𝐉𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧

Suffocating.

If he were to describe the feeling in the air at that moment, the crushing weight that he'd felt settling in between his ribs, squeezing the oxygen from his lungs - the word he would use would be suffocating. His chest no longer held space for any breath, his body repurposing itself against his will.

And what, exactly, was that purpose?

For a moment, he didn't understand. Didn't see what was right there, hidden in such plain sight. Hidden in a place he didn't want to look.

Steps became uneven as he tried to press forward, boots breaking through puddles that had found solace among the potholes in the concrete beneath him. It was concrete still, wasn't it?

Concrete.

Cold.

A shiver interrupted his thoughts, forcing it's way through his body in that familiar, violent way. Risking it all for a brief moment of respite, the Red Hood closed his eyes.

Close. Reload. Reset.

But it was not comfort that he found in this alleyway alone. No, of course it wouldn't be. Comfort wasn't something that was meant for him. Instead, Jason found himself back on that cold, hard, warehouse floor. Jason found himself in a puddle of blood.

Jason found himself alone.

Jason found fear.

Fear.

And that fear was what finally broke the dam. Every breath, all at once, panicked and pained, filled his lungs with an overwhelming urgency. Blueish, greenish, death-stained eyes flew open, darting around an alleyway that didn't feel so alone anymore.

A presence had invaded.

A presence that nagged at his mind.

A presence that said:

Look up.

Slowly, the Scarecrow head tilts to the side, the dark fabric of his uniform shifting silently with the movement, the dim light catching on the lenses of his mask and allowing for his eyes to glow. It is with those eyes, glowing in the darkness and piercing into the window of whatever is left of Red Hood's soul, that the Scarecrow observes this newest addition to the board. Or, perhaps, an old pawn reaching the other side and coming back anew. The Batman and his pawns, his knights, his rooks, no matter how fiercely those pieces might object to the notion, will forever be made of same wood.

Even while cloaked in shadow, the Scarecrow can feel the exact moment that they make eye contact. Like a sudden weight being pushed into place, even through the layers of metal and fabric and the costumes that the two of them wear. The Scarecrow recognizes the feeling of being seen in the way one feels electricity tearing through his limbs.

The brain will break, eventually, when the voltage gets high enough. Blood will start to fall from one's ears and their nose and their eyes, falling into their laps like gems. But it is unclear, insofar, who is the one strapped into the chair, and who is the one with a hand on the lever. He supposes that the only way to find out who the executioner is, is to wait and see who dies first. He is not a gambling man, but the Scarecrow might make an exception just this once- betting it all on red.

The eye contact alone almost crushed him, stripping him of his usual swagger and bravado. Here, standing not-so-alone, he was nothing more than a child again, staring at the creature that threatened to leave his closet at night.

It was . . . humiliating.

His jaw, shielded by metal, clenched to simulate the illusion of feeling just as strong -- just as impenetrable. But that was his first mistake, looking back on it. Metal could be molded. Metal could be reshaped. Brought forth into a new design that left the previous creation entirely unrecognisable.

He could be broken.

The creature's single word, spoken so plainly in Gotham's night air, tore itself through his mind. Was he lost? No, no he knew exactly where he was. And where he was was the place he'd ventured to. And where he'd ventured to was the place where his feet had taken him. And where his feet had --

-- where had his feet taken him?

Every synapse in his brain burned from end to end, creating a staggering sort of warmth -- but that wasn't it, was it? Warmth was comforting, or so he was told. He hadn't quite believed it. Warmth meant he had something that could be taken, torn away without any rhyme or reason. And standing there, feet melded to the concrete, the warmth he felt was certainly not comforting.

Not in the slightest.

Yet something compelled him to attempt to hide this from the creature -- because that's what it was to him, a creature invading peace. Perhaps it was because of that same childish fear that kept him frozen in his bed, when the voices no longer sounded like voices, only a slur of sound and fury.

There it was again.

Fear.

He would lie -- he had to lie.

"I'm not afraid of you."

Three years after she had first arrived in Gotham from Atlanta hunting phantoms she eventually found but almost wished she had not, Kate found herself staring at her own pale reflection as the breeze blowing in from Gotham Harbor fluttered her cape. Nearly lifeless green eyes peered back at her from the darkened window of the abandoned storefront, and as she stared, Kate briefly wondered if she, herself, had become a ghost. Unlike other creatures lionized for their deaths and rebirths, Kate never felt that she came back better, or smarter, or stronger - just tired. Just more scarred. Just haunted, with more nightmares that followed her down dark alleyways, more memories standing at the foot of her bed so she couldn't sleep.

The dust of time had settled on Gotham's streets and within her heart, and it seemed to coat everything she touched. The Shadow was long since buried. Kate's hands, forever stained with blood, were at least as clean now as they could ever be again, her relationships mended as much as they ever were. Kate had done the work she could; time had handled much of the rest. Many people she had once loved were buried or missing, but also missing was the thirst for vengeance that had gotten her so drunk on grief that she had become unrecognizable to herself.

At least now, ghosts and all, Kate recognized herself again. Whatever she thought of the woman looking back at her, at least she was someone familiar.

Behind her, out the corner of her eye, Kate saw movement. A woman dressed in a white diaphanous gown floated down the cracked road silently. An icy chill rocketed through Kate's spine, the air turning frigid. Distant wailing could be heard echoing through the lifeless streets, like the souls lost to the Harbor waters were crying out to the woman in white.

Right, Kate thought to herself. The whole reason she was out this way at this time of night.

The Ghosts of Gotham, both figuratively and literally. Kate slowly turned, the red bat symbol emblazoned on her chest almost as bright as the Gotham Lighthouse. Hand on her python coil attached to her utility belt, she began stalking behind the apparition, a faint smile creeping across her face at the absurdity of how it easy this felt - leave it to Katherine Kane to feel more comfortable among the dead than the living.