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“Are you alright, son?”
As a rule, Jason didn’t ever take his helmet off around Commissioner Gordon. He was paranoid that the man would make the connection between the Red Hood and the second Robin. It wouldn’t be that big of a deal, but...he wanted at least one person to see him as Hood and not as the pathetic failure of a street rat who got himself killed pretending to be a hero. But this stupid chest cold was making him miserable and the stuffy helmet wasn’t helping.
“Fine,” he rasped. He winced.
Gordon raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Sure you are.” Gordon studied him for a few long beats and Jason almost shrank under his gaze, waiting for that spark of recognition. Hey, aren’t you that idiot dead kid?
“You’re younger than I expected,” was all he said. He shook his head. “You’re all so damned young. It’s a hard life, I don’t need to tell you that. I also don’t need to tell you to be careful, but I guess it’s the father in me.” He sighed and rubbed red-rimmed eyes with a thumb and finger. His shirt was wrinkled like he’d slept in it, and he was visibly jittery. Over-caffeinated. Probably hadn’t gone home and had been catching naps in his office, working overtime. Jason reminded himself to snitch to Barbara, in case she didn’t already know. Gordon was getting too old to push himself like he had a habit of doing. He’d give Batman a hard time for doing the same without realizing the hypocrisy. Stubborn old men, the both of them.
Jason leaned a shoulder against the beaming bat signal. The casing was hot from the high intensity bulbs. He cleared his throat. “I don’t think anyone in this game ever really got the chance to be young, Commissioner,” he said in a rare moment of openness.
Gordon sighed and nodded, the motion accentuating the bags under his eyes as the shadows shifted over his face. “Something about this city. We love it, but it just takes too much from some of us. And somehow those of us who lose the most seem to love it all the more for it. I’ll never understand that.”
Jason looked down at his helmet as he rolled it back and forth in his hands. He held back a cough and it reminded that he didn’t have the luxury of standing around philosophizing with Gordon, he needed desperately to get off of his feet—he’d been out for too long and his muscles were aching. Gordon wasn’t the only one who was overworked.
Jason tilted his head pointedly at the bat signal. “Something we can help you with, Commissioner Gordon?”
Gordon leaned his head back to look up at the symbol cast against the overcast winter sky. “The Bat too busy to come himself?” He asked instead of answering.
Jason took a moment to analyze Gordon’s tone, listening for anger or bitterness, but he found none. Just a neutral weariness.
“He’s out of commission for the moment,” Jason responded. Back problems again. Bruce’s back acted up in the winter sometimes. Alfred managed to force him to rest when it flared up, but Jason suspected that Bruce’s token protests were more for show. Jason had seen him try to hide how much he struggled to get up from his chair when he was hurting.
“Nothing too serious, I hope?”
Jason shook his head. “Spa day. He likes to spoil himself.”
Gordon snorted. “I’ll just bet.” He tilted his head back down from the sky. “Zsaz has resurfaced again. I’m sure you already know that he bribed a guard and escaped Arkham last year. He’s been quiet for the most part, but he’s been peeking out from his hidey hole recently. My people are on it, but we could use all the help we could get before he finds any more throats to slit.”
Jason pushed himself away from the bat signal casing and put his helmet back on his head. Cramped and stuffy. He missed the fresh air on his face. Well. As fresh as Gotham’s air could be, anyway. “Got it. Send me any files you have and we’re on it.”
Gordon nodded. “Appreciated.” He gave Jason a tired smile. “Try to take it easy, son. You look like you could use some rest, if you don’t mind me saying.”
Jason snorted, grateful that the voice modulator was now covering up his hoarse voice. “Take your own advice, Gordon,” he said pointedly. “Anyway, it’s just a cold, but thanks for the sentiment.”
——
He’d planned on telling the others about Zsasz, he really had, but he was just too damned tired to deal with any of them tonight. He just wanted to finish his patrol and go home—he could brief them in the morning.
In his defense, the situation probably wouldn’t have played out any differently if he’d told them right away, anyway.
