joker junior but tim's feeling vindictive (and so is gotham)
Nightwing nearly flinched at the shot, half expecting Batman to drop dead.
The Joker fell instead, clutching his side.
A desperate cackle filled the air as Joker Junior, Tim, tears streaking through his smeared makeup and into the rictus grin of his mouth, dropped the gun.
Nightwing reached for him and wrapped the boy in his arms, trying to soothe away that terrible, choking laughter.
“𝓘𝓽’𝓼 𝓪𝓵𝓻𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽, 𝓣𝓲𝓶. 𝓦𝓮’𝓻𝓮 𝓱𝓮𝓻𝓮. 𝓨𝓸𝓾 𝓭𝓲𝓭𝓷’𝓽 𝓱𝓾𝓻𝓽 𝓑𝓻𝓾𝓬𝓮. 𝓦𝓮’𝓵𝓵 𝓰𝓮𝓽 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓱𝓸𝓶𝓮. 𝓗𝓮 𝓬𝓪𝓷’𝓽 𝓱𝓾𝓻𝓽 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓪𝓷𝔂𝓶𝓸𝓻𝓮.” he whispered desperately as the laughter barely diminished. He could feel tears soaking through his suit as the distraught boy clutched desperately at him.
“Ungrateful brat!” the Joker let loose a strained cackle from where he was being held down by Batgirl, “I thought you liked names, so I gave you another! I made you my own! Joker Junior! HAHAHAHAHA!”
Nightwing felt the kid tense in his arms as his laughter came to an abrupt stop.
“...hah, you gave me a name? Haha.” Tim, JJ, trembled in the older hero’s arms without turning around to face his tormentor, “Hahaha! You gave me the Joker? Haha! HAHAHAHA𝐻A!”
Somewhere in the middle, his cackle became distorted, and he finally turned away from Nightwing. His face now bared, the man noticed Tim was wearing Nightwing’s spare domino. When had he grabbed that?
“HAHAH𝒜HA𝐻AHA𝐻AH𝒜𝐻𝒜!” The boy doubled over, clutching his stomach, and his laughter went from choked and desperate to manic and malicious.
Without warning, feathers sprouted from the mask, then his temples and cheeks, his hair and neck, progressively traveling down his arms and back in a sudden wave of transformation that took two seconds at best. The feathers were irregular, at odd sizes and positions and angles, many bent or broken, colors mixed up with no rhyme or reason. They puffed up, as if trying to make him look bigger, and then Tim, no, Robin stumbled as two mangled wings burst from his back, arching menacingly as he bent over further in laughter.
His ears had pointed and lengthened even more than usual. His limbs grew gangly and sharp-edged. His nails grew into deadly, discolored claws, digging holes into his shirt. The mask arched over his nose, seeming almost like a beak. It looked nothing like the composed yet kind light of Gotham, the sprite of mischief that dogged Batman’s every step. It was broken and damaged and a giant mess, but it was undeniably Robin.
“𝐻𝒜𝐻𝒜𝐻𝒜𝐻𝒜𝐻𝒜𝐻𝒜𝐻𝒜𝐻𝒜𝐻𝒜𝐻𝒜𝐻𝒜!”
The clown had ceased laughing.
“I didn’t… I didn’t give you that name. No! It’s mine! It’s mine!! I’m the 𓂃˖˳·˖ ⋆˚⟡˖ ࣪⋆ ִֶָ˖·˳𓂃 !”
“𝐻𝒜𝐻𝒜𝐻𝒜𝐻𝒜𝐻𝒜𝐻𝒜! 𝒴𝒪𝒰 𝒟𝐼𝒟! 𝒴𝒪𝒰 𝒟𝐼𝒟! 𝐻𝒜𝐻𝒜𝐻𝒜𝐻𝒜𝐻𝒜!” Robin sucked in a few breaths and finally looked at his torturer, the rictus grin replaced by something far more vindictive and hungry, baring sharp teeth, a lot more than a human mouth was meant to contain, like dozens of little, pearly white knives.
“𝐼 𝒽𝑜𝓅𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒷𝑒𝒸𝑜𝓂𝑒 𝓃𝑜𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔.”
(Later, back at the cave, in Dick’s unrelenting embrace, he’d finally take the mask off and wail in terror and relief. Recovery would be slow and unsteady, but it would come.
But right now, he reveled in the taste of someone’s last remaining name.)
