At the altar of your sins

In another world, after Jason Todd stitchs himself back together following the biggest betrayal of his life; he decides to expose the extreme hypocrisy that drives Batman & Co.
He does this throught a different route than the usual hail of bullets and rivers of blood: he lets his music do it for him. He puts together a haphazard little band, slaps a red domino on his face and starts pouring out his rage into songs.
Then, very much to his surprise, people listen.

Notes:

Hello!!!!
So, this AU has been chasing me for MONTHS. I've started this poem-song-mixture-thing like 10 times, on different places and devices. I started writing it on my phone but then it broke and i lost all of it. Bought a new phone, started writing something new from the 2nd parragraph on. Then I got my first phone *back* and I had the two completely different drafts....so I tried to merge them. Been trying, for like, 3 months now.
You let me know how it went lol.
(Also, I began writing this note with the intent of posting only the 'poem'...and then started writing in the Work Text window and couldn't stop until I finished it *facepalm*)
Usual warnings, not native English speaker, not beta'd.
Enjoy!

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Healing takes time. Scratch that. Digging himself out of the ground again, bleeding out again takes time. Getting to his nearest safehouse without running into the police or lowlives that would happily end the job Batman started and take the credit takes time. Stitching his throat back together with a dirty mirror and setting his ribs takes time.

There's not enough time in the world to recover from your father dealing you a killing blow and then not even bothering to come check if it took. Or check if it didn't. Jason didn't have many expectations of Batman regretting his decision and turning back to save him; but still, it burns. Burns right through the heart of that small sweet child that had believed wholeheartedly in his father's love, believed dad would save him.

But Jason is done waiting for someone to want him, love him, save him. He's as much an orphan as he's always been.

So, while his body is busy healing, he thinks. He would love to go out and punch and kick and kill; he would love to rage and scream until his lungs give out; but he doesn't have that option, now, does he? So when the Pit is bubbling hot enough to burn him and everyone around him alive and there's nothing else to do, he grabs something, anything, and begins to write.

He curses, he curses a lot. He demands answers a paper could never give him, because the person who owes those answers to him doesn't care anymore. He rages, scribbling unintelligible gibberish. He cries, transcribing spun sugar memories now full of hurt, tears soaking the pages. He tears the papers and napkins and notebooks apart, not being able to deal with a tangible reminder of his stupid, bruised heart.

Then he starts all over again.

By the time he can manage to get in contact with his people face to face, the Bats are out of town, on a 'self-discovery journey' on the other side of the world. That's just...so stupid. And it speaks volumes about what Batman thinks of his survival chances. It hurts, burns, aches- but it hurts less than a couple months ago.

He takes advantage of the opportunity and breaks into Wayne Manor. Those people have no right to anything of his anymore. His childhood room is eerily untouched, like a shrine. Jason doesn't give a shit. He takes his books, his special box, the picture of his mom, the posters of his favorite play and favorite band. He also grabs his favorite teacup (the one with the buttercups, still on the nightstand), his teddy bear and his red hoodie, the last thing his mom ever gave him. He seriously considers torching the room, but figures there's a high chance of Batman and lackeys returning in that case, and he'd rather not face them again before he ditches town.

Jason's opening the window to leave when he sees something red glint out of the corner of his eye. It's his guitar, the one he had saved for in secret, only to end up getting it as a present, for having the highest grade in Lit in the whole school. It's a good memory; if also a reminder that you can't keep secrets from Batman and Agent A. He takes the guitar too.

Later, back in his safehouse, he tunes it. He starts off easy, letting his fingers remember how to move. He hums the song he's playing, and is pleased at the fact that he still can . His eyes drop to the mess on his coffee table and around it, on the floor. Pages upon pages of hurt, rage, love, hate, fear, betrayal. All there, out in the open. And still, it remains buried deep inside him, like unlaced poison. He sighs deeply and says "well, why the fuck not?"

He spends the rest of his weeks in Gotham putting his empire together for his leave of absence, and playing, singing. The last night, before he leaves for California (the winter in Gotham is brutal , and his bones are too sensitive for that shit, yet); he goes to an open mic bar on the edge of the Narrows and plays.

He's got a set of a few songs, three covers that fit the theme of abusive bullshit+fuck false heroes. (He doesn't much care if Tokio Hotel's Masquerade talks about something completely different, the lyrics fit just so perfectly, and singing a new song of an old band he loves is a bonus).

