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Jason died when he was ten.
He was curled up in a corner, hungry, alone, and cold during one of those brutal winters Gotham was prone to. The sky was pouring buckets of water down, and he had gotten caught in the rainstorm before being able to duck for cover in the condemned building he was now shivering in. He had found a large square of fabric and was currently laying on it, curled up, trying to breathe with shaking lungs.
Jason knew he was going to die.
He wasn’t the first one to fall victim to the cold. He had seen two figures huddled together that same night, unmoving. He had to ignore them. He had to grip the tire iron tighter, and get to work on the foolishly parked car in front of him. Jason had gotten three tires hidden away and all of them off before the weather struck. He was on his way to take the fourth when he felt the raindrops pierce his thin jacket and he ducked for cover. The cover didn't hold and he had to find more, getting more and more soaked by the minute.
Now Jason was in the present. Dying. Maybe it should have scared him more, the thought of dying so young.
He had seen younger die in Crime Alley.
Jason’s breaths evened out as they slowed. He hadn't lived a good life. Maybe the next one would be nicer. Maybe he'd even have a whole family, brothers and sisters and a good dad. His mom was good to him this time around. That was nice.
Jason sighed as a final shudder rippled through his body, the roof of the condemned building fading from his sight.
He closed his eyes and distantly felt his body get warmer as though he were merely a visitor in his body as flames enveloped what was left of his unseeing eyes.
Was this what dying felt like? He didn’t know.
He exhaled, and he evaporated.
-
Jason woke up.
His fingers felt like they were about to crumble and his eyes felt like they were not supposed to open. But he was awake.
Jason opened his eyes and sat up. Jason was alive. Against all odds, he was not dead.
But as is the norm for a kid from the alleys, his first concern was his job, his tires, his means of survival. He rose from the scorched blanket (scorched? It had been fine when he laid down) and leaned against the wall for support, expecting the familiar tremble that ran all over his body throughout the days. He took a step away from his support before stopping.
The tremble was gone.
Jason kept walking and he didn’t stumble. He didn’t feel the pit of hunger deep in his stomach, the ever-present ache for an actual bite to eat. He felt stronger than he had in years.
He ran back to the car, dodging puddles from the heavy rain that had ended, grabbed the last tire, and he finished his job. He almost forgot the ashen color his fingers had been when he woke up.
-
Jason woke up again.
He was in another alley, half a year later. He blinked his crumbling eyes and stared at the rooftops that surrounded him.
He wasn’t hungry like he just was. He wasn’t feeling pain and exhaustion everywhere like he just was.
Jason didn’t register that the sun was on its way to setting while right before he fell asleep (before he died?) it was just peeking over the building’s edge.
Jason kept moving.
Jason kept dying.
Jason kept waking up.
-
Jason was twelve when he stopped dying.
Jason had seen the slick black metal and knew that people would pay nicely for Batmobile tires. It was a fact that had come easily to him, a guess he trusted so deeply it had to be true. He gripped the rusting tire iron as he cautiously approached the vehicle. No sign of the Bat that lurked the streets.
Jason knelt down, glancing around him before repeating the very same actions he had done a thousand times before. Christ, did Batman actually have bats on his tires? That was egotistical like Jason had never seen before.
The first tire was done. He dropped the iron and grabbed the wheel, running to the nearest cranny he had scoped out to stash his stolen goods. He dropped the tire off, ensured it wasn't visible to anyone who might pass by, and ran back to the Batmobile. He did the same with the second tire, mumbling curses all the while as he glanced anxiously around him, twisting the iron as he removed the third. He once again dropped the tire iron and booked it, gripping the tire as he darted to his hiding spot.
When he went back for the fourth he noticed something wrong. The tire iron wasn't where he had dropped it. Cautiously, Jason approached the vehicle. It seemed the same as when he had run off, but there was a prickle of danger in the air, a prickle only someone intimately familiar with danger could sense.
Jason's mind screamed to turn back. That the money he'd get wasn't worth getting beat up by the Batman. That it wasn't worth nearly dying for.
Jason took another step.
Jason's mind screamed to get away, that maybe he would die this time unlike all the others where he was consumed by fire and then woke up fine.