“Arise, devil. Arise, arise, arise,” a voice sang.
He recognized that he wasn’t in a safe place before his sluggish mind even processed what was going on. He jerked awake and tried to reel back from the voice, to get to his feet and fight, but something yanked on his wrists, stopping him from standing or moving back too far. He shook his swimming head and tried to focus on his surroundings.
Oh, right. He’d fallen right into one of Zsasz’s traps.
Zsasz had lured him into a condemned building with a damn kid. She’d called for help and run into the building, and he’d fallen right for it. He’d knelt down on her level to talk to her and she’d jabbed a needle right into his neck. He’d hit the ground, but he wasn’t out right away. With his fuzzy, drug-addled mind he’d worried about what would happen to the girl, whether she was just some street kid that had been paid to stick him, or if she’d been forced against her will. Would she take her wad of cash and scurry away, or was she being kept as some kind of sick pet?
He hadn’t known who’d got the drop on him until Zsasz stepped into his blurry view, flipping him over onto his back with a booted foot. He crouched down next to him and ran a slow finger over the side of his helmet.
“I’ve been looking forward to this,” he crooned in that manic voice of his.
There might have been more words after that, but Jason didn’t hear them as he faded out.
He was in chains. That was what had been yanking him down as he’d tried to get to his feet. They were anchored in a heavy iron ring set into the ground. The chains weren’t long—he could crouch, but not fully stand. He jerked on them again for good measure and bared his teeth at the man sat cross legged on the cold cement ground before him. Zsasz couldn't see his face beneath the helmet, but the snarl was in his voice.
“I’ll show you a devil,” he slurred.
Zsasz smiled, scratching idly at a cluster of scars on his bare chest. Jason noted, even as hazy as he still was from the drug, that there were no new cuts on Zsasz’s skin—at least that he could see—and none of the scars seemed fresh. That was good. It meant he hadn’t killed anyone recently.
“But is that really what you are, a devil?” Zsasz mused. He cocked his head and raked his wild eyes over Jason. “I have heard things, you know. About you. People say things. Vengeful spirit, guardian angel, revenant, shade, wraith, demon. Monikers people whisper as they watch the gunsmoke fade in your wake.”
“Zombie’s my personal favorite,” Jason quipped. “Got any more? Casper? Beetlejuice was undead, ya know. Say my name three times, let’s see what happens.”
Zsasz continued as though Jason hadn’t even spoken. “I find you fascinating, Red Hood. You were liberated, yet you returned to this earth. I am not sure whether to pity you, or hate you. Are you cursed? Are you a devil, returned as a punishment for your sins? Yes, I think that is more likely. You were not worthy of being saved, so you were cursed to live again. Now you roam the earth to punish the innocent by ‘saving’ them from liberation.” He made a disgusted sound. “You are an abomination. Death took you and spat you back out like rotten fruit. You are unworthy of my gift, so I will not be marking my skin with your soul.” He stood, sneering down at Jason. “I will leave you as an offering to Death once more. I am curious to see if she wants you back yet. If she rejects you, will you suffer in these chains for eternity?” He hummed. “Truly fascinating.”
Jason didn’t bother with a response as Zsasz turned and disappeared.
——
There was something wrong with his comms. He still had his helmet, his HUD was working fine, so he should have been able to get a signal out. Even if he were underground, he would have to be deep for the signal to be inhibited.
Shielding. That was the only explanation he could come up with. One of the things that made Zsasz so dangerous was that he was smart. He'd obviously planned this out, so of course he'd make sure Jason couldn't call for help.
Zsasz had stripped him of weapons, tools, and armor while he was out. He was in nothing but his tactical pants and the old worn gray and green t-shirt he’d stolen from Roy that he usually wore as an undershirt. He had no tools. Nothing to pick the lock with or break the chains. He had his clothes, his hands, and his helmet. His helmet had a bomb in it, sure, but it was too powerful to use to blow the chains off, or the floor the ring was set in. The manacles around his wrists were so tight they were practically cutting off the blood flow. Dislocating his thumb and slipping out of them was not an option. Trying would probably result in degloving his hand and not actually helping. That was an absolute last resort.
