Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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Pain. 

Pain is all Jason has known his life, laced with false truths and broken promises. Pain is all he knew every morning when he woke up with a cling of sweat sticking to him and a blanket entangled around his feet, trapping him on the rough mattress beneath him in whatever safe house he opted to call home for the night. Pain would radiate from deep in his chest, originating from an organ that should no longer exist, taunted by twisted images when he closed his eyes and broken screams that died on his tongue. Pain cascading from whatever injury he managed to agitate in his state of unrest. Pain from the injuries long healed. Like the dull ache that radiated from his fingers, plastered in reminders of harsh wood and layered soil. The tightness that lingered in his lungs, a reminder of green liquid filling them as he sank down. The ever present tightness across his throat where scar tissue built up. 

“...in response… riots have broken… Arkham” a news reporters dull voice slowly started to echo in. An anchor to the world designed to help tether his consciousness back into the molding living room he passed out in.

God it hurts. 

The pain was a constant companion, a reminder that he was still alive. That he wasn't still that corpse that was beaten and broken, sold out by a desperate attempt at a familial bond. 

Jason tried taking a deep breath, to center himself and take note of the damage. To catalog each injury into its own safe little box, far away from his body. He had to learn to do so to survive, locking away emotions and memories on the streets before Bru-Batman. Before Batman. Locking away his pain to continue to fight with the league. Locking away parts of himself until all that was left was an empty shell. Just like he would have wanted. Someone prime to be changed, corrupted by a parental figure's misguided revenge. 

God he was tired, and every muscle screamed in protest as he forced himself up and to look at the clock. 

It was only 4:32am, meaning his early patrol end still only granted him about 2 hours of sleep. Oh well, no time like the present to get to work. A nice shower would help clear his mind, and perhaps relax his aching muscles. Then he could do something about the sluggish wound that still was bleeding, the broken wrist, the broken and bruised ribs, and based off the throbbing room, probably minor concussion. 

But it's fine. He managed to take the hit from Tim. He could handle it better than any of his siblings. It was the least he could do for them after everything. Even if he wasn't sure if half them even knew his identity beyond crime lord, knew his face beyond the red helmet. 

Bruce new. Bruce probably told them. Why else would they dare partner up with the unredeemable monster Bruce dared to call him. 

That was a thought for a later time though, for now he just needed to get up and start his day. Maybe go beat up some low life criminals for his girls, some creeps who didn't know how to leave well enough alone. Let the green seep in and take over, let himself fall back and deal with everything later. He was good at that, disconnecting and compartmentalizing. 

He was sure some psychiatrist would love to get their grubby hands in his brain, piece him apart like some sort of lab experiment. Figure out just went wrong between being born and now, figure out what threads got twisted up in his life for this to be how he was. To push buttons and figure out what makes him tick. What makes him snap. What makes him fall so deep into himself that he feels like he is suffocating again. 

He cringed from the thought alone, an involuntary shiver running up his spine and jostling his injuries. 

Right, he just needed to focus on getting ready.

He already had a full day planned, just as always. Boring meetings sandwiched between patrols. A drug bust here and there. Anything to keep his body moving and his mind distant. It helped him fall into a habit, a pattern so predictable that it was amazing he still managed to catch people off guard. 

After he finally drug himself out of bed, he forced himself to stagger to the bathroom, keeping the lights off as he blindly felt for the knobbs. As the water heated up, he got to work on peeling off the old bandages, unraveling them slowly as they pulled at his skin, blood clotting to the fabric of them. 

Just dandy. 

He could already tell he would have most likely stitch up the one, no surprise there. It would suck because his dominant hand was currently too busy grinding it's bones to be truly useful. God, that would suck for patrol later. He would have to rely on his right hand instead, which was fine, really, just slightly worse at aiming, and significantly worse at hand to hand. But that was fine, he could probably still get a good few hits in with his broken wrist and not even flinch. He trained under worse conditions. He could take it. 

As the air in the bathroom grew heavy with the added steam, Jason pulled himself into the stream, allowing the heat to warm his weary bones. Allowing it to radiate through him and help ease some of the cold numbness that seemed to encase him more and more each day. 