Jason took another step. He could see his rust-spotted tire iron now, a few paces away. He crept forward and grabbed it, eyes darting around for the owner of the tires. No sign of the bat.
He heard someone clear their throat behind him.
Oh fuck.
He turned, back straight, to face the glowing eyes that met his.
If this was how he died (for what time?) he wanted to die without crumpling into a ball from fear.
He didn't want to die. But this was Crime Alley, and he had been prepared for this inevitability for years. Long before the condemned building and long before he stole his first tire.
"Come to finish the job, boy?" The Batman growled.
Jason didn't respond, instead tucking the tire iron behind his back and gripping it, eyes twisting into his best intimidating street glare and lip curling with fake anger. The Batman wouldn't back off, but neither would Jason.
The looming figure continued speaking despite Jason's attempts to be intimidating. "You're going to give me back my tires."
"Who says I took 'em?" Jason asked, his accent bleeding into his words. He squeezed the rusted iron as his eyes sought out an exit from the alley.
"What else is the tire iron for?" The rumble seemed less intense as the human shadow before him shifted. Like he was falling for that, Jason thought, as he sucked in a breath.
"This!"
Jason, quick as a flash, pulled the iron out from behind his back and with all the strength he had as a hungry Crime Alley kid, Jason hit The Batman in where the gut should be (assuming the creature that lurked the city's streets was actually human . Nobody was sure). Before he had the chance to recover, Jason whirled to the exit he had spotted earlier and sprinted.
He knew he couldn't outrun the bat. He was certain it was wishful thinking. But he had no choice but to run and pray to gods he didn't believe in that he would live, that the fire wouldn't finish him off like it seemed to taunt him with the threat of doing every time he lay down with no more fight in him.
It was life, death, or fire. And Jason knew which of those he wanted.
Jason kept running. Faintly in his mind he knew he couldn't lead Batman to the tires. But his home was near and he might be able to hide out there.
Jason took a left.
He always hunted for stupidly-parked cars a distance from his "apartment". Not so far that he'd get stranded come nightfall, when Crime Alley was the most dangerous, but far enough that nobody who saw him could trace him back to where he lived.
Clearly his logic was flawed because that was precisely what was happening as he took another hurried left, narrowly dodging two people walking, hoods up and heads down. Jason didn't glance back, didn't look around for the man who was surely following him.
He took another left and darted in the doors of the building and ran to his first-floor apartment. He locked the door (assuming the lock worked. He wasn't sure) and stared at it, almost daring it to open.
“Ahem.”
Of course he forgot the window.
Standing behind him once again, was Batman.
The shadow blinked slowly. "Do you live here?"
Jason almost snorted. "What of it? It's mine, and I like it," he said stubbornly.
"Hn."
Wow , Jason thought, this guy sure can communicate .
-
"I hope you're not taking my tires again." Batman rumbled.
Jason grinned at the man. "I'm testing the new defenses you installed! What if another kid tries to steal them?"
"Hn."
Jason picked up a stray pebble and threw it in Bruce's direction. It sailed to the man, making a little tink as it hit his shoe.
"Nobody gets what your grunts mean, B."
" Hn ."
-
Jason was thirteen when he died again.
"Robin, on your right!" Batman called out as he flung a batarang towards the leader of the men they were fighting. Jason tucked and rolled towards the open spot to the left, turning to sock the goon in the jaw.
The trafficking ring had become far too confident by the time the duo had tracked them down. Several women had been grabbed off the street tonight and neither vigilante wanted them to be here longer than they had to. They had taken the girls out first, making sure they got to safety before going after the perpetrators they were now taking out.
Jason twisted as his mentor signaled for him to dodge again, narrowly avoiding a shot to the gut, instead feeling the burning bullet graze his side. He grimaced but disregarded it in favor of throwing a punch to the side of a goon’s head, knocking the sneering man out cold. Batman was on the other side of the room, taking out the last of the men and binding their wrists.
“You did good, Robin,” Batman rumbled as he turned to look at his sidekick who was rising from tying the wrists of the goons on his side. Jason grinned at the rare praise from his mentor as he stood proudly, nudging the unconscious bodies around him away as he stepped towards Batman.
Suddenly, the white eyes of Batman’s dark cowl widened and his hand reached into his belt.
