#ask jade!

When he was younger, during the Archon War, when he was harsher, more uncompromising, I don't think he was waiting for you at all. If anything, I imagine there was resentment. He watched gods and mortals alike devote themselves to their Creator, only to die with astonishing ease, their faith seemingly rewarded with silence. Friends perished, enemies fell and entire nations were reduced to memory. I imagine that such an existence leaves little room for uncomplicated faith. If the Creator truly existed, then where were they? Why did gods who had devoted themselves to heaven perish as readily as those who had rebelled against it? Why did devotion seem to yield the same silence as blasphemy?

I don't think Morax would have been an atheist in the conventional sense, there is a subtle distinction between disbelief and disillusionment, and I think Zhongli's early life lends itself far more naturally to the latter.

Time, however, has always been Zhongli's greatest teacher.

The man we meet in canon is almost defined by retrospection. Again and again, his story concerns relinquishing power, preserving history, accepting change, and recognising that permanence is neither attainable nor desirable. He is a character whose greatest strength is not that he was always wise, but that he spent six thousand years learning to become wise. Consequently, I don't think his devotion to the Creator was something innate. I think it was something cultivated. Every year that passed transformed youthful resentment into reverence. That guilt never truly leaves him; instead, it becomes something he bears with quiet dignity. He channels it into service. Every act becomes an offering, every promise another attempt to atone—not to you, unfortunately, but to the one seated upon your throne, to the impostor.

So when the truth is finally revealed, that you were the true Creator all along, and that he had hunted you... perhaps even killed you, I don't think words could adequately describe what that would do to him.

Six thousand years of devotion, and he failed at the one thing that truly mattered. He, who would have called himself your most faithful follower, could not distinguish the false god from the real one, even when you stood before him with your own face. There is something almost cruelly poetic about that. After an eternity spent trying to repent for the doubts of his youth, he commits an even greater sin without ever realising it. Of course, there is the inevitable response that comes with most SAGAU stories. The false Creator is overthrown, their throne is torn from beneath them, perhaps even ending in a public execution. Justice is finally served.

But justice isn't the same as forgiveness. None of it matters if you are no longer there to witness it. None of it matters if he cannot kneel before you, lower his head, and apologise with his own voice. No punishment inflicted upon the impostor can undo what was done to you, nor can it erase the knowledge that, when you needed him most, he stood on the wrong side of history. And, realistically, Snezhnaya was never going to hand you back willingly. (Sidenote: Dottore was never going to hand you back willingly.)

Now, if we're talking about the period before he realises you're the true Creator, when he discovers that the person hidden amongst the Fatui isn't dead after all, merely concealed beneath the title of "impostor", that's an entirely different conversation.

One I'll save for another time, mostly because my train is about to reach my stop.

This is also the point where I sheepishly admit that I haven't actually played Genshin Impact since Fontaine. Unfortunately, the game's ever-growing size eventually surpassed the small amount of storage space I could spare for it. I still try to keep up with the broader story and major developments from a distance, but my knowledge is definitely secondhand these days. So if any details sound a little off or don't align perfectly with the current lore, I hope you'll bear with me.

Personally, when I think about Dottore ascending to true godhood through the trilunar authority, there are several narrative possibilities that immediately come to mind. One of my favourites is actually completely unrelated to 'Misery and Company' and instead leans heavily into the self-aware elements that are so prevalent within SAGAU settings. Specifically, I find myself drawn to the idea that the Creator has not yet descended into Teyvat at all—or perhaps an imposter has descended in their place.

In a scenario like that, Dottore's position becomes uniquely interesting because he is one of the few characters I can imagine possessing both the means and the willingness to perceive the truth. If he were granted access to a primordial authority, one that predates the current order of Teyvat and reaches beyond the limitations imposed by Celestia and the false sky, then perhaps he would be capable of glimpsing fragments of a reality that was never meant to be seen. I'm imagining it occurring during the very moment he tears apart the false sky itself. Rather than seeing what he expected, he instead witnesses the world unraveling at its seams for only a split moment. The sky splits open into streams of disappearing code, deleted assets, and incomprehensible numerical sequences. For a fleeting instant, before the world corrects itself, he catches sight of something beyond Teyvat entirely.

Perhaps it is only a reflection upon a screen, the outline of hands manipulating a world from afar through a controller, and perhaps it is nothing more than the vague impression of an observer existing beyond the boundaries of existence itself.