The place is actually kinda packed, but he reminds himself that he has taken on as many ninjas at the same at least once before and came up winning, and it helps. The red domino that extends past his cheekbones and the black leather jacket he has on helps more. He breathes and grabs the mic for a quick introduction.

"Hello. Hi. I'm..." shit, shit, why didn't I think of an alias? What kind of moron forgets an alias ? "I'm JJ." Seriously, Jason? "I don't know about you, but as a true Gothamite, I'm sick and tired of abusive assholes. And those assholes include, with flaring colors, Batman and his ilk." The different conversations among patrons have stopped, and most are looking at him, waiting. "I have...you could say, personal experience in the matter. With the damn clown, and the fucking Bat and his honorable associates, that go around on their high horses without ever touching the muck under them and the disaster they leave behind." Jason swallows, and prepares to play. "So, these songs are truly just to place a mirror in front of them." He is about to sit down and change the height of the mic when he stops "And also, fuck Batman." There's a titter of laughter after that.

Then, he starts to play.

" Captain America, are you off to fight the bad guys?
Hey, mighty Superman, can you save us from ourselves?
Hey, Mr. Universe, can you lift us up above this?
'Cause I'm just Iron Man, I'm a ghost within a shell"

Oh, he was right. He was so, so right with starting with Living the dream . The first phrases already have people's blood pressure rising.

" Hey there, your majesty, is there anyone above you?
It must be lonely when you're up there looking down
Hey, lady Amnesty, there's no one that can judge you
We're all just broken toys, beneath your crooked crown

Take a look around
Just look around
They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions
Why did they never mention what's real and in between?"

Well, that one's easy. People so high up have no idea what's real. They don't care to find out, either. Take a look around, indeed.

As soon as he finishes the song, he starts with Masquerade .

" In time
We hide
In a masquerade of heroes

A million lies
Behind blue eyes
In a masquerade of heroes

Scars in our faces
Are showing their traces
In a masquerade of heroes

You don't know what life is
Until you die for it
In a masquerade of heroes"

And what more could he say? So neatly, plainly explained. He wishes the song had come out before his death. Maybe it would have made him reconsider about the lies the eyes of everyone he knew were hiding.

"This is my last cover of the night. As a good born and bred Crime Alley brat, the lyrics resonated with me a lot. I hope it does with you too. The hurt, the violence, the rage...it ours, it belongs to us . Not long ago, someone tried to run me out of my Alley, my city. They failed.

Hell’s where I was born
Hell’s where I was raised
This hell’s where I’m from
And this hell’s where I’ll stay

If this reminds you of home
You better know you're not alone
Hold the gun up to my head
I’ll pull the trigger on myself"

All of those up in their glass and ivory towers try so hard to pretend they are different. They aren't. They just use layers and layers of lies and masks to hide their rot instead of owning it and trying to tame it. They let it fester and infect others, as long as it doesn't touch them.

"This one...this one is the last. It's original, and I tried to expose the reality of the hero business in this city, at least a little bit." Jason takes a swing from the water bottle to his right and begins.

And, very much to his surprise, people listen .

“At the altar of your sins
they've come to pray
Not knowing you will
sacrifice us in their stead

The night Is nigh, little bird
Go back to bed
Sweet little boys should fall asleep
On the comfort of their father’s knee
Without a lullaby of bullets
And a wail of misery

Good soldiers don't talk back
But good sons don't return
To ruin their fathers work,
the narrative he's sold

Your death was your own fault
Cheeky child of no renown
Your truth remains untold
Buried in a casket 4 feet tall

My blood is boiling, rage coiling
Molten lava inside my veins
Spilled by your hand, my throat’s tore open
Now blood’s choking me to death again

The truth is you don't care
You won’t run out of your supply
Of needy orphans at your door
Fight harder, think faster, keep up or fall behind

Your children learn to die
To try and make their daddy proud

The shadow of your violence
Left imprints carved into our skins
Like clay molded to your taste
Bruise deeper, bleed faster, keep up or fall behind

But no child should learn to die,
To try and make their daddy proud

At the altar of your sins
they've come to pray
only knowing you will answer them
Unknowing that you will sacrifice us in their stead