Jason saw the batarang fly as he felt the knife protrude from his chest.
Batman was accurate if nothing else and his projectile found its mark, knocking the man down and causing the odd sensation of feeling a knife being removed as the falling man clutched it for support.
Jason didn’t register the amount of blood he was already losing as Batman barreled towards him. He knocked out the man who was still gripping the knife in a split second before looking at his sidekick.
“Robin,” he whispered, voice distraught. The words fell on Jason’s ears like leaves from a tree, nearly silent in the stillness. Jason took a shuddering breath that turned to him spluttering blood from his lungs.
“B?” Jason asked, a mixture of spit and blood trailing from the corner of his mouth as he strained to sit up.
“Don’t move,” Batman- no, he wasn’t doing the gruff voice anymore, he was Bruce- spoke as he cradled Jason’s head.
“B-”
“Don’t talk,” Bruce practically begged, “we can heal this. Just hold on.”
“B, you need to-” Jason broke off as he choked on the blood that had been pooling in his mouth- “you need-”
Both of them knew that no man could survive the wound. But Jason, inexplicably, only remembered the fire that followed him whenever he thought he was about to die. From that condemned building to the alley with the high rooftops, there was always fire.
“Get back,” Jason whispered.
"I'm not going to leave you. Don't close your eyes, Robin, stay with me."
"Get back, B." Jason hissed. He could feel fire warming the wound, not yet consuming him like he had felt it do a hundred, a thousand times before. Maybe this time death finally would take him instead of teasing him again. Maybe the reaper would stop hesitating and come for him already.
A flame licked its way out from the wound and Jason used his final strength to shove Bruce away from him with ash-colored arms. He shuddered as fire swallowed his bleeding form, consuming every inch of the boy and all Bruce could do was stare in horror as his sidekick, his partner, his son turned to ash amidst the pyre that he had become.
The fire went out and the world went still.
Bruce screamed.
He tore his throat and his voice became hoarse as he screamed, his son gone and turned to ash. Minutes, hours, eons passed as he ran out of air and the sun peeked up and he still stared at what was once a boy. What once was a boy, his magic robin, who was tough from years in Crime Alley but still had all the love of a child. God, Jason was only a child. And Jason exploded in front of him, he was nothing more than the body-shaped pile of charred dust that lay before him.
How strange that the more Bruce looked, the more solid the boy seemed to be, as though a ghost had laid down in the ash and breathed as though it was laying in a body. The cheeks seemed to fill and his fingers grew more solid and- oh.
Jason's body was becoming solid.
His legs were forming and his eyelids seemed to flutter- when did he have eyelids? His chest rose as the ash became less dust and more flesh and cloth, and his hands became the same worn knuckles that had bruised against a sandbag that very day. The ash grew less textured and more solid as the boy-turned-ash turned boy once more.
It was the most terrifying thing Bruce had ever seen.
Jason(?) inhaled and opened his eyes.
"Bruce?"
Bruce's face was horrified behind the cowl, something Jason had learned to decode months ago. He was hesitant to get closer to Jason and instead seemed frozen by something.
"Bruce, are you okay? Did you get burned? Shit- I tried to tell you, I didn't- I didn't- crap, B, please-"
"You're a phoenix ?" Bruce all but shrieked, the last word dropping to a hiss.
Jason looked at Bruce like he was crazy.
"I'm a what now?"
"You died. You burst into-" Bruce waved his hands wildly, as if it would make up for the words he couldn't string together.
Jason could feel something clicking in his head, a puzzle being completed behind the fog of confusion that took over the front of his brain, letting the mission come first ahead of all his other thoughts. Maybe it was to help him, or him becoming acutely aware of the unconscious bodies around him.
Bruce was still staring at him as though he would crumble in front of him again and leave him with nothing but heavy cinders. "Has this-" his voice broke off, throat so rough and full of glass it hurt Jason's ears to just hear. "Has it-"
Bruce swallowed. "Have you done... that before?"
Jason's mind flew back. The condemned building. The alleyway. The garage. The back lot of the liquor store. The inner streets. The alley with the cold metal of a gun against his gut. All over Crime Alley.
Yes, Jason had done that before.