What makes this concept so compelling to me is that I do not believe Dottore would react the same way most SAGAU characters traditionally do. In many interpretations of the genre, the discovery of an imposter occupying the Creator's position is met with outrage and betrayal, the overwhelming desire to see justice restored. The false ruler is condemned and the characters become fiercely devoted to correcting the deception. Dottore, however, has never been a man guided by faith, nor has he ever placed much value on concepts such as divine legitimacy. I cannot imagine him demanding justice on behalf of a Creator he has never met, nor can I see him becoming enraged simply because someone else occupies their throne.

Instead, I think his response would be rooted in curiosity. If the real Creator truly exists, and if they are capable of observing events from beyond the confines of Teyvat, then why have they done nothing? If an imposter sits upon their throne and claims their authority, yet remains unchallenged, then what does that imply? Is the deception unknown to them, or is it permitted? More importantly, if they possess the power to intervene and simply choose not to, then perhaps the imposter was never a mistake in the first place, could they be part of the design? Perhaps everything that has transpired was allowed to happen because it serves some greater purpose invisible to those trapped within the experiment.

And that is where I think Dottore's perspective would begin to shift in a way that very few other characters could understand. Standing in the position of a god himself, wielding authority over forces that shape reality, he may begin to recognize uncomfortable similarities between his own actions and those of the distant Creator. Throughout his life, Dottore has observed people, manipulated circumstances, and conducted countless experiments in pursuit of knowledge. Entire lives have become variables within larger equations, entire nations have served as environments in which theories could be tested. If the Creator exists beyond the world and watches Teyvat from afar, then are they truly so different?

From that perspective, the world itself begins to resemble a laboratory. The people of Teyvat become subjects, history becomes a controlled sequence of observations, and the Creator ceases to be an object of worship and instead becomes something far more intriguing: a fellow researcher operating on a scale beyond comprehension.

Reverence requires faith, and Dottore has never been a man of faith. If anything, I think the Creator would serve as an inspiration rather than an object of worship. The mere knowledge that such a being exists would validate everything he has spent his life pursuing. They would represent proof that there is a state of existence beyond mortality, beyond divinity, and beyond the laws that govern the world he inhabits. Rather than looking upon the Creator and seeing someone to kneel before, Dottore would look upon them and see the culmination of his ambitions.

In the context of 'Misery and Company', however, I think the scenario changes quite significantly because Dottore is no longer dealing with the abstract concept of a Creator hidden somewhere beyond the world. He already knows you. He has formed an impression of you long before reaching any sort of godhood, and that familiarity fundamentally alters the way he interprets both divinity and his own ambitions.

After all, Dottore recognizes something of himself in you. He sees someone who was abandoned by the very people who should have cherished them, cast aside and condemned despite possessing value beyond what others were willing to acknowledge. It is a wound he understands intimately because it is one he has carried his entire life. The details may differ, but the underlying experience remains the same. Because of this, I think his perception of you eventually evolves beyond anything as simple as reverence or devotion.

Instead, you become his counterpart, his equal. The relationship begins to occupy a strange space where traditional distinctions no longer seem adequate. Creator and scholar, the observer and observed, subject and researcher. The boundaries separating those roles gradually dissolve until neither of you can fully claim one position or the other. You influence him just as much as he studies you. He dissects your nature while simultaneously exposing his own. The experiment ceases to have a clear beginning or end because both participants are constantly changing under the other's influence.

Ironically, I do not think this makes him any less selfish. If anything, it makes him even more. While Dottore's pursuit of divinity is undoubtedly self-serving, there is one exception he consistently makes, and that exception is you. In his mind, the divinity he strives toward belongs to both of you because he no longer sees the distinction between where he ends and where you begin. Over time, you become integrated into his self-concept to such a degree that your existence feels inseparable from his own. The ascension he seeks is not merely personal achievement; it is the culmination of something the two of you have built together.

That is why I find the idea of him possessing the trilunar authority particularly compelling in this context. Unlike the elemental authorities, which emerged later as part of Teyvat's current order, the lunar authority feels older, stranger, and closer to the world's primordial origins. By claiming it, Dottore is not simply becoming more powerful. Symbolically, he is moving closer to the source itself.

In a way, it becomes another attempt to shorten the distance between you. And it's not because he views you as something unattainable, but because he views you as something fundamentally connected to himself. Every step he takes toward the origin of the world is another step toward understanding you, and every revelation about your nature becomes another revelation about his own. The pursuit of divinity and the pursuit of understanding the Creator become inseparable goals.

What fascinates me most, however, is how this interpretation reframes his eventual death.