He hated the feeling of being trapped. He yanked his stifling helmet off and set it aside. He needed to think, and the damn thing wasn’t helping, especially with this damn cold. He felt like his head was stuffed with cotton and his clogged nose was distracting and made it harder to breathe. He crossed his legs and closed his eyes. As much as he gave her shit for it, the meditation techniques Ducra had taught him did help him focus. Bruce’s too, though he would rather die again than admit that to the man.
But in the end, pulling his foggy thoughts together did nothing. He was chained to a concrete floor in an empty room. He had nothing to break the locks, and no way to call for help. He had no food, and no water.
He was fucked.
——
The “cold” progressively became not just a cold. The flu, probably. Maybe bronchitis, strep, a respiratory infection, whatever, it didn’t matter—whatever it was sucked and it was getting worse. When he’d fallen into this trap it had only been a stuffy nose, a cough, and some minor body aches. By the time a day had passed, according to the clock in his helmet, headache and fever had been added to the list of symptoms. The dehydration wasn’t doing him any favors by the time the fever began to spike and he broke out in a cold sweat.
He’d given up yanking and pulling on the chains, trying to find a weak point, and he just lay on his back staring at the ceiling. His head was pulsing with his heartbeat and he had to roll onto his side every time he was hit with a hacking coughing fit. He tried to pass the time practicing his Tibetan—he’d learned to speak it fairly well when he was with the All-Caste, and he’d promised to take Kori to the Yangpachen Hot Springs next month, though it was beginning to look like that may not happen—but as his fever spiked, the intensifying brain fog made it too difficult to focus.
His mind kept wandering back to what Zsasz had said about Death. The man’s murderous “liberation” ideology may have been the delusions of a psychopath, but he couldn’t help but think...maybe Zsasz had a point about Jason’s death. They still hadn’t figured out by what force he was resurrected, and they likely never would, but maybe…
Are you cursed? Are you a devil, returned as a punishment for your sins?
Death took you and spat you back out like rotten fruit.
He shook his throbbing head to dislodge the thoughts. That was not a place he wanted to go right now, sick and alone. Instead he rolled over and tried to sleep. There was nothing else to do. He wasn’t getting out of here on his own, so he just had to hope someone would come for him. He had no reason to stay awake.
——
The average human can survive three days without water. This period, however, can be greatly affected by several factors.
Factors, for example, like illness and fever.
He’d stopped checking the time on his helmet. There wasn’t really any point to it. The last he’d checked a few hours ago, a day and a half had passed. His mouth was unbearably dry, and his cracked lips split open and bled every time he coughed. His headache had only gotten worse and now there was a shooting pain in his left ear and he couldn’t seem to focus on anything but the steady pulsing of it. The coughs were thick and wet now, coming from deep in his chest, and when he swallowed, it felt like his throat was full of knives. Nausea churned in his stomach and he tried desperately to keep the contents of it down—vomiting would significantly escalate the rate of dehydration. He passed in and out of fitful sleep, and it was beginning to become difficult to ascertain dreams from reality.
He dreamt of Death. She was a faceless, amorphous presence, but he could still sense her sneer. Her voiceless words echoed in his head. Rotten, she hissed. Your soul tastes of feculence, and I will not allow you to pollute my kingdom. Let the putrid Lazarus waters take it and be done with you. Your soulless husk can walk the Earth and crumble to dust when it is spent.
He awoke with the fetid-sweet taste of Lazarus water in his mouth and vomited.
——
There was someone watching him from the corner of the room. He couldn’t see them when he turned his head, but he caught glimpses of them in his periphery when he turned away.
——
There was laughing. It echoed off the walls and drilled into his pulsing ear. It wasn’t the Joker’s unhinged cackling, it was someone else. He couldn’t place the voice. Maybe it was the person watching him.
——
It was Death’s vassal. She hadn’t deigned to foul her hands with the filth of Jason’s soul in order to drag him back through the veil, so she’d bid him to do it instead. He was watching. Waiting for Jason to wither and crumble so he could collect the dust and dump it back into the Lazarus waters so it wouldn’t spread and pollute.