When Jason said as much, Bruce's heart seemed to break. He finally moved, standing on his creaking legs and extended a hand to Jason. The younger took the offered assistance gingerly, grayish hands seeming to glow in the orange dawn's light. Bruce winced at the sight of them as Jason rose into the beams shining through the broken, dusty windows. It was far earlier than either of the duo liked to be out. After a quick check to ensure that all the men were bound properly, Bruce left a tip to Commissioner Gordon and the duo left, grappling across the sun-streaked city to return to the manor.
When they returned they found Alfred about to tear what remained of his hair out. Alfred was in the cave, subtly wringing his hands as the two entered.
"Master Bruce. Master Jason," the elder man said stiffly, as though he was squashing down emotion. "Might I ask why neither of you returned or responded to your comms?"
Bruce seemed to be unable to speak, like the gravity of the situation was settling on him now that he was trying to verbalize it outside of that warehouse.
Jason spoke up for him. "I died."
Alfred blinked. "Master Jason, I beg your pardon?"
Jason winced at how the words sounded, far too casual and far too blunt. "I- uh- I died. Tonight,” he added lamely. The look he got from Alfred made him want to be swallowed by the Earth and die.
Or, die as best he could. He still didn't know what was up with him. Speaking of...
"Bruce said I was a phoenix." The word felt foreign in his mouth, like a piece of taffy that was too large for a single bite. It was odd and too fancy for his still Alley-influenced accent. It was weird.
And it was true.
Amidst Alfred and Jason's lack of communication, Bruce had approached the Batcomputer and, in a few quick searches, had pulled up articles from unheard of sites, written by pen names of pen names.
"What sort of conspiracy bullshit is this?" Jason asked, eyeing the several articles on the screen proclaiming "16 UNDENIABLE PIECES OF PROOF: MOTHMAN LIVES!" and "The truth behind the Loch Ness Monster" and other titles that made Jason pity whoever was paid to write them. Bruce grumbled, pointing at the article he was focused on.
The Myths Among Us: The Risen Phoenix
The article seemed shockingly well written for the site's apparent quality. The information was lax- not much was known about the phoenixes, claimed the author.
Phoenixes are very few and very far between , read the screen, and no recorded historical names are suspected of being a phoenix. It is unsure how many there are due to a lack of research .
The article droned on about potential facts and rumors that could have truth to them, waving the lack of knowledge in Bruce and Jason's faces like a flag.
A phoenix is capable of death, despite the mythological name. They are most vulnerable at their weakest- when they are ash. If a phoenix's ash is tampered with or tainted, they will not come back.
Oh. So Jason was still screwed.
His alley instincts weren’t surprised. If anything, it made more sense. He’d fight and he’d die, and there would be fire along the way. That’s how it was in Crime Alley, and how it was for a kid from it, too.
He hummed neutrally, aware of the subtle glance Bruce had cast at him. Huffing, he stretched and walked away from the computer.
“So not much changes then, hm?” Jason spoke, breaking the silence. “I’m mortal with benefits, that’s all.” Snorting, he peeled away his domino mask. The feeling of air on his eyes made him feel more alive than reassembling had. He flung the mask at the cowled man that was still hunched over the keyboard. "Loosen up," he groaned as the man opted to open another article instead of batting an eye.
Bruce did not loosen up. Jason rolled his eyes and headed into the elevator, pressing the button to go up. He could have a crisis over his newly relevant mortality later- now, he wanted to relax and sleep on his bed instead of a warehouse's concrete floor.
Yeah. He could sleep now.
He would still be alive tomorrow.
-
Jason was fifteen when he needed answers.
Jason knew he had fucked up on the bust. He knew he shouldn't have jumped into the group of men. He knew that he should have waited, he knew that Gordon was supposed to be with them. He knew, he knew, he knew. And he knew taking him off duty was probably the smart thing to do.
It didn't stop him from lashing out at Bruce. It didn't stop him from being pissed. It didn’t stop him from being stupid.
He had stormed out of the house. He didn't know how long he had been walking- two hours? Three hours? He didn't know how far he had walked, but he knew where he had walked into.
He was back in Crime Alley. More specifically, he was back at his home. Not the apartment he had rented with his tire money- no, that was never a home. Only a place to crash and store his stolen property. He was back by where he had lived with his parents- when they were alive. The building smelled like cigarettes and men who needed showers and burnt pastries, but that was what smelled like home to Jason.
