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Jason was not an idiot.
He grew up on the streets. He knew to avoid unnaturally deepening shadows and cursed listless lullabies. He saw what happened to those who were stupid or desperate enough to stick around. He saw what they became.
It was why he had no intention of finding out if Batman was one of them , when he got caught jacking tires. He swung like his life depended on it, and Batman laughed.
The first months had been horrible. He jumped at shadows and squirreled away food. Bruce just sat through it with the patience that would make him a saint.
Maybe it was OK. Bruce didn’t seem like one of them. He was Batman, sure, but claimed?
Then Dick came home, howling with a shriek of anger, swinging with the uncanny grace that made him shiver.
Alfred and Bruce were back to square one, coaxing Jason to the dining room with promises of food.
Jason was slow to come to terms with things. Dick was his brother, He was Robin, he resented him; Didn’t think he could be Robin. Was it because Gotham never caught him? Was it because every time he heard the tune he ran?
Jason had been an underdog his whole life. No one thought he could read, no one thought he could throw a punch, no one thought he could survive.
Dick didn’t think he could be Robin? That sounded like a challenge. He could do it better, faster, nicer, without the help of some evil cryptid.
He stayed proudly normal his whole life, and that's how he died.
Turns out, you can’t run, when you are buried in a coffin six feet underground.
Jason blamed the pits for his incessant anger.
Talia blamed his year of catatonia.
Bruce blamed himself.
Whatever the reason, nothing structured like the league could hold him.
He felt more comfortable in his murderer's moniker throwing lead at the monsters that thrived in his neighborhood. The promise of safety to be found in the manor made him want to gag.
But that was normal for Jason wasn’t it?
Surely that was a driving force that led him to Ethiopia… maybe.
Jason stared at the battered scar tissue on his replacement’s neck. Again.
Who would do that?
What reasoning could justify his behavior towards his family?
“When did I become like this?” he mumbled to himself
“I’d say you’ve been like it from the moment you crawled out of your grave.” Tim replied looking up.
Jason wanted to argue, snap that only he could make those jokes, but before he could Tim slinked away, humming a tune uncomfortably familiar.
How did he manage to muscle through the mahogany box with 6 feet worth of dirt on top.
It had felt traumatizing, not miraculous, but…
All those years of running from Gotham.
Hiding from the thing whose shadows he now embraced.
Hey he had a kill count to rival the Riddler.
He wanted to argue. He couldn’t be one of them. He was still Jason.
But what did it mean to be Jason?
He knew Gotham.
He was raised on its streets.
It got his heart beating again.
Gotham was simply collecting its dues.