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Trying to steal the tires off the Batmobile had been the second-worst decision of Jason Todd’s short, miserable life.
It had been a stupid idea, born of hubris and desperation. The tires would have fed him for a month, at least, and there would have been money left over for some clothes, shoes that didn’t have holes in the soles, and maybe even a battered paperback from the shelf at the thrift shop. So Jason had gone to work, confident in his skills with a tire iron, his young muscles, and his quick feet, should a getaway be called for.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
But not the stupidest thing Jason had ever done. That had come later. Not when he’d let Batman take him to Ma Gunn’s–that had been a choice between a bad situation and the actual police, which…Jason wasn’t that stupid, okay? No, the stupid thing had been when Ma had told him to steal, and he had refused.
Looking back, Jason couldn’t believe his own idiocy. What the hell did he care about who got ripped off? If you were lucky enough to have stuff, it was on you to protect it. If you weren’t strong enough, or smart enough, or quick enough, you lost it. It was the way the world worked.
Jason must have been truly insane to think it could be anything else. That he could be anything besides a common street thief.
Except now, even that was like a faraway dream. Because Ma Gunn didn’t keep kids she couldn’t train. And she wasn’t going to risk unwanted attention by letting kids back on to the street, or by having bodies pile up, even if it was Crime Alley, and nobody was paying attention.
Ma wasn’t a wasting woman. “If you’re not going to make yourself useful here, there are other places,” she had threatened, sharp as a broken beer bottle. “Other things that street trash like you are good for.”
Jason had just gotten angry and blustery at the threat. He’d been too dumb to realize it wasn’t a threat at all.
It was a warning.
He’d gone to bed starving and furious–and grateful for the bottle of juice one of the other kids had brought him after the dinner he’d missed, even if it did taste expired. The next thing Jason knew, he was waking up somewhere dark, head pounding, and gravel digging into his skin. He’d immediately puked his guts out.
His head had still been spinny with the after-effects of whatever Ma had put in that juice, and his limbs felt heavy and cumbersome. After a few aborted attempts to stand up and walk around, he’d stumbled back down and sat, with his back against the wall, like all the rest of the kids. There’d been about twenty or thirty of ‘em, maybe more. He wasn’t sure where they were–part of a warehouse, or maybe a storage locker, from the look of it. The space had been crowded and dark and thick with the smell of sweat, vomit, and piss. Jason hadn’t been the only one to lose what little was left in his belly. Whatever drugs they’d given them were nasty as hell, and Jason found himself retching up bile twice more, despite his empty stomach. The only upside was that the waves of nausea made it easier to bear the hunger.
Jason wasn’t sure how long they’d been left there to stew in their own filth. Every so often, a man with a gun would poke his head in, kick at anyone unfortunate enough to be too near the door, do a headcount, and ignore any pleas for food or water, but no one actually touched them, unless they started making a ruckus.
All of that changed when the doors opened, and a whole mess of guys with guns came in, along with a few others, dressed nicer, with no obvious weapons. From the way one of them was standing, smirking, and barking orders to the others, it was obvious he was in charge. The thugs started rounding up the kids, shaking the ones that were asleep or unconscious, and the ones without weapons started examining them.
Jason had been to the doctor once or twice that he could remember, back when he was little, before things got real bad. This was nothing like that. Hands poked and prodded, feeling up arms and legs, prying mouths open to inspect teeth, slipping down shirts and pants. When they were done, each kid would either get shoved over to one corner of the room, which seemed to make the thugs laugh and wolf-whistle, or they’d get pushed over to another set of thugs, who immediately tied the kids’ hands together. It seemed like it was mostly the older kids getting sent to the corner and the younger ones getting tied up.
Jason’s stomach had knotted as he watched a girl in cut-offs and cropped halter top get kicked over to the corner. He wasn’t just going to let them touch him, right? He wasn’t… he was a tough kid. A survivor. He’d scraped his way through a Gotham winter with no parents and no help. He’d hit the goddamn Batman with a tire iron. He…
He stumbled. Merciless hands shoved him forward. “Let's see what we have here,” a voice was saying. It sounded too loud, and very far away.
