Jason's eyelids fluttered open, but the world refused to come into focus—just a hazy smear of shapes and colors, like a watercolor painting left out in the rain. His head throbbed, a dull, insistent ache pulsing behind his temples.
The air smelled sterile, sharp with antiseptic, undercut by something metallic. Blood? Probably his own.
A voice cut through the fog, crisp and professional. "He's starting to regain consciousness, sir."
Jason groaned, trying to blink away the blur. His arms were strapped down, the leather cuffs biting into his wrists when he tested them. The steady, rhythmic beep… beep… beep… of a heart monitor filled the silence, way too loud for his liking.
Then—movement. A shadow loomed over him, resolving slowly into a familiar face. Ra's al Ghul stood there, arms clasped behind, looking down at him like he was a mildly interesting science experiment.
Jason's mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton. "Old man?" he slurred, voice rough. "How are you—"
But before he could finish—before he could even begin to process how the hell Ra's was here, alive, or if he missed the old man so much that he's hallucinating—the man spoke, calm and commanding.
"Activate the Jason Project."
Jason's stomach dropped. "But… how?" he mumbled, already feeling the darkness creeping back in at the edges of his vision. His limbs grew heavy, his thoughts sluggish, like his brain was drowning in syrup.
The last thing he heard before everything went black again was his own voice—flat, obedient, wrong—answering: "What are my mission's orders, master?"
And then—nothing.
- - -
Deep in his unconscious state, all he saw was an endless void—a suffocating darkness that pressed in from all sides, weightless and timeless. There was no sound, no sensation, just an abyss that swallowed everything.
Then—
Light erupted without warning, shattering the blackness. Images flickered before him, sharp and vivid—not random flashes, but memories. His own.
The vision dragged him back to days before his capture, to the nights when he still wore the mantle of Robin.
The air had been thick with the acrid stench of gunpowder and sweat as he and Batman stood amidst the wreckage of a drug bust.
Broken bodies littered the floor, groaning in pain. Robin's knuckles were raw, his breath ragged. He had been brutal—more than necessary. Batman's voice cut through the haze of adrenaline, sharp with disapproval.
"You went too far."
Jason had bristled, jaw clenched. "They deserved worse."
Batman's glare was like ice, his silence heavier than any reprimand. Jason knew the lecture that was coming—about restraint, about justice, not vengeance. He swallowed his pride and muttered an apology, but deep down? He wasn't sorry. Not for what he'd done to them.
The memory dissolved, and suddenly, he was somewhere else—a hospital.
The sterile white walls of the hallway stretched before him, fluorescent lights humming overhead. The sharp scent of antiseptic burned his nose as he walked, his boots scuffing against the linoleum. He was in civilian clothes, no mask, no cape—just Jason Todd.
Then, without warning, an arm hooked around his shoulder, yanking him backward into a supply closet. The door clicked shut behind them, plunging them into dim, cramped darkness.
"Jason."
The voice was low, familiar. Bruce.
Jason's back hit the wall as Bruce pinned him there, his grip tight on his collar. The faint glow from under the door cast shadows across Bruce's face, highlighting the tension in his jaw.
"What are you doing here?" Bruce demanded, his voice a controlled growl.
Jason scoffed, slapping Bruce's hands away. "You followed me." He rolled his shoulders, irritation flaring. "Figures."
"I was about to guess the same of you," Bruce countered, his tone edged with suspicion.
Jason blinked. That wasn't the response he expected.
"But I didn't follow you to Bosnia," Bruce continued, stepping back just enough to give Jason space. "I followed Ra's al Ghul."
Jason smirked, crossing his arms. "He's got you jumping through hoops to marry his daughter again, huh?" The jab was deliberate, laced with sarcasm. "Well, I'm on my own mission here."
Bruce's eyes narrowed. "Which is?"
"I'm tracking Joker."
A beat of silence. Bruce's expression darkened.