Once his morning routine was complete, he at least felt a bit more like he was in the land of the living. To be safe he still made himself a cup of coffee, grimacing at the bitter taste. He did not drink it often, usually anger and spite were enough to get him through the day, but he did eventually cave on getting one of those fancy over priced machines, and the fancy brand he knew from the manors stock. Made sure incase one of these times it wasn't Bruce stopping by, but rather his brother. He knew Tim had better things, that he probably never wanted to be alone with the killer in the family, but a deep part of him lomged for that connection, for a bond long broken. Besides, the warmth radiating from the cup helped to ease his stiff fingers, so it wasn't all bad. Though, he would definitely prefer a nice tea over this mud water. He would prefer to get a good night's rest, not constantly be in pain, maybe go to college, be curled up with a warm blanket and a good book, but you know, beggars can't be choosers. Besides, he had a crime ring to run. He had a job to make sure kids stayed off the streets, that the drugs were clean, that the crime that riddled his home was limited. A job to make sure no more kids ended up on the streets trading safety and favors for their next meal. 

Once he was done the coffee, it was time to take care of his injuries. He pulled out his kit, a small frown tugging At his lips as he saw how empty it had gotten. He needed a restock, but nothing he could do about it now. He pulled out his almost empty KT tape and bit back a gasp as he wrapped his broken wrist first. He would heal soon enough, but doesn't mean it wasn't a bitch in the meantime. Once the break was vaguely stabilized, he pulled out his stitch kit and pulled off his belt, bitting on the leather as he got to work on the weeping wound, threading the needle through his flesh as he tried to focus on his breathing, separating himself from the pain like the monks had taught him. Everything after that was mere bandaging, and maybe some wrapping over his broken ribs. Nothing quite as major, and not enough to keep him down. His wings were already clipped once, and he was stronger than this. Evidence proven by even Bruce himself. 

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The day was off to a relatively good start. The streets were surprisingly calm given the warm weather they were having. He spent most of his patrol rounding the parks, keeping an eye on his kids just as much as their weary parents were. 

He couldn't help the crooked smile that pulled on his lips as he landed in the last of the parks, one a group of his favorite kids happened to be at currently. 

“Hood!” Two of them, Milo and Caity, yelled out as they ran at him, drawing the attention of the other kids who quickly scurried off the equipment to join in the dash towards him. 

Jason braced his feet on the woodchips And crouched slightly, easily catching the two front runners as they leaped on him. He bit back the groan that tried to force itself from his lungs as his injuries were jostled, pulling at 

 After a quick hug, Milo grabbed onto one of his arms, bouncing slightly until Jason lifted him up. He was happy the helmet blocked the pained wince as the kids weight pulled on his broken bone, but it was worth it to see the way he beamed as he swung. He happily listened to the group go on about the new events in their lives as they climbed him like a piece of playground equipment. 

These were the moments that made his own pain and suffering worth it. Moments where he could see the proof that these kids were growing up relatively normal given their existence in Crime Alley. Proof that his way was working more than Batmans, even if he was made out a villain in the history books.

“Alright, one at a time. I know it was Ms. Susie's birthday yesterday, did you get anything fun?” Jason placate the rest as he turned his attention to the more shy 4 year old in the group. He knew she had gotten something, personally made sure her parents magically came across some extra income just in time, something he tried doing for all the kids he could, even if sometimes it meant he went without food for a bit when even his income was running dry. Mostly that was just during the months with a lot of birthdays, or the months when he needed to donate more to the community to keep the shelters running during the harsh winters, Or when there was an incident that left one of the crumbling buildings nothing but scrap metal and rebar in the wake of a vile monster and he had to make sure his people were not left on the streets. Ok, so maybe it was more often than not, but he was fine. As long as they had running (filtered) water and food on their plates, he could rest easy. Besides, the solution that ran thick in the water didn't seem to have ill effect on himself, so worst case he could chug some tap water to fill the void. 

“I got a new coloring book… and… and crayons, and a new stuffy!” The little girl slowly opened up, giggling as she joined in and climbed up onto his shoulders, beaming at the new height. 

“That's great, kid. What did you name them?” Jason shifted smoothly, keeping himself balanced as he lifted a hand up to ruffle her hair, knowing he would probably be re-braiding it before sending her home again. 

“I named her kitty” she giggled out as she gripped onto his helmet, kicking her feet some. 

“well, I can not wait to meet Ms. Kitty. Now how about you, Milo. How did that paper go?” Jason shifted his attention, lifting his arm to swing the little gremlin some. 

“I got an A Thanks to you! Oh! Can you help me study for spelling later, Pleeeaaassseee!” Milo whined out, but the smile on his face made it lose it's effect. 