Jason thought maybe he’d gone somewhere else in his mind for the next part. It was a blur of groping hands and low, ugly words, and then there were hard plastic ties cutting into his skin and then pain blooming across one shoulder and a man yelling at him to move and another voice yelling not to damage the merchandise. “These are the expensive ones, idiot. You think the clients will pay top dollar for bruises?” There was a low, amused noise that sent fresh nausea reeling through him, even in memory, and then, “not ones they didn’t put there themselves.”
He’d lost track of himself then—there might have been more drugs involved—and come back to find he was in a different room, one far less crowded. This one seemed like an actual room, one inside a real building, though it was small and windowless. The walls were solid, plastered and painted, instead of sheet metal, and the floor was carpeted. Not the plush stuff, the short, stiff kind you got in schools and libraries. Not that Jason was under any illusion he was in a library.
He was getting the feeling he might never see a library again.
At some point, someone had washed him and put him in a clean, over-sized t-shirt and a pair of athletic shorts. He didn’t have any memory of it at all, which was horrifying. Even more horrifying was the churning in his gut that told him it was better this way. His socks and shoes were gone, and he wasn’t wearing any underwear under the shorts. He’d nearly puked on the spot when he’d realized, and had to take long, deep breaths while the world went fuzzy around the edges.
His hair was still damp, and he smelled faintly soapy. It wasn’t like the cheap hand soap Mom had started buying in big bottles at the five-and-dime, after Willis had gone to jail the first time. They used to use it for everything–hands, body, hair, even dishes in a pinch–until it ran out and there weren’t even any more suds if you filled the bottle with water. Jason had smelled like that soap for a long, long time, had even gotten hassled for it in school once or twice before he’d dropped out. He didn’t smell like that now. This was some pricey shit–actual shampoo, and probably not the dollar brand, and, like, bodywash. Something sweet and musky that didn’t lessen the nauseous feeling churning through his body in the slightest.
There wasn’t any food–which was just as well, because Jason was sure he wouldn’t be able to keep it down–but after they noticed he was awake, they gave him one of those mini bottles of water to drink. Jason’s hands weren’t tied anymore, but he was warned that could be fixed.
“The clients don’t want any obvious marks or bruises, but believe you me, there are plenty of ways to hurt that don’t leave a mark,” said the man who had given him the water, staring straight into Jason with a black, deadeyed gaze. The words, so cold and emotionless, felt like a bucket of ice water thrown over his head.
His hands shook so hard, he had been afraid he would drop the bottle of water, or spill it all over the floor. He wrapped them around the small bottle and squeezed for long moments until the panic ebbed, just a little, though the dread it left in its wake didn’t recede.
There were three or four men in the room at all times, though they traded out. They didn’t speak, for the most part, only occasionally giving orders or warnings. Rarely, one would mutter something too low to be heard to one of the others. They didn’t let the kids talk at all. Truth be told, Jason didn’t want to talk to them. He didn’t even wanna look at them. He might be a stupid, hotheaded loudmouth, but he wasn’t dumb. He knew what was going on, and he didn’t want to have to think about it happening to one of the other scared, stupid kids in the room, because then…then he’d have to think about it happening to him too.
Jason stared at the carpet, tracing invisible patterns, until his mind was empty and his stomach stopped trying to crawl up his throat.
He didn’t try to track the passage of time. Men filtered in and out. There was another water bottle. And then a granola bar, which he choked down, though it stuck in his throat. The world drifted in and out of focus, until reality came crashing into terrible relief when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. “Get up,” ordered the man with the cold, black eyes.