The scent whipped memories around Jason's mind, ones he had long thought forgotten. His mom, so kind to him when she wasn't on the take. His dad, who cared enough to enter a life of crime to provide for them until it ultimately killed him. Both were okay people who were dealt bad cards- and he still loved them.
"You!"
He was jostled from his thoughts when a cry came from above him. He turned to see an elderly lady, hair grayed from age, calling out from a second-story window.
"You're young Jason Todd, aren't you?" She continued when she saw him look at her.
"Yes," Jason answered. He was hesitant to talk to anyone in this part of the city, but this woman seemed familiar- like someone he used to know, when he lived here. Someone he could trust.
"Then come up here," she said, beckoning, "I've got something for you."
When Jason had scaled the stairs in the building and counted the apartments he passed until he got to the right one, he opened the door cautiously- you never got over your alley kid instincts, he supposed.
“Hello?” He called into the open apartment.
“Come in, come in!” The woman called. The sound of her accent and voice was so familiar, Jason could almost swear...
Oh. So that’s who she was.
“You were a friend of my mother’s, weren’t you. Mrs. Walker?” He guessed the name, from half-memories of an older woman with gray streaks in her brown hair and cookies that he snatched an extra one from, much to the amusement of his mom and the lady who stood in front of him now.
“That’s right,” she grinned. She was holding a taped-shut package, ordinary and brown. “How you been doing, boy?”
“Getting by,” Jason replied.
Mrs. Walker hummed knowingly. “You kinda disappeared right after ya’ mom died.” The statement was a clear prod.
“Juvie cops were looking to put me into state. Didn’t want ta’ go,'' Jason explained, the accent flowing back into his words easily.
“Mm. Can’t blame ya’ for that.” Mrs. Walker nodded as she talked, walking over to a small table and setting the box down. Jason noted that she never had her back to him, always keeping him in her field of vision. Jason couldn't blame her. They were still in Crime Alley, after all. “But when no one claimed ya’ fam’ly’s possessions, the landlord sold ‘em off. I was able to save this stuff for ya', case you ever came back," she continued speaking.
She gripped the tape the box was shut with and pulled it off in one clean rip . She tilted her head apologetically. "I’m afraid it's a bit water damaged. Darn them leaky roofs, and darn the cheapskate owner who's refusin' to fix 'em." Jason peered into the now-open box as the woman muttered complaints. He took in the contents of the box and felt a cold thrill run up his spine.
"Photographs," he whispered, his voice hushed with delight. "Personal papers!"
Mrs. Walker grinned. “Thought it might be stuff ya’d like ta have.” Jason nodded slowly, awed.
“This is incredible,” Jason said reverently, eyes still transfixed on the items in the box in front of him. He lifted out a photograph in a pale blue frame and willed the tears down, away from the brims of his eyes.
It was a photo of his mom, before she was an addict, before she had a child, before her life went downhill. She was in a flowing dress, dancing and smiling. She was smiling.
She smiled plenty when Jason was young, but as he got older and as they got poorer and her addiction got worse and his father got in with the wrong people, she smiled less.
Was it really getting older if you were only nine and a half?
Jason was an inch from crying now, as his mom smiled eternally in the photograph. “How can I ever...” he started to ask before his voice trailed off, throat catching on emotion.
“Ain’t nothing,” Mrs. Walker said knowingly. “Now, I gotta shoo ya’ outta here, boy. Got shopping I gotta do.”
Jason was thankful that he wouldn’t burst into tears in front of his old neighbor, setting the picture frame back down into the box with the same gentleness he would a young child as Robin. Mrs. Walker showed him out of the apartment building, a firm hand kindly steering him through the halls. He couldn’t help but wonder if this was what life would have been like had his family remained whole.
“Now, son, you take care of yourself,” Mrs. Walker said as she exited the building, Jason blinking at the difference between the hallway half-lit by dead lightbulbs and the bright sun on the rare day where the sky was not overcast.
Jason hailed a taxi once Mrs. Walker had gone back inside, clutching the box with white knuckles.
It was about time he learned something about his family.
