Chapter Text
When Jason returned to life, the first things that came to mind were his father, an overwhelming urge to cry, and a terrible, terrible hunger.
But the first thing he saw, in the rain, standing before the grave he had just dug himself, wasn't his father, nor the safety of his arms, nor the warmth of his newfound family.
It was her.
He saw her, through the dirty eyelashes of her weak, dirt-filled eyes, so tall, so imposing, so powerful, and very, very terrifying.
Even so, she took him to her breast and carried him off to what would be his new, cold existence. Not his father, not his arms, not his old, gentle home.
He couldn't remember how long it was before they stopped moving and carrying him around like a rag doll, a very dirty and ugly rag doll. He had no idea where he was; it was dark, a darkness that a few weeks ago would probably have brought him some kind of security, but now only terrified him (Where was his father?). The air was so stale that he could barely breathe (though perhaps that was because of the broken ribs piercing his chest). He felt the rough, cool floor and several indistinct voices around him. He didn't know what they were saying, but in his long, hard fifteen years of life, he had been forced to learn and detect subtle aspects of voice and body language that denoted anger, violence, and generally any potential danger to him.
He had never felt it so clearly as he did right now, so he knew he shouldn't have been surprised when he felt the hard leather sole launch his body into the void. He knew he shouldn't be scared when he ended up impacting in a strange, thick, bubbling liquid, in contact with his entire skin, without knowing where his clothes had gone. Had they even been thrown in with him? Or perhaps they had been consumed by the oil that surrounded him.
Either way. The liquid was cold to the touch, it made him feel chills, but he didn't know if those spasms were from the temperature of the plasma or from the way the water filled his lungs without him needing to inhale.
His blood boiled, his bones boiled, he felt his organs being liquefied. He was sure he was going to disappear, be consumed again by pain and darkness, he would die.
Death had taken him from his realm only to take him back again with more pain, more suffering. He thought he clearly deserved it; He was just a street leech, worse than a rat and less important than a bloodsucking bedbug, draining the life out of others. He deserved it for even thinking he could deserve more, more than death, more than the filth and scum of the street.
He deserved it. He knew he deserved it, he'd known it since childhood, he'd only been denying it. He'd forgotten his true worth, and both that madman in Arkham Asylum and this pain and profound loneliness were his punishment. He allowed himself to forget, all because he wanted to believe that what Bruce told him might hold some truth, that he could be happy, that he didn't deserve to endure pain, cold, and hunger. He believed him and forgot what his mother told him, what his biological father branded onto his skin until he repeated it himself. He'd been a fool to allow himself to think he could have a family, that he could be happy.
He believed Bruce, and that was his downfall.
He cursed the day he decided to accept the hand of the devil of Gotham.
None of this would have happened if Batman had let him rot in the alleys of Crime Alley.
When he opened his eyes again, Jason could barely form a thought. The pain wasn't as intense as before, but he was still sensitive, as if thousands of pins were piercing his bones and sandpaper were being scraped across his skin, unable to open his eyes.
He carried all those feelings—anger, pain, loneliness, guilt—for years and years, even during the grueling training he'd endured. They stayed with him even after he left that hellhole at eighteen, and they remained with him during his first weeks back in Gotham. Watching his legacy swallowed by a replacement, nothing changed. It was as if he had never existed, confirming all the thoughts he had refused to fully believe during his time in captivity.
Even so, the hatred he felt for Batman and his recent replacement couldn't even compare to the hatred he felt for himself for ever believing he could mean anything to anyone.
His existence always was, is, and always will be a disgrace to the world, the shit in Gotham's boots. So he decided he was going to hit the Dark Knight where it hurt most: "His" city.
It took him several months to plan the perfect heist, hiding in the darkness and shadows of Gotham, just like when he was a child. Months of impatient waiting, forging connections, and suffering almost daily night terrors, but in the end, the result was exactly as he had imagined.