They herded him and the other kids in a silent parade down a bland, featureless hallway. A hotel? wondered the part of Jason’s mind that was desperately trying to do anything but think about where he was going or what would happen then. He’d never been inside a hotel in real life, just seen ‘em in movies and tv. But hotels had maids and guests and people. People who might see a bunch of kids and guys with guns and…
And what? Jason mocked himself. Call the police? This was Gotham. No way the police weren’t already in the know–and taking a fat cut for looking the other way.
There wasn’t going to be any escape from this hallway, from the double doors looming in front of him, from whatever hell was waiting behind them.
Nobody was coming to save him.
Bruce was grateful for the white mask over his face. The molded planes offered a smooth blankness he knew he wouldn’t be able to maintain on his own. It required an effort of will to keep his mouth slack, his body language open and neutral. Every part of him wanted to curl in disgust, wanted to lash out in fury at the callous cruelty that surrounded him.
He breathed in and out slowly, under the cover of lifting a glass of champagne to his lips. Not a drop crossed his mouth. He lowered the glass with a tiny flick of his wrist that created the illusion that liquid had been drunk. He’d honed the skill at many parties and galas, but none so hellish as this.
He’d first heard rumors about the trafficking operation and their auction over six months ago, but it had taken weeks of undercover work, planting seeds, listening to whispers, bribing, informants–or intimidating them–before his work had borne any real fruit. Even now, he did not have anything solid to move in on, nothing the police could use, nothing that would hold up in court. That was what tonight’s mission was all about.
Out of the corner of his eye, the very edge of what he could see through the rigid eyeholes of the masks, he caught movement. A woman was stepping onto the stage of the hotel banquet hall. Like tonight’s guests, she wore a mask over her face. Hers was solid black lace in the shape of a butterfly. Long black hair fell around her shoulders. Something about the shape of it, the thickness, and the way it reflected the light made him suspect it was a wig. The hair, the mask, and the slash of crimson lipstick below it were an effective disguise. Whoever this woman was, Bruce suspected she would look very different tomorrow morning.
She cleared her throat theatrically. “Here’s the moment you’ve all been waiting for.” Her red lips curved without any humor. “As a reminder, we bring you nothing but the best, certified fresh. All transactions will be handled with utmost discretion. You may see my associate, Mr. K, for any payment questions.” She gestured to a burly man in a black mask, with a stylized gold K pinned to his lapel. “All sales are final.” She paused, just a moment, and then ostentatiously clapped her hands. “And now, let’s see what we have coming up first.”
As Bruce watched, his face like granite behind the featureless mask that hid it, a girl no older than thirteen was brought on stage. As the auctioneer began her patter and the guests began to bid, Bruce surreptitiously adjusted the settings on the recording devices he’d planted through the evening, checking the inputs to make sure as much as possible was being collected. It wouldn’t be enough to identify too much of this scum, he knew. A quiet fury burned inside him. Anger at the ugliness of the world and the cruelty of those who preyed on the most vulnerable, and fury at his own inability to put a stop to it. With all his training, all his advantages, he was still so limited. Just one man against the fathomless darkness of Gotham.
Lately, he had felt the loss of Robin at his side as if he was missing one of his very hands, but tonight he was glad that Dick was far away from this, untouched by this particular strain of Gotham’s virulent corruption. As he watched the miserable parade of children for sale shuffled on and off the stage, he couldn’t help but think what might have happened to Dick if he’d been swallowed up by the system after his parents’ death. Not this, he thought, with the fervency of prayer. Please, never this.
Unbidden, he thought of the boy in Crime Alley. The one with the tire iron. The one who had made him laugh in a place where he had never imagined smiling again. Jason. It wasn’t the first time he had crossed Bruce’s mind. He’d been unable to help himself from looking into the boy’s situation, even after he had left him with Ma Gunn. The city had been so cruel to him. Father, lost to crime. Mother, lost to drugs. But it hadn’t yet snuffed out that bright, fierce spark.
The boy was better off where he was, he reminded himself. His failures with Dick only proved he wasn’t a fit guardian for any child. What did he have to offer? No kind of normalcy or stability. Sharply, he pulled his attention back to the task at hand.
