showing up here like this out of the blue. He’d woken up last night with a particularly disturbing nightmare – memory, rather – and spent the rest of the night aimlessly surfing the web when he came across a poster for the support group. He wished he could say it was one of those things where his feet dragged him unconsciously – like characters would do in a novel or something – but taking a shower, making breakfast, putting on his hoodie and coming here instead of going for his run seemed like a pretty deliberate decision.
“Don’t let appearances fool you, honey,” the lady said, giving his wrist a squeeze. “You’ll find some of the most compassionate and empathetic people inside, than in all of Gotham.” Jason grinned. That wasn’t too much of a metric to go by, but seeing her expectant face made him realize he didn’t have much of a choice anymore.
He followed her into the basement of the building, where a handful of people were gathered. Uncomfortable looking metal chairs were placed in the center of the room, apart from which were two tables with snacks and coffee – probably from the nearby Eastside Deli. People were talking in hushed tones, even if there weren’t any signs that asked for silence. Some women were hugging and others hung back in the shadows, looking just as awkward as Jason.
“I’m Marianne, by the way,” the woman said, like it was an afterthought.
Jason hesitated for a moment. Then, “Jason.” It was probably stupid of him – giving out his real name like that – but looking around the room told him not many of these people seemed like a threat to personal security.
“It was nice to meet you, Jason,” Marianne beamed, her eyes sparkling with some sort of unspoken sympathy. It both made Jason want to die and brought back that unsteady, scratchy feeling at the back of his throat. “Help yourself to some coffee and do stick around for the session.”
She didn’t wait for his response, as she walked away to another group, presumably to tell them the same thing. So, he grabbed himself a cup of coffee – black – and sat down on one of the chairs at the farthest end of the group. There weren’t that many people; fifteen ordinary citizens from a very mixed demographic. The oldest was Marianne, probably in her sixties. The youngest seemed to be about only seven or eight years old, with white, crescent scars around his mouth and jaw muscles drooping slightly whenever he spoke. Classic Joker Venom scars. Jason clenched his fist in the inner pocket of his jacket, feeling hot flashes of rage spike through his chest.
One by one, people began filling up the chairs all around him. He observed that these people were regular, ordinary people, but the closer he eyed them the more he could see telltale signs – scars, burns, impairments, post-surgery indentations on skin. And the ones who had no physical marks had a sadness about their eyes. A weight that couldn’t wash away, presenting as wrinkles and downturned smiles.
And then, they began talking.
A girl named Anissa went first. She was relatively young, probably in her thirties. She talked about her wife and mother-in-law being affected by a widespread Joker gas attack three years ago. How her mother-in-law had passed last year. How her wife was still in a coma, recovering. Then others began speaking. Mothers, daughters, fathers, friends, sons ...
“My name is Mark…”
Jason averted his eyes, taking a sip from his coffee. It tasted rich, bitter. It burned his tongue with purpose, like it was trying to incite something, anything out of him.
“My name is Priya…”
Somewhere inside of him, the Pit rattled around like juice sloshing in a carton. He felt it slow, like it had detected the burn and was working its way upwards to fix it. It warmed him – in a feverish, rather than comforting way – in the cold, dim lit basement. He sniffed, an inconsequential noise in a room of full-blown tears and outright sobs.
My name is Jason, he thought. Murdered by the goddamn Joker at age fifteen. Hadn’t even had a first kiss, written the SATs, gotten a drivers’ license...but sure – old enough to be bashed to death with a crowbar by a murderous psychopath.
“My name is Max,” the little boy spoke.
Jason sighed. Here he was, feeling both a sense of foreboding and oneness at the same time with these random people. People who had lives and families before the Joker, just like him. And what was he doing? What had he done to avenge himself and countless others?
“The J-Joker killed my parents,” the boy mumbled, his chin wobbling despite his bravest attempts to hold it together.
Jason winced. It was almost cathartic, if not painful, hearing others put into words the suffering of his own. How Batman didn’t save them either. While it felt empathetic, it also felt distant. These people suffered the war at the borders, the edges...Jason died at the very epicentre. He had been involved to a point where there was no turning back.