Jason swung the kid up one last time before the pain aching in his joints was starting to make him feel dizzy. “I can't tonight, but how about tomorrow after school I can give some time to you and your classmates. I got a big bad bat mission tonight” he pulled his hood off so he could stick his tongue out, playfully expressing his dislike. Besides, he still had his domino and he was a bit weary wearing the helmet with explosives in it with Susie up on his shoulders. It just meant he lost that barrier that protected his pain from showing. But he would compartmentalize that away for now. 

The kids all beamed in excitement as he carried on. Everyone in Crime Alley had grown more fond of the younger vigilante and less fond over Batman since his rise here. Mostly because he was there for them, he was in the streets making a difference in ways that actually mattered. But the kids were to young, hero worship still rung through their veins just as hope still blossomed in their hearts. He couldn't bring himself to ruin that. 

After catching up with his kids, he ushered Them back to the playground and went to the parents, keeping his hood at his side for now. He made a mental list of who would need extra help, who he would be bringing some home cooked meals too, who could connect with another in the community when similar struggles aligned enough. This was his favorite part of the job. The part that made the loneliness take shelter and filled his chest with warmth. A warmth that held the flood of pain back and eased a weary part of his soul. Made him feel like he belonged despite knowing that was far from the truth. 

By the time he was done and heading to his next meeting before patrolling some of the more dangerous areas, his com was pinging to life in his ear. A bad sign, if the bats were out during the day and patching him in. Damn, he was hoping to be able to take it easy before the steak out tonight. 

“What is it, O?” He forced out between clenched teeth, annoyance bubbling up like a way ward science project. 

“Sorry, Red Hood, I know you guys just got off that missi9n last night, but there were riots at Arkham this morning and multiple prisoners escaped. Batman and Robin managed to get most of them back in custody, but Red Robin stopped reporting in around the Bowery. If you could swing by and give him a hand I'll make sure you get a drink for your effort” the feminine Voice called over the headset. 

Jason grunted his affirmation before shutting off the com once again. Sure, she could easily hack it back on, but they really just put a damper on his day, especially since that meant some deranged lunatic was near his area. Endangering his kids, his working girls, his families. Ontop of that, Barbra offered to get him a drink after, which reminded him a little to much of his father. He could practically feel the burn of the alcohol against his nostrils and the phantom grip bruising his battered neck. Sure, she probably meant nothing by it, just another way to prove his family probably didn't care about him, or care enough to know him. He was a weapon by design, used at their disposal. Weapons did not get upset, did not get held back by pain, did not give up in the face of adversary. 

He allowed himself a few deep breaths, allowing the filtered oxygen to seep into his battered soul, like a blanket that helped ease his weary muscles and racing thoughts. 

Compartmentalize and repress. 

His little brother needed him, Bruce was too far with another child he allowed into this war. Even if Tim deserved to hate him, deserved to discard him like old trash, he still needed to protect him. He could take the hits that Tim could not. He was expendable. Tim was part of the family. He would heal, for whatever they threw at him had already been done before, and then some. 

Jason shot out his grappling gun as he toppled over the edge of the roof, barely remembering to hold it in his right hand. He wouldn't be as fast as if it was in his dominant hand, but it was better than forcing the broken bones apart with the weight of his body. He made his way over quickly and switched a heat vision mode onto his mask to scan the empty buildings until he found one with two signatures in it. As he neared the warehouse, he couldn't help the swooping feeling that overtook his stomach as he heard an all to familiar laugh echoing through the metal prison his brother was trapped in. Like the world was suddenly pulled out from under him and he was left plummeting down down down. 

Compartmentalize and repress. 

He swung into action, quickly kicking in the window before plummeting to the hard cement ground with his guns already pulled, body prepared to finally kill the freak before he torments yet another family, another child. Sure, Tim was 18 now, but Tim would be far from his last victim if Batman kept having his way. Hell, under Bruce the psychopath was practically let go with a slap on the wrist. 

“Oh look who decided to join our little party? Ready for a round 2?” The clown laughed out as he swung a crowbar over his shaking shoulder, barely holding his laughs to a more sane level. 

The crowbar cast a shadow that still danced in Jason's dreams, echoing a familiar burn through his body despite how the pit had healed him physically of all reminders. It hid scars and mended bones, tied his brain back together like a talented seamstress. Left him a clean slate to be broken again and again and again. 