Only to freeze when the next victim was dragged out onto the stage.
It can’t be.
But he didn’t become the world’s greatest detective by doubting the evidence of his eyes.
That boy, that poor boy standing on stage, looking small and miserable in an oversized shirt that swallowed him whole, that was Jason.
All Jason could see were the faces.
Words floated over him, and he knew they were about him, that they meant something bad, but he couldn’t make sense of them. They were just noise. As unreal as the glaring light in the glittering spaces, as the hand on his shoulder, and now on his arm, and now through his hair. As unreal as the bizarre, unnatural faces staring up at him.
Masks. The thought suddenly clicked into place. They were people wearing masks.
And they were bidding on him.
The world shuddered in and out of focus. Jason’s gut twisted so hard, he would have doubled over and puked if it wasn’t for the sudden grip on the back of his neck, iron-hard and merciless.
Painful as it was, the grip tethered him to the present. The sense of unreality didn’t go away, but
Jason was aware, as if he was watching it underwater, of the bids pinging back and forth across the hotel ballroom. With every offer, it felt as though he was sinking a little deeper. Drowning in dark water.
Finally, the bids slowed. Jason stared at the heavyset man who had placed the last bid, at the leer that curved under the blood red mask, his eyes unreadable. An uncontrollable tremor ran through his body.
Just then, another man raised his hand. This one was taller, with a white mask and blonde hair. The crowd stirred a little at the number that came out of his mouth, but Jason just closed his eyes in defeat. It didn’t matter.
Finally, finally, the grip on his neck slackened, and let Jason drift off into the not-there space. He was vaguely aware of being led, of his hands being pushed together once more, tightness around his wrists. A hard shove forward, a stumble, and then a hand on his arm, softer than before.
Jason flinched, so hard it jostled him out of the bubble of not-real. The man in the white mask was standing there, pulling back his hand as if he had been burned. His mouth opened as if he was about to say something and then closed, silent. “Come,” he said finally, brusque and hard. He gestured forward, and Jason went.
He made Jason walk in front of him down the hallway. Jason’s shoulders squirmed. He didn’t like it, being seen without seeing, being forced to lead when he didn’t know where the hell he was going. But maybe…a tiny ember flared to life in the deadened ashes of his hope. His eyes scanned the hallway ahead, looking for exits. There had to be some way out of this place that wasn’t with the stranger breathing down his neck.
There. He spotted the double doors that looked like they might lead to some kind of staff area. Heart in his mouth, he pivoted and sprinted for it. There was a shout behind him, a crash of motion, and a pounding that might have been feet and might have been his own heart thudding against his rib cage.
With a gasp, he reached the doors, shoved against them, and…collapsed against an unyielding barrier. Locked. Before he had even a second to think, they were on him with angry curses. Hands grabbed him roughly, painfully gripping his arms, his neck, slamming him back against the doors, hard.
“That’s enough.” The words cracked with authority. Slowly, the hands holding him loosened as the man in the white mask stepped into Jason’s line of sight. “I’ll deal with him. He’s mine.”
Dread pooled in his gut as the masked man pushed aside the thugs. His hand landed on Jason’s shoulder, huge and heavy. It didn’t tighten. It didn’t need to. The threat was clear, as was the promise of retribution in the hard, furious line of his mouth.
Jason swallowed, then swallowed again.
“Come with me, lad,” the man said in a low voice that brooked no opposition.
Jason crumpled. He let the man pull him away from the doors and back down the hallway. The hand slid down his shoulder as Jason was tugged up against the man’s side. There was no possibility of escape.
The man brought him to a sleek, expensive-looking black sports car, and opened the passenger door. “Get in,” he ordered.
Jason balked. His brain flared with panic scrambling for an out. There wasn’t one. But he couldn’t make himself climb into the car.
Behind him, the man let out a low, controlled exhale. Then, powerful arms wrapped around Jason. He flailed, but the arms held firm. Jason found himself deposited firmly on the leather seat.