The satisfaction of seeing Batman so distraught when he opened the backpack with the gifts he had left him was Jason's greatest reward, and after that, he dedicated himself to gradually taking control of the areas of the city that had once seen him grow up, laugh, fight, and starve. And once he had them in his possession, under his own shadow, he began to heal them little by little, as best he could. Even though he too was injured along the way.
Redhood would prune what Batman was willing to let rot.
╚════ ❀ ✿ ⋘ 𝑙𝑜𝑎𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑎...⋙ ❀ ✿ ════╝
Throughout your life, You was surrounded by a multitude of sounds, smells, and tastes. Some were pleasant, like the crunch of dry leaves being crushed, the scent of sun-dried clothes, and mint tea. Others were less so, like the muffled, damp knocks that echoed in your living room almost every night, the smell of tobacco on your father's clothes, and the salty taste of your own tears.
You spent your entire childhood confined at home with your father. He taught you everything he knew with whatever he had available, and when he died, You was left completely alone in the hell your mother had created. Your mother became even more controlling and, without your father present, made sure to mold You in her own image. You was one of those children who didn't go to school but was homeschooled. From the way you spoke to the way you ate, sat, and dressed, You was raised to be your mother's doll. Always attentive, always happy, always submissive. And although you didn't understand why your mother needed you to be perfect, part of you thought it was probably because You was a nuisance in your mother's life, and she simply wanted You to fade into the background. And the other part? Was afraid of the possible consequences.
Despite this, You spent most of your life obeying your mother; after all, it was all you knew, and you didn't feel secure enough to go out into the world, try your luck, and depend on people's kindness.
Maybe things would've been different if you could see.
But you couldn't.
Poor, foolish Alice.
So in the end, you had to fully trust that your mother wouldn't hurt you unnecessarily every time you made a mistake.
Until you couldn't take it anymore.
That particular day, the Gotham sky decided to turn into a nightmare, lashing rain and hail against the grimy apartment windows as if trying to break in.
You was in your room, sitting on the edge of the bed, your hands clutching the hem of that ridiculous dress. You hated it. White. Cheap lace. Puffed sleeves. A big bow in the back. Childish in a humiliating way, as if its purpose were to constantly remind you that you wasn't a woman, but something small, manageable, easy to give away. Your mother said you "looked sweet," infantilizing you in such a twisted way that it made your stomach churn. You felt like a doll in a shop window, unable to escape, to make a sound, or even to move on your own.
You heard footsteps in the hallway. Heels—you recognized them instantly—and then two sharp knocks on the door. Your mother didn't wait for an answer before entering.
"Sit up straight."
Her voice was always immaculate. Smooth. Cold. Like crystal on the verge of shattering.
"They'll be here in ten minutes."
You forced your back straight.
"Who?"
The word barely escaped above a whisper.
Deep down...
...you already knew.
Your mother stepped closer, carefully straightening the collar of your dress with precise, almost affectionate fingers, and that somehow made it worse. Her touch burned, It reminded you just how desperately starved you were for genuine affection, and you hated yourself for noticing.
"Important men," she said. "People who can give you a better life."
You turned your face away.
"I don't want to go."
She froze, her fingers still gripping your collar.
Then she laughed.
A short, humorless sound.
"Don't be dramatic."
"Mom—"
"I've done far too much for you to listen to that tone."
Your fingers clenched the fabric of your skirt.
She sighed as though you were nothing more than another exhausting chore.
"Your father spoiled you. Filled your head with ridiculous fantasies." Her grip tightened around the neckline. "Look where that's gotten us. He's dead... and we're barely scraping by." Her voice hardened. "You're blind, Alice. You need to accept that you're never going to amount to much."
The pressure at your throat stung.
Still...
You preferred pain over counterfeit affection.
"I'm the only reason you're still alive."
Your throat tightened.
Fear.