When considering Dottore's fate, I cannot help but wonder whether his final experiment would mirror the one imagined with Pantalone. If a person can be understood completely, can they be recreated? If every memory, every conversation, every habit, every flaw, and every contradiction is preserved within the mind of another, is death truly permanent?

The thought feels like something Dottore would inevitably explore. And perhaps, after his death, you become the vessel through which final hypothesis is tested. A version assembled from every observation you ever made of him, every argument, every moment of understanding, every irritation, every rare glimpse behind the masks he spent his life wearing.

The irony of such an ending is almost beautiful in its own twisted way. Dottore spent his entire life fragmenting himself into countless versions, each one representing only a portion of who he was and ending up to be entirely their own people in a way. Yet a recreation born solely from your memories might be the first version assembled into a complete whole. In that sense, the version of himself recreated through your memories might become the one thing he spent his entire life searching for—the person he always wanted to be, reflected back to him by the only individual he ever considered his equal.

I think I've probably rambled far longer than I originally intended, but you're absolutely right, SAGAU is one of those concepts that feels almost impossible to stop talking about once you start exploring it.

Jason's entire existence serves as a contradiction to Batman and everything Batman stands for. In many ways, Jason challenges Bruce's worldview, his morality, and the consequences of the choices he makes. Jason first appeared in 1983 as Batman's new Robin. In 1988, less than ten years after his introduction, he was killed off following the reader poll. His next major canonical appearance would not come until 2005, when he returned as Red Hood.

Bruce Wayne experiences immense trauma after the murder of his parents. He becomes an orphan, is raised by Alfred, and eventually dedicates his life to becoming Batman. One of the defining aspects of his character is his refusal to kill. In many interpretations, Bruce avoids crossing that line because he fears he would not be able to stop once he started. Jason is the opposite. He experiences extreme trauma, dies, and returns consumed by anger and bitterness. Rather than viewing criminals as the sole enemy, he begins to question Bruce himself. In many ways, Jason represents a side of Bruce that Bruce has always been tempted by but is terrified to embrace.

Bruce chooses not to kill, and that's his right. However, Jason forces the question of what consequences come from that choice. If the Joker repeatedly escapes Arkham and continues murdering innocent people, does Batman share responsibility for those deaths by continually refusing to permanently stop him? Jason's argument is not simply that killing is right—it is that refusing to kill also has consequences.

Of course, from a meta perspective, Batman's no-kill rule is one of the foundations of the character. DC makes a lot of money from that status quo, and Batman is arguably the face of the entire company. When Jason starts questioning the morality of Bruce's methods, he's questioning one of DC's most profitable pillars. That doesn't mean Jason is automatically correct. His actions have consequences too. When Batman refuses to kill, people suffer. When Jason kills, people suffer. The point is that neither philosophy exists without consequences.

HIS RUN AS ROBIN :

One of the reasons I enjoy Jason's Robin run so much is because it acts as a criticism of Bruce Wayne himself.

Jason was a poor kid who grew up on Gotham's streets. His mother struggled with addiction and died in front of him. His experiences taught him that the system would not protect him and that he could only rely on himself. Yet after Bruce adopts him, Bruce rarely seems to consider how different Jason's life experiences were from his own. Instead, Bruce often focuses on Jason's rebelliousness and perceived need for discipline. There is very little class consciousness in how Bruce approaches him. Bruce is still a billionaire living on the outskirts of Gotham. Jason was raised by Gotham itself.

Throughout Jason's Robin run, criminals are frequently arrested only to be released or escape and continue hurting people. Naturally, this frustrates Jason. He increasingly pushes against Bruce's rules because those rules seem ineffective against the suffering he has witnessed. Bruce often attempts to shape Jason into the kind of Robin he wants rather than accepting who Jason already is. Jason is highly intelligent, fiercely independent, and shaped by circumstances radically different from Dick Grayson's. Yet there are times when Bruce appears to view those traits as problems that need correcting rather than strengths.

And honestly, I think part of Bruce's attachment to Jason comes from missing Dick. Jason also wasn't truly ready to be Robin. He lacked experience and relied heavily on Batman's guidance because he desperately wanted approval, from Bruce, from Dick, and from the Teen Titans.

Eventually, his growing frustration with injustice reaches a breaking point. After witnessing Gloria, a rape victim, take her own life while her rapist escapes justice, Jason snaps and pushes the man from a balcony. What interests me about this scene is Bruce's response. What makes the moment tragic is not simply Jason's actions but Bruce's response. Rather than recognizing how personal the situation may have been for Jason, who likely grew up around people in circumstances similar to Gloria's, Bruce interprets the incident through the lens of Jason's unresolved grief over his parents. Once again, