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Our children shall measure their worth / We are content to be blind…
-Kipling, “The Verdicts”
Jason Todd returned to Gotham like a snake slipping back into its old skin. It didn’t fit anymore. But he didn’t know where else to go.
Actually, it was the parts of the city that had changed — the old gothic apartment buildings torn down, or struggling family restaurants that had finally succumbed to the inevitable as they went bankrupt or the next generation moved on — that were less painful. He didn’t know what to do with the places that seemed the same, just smaller. When he was little, and even sometimes as Robin, he used to sneak around — into theaters to watch plays or movies from the shadows, or into bars or clubs, just for the fun of it. But he had lost that invisibility now. People looked at him nervously, or, carefully, didn’t look at him at all.
Maybe it was in his head. He knew he was paranoid now. He wasn’t used to the rage, yet, either, which crashed on him like waves, unpredictable and overpowering. It overwhelmed him so much at times that he had to leave what he was doing and go sit by himself until his hands stopped shaking. He wished he could blame that part on the pit but of course it had been there all along. He just couldn’t control it anymore.
Of course, he started talking to people, feeling out the neighborhood around Park Row, seeing who was active, who was running what, feeling like he was starring in some weird parody of his old life. People talked to him a lot more now; they assumed he was one of them, on their side in Gotham’s eternal war against authority. It made him feel like a child again. Before he had been Robin.
Things progressed; he started making moves. He didn’t really have an end goal. He needed to make a living somehow, he told himself, though of course there were easier ways he could be making money. (But then again, he thought, maybe not; it wasn’t as if he had finished high school…) He supposed he was testing Batman, which was embarrassing, but a better answer than the other alternative, which, humiliatingly, he had caught himself imagining once or twice: that he was ‘undercover,’ and would pull off some coup which he could present to Batman and say here, look, I was working for you all along, it’s just Robin’s most successful mission yet! And everything could go back to the way it was, and sure, since he was dreaming, Batman was pleased.
But there was another Robin now. He had found that out a week ago. Whether he was acting on some subconscious impulse or not he didn’t know, but he had been downtown, in a neighborhood he knew Batman liked to patrol on the last day of the month, since it got rowdy as people drank up payday. And he was skulking down an alley when he saw a parked car with a familiar silhouette.
No one was nearby. Remembering another cold evening, he walked up and kicked a tire, smirking. Suddenly he felt lighter than he had in a long time. He hadn’t…he’d been avoiding newspapers and wasn’t interested in TV anymore. Of course you heard rumors, with the people he hung out with, but he always left the conversation, so he’d managed to avoid news of him. He wasn’t ready to face Bruce yet. Whatever that would involve. He wasn’t going to until he had figured some things out, if ever; he had decided that. But he had a sudden impulse to see him, at least. See him old.
He waited for a while, crept back into a doorway a little ways away where he could see without being seen. Of course, Bruce could spot a threat a mile away; but Jason wasn’t one. Was he? Footsteps around the corner. Jason’s heart beat faster. He stared down the street.
And there was his younger self rounding the corner, a spot of bright red and green in the darkness. He was smiling, giddy, basically skipping on air, and then Bruce came round the corner, protective hand on his shoulder, glancing both ways for threats.
He thought it was a hallucination at first. There had been a lot of them in the first days out of the pit. But then he looked closer at the kid and saw the differences, in coloring, height, the way he carried himself, and understood.
And the rage swept over him so much he thought he might actually black out, and he sank down in the doorway, put his head between his knees and took slow breaths in and out while the world swam. He never knew if they saw him that night; just another junkie curled up in a corner…
It fucked him up more than the Joker, really — well, than Bruce and the Joker, he meant, that Bruce had let him go. Obviously nothing had fucked him up more than the Joker in the first place. He had found that particular news out a while ago, when he had been too stupefied by his resurrection to feel anything. Except the rage, yeah.
And also, now, he didn’t know what to do again.
So he kept on with the stupid kingpin shit, taking over Crime Alley, just like some second-rate villain he would’ve swept the floor with a decade ago (okay, so maybe that was a bit cocky). And Batman never showed up.
But Robin did.
…
It was a few weeks later, and he was in an alley near the place he had been crashing at. He had noticed the tail a few blocks back, of course; whoever this kid was, he was new. And Batman’s judgment was clearly going in his old age if he was sending him out by himself. Maybe he just didn’t care anymore.
Jason was carrying quite a bit of cash, so he wasn’t going to start anything, but eventually he got fed up and said “You’re gonna get yourself hurt, birdie.” He was out on business, so the mask was on, and his voice suitably distorted. The kid dropped down from the fire escape on the neighboring building with a somersault that would’ve been impressive had Jason not seen Nightwing do the same thing with much cleaner form a thousand times.
“This is your first warning,” said the kid. “Stop moving in Crime Alley.” He looked pleased with himself. Little asshole.
“Or what?” said Jason. “You’ll be back with the big man himself?”
