Kira

Chapter I - Can't Robin Be Saved?

The room had no light which left the others senses to kick into overdrive to compensate. He had nothing to see, but he also hardly had anything to hear since he was so isolated in… god knows where. Smell, taste, touch is all he left.

Smells like… Mold; stink of rotting corpses from rats, though there were other things urine, feces, vomit. All smells that made a concoction so nasty that it competed with the stuff Scarecrow and Ivy can produce. Yet, it's his normal. A normal he wished he could leave. But people like him never get what they want. His whole life could be described off that logic. Want this, want that, but never get because he's a bad child: undeserving.

With each swallow his tongue tasted like sandpaper and stuck to the roof of his mouth. The remnants of vomit clung to his breath and gums. He couldn't remember the last time he brushed his teeth or had gum. Peppermint would be nice. Maybe a bit nauseating with the change, but… nice.

Down his nose and chin had dried blood and drool, it crusted on to stay stubborn. With the amount of times he was hit, or even the times he had his tongue forced out to lap like a dog. He's pretty sure if he didn't have this Robin uniform on it'd feel sticky all over his chest. The uniform itself wasn't in better shape, or so he assumes. The lack of light makes it hard to tell. Regardless, it'd be messed up from hits of crowbar, vomit, electrocution just enough to make him vomit but not enough to kill him. Let alone blood. Lots of it.

He's eternally grateful for clothing that's red like blood.

The worst of all — as if the rest of this stuff is any better — is the barb wire wrapped around him. It forced him to hunch forward to avoid it piercing into his armor and stab his back. Like a cursed session of acupuncture. Muscles are so tense, he's sure they'd snap anytime soon, though… the ache is beginning to go away.

His posture will probably. No. Never. Recover from this.

Why is he worrying about his posture right now? He has a bajillion other things to think about. Like how he wished he could die in a few minutes instead of waiting the long game. Death is something he wished would come sooner than later. He pleaded for it far too many times. It didn't matter to Him did it? Why should it? Look at what He's done, what He did in the Asylum, Blackgate, in the city, in Gotham. There must be a list a few miles long. It could probably span a decently sized town. Then again it'd be giving Him credit where credit is not due.

He needs to stop thinking about Him. What was he thinking about before? Better question is why his memory felt more out of it. Hazy almost.

…It's dark…smelly…body hurting. Hurting a lot. Oh, yeah, thinking of each sense. Maybe he can compare it to what he remembered at the beginning and that can tell him a general amount of time that passed.

On the wheelchair he's been bound too for… he can't remember. Time is hard to track when there is no day-night cycle. His wrists are still bound, legs too. They hurt. Broken but going to heal wrong. He can always feel it even if it's out of sight and supposedly out of mind. Yet, his one desire is to amputate it, maybe then he wouldn't feel the ache of every shift, every hit. Is that too much to ask. For Him? Yes. Apparently.

He wished to be touched without being harmed. Could it be love instead of hate? He'd even accept pity at this point, only if it meant he could feel hands that rounded him in safety. When he was younger, he used to think pity was some sort of demon, something that'd sting him as if it were a burning stove, but now? Now he craves it, more like something to fill a deprived ache in his chest.

Soft footsteps padded down the stairs. The echo made each step closer sound harder, harsher. A feeling prickled in his gut, twisting and turning it, like he's gonna throw up again.

"Hello? Is someone there?" Please let someone be there…

His voice croaked and footsteps neared, "Batman? Is that you?"

Bruce. Please, please, please… He can't take it anymore. The pain, the ache. Bruce could help him take it away… right? He always took away the pain when he got hurt.

Batman's not coming to save you, Jason

The voice is poison with the way it mocks and laughs at his misery. It happened in whatever yesterday is considered to him now. The image, his replacement. Nails dug into already made grooves at the end of the arms of the chair from last weeks shock session. That became a weekly experience.

He still can't believe it. It couldn't have been real, but… He had evidence. Evidence that's easy to fake. Still, he couldn't be bothered to deny it. Six months. Six fucking months of this. Why wouldn't Bruce dispose of him? He's nothing good anymore. Lost of whatever stupid magic Robin gave him.