"Joker? Here? And you're tracking him alone?" The disbelief in his voice was palpable.
Jason's patience snapped. "I know that he shot Barbara through the spine!" His voice rose, sharp and raw. "And I know he didn't stop there. But you only put that waste of life back in a cell."
Bruce flinched, his gaze dropping for the briefest moment. Jason saw it—the flicker of guilt.
"Well, he's broken out. Again. And someone had to do something—"
"Jason," Bruce cut in, his voice grave. "Ra's is attempting to build dirty bombs. Thousands could die from radiation poisoning. He's here in Bosnia, buying nuclear material from an unknown seller."
Jason exhaled, forcing himself to process the information. "Joker got a hold of stolen uranium. I got a lead. He's selling it to terrorists."
Bruce's stern expression softened—just slightly. A ghost of pride flickered in his eyes. "Excellent detective work, son."
The words sent a rush of warmth through Jason. Son. After everything, Bruce still saw him that way.
"I think it's going to take Batman and Robin together to close this case," Bruce said, offering a rare, small smile.
Jason returned it, nodding.
- - -
[Later, in the field]
The night air was thick with tension as they stood at the crossroads—literally.
Ra's' men were moving bombs across the border in one direction. In the other, the warehouse Jason had traced Joker to loomed in the distance, its broken windows like hollow eyes watching them.
Batman's grip on the Batcycle's handles tightened. "We need to intercept Ra's' shipment before it crosses."
Jason bristled. "Batcycle only seats one. You take them down while I investigate the warehouse." He jerked his chin toward the darkened building.
Bruce's response was immediate. "No. Stay here." His hands clamped onto Jason's shoulders, his voice dropping into something almost pleading. "Jason, for once, please listen to me."
Jason stiffened.
"Don't go after Joker alone. He's too dangerous." Bruce's eyes were hard behind the cowl, his jaw set. "You read me?"
Jason hesitated. Then, reluctantly: "Loud and clear. Just hurry back."
Bruce sped off, leaving Jason standing there.
He waited until the roar of the Batcycle faded.
Then he turned toward the warehouse.
- - -
The memory shifted—violently.
Now he was back in that chair.
The stench of gasoline and blood filled his nose. Joker's laughter echoed, high and manic, as the crowbar came down again.
Pain.
Darkness.
Then—beeping.
His foggy gaze locked onto the blinking red light in the corner.
A bomb.
His muscles went slack.
Boom.
- - -
His eyes snapped open.
The room was dim, the air stale. The rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor filled the silence.
Hospital.
He was in a hospital.
The sheets were rough against his skin, the mattress stiff beneath him. The scent of disinfectant was overwhelming.
The door creaked open. A nurse stepped in, clipboard in hand, humming softly as she checked the machines.
Then she turned—and froze.
His eyes locked onto hers, sharp and alert.
She gasped, nearly dropping the clipboard. "You're awake?" Her voice was a whisper. Then, louder: "He's awake!"
She bolted from the room.
Minutes later, she returned with a doctor, who shone a light into his pupils.
"What is your name?" the doctor asked.
Jason's throat burned. "I… don't remember."
"What do you remember?"
"Nothing. It's all… fuzzy."
The doctor nodded, sympathetic. "Rest. You've been out for a while."
As they turned to leave, Jason rasped: "Nurse."
She paused.
"Where am I?"
"Gotham City's Central Hospital."
Gotham.
"What happened to me?"
"We don't know. You were found unconscious at our doors a week ago. No injuries—just scars."
A week.
"Thank you," he murmured, exhaustion pulling at him.
The nurse smiled softly. "Rest. I'll be back in the morning."
The door clicked shut.
Jason fought the heaviness in his eyelids, but the sedative dragged him under.
The last thing he saw was the faint glow of the city through the window—Gotham's skyline, jagged and familiar.
Then—darkness.
- - -
[A Few Days Later]
The sterile scent of antiseptic clung to the air, a constant reminder of Jason's confinement within the hospital's white walls.
The hum of distant machines, the muffled conversations of nurses, the occasional groan of another patient—these were the sounds that filled his days.
He sat on the edge of his bed, fingers gripping the sheets as he stared at his legs, willing them to move. But they remained stubbornly still, as if disconnected from his very being.
The doctors had run every test imaginable—blood work, nerve conduction studies, X-rays—all yielding the same frustrating conclusion.
There was nothing physically wrong with him. His muscles were intact, his nerves undamaged. And yet, his body refused to obey.
Psychological. That was their diagnosis.
The white streak cutting through his dark hair had drawn curious glances from the medical staff.
After some deliberation, the doctor had labeled it Canities Subita—a sudden whitening of the hair, often linked to extreme stress or trauma.
Jason had scoffed at the term. A name didn't explain why it had happened. It didn't explain the hollow pit in his chest, the simmering rage that never quite faded.
An all too familiar feeling.
Physical therapy was a special kind of torment. Each session was a battle—not just against his own body, but against the fury that threatened to consume him.
The first time the nurse helped him stand, his legs buckled instantly, sending him crashing to the padded floor. His hands clenched into fists, knuckles white, as a snarl ripped from his throat.
Pathetic.
The nurses were patient, at least. They murmured reassurances, treating his outbursts with practiced calm.
They assumed his anger was born of frustration—of a young man robbed of his strength, his memories, his very identity.
And maybe it was, in part. But there was something else, something darker. A hunger for violence that coiled in his gut, whispering to him in moments of stillness.
Bash their skulls in. Make them hurt like you've been hurt.
He didn't know where the thoughts came from. He didn't want to know.
Yet, despite the rage, there were moments—small, fleeting—where something softer flickered to life. When a nurse brought him an extra blanket after noticing he shivered at night.
When an elderly patient in the hallway smiled at him, offering a shaky thumbs-up as he struggled with his cane. These moments left him unbalanced, unsure of what to do with the warmth that briefly pushed back the anger.
Progress was slow but undeniable. From collapsing after two steps, he learned to bear his own weight. Then to shuffle forward, gripping the parallel bars until his palms blistered. And finally, to walk—haltingly, painfully—with the aid of a cane. Each step was a victory, yet it did nothing to quell the storm inside him.
Then came the television.
The hospital's common room was quiet that afternoon, the usual chatter of patients subdued. Jason sat in a stiff-backed chair, fingers drumming against the armrest as he half-watched the news.
"—precisely five years since one of Gotham's most dangerous criminals, known as the Joker, was sent to Arkham Asylum—"
The name hit him like a crowbar, pun intended.
His head snapped up, eyes locking onto the screen. The Joker's grinning face filled the corner of the broadcast, that leering, grotesque smile stretching wide. And suddenly—
—metal crashing against bone—
—laughter, high and shrill, ringing in his ears—
—pain, so much pain, and the smell of blood and gasoline—
Jason's breath came in sharp, ragged gasps. His hands trembled, his vision swimming as the flashes sharpened into full, horrifying clarity. The warehouse. The crowbar. The explosion.
Robin.
Batman.
Death.
He remembered.
The cane clattered to the floor as he surged to his feet, his body moving on pure instinct.
The nurses called after him, but their voices were distant, meaningless. His mind was a whirlwind—rage, betrayal, confusion.
Three years. The date on the screen taunted him. Three years had passed since his death. Since his rebirth. And yet, he remembered none of it. Only the before.
And the Joker was still alive.
Batman hadn't killed him.
The realization burned through him, hotter than any anger he'd felt before.
The hospital doors swung open as he stepped into the Gotham night, the cold air biting at his skin. The city stretched before him—a labyrinth of shadows and neon, of sirens and silence.
Somewhere out there, the Joker breathed.
Somewhere out there, Batman watched.
And Jason?
He was done waiting for answers.
- - -
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