“Maybe,” said the kid. “But you don’t want that to happen. You should start making better choices now, chump, or maybe I’ll just take you down myself. You can start with handing over that cash.”
“Right.” Jason snorted. Through the mask it came out as a sort of growl. “Why don’t you take a message to the Bat from me, then-” Jason stepped forward and saw the kid settle back into a fighting pose. His own trained body moved in response, and the kid had already snapped open some kind of staff. Well, this might as well happen now. The kid was circling around to Jason’s left- his bad side. Almost instinctively, Jason moved before the kid could get an advantage, feinting to his own left and then knocking the kid into the wall with so much force that he surprised himself. He wasn’t yet used to this body, with the strength of a grown man. He backed up slightly, but the kid was already circling again, a little out of breath, maybe, but remarkably cheerful and stupid. Stupid, arrogant, a child throwing away his life as surely as if he were throwing himself onto a grenade.
“You know, you should really give up now,” said the kid, flipping himself back up onto the fire escape to avoid a half-hearted punch from Jason. “Crime doesn’t pay, that’s what my dad always says…”
Jason hesitated a second too long and the kid swung himself back down and made a decent attempt to grab the bag with the cash. Jason swerved easily and aimed a punch he knew would be avoided, but which threw the kid off balance. He dropped and swung out his right leg in a low sweeping kick to cut the kid’s legs out from under him; the kid fell but snapped his staff out in an arc as he did and Jason heard the impact as it cracked across his own back. He swore, turned and twisted it out of the kid’s hands, remembering, suddenly, training sessions with Bruce, and Dick, and he could feel the rage rise within him. Mastering himself, he threw the staff aside.
The kid was losing, obviously — it was a ridiculous match, and Jason knew exactly how he had been training — but back up on his feet and playing Robin again, snarky, comfortably invincible, staggering a little but mouthing off. Just like he had been in that fucking warehouse.
“Ooh, capoeira, huh? That’ll serve you well in Arkham, asshole.” The kid ducked the next hit, barely, and made the obvious feint, the one Bruce had taught Jason in his first week as a way to defend again dumb would-be muggers but no one more threatening, it was pathetic, really, and suddenly control was beyond Jason and he came forward with his right swinging to feel the satisfying crunch of bone as he slammed his fist into the kid’s face. The kid’s head snapped backwards with the impact and he stumbled back, blood pouring from his nose, and Jason clouted him with his left so hard that he slammed into the wall again and then he was lying limp at Jason’s feet.
He stood hearing the blood rush in his ears, then knelt and, fumbling, felt for the kid’s pulse. It was steady. The shock of relief — or maybe it was just shock — made him feel sick and he scrambled to take his mask off and turn aside to vomit, but his stomach was empty. He concentrated on slowing his breathing and scanning the area, and put his mask back on. They were still unnoticed. He lifted the kid off the ground and slung him over his back (the bag with the cash tucked under his arm) although he was light enough he probably could’ve carried him in his arms.
Nobody stopped him as he carried the kid the block back and up the stairs to the apartment where he’d been staying, a former safehouse Nightwing had once used. He hoped that was because nobody had seen them, but in Gotham maybe they just looked the other way.
Because the kid was Robin, he tied his arms and legs to the chair. He had broken his nose and almost certainly given him a concussion as well. He’d had loads of concussions when he was Robin. It was because he wasn’t used to his strength yet; otherwise he wouldn’t have hit Robin that hard. Robin was supposed to be able to fight. He wasn’t supposed to be a little kid.
Jason went into the bathroom to clean the blood off his hands. He took off his mask, too, to splash some water in his face. He didn’t like looking in mirrors now. Green fucking eyes. And he looked at himself and he was massive, like Superman-massive. He had to be stronger than Bruce, now. Not a little kid tied in a chair. Accelerated healing, too; he’d probably barely be bruised tomorrow. And what was his plan for tomorrow? Batman would come. Would he come? Was that what Jason was trying to do?
He filled a glass with water to bring to the other room, and waited for Robin to wake up.
…
The kid did a good job, being brave when he woke up. The mask — the kid’s mask, a little black one over his eyes — probably helped. Jason’s always did.
“What’s your name?” he said.
“Fuck you,” said the kid.
“Okay, how long have you been Robin?”
“Fuck you,” he said.
“Fair enough.” The kid coughed and Jason grabbed the glass of water off the floor. “How about this,” he said. “You tell me how long you’ve been Robin and you get some of this water.”
The kid stared at the water. “You’ve probably laced it with fear toxin,” he said.
“I haven’t laced it with anything. I’d drink it myself but it’s a little hard with the mask.”
“Yeah, it’s a super cool mask, asshole,” said the kid. He sounded really scared.
“I’ll take it off if you’ll tell me how long you’ve been Robin, and then we can share this water,” he said. The kid hesitated. “Come on, it’ll be useful information to give Batman.”
“Okay,” said the kid, and continued, suddenly energized, “Yeah, you’ve got a fucking death-wish or something, Batman’s gonna be here any second.”