The door clicked shut. Jason tried the handle as the man went around to the other side, but it was locked. Before he could try fumbling at the catches, the driver’s door had opened, and the man levered himself inside in a single, smooth motion. “Don’t try it,” he warned. He laid a hand on Jason’s leg as the car’s engine roared to life.
Jason’s stomach heaved as the car sped into the dark. He stared straight ahead into the beams of light in the dark road and felt like he was tipping. Like somehow he was shrinking, going smaller and smaller while the world fisheyed around him and the seat tilted ever more steeply. He dug his fingers into the seat leather to keep from sliding, not caring if he scratched it up. There’d be hell to pay, for sure, but that was already coming anyway.
///
Bruce’s hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were turning white. What the hell was he doing? When he’d see Jason, seen him being sold to the highest bidder, he’d acted on instinct. Disappearing and reappearing as Batman would have taken too long, and there were too many armed thugs tonight. He could have taken them—with a proper strategy and the element of surprise. Not in haphazard attack, trying to protect a civilian victim. So, he’d done the only thing he could think of in response to the desperate urge to get Jason out of there and somewhere safe.
But what came next? For the first time since his earliest nights—the ones where he’d nearly gotten himself killed with miscalculations and inexperience—he had no plan. He needed to think, to evaluate and strategize, but thinking left him with a nearly overwhelming urge to turn the car around so he could go and punch in the faces of anyone who had so much as breathed in Jason’s direction.
On the seat beside him, the boy was silent and tense. Bruce had to say something to him. After what he’d just been through, the kid had to be fearing the worst. “It’s all right,” he said gruffly, watching him out of the corner of his eye. The boy shivered and curled up further into himself. Damn.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Bruce tried again, reaching a hand out towards him. The boy flinched back violently.
“Don’t touch me!” he spit. “Don’t—don’t you dare! I’ll—I’ll bite you!”
This kid. So scrappy and fierce, even though he was plainly terrified. Bruce’s heart ached. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. He put both hands on the wheel, keeping them where Jason could clearly see them. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“I’m not scared,” Jason snarled, but Bruce could hear the quiver in his voice.
“You’ve been through something awful. But I promise you, I’m here to help you, not hurt you.”
“You want to help me?” Jason’s voice shook openly now, but he was holding firmly to that fiery scrap of courage with both hands. “Then let me go!”
“I can’t,” Bruce said reluctantly. “I can’t stop the car right now. It’s too dangerous for me to leave you in this area.”
Jason folded his arms defensively across his chest. “Yeah? So where are you taking me, then?”
“Somewhere safe,” Bruce said immediately, and then bit his tongue on the automatic question that followed. Do you have someone I can leave you with? Because he knew the answer, had discovered it for himself in Jim Gordon’s files. This boy had no one.
Jason let out a huff that was more than half a sob. “Heard that one before.”
Ice ran down Bruce’s spine. How had Jason gone from Ma Gunn’s school to that auction floor? Had he… Dread firmed to certainty turned to guilt in an instant. He had done this. He was the one who had put this boy in danger. “I’m sorry,” he said again. It wasn’t nearly enough. “I promise you, you will be safe this time, Jason. I swear it.”
A jolt went through the boy, and then he went deadly still. “How do you know my name?”
It took only an instant for his mind to form the decision that his heart had already made. “Because we’ve met before, Jason.” He reached up, and in one motion pulled free the white mask and the blond wig. “When you stole my tires.” He glanced over to meet the boy’s wide blue eyes.
“You’re—”
He nodded. “I didn’t tell you my name before.” He let out his breath. “It’s Bruce. Bruce Wayne.” He held Jason’s gaze and asked the only question that mattered. “Will you let me take you home?”
A heartbeat passed. He watched shock and disbelief war with hope across the boy’s face. Then, he let out a long, shuddering breath. “Okay,” he said, this brave boy. His brave boy, Bruce thought with a fierce certainty. “Okay, let’s go home.”