My name is Robin, he thought, watching the muddy coffee remnants swirl around the bottom of his cup. I died a soldier in Batman’s war.
“Would anyone else like to speak?” Marianne piped up, after a few moments of silence. It was quiet, but there was a sense of solidarity among the group. Like they weren’t alone in this mess of a situation. Marianne looked at Jason directly in the eye but Jason looked down at his jeans. At the little tears in the seams. He tugged at it with his finger, feeling Alfred already chastising him from wherever he was. He pointedly avoided eye contact. His eyes felt itchy, like there were tears threatening to flow but couldn’t quite find the push they needed.
He remembered the feeling of a section of his brains exposed, after parts of his skull had come off. The stinging of his flesh. Tears in his eyes, hope in his heart. Robin was always about that – hope, lightness to the dark and all that. Until the light was snuffed out and there was just darkness left. Death.
“Thank you all for coming down here this morning,” Marianne said, her warbling voice floating across the room. “While the fight is long and hard, while the losses are many...it brings me comfort to know we have a good few fighters left. This isn’t about him. It isn’t about the GCPD or Batman or any of the long list of people trying to do some good to this city. It’s about us. Survivors, not victims.”
“Survivors, not victims,” the group replied in unison.
As they began to disperse, Jason rose from his chair, managing to find a discreet route out of the building amidst the rattling of old chairs and murmurs of people.
“Jason!” Marianne called out. Jason stopped, waiting for her to catch up with him, shoving both hands into his pockets. He braced himself for the upcoming hallmark card-esque inspiration boosters or requests for him to share his story next week or whatever but she simply handed him a sheet of paper instead.
He raised an eyebrow.
“A few years ago, the Joker went to trial for a few murders across the state,” Marianne began, as Jason began to read the paper. “The Post Stamp Murders, they were calling it?”
Jason shook his head. “I, uh, left the city for a few years. Haven’t really kept up with his shindigs, if I’m being honest with you.”
“Well the details of the murder are irrelevant. It turns out he was framed by another bunch of up-to-no-gooders,” Marianne continued. “But the case was significant because that was the first time we managed to drag him to trial and make a case for the death penalty.”
“Let me guess,” Jason said, biting his lip down forcefully. “The Batman stopped you.”
“Well, yes,” Marianne replied hurriedly, like Batman was the least of her concerns. Jason wished he could say the same. “But we haven’t given up just yet. Though capital punishment is still quite abolished in the state of New Jersey, we’re working on a petition of sorts that we plan to run all the way to the White House for a – well – execution.”
“We?” Jason asked, already taking the pen she held out for him.
“Citizens of Gotham Against Joker, of course,” she replied as a matter-of-fact. “We’ve got lawyers, student unions and even policemen on board among other influential people. Heck, we’ve even reached out to Bruce Wayne for support!”
“Good luck with that,” Jason muttered, tacking his signature at the end of the petition.
“I just wanted to spread the word,” Marianne said, gripping his wrist again. “We’re fighting the good fight here and I’d love to see you join us at one of our rallies. You can always keep up with our work on our Twitter and Facebook pages – here let me give you a card…” she fished out a card from her purse with a tiny graphic of the Joker’s head on a noose printed boldly on the side. “Stay in touch and spread the word!” She bundled off to other people emerging from the building, cards in hand.
He didn’t know if this committee would really make a difference, but Marianne’s hope was almost infectious. It even brought on a tiny smile to his face, seeing the woman collect other Gothamites for her cause. It almost made him feel proud of his city, as rare as that was these days. For all the gutter rats, it seemed like there were enough good people too, walking around maskless, helmetless and capeless. Just regular people wanting to “fight the good fight.”
Jason pocketed the card carefully in his wallet, between his fake drivers’ license and wads of cash. It was almost noon, people going about their day to lunch. Jason pulled his hood over his head. Outside, it had become slightly brighter, rays of sun piercing through the stormy-looking clouds.
How metaphorical, Jason thought, making his way uptown.