Years of conditioning had taught you that even the wounds your mother inflicted were something you were supposed to be grateful for. Helplessness. And the memory of a time when she hadn't always been like this.
"Dad's the reason I'm still here."
The words came out louder than you intended. Years of bottled-up anger surged into your throat before you could stop it. As though you were a complete amateur at this twisted little power game. Her fingers shot to your chin, nails biting into your cheeks. You squeezed your eyes shut, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing the tears gathering there.
"Get those ridiculous ideas out of your head." Her voice slipped through clenched teeth only inches from your face. "Do you honestly think you're capable of living a normal life? For God's sake, Alice. You can't even hold down a damn job." Her breath reeked of cheap liquor. It made your stomach churn. "No one is ever going to want you like this. You're broken, and nobody can fix you. This is the only chance you'll ever get to be anything more than another piece of Park Row trash." Her grip tightened again. "So listen carefully, you little whore. Tonight you're going to be perfect.The prettiest girl in the room, Ok? You're going downstairs, you're going to smile, you're going to be polite, and you're going to do exactly what I tell you. Because I've already taken their money...and they lowered the price because of your pathetic little disability."
"W... what?"
"Don't make me repeat myself."
Her hand hurt, but not nearly as much as finally understanding.
The strange looks.
The dresses.
The whispered phone calls.
So the nightmare you'd spent years convincing yourself was only paranoia...had been real all along.
"You sold me." She let go of your face as though you'd burned her. Immediately she began fussing over your dress again, smoothing the wrinkles, fixing your hair, wiping away your tears. Her voice softened into the syrupy sweetness that might've fooled you when you were five.
Now...It only made you sick.
Mostly with yourself. Who else would you be disgusted with?
"No, sweetheart," she cooed. "I secured your future." You were on your feet before you even realized you'd moved. You collided with her slight frame, forcing her to stumble backward.
"You sold me!" Your voice cracked beneath the weight of your sobs. But for the first time in years it was alive. "Like I was some old piece of furniture!"
She didn't answer, instead she shoved you away as though your mere existence offended her, and, onestly, you doubted it didn't. You landed back on the bed just as the front doorbell rang downstairs. Your mother dusted off her jacket as though nothing had happened, effortlessly slipping back into her performance.
"Wash your face. You look awful."
She walked out, muttering to herself that your father would be the only one who knew how much more they'd lower the price if they saw you looking so indecent.
Silence.
Your hands were shaking. They were ice cold, your heart slammed against your ribs like it was trying to escape before the rest of you.
You were dead.
Your mother had killed you.
Voices drifted upstairs, deep male voices. Laughter. The clink of glasses. Your mother charming everyone as though she'd never raised a hand against you. Every instinct screamed at you to run.
To move.
To do something.
Anything.
But fear rooted you to the spot. And for one horrible second you actually considered obeying, going downstairs, smiling, enduring it, surviving like you always had.
But then you thought of your father. in his hands guiding you through the house after you lost your sight, his voice telling you—
"Never let anyone convince you that you belong in this world any less than they do."
You couldn't betray him. Not him. Your legs trembling so badly they barely held your weight, you staggered toward the wardrobe. Toward the loose floorboard where your father had always told you to hide whenever the world became too much to bear. His urn was still there, hidden exactly where he'd left it.
"Every home needs a secret place for the things it loves... and fears losing."
You could almost hear him now.
"It's okay if one day you have to leave me behind, Alice."
"All your dad ever wanted was for you to be happy."
"I'm sorry I couldn't get you out myself."
The tears came before you could stop them.
No.
You couldn't.
You refused to leave him there, alone. So, you pried up the floorboard with trembling hands and lifted the small urn from its hiding place. Downstairs, a man's voice asked, "Where's the girl?"