Compartmentalize and repress. 

He couldn't let those thoughts take over, couldn't leg the memories pull him down. 

“Ja-hood!” Tim called out from his spot, chained up and dangling from the ceiling like a twisted pinata. “Get out of here! There's a bomb in the basement and enough dynamite to blow the block” Tim thrashed some, fear prickling behind those blue eyes. 

“I'm not leaving you here to be killed by this sick pervert. I'm not letting him break apart any more families” Jason nearly growled out as he aimed his guns, hoping that the shaking in his left hand was not noticeable.

“Oh but where would the fun in that be?” Joker fake pouted before swinging the crow bar at the air, arching much like someone hitting at a golf ball. 

Some part of him, his pitied soul and crumbling lungs, wishes someone would carve into his chest and fish out his imperfect heart. To put an end to the feelings that surged from it. He had grown used to the taunting nightmares, the creeping darkness, the memories that woke him up in a cold sweat each night. But seeing the maniac in person, he could imagine vividly the cool metal coming down on Tim while he stood there hopelessly lost. Imagine his little brother suffering those same taunts, knowing he was the only joke he had. 

He pulled the trigger without a second thought, mind numb as he pulled it again, and again, and again. The screams of Tim behind him echoing off the hallow walls. 

And again, and again. 

It wasn't until every round he had on him was unleashed into the maniac that he finally sucked in a breath, ragged and broken around the tears that soaked his skin beneath the hood. He knew the fucker was like a Damm cockroach and would return, if not physically at least in his own psych, but for now, for a brief moment, it was like he could finally breath. Tense muscles that carried with him since his stint in Ethiopia could finally relax. 

For a brief moment, it was like the clouds had parted as the man that taunted his very existence, the monster that ripped his incense away, lay motionless on the cement ground. 

Jason slid to the ground, shaking hands dropping the guns that he held. For once, the pain had given way to numbness. He couldn't help the way he started to laugh under the mask, voice muffled by the vocalizers in the hood and wet from salty tears. 

He was finally free, and what a glorious feeling. Even if Bruce had chosen the Joker over him, even if it meant he was finally banished from his family, he was free. 

“Hood!” Tim tried again, wiggling against the chains. He knew the crime lord maybe wasn't the most sane individual, so the killing really was not a surprise, it followed the older vigilante like a twisted trail, soaking the earth he grew from. But right now they had bigger problems, namely the bomb that was still ticking away, pulling them both over closer to their demise. “The bomb!” He tried again, panic slipping into his voice. Bruce would yell at him later for getting emotional, but he could handle that later. 

Maybe the repercussions have finally come to consume him, a debt paid for cheating death. Jason briefly had a moment, a fleeting thought about how this could be it, he could finally be put to rest. Returned to the grave he once drug himself out of. But he couldn't, not yet. He wasn't alone here, Bruce would care if something happened to Tim. He wasn't replaceable. Tim still had a life to go back to, not something consumed in rage and fury, something twisted beyond recognition. 

Slowly he pushed himself up, body spasming slightly at the way he forced his beaten and broken body to move. Left wrist collapsing under the weight as it finally gave up on him. Another laugh pulled itself from his chest, broken this time as it mixed with another noise, mixed with a broken sob that tried to slip past him. 

No, he wasn't going to give up now. He was only 20, and the Joker no longer was there to hold him back. He could finally LIVE. Finally breath, finally sleep, finally exist in peace. He shakily stepped towards Tim, reaching up to unhook him with his non injured side before pulling him towards the exit. Once they were out he would do a check over, assure that the kid wasn't mottled in hidden bruises and internal bleeding, just like he was all those years ago. Once they were out and the bomb had vanquished the evidence, then he could live again. 

Right as he was pushing open the latched doors, an all to familiar noise caught in his ears. Rapidly yanking him back down from the cloud he was graciously floating on. with Only a second to think before the explosion consumed them, he pushed Tim with all his strength into the harbor, a last ditch effort to save him before the entire dock side blew. He intended to jump in after him, to use the polluted water as a barrier, but the flames came quicker and an all to familiar heat consumed him. 

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A fog filled daze clouded his mind as broken bones pressed against the harsh wood that surrounded him. The ringing of a fresh explosion consuming his ragged breathes as he slowly caught up to where he was, and what had happened. The Joker was dead, Tim was safe… this didn't feel like a collapsed building though. He slowly pressed his hands up, running them down the harsh wood that arched with age, realization slowly clearing his throbbing head.