Yet… his mantle. His uniform. Everything he worked for! It was for… for nothing! 'Robin' was given up to another boy who didn't deserve it if that horrid buzzcut was anything to go by. He wanted to give up the mantle when he was ready! It wasn't supposed to be forcefully taken away from him!

Everything gets taken away from him. He can't keep nothing. Why is he surprised?

The footsteps continued to echo. One foot then the other. It all seemed so far away, like a memory so distant from reality. It's eerie in a way the Asylum around him often was.

He wished he strangled Bruce when he had the chance. Maybe if it did do something smart like that, this wouldn't have happened. Not to him. Not to anyone else.

Despite wanting to fix the past to alter a future that'd never be true, the sickness kept spreading, up from his stomach to his throat, and down to his aching legs.

A faint touch of a hand touched his shoulder. He flinched. It went away. He wished he could look in the dark.

"Hello?" He wasn't sure if he would like the results if something replied back.

The minutes pass, but there's nothing besides padding of feet, maybe the occasional creek of the walls around him. He must be going crazy. No, no, he has to be going crazy. There's these footsteps that come down the stairs, but they keep going with no end in sight.

Is this how those people felt? All those people Robin saved? They had to be. There's no way he can be going crazy. He's perfectly healthy!

Or… was, he supposed.

It's been six months. Maybe even longer if He lied. Why would Him lying be a surprise to anyone? Even before the magic of Robin got beat out of him to rest the shell in an early grave, He still lied.

So many lies, and Bruce never stopped him.

Fucking Bruce…

If he ever gets out, Bruce is the top priority on the list.

Death didn't seem like a bad thing to wish for anymore. He's never really feared it because he knew it existed, it loomed, and it took no matter the reasoning. His parents weren't anything to be sad over. So he tells himself, even if he did catch himself crying over missing them, but what was there to miss? Their tender affection? The fact that they tried to sell him as a baby to pay off debt, but that didn't work so he existed in their space. Yeah, real loving.

Though, he can't deny the fact that he misses what he had. None of it was real, but having it is so much better than not having it.

Just like a dehydrated man taking a sip of water. He's greedy for more.

The footsteps stopped… he didn't remember how long ago. He needs to start counting again. But, what's the point? He's stuck here. Counting minutes isn't going to change anything. The only thing it would do is keep his mind busy, and even then, that's hard to do nowadays. Originally — when he first got in His hands — he talked and talked until his voice went hoarse, Bruce always told him to keep talking, keep the captor distracted so he can save him. But talking like that can only last for so long.

"Batman's coming for me."

"Batman's going to come, you'll see!"

"He's… he won't leave me behind—"

It feels scrambled. There's too many letters to string a sentence that he's almost sure doesn't exist. He can only assume it's there to fuck him up, and he has to leave it alone. Some puzzles shouldn't be solved.

Clump-clump goes the feet down the stairs. Those sounded heavy. Real. Him. No, no, no!

How long had it been? Stupid, stupid, stupid! He should've been counting. A stupid boy is what he is. He must run on a schedule… right? Most people do, don't they?

Is he just grasping at straws?

Fuck, he wants to cry; sob until his throat is raw. Maybe die from lack of hydration. That'll work faster than starving, he's sure.

Why can't Bruce save him?! Is he suddenly not worth it anymore?

…Is he worth anything?

Overhead lights buzzed to life, causing him to wince. His eyes shut as tight as possible so the light wouldn't hurt anymore. Hurt, hurt, hurt. It's all the same.

"Wakey wakey—"

When He spoke, his mouth let out a traitorous whimper.

"What's the matter? Had a bad dream—?"

Hands touched his shoulders, right above the barb wire wrapped around his arms and upper chest.

"Don't you worry, your Uncle J is here to make it all better…" He patted his shoulder, "We got a whole day of fun. I think you'll like it. Oh-hoo, I'm ecstatic!"

Just hearing that made his skin crawl. Even suppressing the slight shiver didn't work. Not like it usually did, but he wished he wasn't so cold. Being in a dank abandoned wing didn't help.

