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There’s ringing in his ears, as it often comes after an explosion. Except there has not been one. Not yet.
This is not a dream, even if it seems like that. Even if the colours are too bright in this dark warehouse, and the sun glimmers on the few and narrow windows like it would on stained glass in a church. It must be smudges of dirt. Dirt is everywhere. Layers of ash on the floor. A stain of blood (or a child). Kaleidoscopes of red, yellow, and green.
Breathe. Breathe. Five things you can see (1. His gloved hands. 2. His gun. 3. Sheila Haywood; her face less calm than he remembers it, streaks of tears ruining her makeup– 4. Joker, looking right at him, 5. And that pile on the floor. A mangled, whimpering thing, that would probably feel oddly soft under his boot.) Focus. What goes next? 1. Laughter 2. Laughter. 3. Laughter. 4. Laughter. Or was it something he can feel? Or taste? Blood in his mouth. Focus.
There are protocols for this. One of the few Batman protocols that were designed in collaboration with outsiders, the Flash and even Booster Gold advising on the best course of action. Jason remembers studying them, and remembers Bruce telling him, in a strange occurrence, “I trust you do the right thing, if it comes to this.” And Jason remembers replying– “I always do.” In his mind, he would add, cynically, that fortunately his idea of the right thing was not the same as that of his father.
This is not a dream, but he had a similar once, or maybe it was a hallucination, as he sat in a cell in the Magdala Valley, and Robin’s body was twitching in front of him in spasms of pain, and an adolescent voice asked for help, and he replied, “I have tried, Robin. Believe me, I have tried.” And now he can truly try.
Focus. The Joker is static, perhaps because of the gun aiming at his head. “I love this joke!” He exclaims, his voice echoing in the vastness of the building. Somehow, to Jason’s ears, the moan coming from the floor feels more offensive.
There’s something he is missing, a memory tugging at his mind. A mention of the Joker using his old alias in Ethiopia, or someone else being spotted in a Red Hood-esque attire. “Peculiar,” Bruce said back then, and that was it, either way, “Robin, stay put.” Now, Robin is indeed staying put, Jason thinks with some humour, and the laughter in the background feels almost appropriate, as everything comes together, aligns. He retracts his actions since the displacement happened, where he’s been seen in the Valley, and how he ended up here, kicking the doors in. For a second, clarity almost overwhelms him.
This is the easiest equation in the world.
He has one bullet. Besides him, there are three people in this warehouse (or two, depending on how you look at it.) He knows what to do.
He fixes the gun on the target. Clean. His finger is placed on the trigger. Steady.
The shot is deafening.
***
Jason jolts in the Batcave, and he comes to his senses slowly, like from a dream. He blinks. Bruce is looking at him, maybe a little sadly. He can see his mouth moving, but can’t make out the words clearly. “Since you are here…timeline secure…the right thing.”
Jason stares at him, still a little dizzy.
“Sure did.” He smiles.
“Thank you,” Bruce says. There it comes; normally, he would be surprised at the sentiment, but this is only a confirmation that he was not actually trusted, that the fact that their reality did not collapse with Jason’s unprecedented trip was a surprise. Besides, Bruce doesn’t have any idea what he’s thanking him for, he doesn’t know half of it. And it’s not like Jason did it for him, either way.
Breathe.
There’s the giant Joker card, and Jason’s own gloves, and the empty magazine of his gun–
“One thing you can hear?” This is Batman talking.
“Ringing.”