-
When Jason got back to the manor, Bruce wasn’t there. Jason felt a curl of guilt in his stomach at the relief he felt from the news. He was off-duty anyway. There was no need for Bruce to wait for him.
He asked Alfred to make sure he wasn’t disturbed, and locked the door to his room behind him. He set the box down on his bed and opened it up again. The photo of his mom was on the top, right where he had set it. He blinked out one of the tears that had been threatening to fall, wiping it with his shirt sleeve. He dug deeper into the box, pulling out another picture. A family photo, in a golden-colored frame. A handful of photos that were unframed. So many pictures, snapshots of smiles that had long since slipped.
There was a deed to a plot of land in Virginia and an old insurance plan that had long since run its course. A few old elementary school reports, compliments from teachers he had forgotten scattered throughout. He reached for the next slip of paper in his box, like Pandora reaching to answer the hum of hope in hers. He couldn't stop taking out papers, greedy and desperate for more hints of the past he had forgotten he had.
The paper was his birth certificate, neat and proper. Jason Peter Todd was written across the top, a noble name for a screw-up kid. Jason dwelled in self-pity for only a mere moment before his mind came to a screeching halt.
His name was correct. His father's name said Willis Todd, as it should. But his mother's name was water damaged beyond recognition, except for the first letter.
S.
Not C. Not C for Catherine, but S for something else. A secret. His mom was-
Jason’s mom wasn’t Catherine Todd. His mom wasn’t the dancing girl in the blue-framed photo, but someone who wasn’t in the box. A woman far away.
He sat in silence for an hour, or a minute. Two minutes, maybe. He wasn’t sure. He couldn’t tell. It felt like parts of his body were floating away, his very essence dissolving. He was a stranger in his own mind, watching from behind his eyes.
Eventually, his mind reconnected to his sitting form and his body stopped floating away and felt whole again. Eventually he was back to normal.
Whatever that meant when you had lived your life believing a lie was the gospel truth.
Catherine Todd, the woman who raised Jason, wasn’t his birth mother. But that statement only raised more questions. The main one being, if not Catherine, then who? Anyone who could tell him was gone. His mother and father, they’d been dead for years.
Step-mother, Jason realized. It’s not a happy realization.
He doesn’t know his mother. She was someone he never met. He had grown up with his mom, not the mystery woman he never knew. Someone who was more of an enigma than the Riddler. Someone who might be-
Might be alive. He might have a parent who’s not dead. Jason might, impossibly, not be an orphan. Jason might have someone who knows why or how he was a phoenix. Jason was taught to be a detective. He had to be able to find the name of the shadow of hope that was his birth mother.
He dug through the box with the desperation of a stray dog digging in a dumpster- a sight not that uncommon in Crime Alley. He set everything down like it was gold, but he paid it no mind as he searched for a jewel. It didn't take him long to find a diamond in the form of an address book with the name Willis Todd embossed on the front.
He needed to look for women's names that started with an "S", he thought, then repeating it out loud in a hushed whisper.
Nobody was around to hear. It was a large manor. Alfred was likely somewhere else in the expansive house and if Bruce was back, he would have been informed of Jason's request for solitude. But his secret was his and he needed this, he needed that hope, and he felt it was his mission to find his mother on his own.
He found three names.
Sharmin Rosen-
xxxx, xxx Street, Suite 100
Shiva Woosan-
Apt 23, Complex 9, xxx Ave.
Sheila Haywood-
XXXX, xxx Place, xxxxx
All the addresses had to be out of date. Nobody lived in Gotham that long in the same place. Houses got destroyed, apartment complex ACs got Joker toxin-d (that was quite the weekend) and Gotham was Gotham. You kept moving or you died. It was how the always-killing city worked.
But he needed to find his mother. He had to. It was a beast that consumed him, leaving no space for any thought that didn't further his goal.
Step one. Find the women's current location. It took a moment for Jason's fixated mind to come to the obvious conclusion- the batcomputer.
Jason snuck down the stairs, finding no obstacle in his path. Alfred and Bruce were probably busy doing whatever they did when Jason wasn't around, proven by the Batmobile being neatly parked in the cave when Jason got there.
Jason sat down in front of the batcomputer and let instinct guide his speed-blurred fingers across the keyboard.