Hands held the back of greasy hair, and awkwardly holding his head. He didn't have much time to think about it before He started coming closer. Something is in his hand. No…

"No… no. Please no—" Begging would never make it stop. Why does he still beg?

Searing hot metal hit his cheek. Eyes blown wide before they shut tight. And the scream. He screamed so loud, so hard. Just make it stop... Please make it fucking stop!

The metal wiggled around on his cheek, purposely trying to dig deeper before it got yanked away. His back posed at an odd angle, with his head tilted back. Fresh screams ripped out of his throat. The stinging kept going; throbbing.

The hands cradling his head so badly, suddenly let go. The relief in his neck couldn't be felt. He gasped between breathes. Hiccuping, and spasming like it's his last breath.

It might as well been.

"You are mine, kiddo. Mine, mine, mine…"

He's almost certain he heard those words. Like a toy to be claimed.

His face felt flushed, hot, and still stinging heavily. The corner of the left side of his lip felt like it was sagging slightly. Starting to swell.

Tears tracked down his cheeks despite him not wanting them too. His body never listened to his mind, he knew that well. Though it didn't stop him from wishing it could quit it for five fucking minutes because any time the tears grazed the mark the salt made it sear hot and bright.

"Even the previous Robin didn't cry this much. What's the matter? Miss your daddy?" He immediately bursted out into laugher, arms wrapping around his side as if he told the world's greatest joke.

That'd sure be funnier than this.

Mouth felt like sandpaper and throat ran raw from screams and tears. The mere thought of a whimper already made his throat hurt, yet, they just couldn't stop. Like Him.

He walked around, giggling to Himself, praising Himself for a 'good job.' It made the tears run hotter, to run harder, to sting worse. He didn't do a good job! Why does he have to suffer, while He supports His decisions so happily??

Oh, how he wants to tear that stupid green hair off his head. Maybe grab that scalpel that was abandoned last week and skin His face off so he doesn't have to look at it anymore. Maybe he could use it to get out of this place and threaten some random person on the street, get clothes, food, anything! Anything would be better than this!

When he gets out of this fucking dump, Bruce, Him, that dumb New Robin. There dead. All of them!

Click-click-click. Those heels clicked everywhere. His head remained down, staring at a floor of whatever fluids his body produced in the last while. Looking at it seemed to make the smell worse, but looking down was better than trying to crane his neck up. Leaning forward helped his back.

Harley's stupid voice filtered in and out. Through one ear, out the other. Everything felt so dizzying. He's definitely out of it.

Saliva built from the back of his mouth and dragged down to the front. No amount of swallowing would fix it. The right side of his chest felt gross, causing him to slightly squirm in his seat. The pokes of the tied barb wire made his face attempt to squish together, but with the new addition on his cheek, it made him gasp. The pooled saliva fell from his lips in tiny ropes. He couldn't swallow it all and keep it down. Why couldn't he swallow? Every feeling from his face to the right side of his chest didn't leave, not for a moment.

For a second he thought he was going crazy again. Until hot liquid came up to his mouth, letting bile spill from his mouth, onto his chin. He began coughing it up leaving the mess land on his lap, on his shoes, and lastly the floor.

Wouldn't be the first time, neither the last.

He clicked his tongue, "No, no, no! You're ruining the big surprise!"

"Harley! Clean this up! We can't have this for the big reunion!"

"Of course, Mista' J!"

Love sick puppy. A stupid love sick puppy. How can someone like Her, be so smart and so stupid?

"Mista' J's right. You are a joke! And a pretty lame one at that! B-man always had bad jokes."

Oh, he wanted to grab her by Her stupid pigtail, rip them off, and bash Her head until Her skull caved in. Blood splattering his fingers while his knuckles bled…

Since the 'branding' it's been... awhile. That type of humiliation swelled in his chest, similar to that of his cheek. Though that wound aches. No. It fucking hurts, he can't sugarcoat it. At this point, there's no doubt of it being infected. With the environment he's been in. Yeah… he can't convince himself to believe otherwise.