——
He couldn’t stop shaking. Everything hurt. He was on fire and his bones were ice.
——
There was a hand on his face and it grated against his raw, fevered skin. The laughter was gone and there was a new voice.
“I’ve got you, son. You’re okay, I’ve got you.”
He knew that voice.
Try to take it easy, son. You look like you could use some rest, if you don’t mind me saying.
He wanted to rest. So desperately.
——
She didn’t want him. He left his soul in the Pit and he’d come back wrong.
“Ssh. Hush, Jay-lad, just rest.”
——
Maybe Sheila could see it. That’s why she got rid of him as a baby. That’s why she sold him to the Joker. She could see it.
“No, Little Wing. There’s nothing wrong with you. I promise.”
——
When he opened his eyes this time, he was no longer sifting through fog. He could feel multiple presences in the room, but there was no longer one watching him from the corner. There was a dip in the mattress next to him and there were two heads of black hair tangled up in a mess of limbs and he couldn’t be sure which limb belonged to which head. Tim and Cass.
“You don’t have a spleen.” His voice was barely a raspy whisper, but both heads shot up and blinked away sleep. Tim groggily untangled himself from Cass and she uncurled languidly, sitting up and stretching with a yawn.
“I don’t have a who?” Tim asked blearily.
“Spleen,” Cass provided helpfully, pointing at her abdomen.
Tim blinked a few times before his brain seemed to boot up. “Oh. It’s fine, you aren’t contagious anymore.”
There was a straw poked into his mouth and all he could focus on was the blessed water soothing his raw throat and he barely noticed himself being pulled up and propped up on a mountain of pillows.
“How did you find me?” He asked when his voice sounded less like a death rattle.
“Gordon figured out you were missing,” Tim explained, sitting cross legged at Jason’s feet. “He contacted us with new information to add to the report he gave you about Zsasz, but we had no idea what he was talking about. He had Oracle ping your tracker and when she didn’t get a return he knew something was wrong. Barbara tracked your last location before your signal went dark and Gordon found you. You’ve been out for a few days. Bruce and Dick are out looking for Zsasz. They have some good leads.”
“There was a little girl. That’s how he got me. She might still be with him.”
Tim’s expression went grim and he nodded. “I’ll let Bruce know.”
While Tim tapped away on his phone, Cass wriggled over to press herself against his side. She lay her head on the pillow to look at him.
“You had bad dreams,” she said.
Jason swallowed through the knives in his throat. “Did I? Don’t remember,” he lied. He knew no one could lie to Cass, but he was making it clear that he didn’t want to talk about it.
Cass hummed. “Love you, little brother,” she said simply, shifting to plant a kiss on his still-sweaty cheek. “Just dreams.”
He sighed sleepily and sank back into the pillows. Cass snuggled closer while Tim continued to tap away at his phone, his feet wiggling against Jason’s.
Yeah. Just dreams.
——
“Tell your dad thank you for me, will you? Getting taken out by Zsasz would have been embarrassing as hell. Especially since he didn’t even stab me.”
“I’ll tell him,” Barbara said. “But he really likes tangible symbols of gratitude. Specifically, he likes pecan pie. And I heard somewhere that Alfred makes really good pie.”
“I heard that somewhere, too. I’ll see what I can do.”
——
Vengeful spirit, guardian angel, revenant, shade, wraith, demon. Monikers people whisper as they watch the gunsmoke fade in your wake.
“Master Jason, those pecans will not chop themselves.”
“Sorry, Alfred.”
“Are you making pie?”
“Get your grubby fingers away from that filling, brat, I have a knife.”
“Try it, Todd.”
“Damian, I can hear your squeaky puberty voice antagonizing Jason all the way from—Is that pie?”
“Out. Both of you. Do you not see the knife?”
“Master Richard!”
“Thanks for the distraction, guys. Alfred, I think you may have skimped on the vanilla.”
“Here, Alfie, take my knife.”