It took him a few hours of cracking into encrypted systems with encrypted files to find the first woman, Sharmin Rosen. Emigrated six years ago, currently in the employ of the Israeli Secret Service. He let his eyes pause and linger on the headshot of her, feasting for any hint of resemblance between him and her.
But the image wasn't in color and the quality wasn't the highest. Jason couldn't find anything. He shook off the burst of dread he felt in his sternum and steeled himself. There were two others he needed to find. Two other opportunities.
The second one, inexplicably, was easier to hunt down despite her... profession. Shiva Woosan, trained assassin, currently suspected of running something in Lebanon. Jason didn't really want her as a mother- something about her, well, everything made him hesitant to look to her as a maternal figure. But at least there was the last woman, someone much easier to track down. Perhaps because she had nothing to hide.
Dr Sheila Haywood, kindly providing famine relief in Ethiopia. Jason wasn't sure if she could be his mother just on a moral stance. A woman dedicated to bettering others and a boy who stole from them. Jason shook his head as if that would clear him of his guilt.
He had almost died, once, stopping someone from stealing a car. If not for immediate first aid, his secret could have gotten out. Would have gotten out. And all he could think of wasn't the threat to his identity, but instead the fact that he was so close to becoming that man. He was probably barely twenty, and he could have been Jason. Jason could have been him.
Jason could have been taken down by the man he now called a father.
He stared at the images of the three women on the batcomputer's screens and he allowed himself to let out a strangled keen of regret. He was nine and he had no choice, Bruce had said when Jason had gone through these thoughts before. It wasn't up to him.
Jason had a feeling he knew that the words didn't do much, but still offered them. It was the thought that counted, he supposed.
Jason shook his head vigorously, as if that would clear the guilt and storm that always lay in his mind. He tried to think of the next step, the next thing to do.
And it was obvious, wasn't it? He had to find the women.
Briefly, the thought of asking Bruce for help flashed in his mind, but he rapidly dismissed it. Bruce wouldn't care about his mother.
"You're in no shape to run off on this investigation, Jason, mimimimimi," Jason mocked to the empty cave. "You're too irresponsible, too angry. You can't be trusted to do anything."
...Okay. Maybe he was exaggerating at this point. But Bruce only liked catching crooks and grumbling nonsensically. So the job was all his, as it should be. As it had to be. Anything else would feel wrong.
Of course, he still could have a little help from Bruce. Or at least, a little help from his credit cards. Eat the rich, and all that jazz.
Jason felt a blanket of an indescribable emotion settle around his shoulders. Partly a comfort, partly a noose.
If he had the courage to go and think about it, he'd find it to be guilt and resolve clashing against each other in a quiet that lowered itself to rest in his skull. Bruce and Alfred had been so kind to him, picking him up from the streets and putting him into a better life. One he never could have had without them. But he had to do this. It was his mom.
He cast one last look around the Batcave. He took in every inch, not wanting to forget it.
He didn't know if he'd be let back in here later.
He forced his head to turn, forced his legs to walk, and forced his eyes to dry.
Jason booked last minute tickets on a first class flight to Lebanon. It was the last one for the next month.
There was no going back now.
-
"How about a rum and coke?"
"Sorry, kid, first class or not you don't look like you're old enough for rum." The flight attendant said, customer-service smile on. "How about a straight coke?"
Jason nodded. He didn't honestly expect to get anything on a real airline, or want to get it, only ordering out of boredom. As opposed to the street where your age was second to your cash and you found your hands holding bottles that you never wanted. That was something Jason hated, but Bruce couldn't do much about it, as a Wayne or as Batman. There just wasn't a way. Jason grimaced at the memories.
When he got back, he'd fix it. One way or another.
But first, he had a job to do.
The windows were covered in clouds and there wasn't much to see but them, but Jason still looked out. He wondered if Bruce had noticed he was gone yet. It didn't matter, he told himself, eyes trained on a stray cirrus cloud.
I'm on my way, mom .
-
The blast knocked him off his feet.
Jason saw his life flash before his eyes, vision flicking and ears ringing.
The Joker hitting him.
Bruce telling him to wait.
Finding his mom- could she really be called a mom anymore?