His one and only prayer tonight is that his body is strong enough to not die from an infection. That felt like a losers way out.

Even with a 'prayer.' He wouldn't say he's religious. Not in the way other people are. But, he thinks he can understand why. It's easier to believe in something that doesn't exist will come and bring salvation. That idea can bring some sense of peace to the mind.

For him though… that sort of peace is something he isn't sure is accessible to him anymore. Now he's filled with hate. So much hate.

No peace for a bad kid like him.

His wound had been mildly tended to some time ago. That should make him happy. Anyone would be happy. But he's not even close. Being helped now meant worse things would happen later.

Right now, he's thinking about so much. Not like there's much else to do when he's strapped down to a chair in re-wrapped and fresh, sharper barb wire. Movement in a luxury nowadays. Yet, his mind couldn't quit swirling those thoughts together to create a cup of poison he plans on drinking.

This fucked up life he has isn't helping dull the thoughts. Wake up. Fall asleep for such a short amount of time, it feels like slow, long blinks instead of rest.

Probably makes him look like every other kid from Crime Alley. Some form of drug addict.

He wants to sleep so bad. He's genuinely getting desperate. Yet, his body is contorted wrong. So wrong a body like his couldn't even fathom of sleeping.

Soft whispers graze past his ears. They used to make sense a long time ago. Now they don't. Now it's mostly sound, hardly any annunciation. His teeth caught the fleshy middle of his bottom lip.

Stay quiet. Stay quiet.

He can shut his lips and tightly close his eyes while his mind recites from a worn book. Really, that's all he can do. Freeze and hope whatever is trying to talk to him will go away.

It's a power with a weak will.

Even after the whispers drift beyond the closed door and down the empty hall — hopefully to haunt something else — he stays tight-knit.

Time passes weirdly in the new room he's in. The last room looked more like some maintenance room. Here is just… white walls, and white tiled floors. The last room may have been nauseating since half of his fluids were on the floor, but at least it had colour. This room is boring with how much of nothing there is.

Fuck he's looosssing it… Arguing over colours? Yeesh…

Hell that's not even the start of it. In the last room that's where the footsteps started. Where they echoed forever. Then the whispers from no where. When he got moved, there's the new stuff like… hands on his body, crawling like bugs. That one he hated the most despite craving to be touched. Being touched like a bug is much different than being touched normally.

Can a guy get a hug without having to sacrifice his legs and splintering ego?

He tried to calm his fluttering heart with the deep breathes he learned in training.

…Training.

… Bruce.

Bitch.

BANG—!

He flinched, gasping when wire dug deep into the armor and pierced skin.

That's a new one. A new… fucked up thing he imagines. The barb wire… not so much.

Every muscle is locked, has been locked for so long they ached.

The whispers never got this violent…

… did they?

BANG!

BANG!

BANG!

It sounded like hands smacking against the wall. The screams of patients in the distance aren't helping. Hot tears fall down his cheeks, though, his mouth stayed screwed shut. His cheek had that dull sort of ache. He can't tell who… or what… it is, but he doesn't like it! He wants it to stop! Why won't it stop?!

He can feel his jaw trembling but it remained tense to keep the noises swallowed down. Whatever is out there can't hear him. It could hurt him though! He doesn't want to be hurt… no more. Just please… leave him alone…

The doors are locked, he knows they're locked. She locked them! Every fast blink sends a wave of fresh tears down his cheeks where muscles were aching. He hurt all over.

Why does everything want to hurt him?

BANG!

BANG!

BANG!

"—Dad!" The word comes out before he can stop it. What piece of shit if he even referring to? Bruce? Willis?

He's such a stupid child if he wants his father back. Yet, neither are his father, never were his father.

Maybe, just fucking maybe, if he squeezed his eyes hard enough, maybe he can wake up from this nightmare.

Please, please, please, just someone wake him up. Tell him he's a brat, ignore him for days after. Just wake him up!

The ache in his body never left. Mental and physical scars imprinted themselves to decorate his body in the failure that life had brought him.