“Doubt that,” said Jason, pulling off his helmet. The kid scrutinized his face. On impulse, Jason reached across. The kid flinched as Jason peeled off his mask. He was very young.
There was a shattering sound and the kid flinched again, closing his eyes. “Fuck. Sorry,” said Jason. He had squeezed the glass so tightly it broke. “I’ll get another one.”
He went round the corner to the little kitchen unit, the kid staring after him. Why had he apologized? At a certain point you had to laugh at yourself. He wished he had brought the mask with him; he wanted to put it on again. His palm was bleeding so he rinsed it under the faucet and for a moment very much wished that he was still dead and then he grabbed a mug from the cabinet, filled it, and brought it back.
“Thanks,” said the kid after Jason had held the cup up to his lips.
“I need to set your nose,” said Jason.
“Don’t touch it,” said the kid, voice tight.
“Okay.” That was probably to be expected. “If I untie you, will you promise not to fight me or try to leave?”
The kid hesitated.
“What, first time being kidnapped as Robin?”
“Yeah. I’ve been Robin two months,” said the kid, watching Jason’s hands.
“Still in the honeymoon phase, huh?”
“What?”
“What, and he has you doing solo missions already?” Silence from the kid, and Jason laughed. “A little independent work? That’s brave of you. But if Batman doesn’t know where you are…”
It was quick — the kid was inexperienced, but not an idiot — but not quick enough; Jason saw his eyes dart to his left forearm tied to the chair. He drew a knife out of his boot, cut the zip tie and flipped the kid’s arm over; sure enough, there was a small oblong raised shape just below his wrist. A tracker. Yeah, that would have been a good idea.
“It doesn’t matter if you cut it out of me, he’s already on the way,” said the kid. Jason was already whirling away to put his mask back on. When he stood back up, the kid was using his free hand to try and release the other one. Jason pointed the knife at him. “Don’t fucking think about it,” he said. And sure enough, there were footsteps on the stair, and Jason, prepared at last to meet his maker, shifted his grip and steadied himself, waiting…
The door flew in and Jason saw black, but then blue, and in spite of himself, his heart leapt. It wasn’t Batman; it was Nightwing.
It wasn’t his fault. He was in outer space. How many times had he repeated that to himself? Dick stepped forward into the light, and Jason saw with a shock of sadness how much he had aged.
“Let Robin go and you’ll get to Arkham in one piece,” said Dick.
It wasn’t his fault. He was in outer space.
“I’m afraid it’s not that simple,” said Jason.
“Hi, Nightwing,” said the kid from the chair in the corner (already trying to untie himself again, the little asshole), and Dick’s eyes swiveled towards him.
“How’s it going, Robin,” he said, eyeing the blood on the kid’s face, and the shattered glass on the floor.
“I want to see Batman,” said Jason. Did he?
“What are you, another Batman obsessive? There’s a million freaks like you,” said Dick, his voice hard. And suddenly he was pressing forward in attack, Bo staff whirling, and Jason was forced back before he could gather himself to respond.
And then they were fighting in close combat, pressing forward and back around the furniture of the little room, and Jason laughed in exhilaration, because this is how it was supposed to be, and he felt the delightful mania of reckless violence, sliding and ducking, taking hits and giving them, forgetting himself in the mad rush.
They had fought so many times, in training and yeah, a few times in anger. The familiarity of it was wonderful. Jason took a sharp hit to the head from the staff but Dick had put himself in range of Jason’s fists now, and Jason pressed to take advantage. But Dick avoided the blow that would have felled him a decade ago. He was better now. No. Jason realized with a start that he had never yet faced a Dick who wasn’t holding back…
But he knew Dick’s weaknesses, and Dick didn’t know his, at least for now; and Dick was avoiding the corner with the kid, while Jason knew and used every inch of the room to his advantage. And, now, Jason was stronger. He pressed Dick back, wanting to end it before the kid could free himself and interfere.
But then the staff cracked against his ribs once, twice, three times, and though he knew Dick was flagging, his body started to panic even if his mind did not, and he started to convince himself again that he couldn’t breathe, he was going down, he couldn’t breathe, smoke and burnt sand. And Dick was good, he could tell Jason was weak there, even if he thought it was just an old injury, so he kept hammering at Jason’s ribs, and Jason kept pounding away at him, but it was harder and harder to force air into his lungs. He willed the rage to come at that point but it wouldn’t. So he grabbed Dick’s torso and pulled him close, grappling with him, then used all his strength to throw him down and slip past him toward the door.
He saw that Dick had landed on the glass, and was rolling, clutching his side where a red stain was spreading, and fear drove out every other thought for a moment. The kid, face white as a sheet, was almost free, scrambling at the last zip tie.
“Hey. Robin.” Jason grabbed a burner phone off the table by the door and tossed it to him. The kid caught it with one hand. “In case you need an ambulance.”
He left.