Your mother's sickeningly sweet voice answered, "She's just finishing getting ready. She wanted to look especially pretty for all of you." Terror finally jolted you into motion. You rushed to the window and forced it open, freezing rain crashed into the room, soaking your ridiculous dress in seconds. You kicked off the patent leather shoes that had always been one size too small and climbed onto the windowsill, and your hands shook so violently you nearly dropped the urn.
"Come on," you whispered to yourself through tears. "Come on, Come on, Come on" Behind you, footsteps. Laughter, climbing the stairs.
You jumped.
Praying you weren't already too late, the landing hurt, your knee slammed into the pavement, and the mud ruined the dress. The bow tore against the edge of the window, and the urn nearly slipped from your hands. But you were outside.
Free.
For the first time in days...you let yourself breathe.
Then the upstairs window flew open.
"ALICE!" Your mother's scream cut through the rain. "Get back here this instant!" But another voice drowned hers out. A man's. "GET THE BITCH!" You forced yourself to your feet. Barefoot. Soaked. Terrified. And you ran. You didn't have a plan. You had nowhere to go. You weren't even sure where you were anymore—it had been years since you'd last stepped outside your home. But adrenaline finally loosened fear's grip on your legs, and you kept moving forward. A few seconds later, you silently thanked every god you could think of that you hadn't run headfirst into a wall.
Until your luck ran out.
Life's a bitch sometimes, isn't it, Alice?
A large wall of worn bricks was the first thing You encountered. You felt your nose run from the direct impact, but You got up anyway, urn in hand, ready to continue on your way. A few blocks later, You came across the second obstacle: a pile of garbage bags that tripped you. As You tried to get up, You felt a sharp pain in your ankle, but You couldn't stop, because You could hear the wet footsteps of the men behind you getting closer and closer. So, despite the pain, You crawled along the dirty ground, with only one arm free, until You found a wall to lean against. You got up, and without letting go of the wall or you urn, You slowly resumed you journey. You felt lost, you lungs burned, you chest tightened, You felt nauseous, and You was beginning to taste the blood from you nose and the salt of you tears in your saliva. You knew You wasn't going to get out of there alive; You would be just another unrecognized body, not even you mother would want to bury you or even claim it. What was left of you would probably end up somewhere on the black market, hopefully to be used as spare parts for some Gotham millionaire. If not, You would be abandoned in the same place where they would desecrate you and leave you to be eaten by dogs.
You wouldn't be the first, You wouldn't be the last.
If only You weren't blind, if only You weren't useless, if only You were worthy of some kind of love or respect, You wouldn't be in this situation. Or at least You could see where You was going.
If only You had been a better daughter, or if You had never been born, perhaps you mother wouldn't feel so empty as to turn to drugs, alcohol, or sell her body, or her own daughter's. Perhaps you mother would be a better person if she hadn't been forced to take care of You.
The rock of the wall scraped the palm of you hand, and shards of glass on the floor pierced you stockings. The pouring rain could barely wash away the red footprints of you steps. You had never been religious, but at that moment You could only implore any god who would hear you to let the water wash away you pain and deliver you back into your father's arms before someone else reached you.
You didn't know how far You had walked, although it probably wasn't far, given the speed of your legs, but You refused to stop until something blocked your path again. This time it wasn't a wall, nor more of the city's debris. It was a tall body that radiated warmth despite being soaked. You didn't know if You could trust your bruised nose, but something about this person smelled of blood. Although it could easily have been your own dress. You clutched they shirt, completely unconcerned, your legs trembling and your lips purple, either from the cold or from the force with which You had been biting them. You told yourself You had nothing to lose, that even if the person in front of you was malicious, You was going to die anyway, You did not want to give the satisfaction of your death to the people to whom You had been sold.
Shivering with cold and fear, You lifted your face to where You assumed the person in front of you was looking. You felt the rain on your face, washing away your tears, cleansing your blood. Your trembling voice barely managed to be heard above the sound of the rain against the streets. You pleaded for help, begged for compassion; You didn't know if You was asking the person You was clinging to or just using them as a conduit to beg some god, some angel, or demon, whoever might be able to help you.