Shiva. Sharmin Rosen. The plane. Finding the women. Getting the box. Meeting Mrs. Walker again. Dying and learning the truth. Getting taken in by Bruce. Dying. Dying. Dying.
It was weird, Jason would have thought– could he form a thought through the fifty layers of pain his head was in– that when he looked back on his life it was composed primarily of death.
His ears were ringing. Did he already notice that? He couldn't tell. He should have waited for Bruce.
Where was Bruce? He had left but surely he'd be back soon. Jason didn't want to die alone.
Hadn't he done that a lot, though?
He felt a spark of hope when he saw a shadow stand in his peripheral vision. Or maybe a literal spark. Jason couldn't tell. All he knew is his dad was here and he wouldn't be alone.
"Jason," Bruce called out, voice echoing. No names in the field , Jason thought, but he smiled.
"Dad," Jason called back, voice rough like he had eaten gravel. Everything hurt. Jason wanted his dad.
He really was just a kid, huh?
"Jason," Bruce called again, eyes falling on Jason's small form. "Jason," he said, softer, as he sprinted to his son.
"Dad."
"Jason."
"It hurts, dad." Jason whispered.
"I know, Jason." Bruce whispered. His heavy Batman-boots crunched against the ash of the warehouse as he knelt down next to Jason. He ripped off his gloves, cupping Jason's face.
"He... he had a crowbar, B, it hurt. Real bad," Jason said. He wanted a hug. And to cool down. Why was he so warm?
Oh, right. He was dying. And Bruce was holding him. That wasn't such a bad way to go, was it?
"Br'ce," Jason murmured. "Br'ce, 's gonna h'ppen again." Why was talking so hard? It was like his tongue was ash.
"No," Bruce said, voice hoarse. "No, we'll get you back to the medical tent. You'll be okay. I promise, just stay with me."
"I... I always loved you, you know? 'M sorry for ruining that bust. I never... Never apologized. 'M sorry. And for being angry with you for taking me off duty. And for-" Jason was cut off by Bruce shushing him. But he wasn't done, he had to tell Bruce, because everything hurt and he just wanted his dad. Bruce's hands were nicely cold against Jason's warm cheeks.
"I was ten when I was ready for this, B. I thought..." Jason's voice faded as he choked on the smoky air. He needed to talk, though, to tell him. "You changed that. You were- you-"
It was time.
"B, I lo-"
Fire crawled out of his mouth, his sides, his back, his neck, him.
The world was very bright, then very dark.
Bruce screamed, from pain as fire licked his wrists or from grief as his son dissolved into ash into ash, mixing with the warehouse and finding his final resting place among the scene of the crime, fitting for a boy from an alley that was nothing more than that.
Bruce screamed so loud the stars fell from the heavens and crashed to earth in more explosions, louder and louder and louder until they drowned out the grief of the loss of a son, a child, a kid who should never have been in the field. Bruce screamed and grieved and watched as the embers faded to ash that faded into the house he would forever be buried in.
All things Jason would never see because he was dead now, for forever, and he would not come back. Jason's fire had finally fizzled out.
Bruce went home and buried a closed casket. Ripping the shirt he held in his hands, he saw Dick do the same, then Kate. Alfred nodded silently- he had covered every mirror in the manor. There was nobody else to grieve the boy. Parents, all three, dead. No siblings to speak of besides Dick. No uncles or cousins or friends from the alleys.
Here lies Jason Todd
Died at 15
May his spirit burn bright.
-
Wind was blowing over a desert. Loose sand kicked into the air by the sharp gales, whistling around ruins of a years-old tragedy.
Bits of ash flaked off the torched wood, filtering into the swirling wind. Twirling and twisting, the storm grew as it took the sand and earth and ash into it. Every speck of dust seemed to isolate, separating from the force of the wind storm.
And in the eye of the storm, ash collected.
The swirling sand grew stronger, blocking the interior from view.
And in the eye of the storm, ash took form.
Something was coalescing, becoming substantial in the curtains of soot. Wind shrieked between broken beams, as more dust flew into the air and more dust flew into the center.
And in the eye of the storm was a person.
They were pale gray, made of individual specks of ash that seemed to fly as if magnetically attracted to the others. More and more came out of the twister, fitting into place like microscopic puzzle pieces.
In the eye of the storm, was Jason Todd.