Chapter Text
After death, our brain stays alive for seven minutes to play the best memories of our life.
Jason was always curious on what would play on his seven minutes.
But he never expected he’d find out so soon.
It’s funny really, Bruce did tell him to stay behind, and he didn’t even care to listen.
And now he’s here, against the cold floor of the warehouse his stupid self found himself in, battered and bleeding. He tried undoing the knots that held his hands and feet together, but it seemed that his injuries were getting to him and his hands didn’t have enough strength to pull at them.
Everything hurts.
Even the slightest movement against the floor hurts so much.
Stupid crowbar. Stupid Joker. Stupid Jason.
Its all his fault.
If it hadn’t been for his stubbornness he would probably still be free. Now he has to deal with whatever’s ticking right now.
Wait.
Ticking..?
He looks around as best as he can with his throbbing head, looking for that obnoxious ticking’s source. He finds it.
It’s a bomb.
The Joker had left a ticking bomb which has around a minute and a half left.
The Joker didn’t only just torture him, but also was going to kill him.
For fuck’s sake.
He scrambles the best he can towards the door of the warehouse, his hands are behind his back, he brings them back upfront to start unlocking the lock of the door.
He has 30 seconds left.
He tries to force the lock to come off, it doesn’t work. He tries again.
He has 10 seconds left.
He gives up. He rests against the door and stares at the bomb. He thinks about Bruce. He thinks about Dick. He thinks about Alfred.
He closes his eyes.
He feels like he’s gone deaf.
Everything HURTS.
Bruce rushes with his motorcycle, full gas, cold air crashing against his face.
He can see the warehouse, 250 feet from it. He’s close.
He thinks about Robin, his wildfire of a boy.
His son.
He loves his son.
He thinks about his son, before the building before him blows to pieces.
He’s too late.
He’s gone.