You doesn't remember what words You used, You're not even sure if anything you said was understandable, but You didn't stop. You begged him, pleaded with him, begged him to have mercy on you and end your life. To let you go in peace, to save you from living any longer.
The man tensed at your words. Unable to show any expression through his helmet, he saw his reflection in you. And when he saw your shudder at the sound of the men emerging from an alley, something stirred inside him, something familiar, yet different from the other times he'd had to get involved in a crime to save a resident of Crime Alley. He didn't know what they were, but suddenly, before his eyes, the group of men became one, their weapons transformed into crowbars, and he saw green. Then he looked back at the woman in front of him, almost curled up against his body, your face contorted with sobs, still pleading for help.
And then he decided he was furious.
You only stopped begging for death when You felt the body in front of you tense and move, placing a garment over your shoulders and lifting your to sit on the ground. The garment was warm inside, soft, almost dry, despite being icy and damp on the outside; probably some kind of waterproof material, You thought. There was no trace of cologne or perfume, only the acrid smell of sweat, but despite this, You didn't try to take it off. You let herself be guided until You was level with the ground, her ankle grateful for the rest.
"Stay still." That was all the person said to your—now You knew from his voice that it was a man—before letting go of you and leaving. The voice had sounded distorted, almost inhuman, more robotic, similar to that of some electronic devices, only this time it was clear there was a person behind it. For a moment, You thought You had been abandoned to your fate, left with only the coat as an apology for your agonizing death, and You understood; In this city, no one wanted to meddle in other people's business. You couldn't hate the man for abandoning you like this, though it wasn't even abandonment, since he had nothing to do with you; there was no reason to help you end you pathetic existence.
Resigned to your torment, You finished embracing your father's remains, hoping they wouldn't be so greedy for his body or so cruel to his soul.
At that moment, something was thrown beside you, and from the faint groan You heard beneath the sound of the rain, You knew it was a man, the same one who had shouted for your capture. You shuddered, leaning to the opposite side from where You had heard the thud, unable to suppress the gasp that escaped your throat as the body, which had apparently crawled toward you to grab your arm, was dragged back into the abyss, barely touching your skin, far from you, judging by the direction of his scream. Only an audible "No" from the distorted voice was the sole response.
With your eyes closed as always, You clung to your father, pressing him to your chest for comfort. Suddenly, You was surrounded by thumps, moans, pleas, shouts, and the crunching of bones. They came from everywhere; it seemed as if he were everywhere, almost omnipresent, to the point that You began to believe You had made a pact with a demon, surrendering your soul in exchange for prolonging your life.
And perhaps it was so.
After a few minutes, You heard nothing but the relentless rain. You was almost certain You was now the only one in the street, and the thought of what might be lurking around you terrified you, grateful for once not being able to see. You tried to get up, but as soon as You did, a sharp pain shot through your body from your ankle to the soles of your feet. Without the calming effect of adrenaline, You felt your consciousness grow heavier and heavier until You lost consciousness right there, on the urn You had been clutching.
The man stepped over to her unconscious form, peeling off his bloodstained gloves before pressing two fingers against her neck in search of a pulse. There, faint, yeah, but steady. His gaze swept over her injuries, examining her from head to toe with unhurried precision. But the assessment was cut short by the sharp beep, beep, beep of the pager clipped to his utility belt.
Cameron swallowed another marble. —Theo
His shoulders sagged. In an instant, the imposing figure he'd been only moments ago melted away, replaced by someone who looked profoundly tired, he let out a long sigh before clipping the pager back onto his belt alongside the others. Without bothering to reclaim his intimidating, heroic posture, he crouched beside the woman, slipped one arm beneath her knees and the other around her back, and lifted her into his arms. Then, he carried her away, leaving the mangled bodies behind.
He made a mental note to send someone to clean up the mess later.