“You have got to be FUCKING kidding me” he nearly growled out. Frustration bubbling over as the words barely made it past the echoing choir that his racing heart formed with the ringing that taunted him. Unable to hear how his voice was those few octaves higher than it was mere moments ago. 

He was putting it in his god damn will to be cremated next time so that God may take mercy on his soul once and for all. 

Chapter Text

Jason was going to lose his mind here, well, he supposed he already had. They did not even have the audacity to bury him with a Goddamn bell this time, or even better yet his phone. No, he was in some stuffy suit. He could feel the threads fraying on with age, feel it thinned in areas as if it was worn many times before. It scratched against his wounds that he did not understand how they existed, how they still existed with the accelerated healing from the radioactive Gatorade flavored like suffering that he took a dip in. Jason was going to punch Bruce, then maybe punch God themself for wanting yet another encore of Jason Todd.

At least the wood they used was significantly cheaper, screaming of the bare minimum. He supposed it was only fair that they did not want to shell out again, after all he destroyed the other one after they so graciously gave to the earth. Besides, he was not part of the family any more, so it made sense. Absently, he wondered if they popped him in the same plot, or threw him in an unmarked grave, hidden from the shame he brought upon them.

This time, he skipped the desperate clawing, the desperate screaming, the desperate attempts at escape, and went to what he knew. He tried to think past the ringing, past the pain, and grabbed his belt, painfully shifting to unhook it and use the metal corner to scrape at the wood.

He focused on his breathing while he could, pushing down the memories that kept flashing to the forefront of his mind and threatening to drag him under.

Relief floods through him like blood to a wound as the first specks of dirt start to break through the forming cracks. He ignores how every movement screams of pain, how everything feels so different, so wrong.

Once he hit the earth and soil flooded his space, he jumped to action, using the sudden open space to displace the earth as he started digging. His fingers would still bleed, his nails would still be torn, but it was leagues better than last time.

His lungs burned as he struggled to the surface, fighting back the sting that pleaded for relief in his chest. He had held his breath far longer before, so this should be nothing. Last time he was fueled by desperation, only half cognizant to what was going on. This time death seemed to take pity on him, and seemed to agree that a third chance at life was getting a bit absurd. He may be aware this time, but it felt so much worse. Being aware would help him get out, but it seemed to come in tow with broken bones and injuries he could not see.

Once he breached the surface, he pulled himself out and rolled over in the mud, allowing himself a moment to suck in greedy breathes, a moment to let himself separate from those twisted nightmares and deep fears.

Yeah, he was going to punch the next God he saw for this one, maybe summon Lady Death herself just to do the honour's. Would Superman count as a God? Didn't matter, he would punch him next time he saw him, it was the very least he was deserved after having to dig himself out a second time.

Once his lungs slowly eased their spasming, he closed his eyes and tried to focus inwards. Just like the monks had taught him. He could deal with his new revenge plan later, for now he had to take stock of just what was wrong.

Maybe fight the pit later too, damn thing was great at rearing it's ugly head when he was in danger, a survival instinct that would kick his body into over drive until it's thirst for pain and blood was paid for. But it was pretty damn quiet since waking up. Just his luck it would finally start to subside now, when he could have used that adrenaline boost.

Focus, Jason.

He could feel his bones grinding in his wrist still, feel ribs shifting with ragged breaths. He still couldn't hear much beyond the harsh ringing that seemed to echo between his ears. He could feel the way his skin was pulled taut with stitches over his chest, the way his fingers sluggishly bled from digging through the dirt, feel the burns that littered his back, no doubt from the bomb he foolishly let himself get caught in, again…

Nothing life threatening for now, and all injuries that should heal with in a week or two.

Next order of business? Figure out where he was, maybe drag himself back to the cave and let Alfred treat his wounds. That sounded nice. Plus, then he could punch Bruce for no doubt being the one to bury him again. It would suck having to do it with his non dominant hand, but hey, a punch was a punch, and maybe if he was lucky it would distract the old man from the fact that he killed the Joker.

God, he killed the Joker. Even if it wouldn't stick, since the maniac was basically a cockroach, it still let a wave of ease wash over him. At least for a little bit, he could rest easy knowing the twisted laughs were just in his head. A remnant of the way he was broken again, and again, and again. For a moment, people would be safer. The clown no longer taking lives just to get Bruce's attention in the sick little game they played.