That Batman had brought him. Him too…

It made him shudder with the implication. Cold hands climbs up his shoulders while he was tied to the chair. Body emaciated from dead rats to rotten food. The pull and twist of his stomach felt as if he were there, smelling the decay and mold-infested walls all over again.

He forcefully backed himself to the wall, ensuring he pressed flat against it. His eyes glared forward, trying to rid the feeling climbing up and down his back. The corner of his lips twitched into a frown.

He needed to stop. Stop thinking about this. He can't think about this. But what could he think about? He didn't know.

Breathing didn't come as easy anymore, and he could swear he could see things moving. He swallowed thickly, watching that figure move towards him. It was too much like those nights. Left under darkness for him to count the seconds, let alone feel the ache and heat of recent wounds.

His hand, clammy, shaking, slid under his pillow, trying to seem as if he was shifting unconsciously in sleep. The person didn't need to know he was awake. Had been awake for the last several hours staring in the semi-darkness of the room he stationed himself in.

Warm metal touched his fingers and he continued sliding until it fit in his grip just right. Just what he needed.

Swiftly, his body jerked up, pointing the gun towards the dark. His other hand fumbled with the flashlight attachment before it assaulted his senses with how bright it was. He squinted, but kept staring where that figure is.

Nothing.

He swallowed. A bead of sweat dripping down his forehead. It was far more than just a bead. His whole body felt drenched.

The gun stayed pointed towards nothing. He could see his hands shaking from adrenaline.

None of it's real.

The gun fell to the bed, light flipping around and brightening the room. Meanwhile hands covered his face. Each breath pushed out hot air onto his cheeks, under his nose, up into the capavaty of his eyes. It reminded him that he was here. Not there. He couldn't be there. Not with him.

Jason could only wish you were here. Is it stupid for him thinking so? Yes. It was so fucking stupid. Regardless, he couldn't help it. He made you up, nothing real, but you are real to him. A White Knight when that room got too quiet.

Maybe he's just as insane as the people who hurt him.

Just once he wished he isn't as insane and you were here.

"Jason—" The voice is always nice on his ears.

His fingers moved to look between his fingers. Your figure sat beside him. The warmth of your hands on his shoulder.

"Jason." The voice is clearer. He's definitely going crazy, yet, he won't ever take those meds to stop it. To stop this meant letting you go.

He can't…

"Don't call me that," He pleads with a voice ever so croaky. One of these days he might as well tear out his vocal cords so he wouldn't hear the vulnerability seeping through.

Why couldn't you just be real? Let his pain go away while your arms wrap around him. Why did it have to be so difficult?

"I'm always here for you," You whisper. Head leaning towards his. He couldn't help but look back.

He swallowed thickly, eyes taking you in. Such a dream you are. Yet…

"You're not real." He says to himself, to try and remember that you don't exist. You never will.

The White Knight is a figment of his imagination. If Bruce wouldn't save him, why would you? He's nothing good. Just damaged goods that get left behind to rot. He would damage you. Hurt the most perfect thing that has ever existed.

Jason's hands pulled down to his lap so were his eyes. Why should he look at you? One look and you'd be broken. Is it bad to think he wished you were broken? To feel the same pain he does? Maybe that's selfishness talking. Maybe that's just desperation laced with a plea to not be the only one who suffered such a fate. With each shaky breath his chest ached just a bit more.

His courage wavered, but he still had enough guts to drag his eyes over. To you. Well… To where you were.

It happened every time. It'd only keep happening. His dream, his beauty, his magic. It'd get crushed under a single breath, blown away by wind that was far too intense to catch you before you float away with it.

Extra rambling (Optional read)

Inspiration: Batman: Arkham Knight, Arkham Knight: Genesis

I've had this idea for AGES and I just haven't gotten around to writing it down. The idea isn't entirely fleshed out, I think it works anyways! I'd totally be down to expand on this idea... if I get more ideas on what to write xD

I don't know but I definitely see Jason having hallucinations, especially if he's been in the dark for extended periods of time (+Bonus Hc: Bad eyesight). Probably used stolen anti-psychosis medication to try and deal with it, but he gave up cause he couldn't see you anymore