Anyway, it was time to get up and get to action. He slowly pushed himself up, blinking harshly as the world swam in his vision, twisting and pulsating in rhythm with his heart until it slowly stilled. Everything still felt off, but he supposed that was normal, he wasn't fully with it last time so it's not like he had a good record to compare it to. His body screamed in protest, pain spiking threw him, but he took a few deep breathes and shoved it back where it belonged, back into the coffin in his mind, under lock and key. Only to be excavated when he was alone and able to process through it.

First order of business, finding out what graveyard he was thrown into this time. He looked around at the unfamiliar terrain, before eyes landed on the old stone that was grown over that rested above him. He stumbled over to the old rock and pushed some of the grass and debris off it, allowing the light rain fall to aid in washing the dirt off it's surface. “Beloved son, Jason Peter Todd, 1995-2010” he slowly read the faded lettering, the surface of the stone worn and weathered. But that wasn't right, was it? That wasn't even right if they were going from his original death day as the start of his life. He understood if they did not want to shell out on the good stuff again, but the least they could have done was get the info correct, maybe add a jab in there. He understood not having the moniker of brother, understood why it looked like no one had been out in years… wait, years? Surely that couldn't be right. It was 2011 currently, or he supposed when he died again. Surely his body would have gone through much more decomposition if the way the aged stones spoke of age.

No, this was all wrong. Everything was wrong, different. He needed to find someone with answers, Maybe find a mirror and make sure he wasn't actively falling apart and was in fact still fully together.

The suit was getting too stuffy and the air was to clean and it all just made his throbbing head spin as he rushed to pull off the worn jacket, and tried to rip the buttons from the fabric to get some air into his lungs, anything to ease the bubbling panic that threatened to constrict his throat. Threatened to take him out.

Breath, compartmentalize, repress.

He tried to focus on the breathing as he tossed the soiled shirt to the ground with its jacket, trying to ignore how different his physique was. His eyes caught on the wounds on his chest, freshly carved and half hazardly sealed, there was a deep red Y shape that spanned the entire surface, and God damn it. Jason knew he had an autopsy last time too, but at least the Lazarus Pit made sure there was no evidence of it to remain. Nothing but twisted nightmares and broken memories.

Those fuckers couldn't even have the decency to leave his corpse alone this time? He was going to take them all out of his will and make sure it was highlighted to fully destroy his body. Maybe scatter his ashes across the globe just to assure they could never form into a human again. Fuck Bruce, fuck God, fuck whatever sick twisted shithead thought this was a good idea.

Ontop of that, now that he was paying attention, he was much too thin, too tiny, and God damn it he worked hard for the physique he had, especially starting off so much smaller due to years of abuse, neglect, and malnutrition. He needed answers, needed to figure out why he was practically reset to the shitty factory mode, needed to get some God damn food into his system before the growing black splotches overtook his vision completely. Needed to figure out why he wasn't healing like he had grown used to, and why they thought to bury him in an unfamiliar graveyard. It wasn't even one of the ones used for the poor of Crime Alley! The atmosphere was off for it to even be remotely near Gotham, which was another irritation to add onto the others.

Breath, in and out, compartmentalize those bubbling up feelings, and get on with the check list.

Jason slowly staggered away from his grave, hating how the ringing was still making it's presence known, though it was slowly backing off, slowly fading into the background. Not that it really helped much because the world was still helplessly teetering under his dragging feet, still muffled under the layer of cotton that was wrapping around his brain.

Half hazardly, he grabbed the shirt and jacket, pulling the damp articles back on to his wrong body. He needed answers, and food, and probably a solid gallon of water given how tacky his mouth felt.

Jason slowly made his way out of the old graveyard, taking note of how run down the entire place was, how half the graves had no names. The wall that surrounded it had lists of names plaquared on the crumbling surface, a general dedication made to those who were lost to the blip. The plaques at least looked newer, like they were haphazardly thrown on to an old overfilled graveyard. It reminded him a lot of a war memorial, but for a war he never heard of, never knew existed.

Once out, he was surprisingly close to a large city, not Gotham, not Star City, hell, not even Metropolis. The sky line was unfamiliar with large skyscrapers and the streets bustling with life. Everything felt so much larger than life, like he was a mere ant scurrying along the pavement. It was also almost all glass, vastly different from the old gothic architecture. It was great to get to see his own reflection though, see what others were seeing so he could judge their responses.

As he neared the city, he could see a group of tourists getting back on a bus. Most of the group wore shirts plaster with variations of “I heart New York”, or big apples.

“New York?” Jason breathed out, coughing at the gravel in his throat. Right, he needed to get some water. He had never been to New York, far too poor as a child, and far to busy being a trained soldier for the rest of it. He had traveled the world with the leagues beck and call, but never to this specific hub. So why was he buried here? Did Bruce want him far away? But was it really that far? He could easily make it back in a few hours with a car, maybe a day if he had to walk. None of this made sense, and thinking about it made his head thrum and his vision go blurry.

With a shake of his head, he marched forward, shoving down the unnecessary things once again. When he gets to one of his safe houses he can go through and methodically unleash everything, unchain the vault doors and allow himself to process what happened… Again. But only then, because he was not safe here, not truly safe anywhere.

Jason immediately clocked that most people stared at him, faces pulled in pity and concern. So he must look rough, understandable given the layer of dirt that still clung to him. Just meant he would have to make quick work. Hopefully they had enough audacity to at least bury him with a $20 bill. Sure it was a waste, and the idea made his stomach churn because there were Such better alternatives for any money than burying it with a dead body, but he also could use the money to have to avoid stealing, or begging. Neither sat right with him, and begging only worked when he was a manipulative little shit, when pity could be twisted to get his next meal or his mother a warm blanket.

He made his way to one of the large buildings, not the god awful ugly thing with a massive A on it, but a more non descript one. One he hoped wouldn't have people staring through weirdly tinted windows at him. With a deep breath, he opened his blue eyes and took in what everyone else was seeing. But wait… that was wrong too. His eyes had not been blue since he drowned in the uncured jello pit. But there were vibrant baby blues staring back at him. His entire body was smaller, much smaller, which he had started to get already, but he looked like he was when he first died. Except, that wasn't right, there was no twisted scar on his face branding him as a tool in a war that was not his, a mark of his own failure. His hair was the same wavy texture, but slightly longer, and red, not the black he was used to dying it. The identifying white strip that he forged from repeat trauma, a physical response to stress and injury, was also no where to be seen. Though, he supposed that could still grow in, after all, it was becoming more evident thay this wasn't his body that he woke up in. A weirdly familiar thing, but not his. Different enough to tilt the scale into deranged hallucination, but similar enough to be grounded in reality.

What the fuck happened?

Staring at his fake reflection, he slowly went over what he knew. He remembered Tim, remembered shooting the Joker, remembered delaying his reaction so that he could enjoy the moment, remembered shoving Tim into the water then nothing but white hot pain burning through his body.

Then…

Then he supposed he died, but instead of having another round with his regular body, some fucker decided it would be fun to mess with him more, to transfer him into a teenager with none of the muscle memory but all of the core knowledge. Unless…

Ignoring injuries, Jason quickly leapt up and did a quick flip, a move he had not executed since his Robin days, a move his normal bulk would never allow.

OK, so he seemed to have the muscle memories, just not the bulk to support it. He let his mind wonder a moment, thinking about all the possibilities. None really made sense, unless magic was involved and they fucked up the spell. Maybe he would find Constantine just to be safe. Or perhaps someone fucked around with the alternate Earths that he over heard Oliver and Roy talking about one of the few times he visited his friends mentor.

Regardless, at least he now knew what everyone else was seeing, and yeah sure he could understand their looks, didn't mean he liked it. He was some kid, height wise he could definitely pull off being 13 (or maybe even 12 if he pushed it) instead of 15, absolutely covered in mud and dirt, with obvious injuries and bleeding hands.

Nausea suddenly reared it's ugly head up as it started to settle, he was absolutely in some different time line, or different Earth, Bruce was no where near by, he had no safe houses to crash at, didnt know any heroes that were stationed in New York, and to top it all off he wasn't healing. Or, maybe that was his most definite concussion speaking. It's not even like he could go to a hospital if he wanted to (which he absolutely did not want to) because apparently here he was still a dead man walking.

Either way, he needed to take a deep breath, compartmentalize that shit away, and continue on with his check list. At least now he had a tool in his pocket for when he did not look like he drug himself up from hell.

Finding a way to clean up was moved up the list some, but food and water were still a top priority. He also made a mental note to find new clothes and a cheap box hair dye at some point, so that maybe he could start to feel more like himself.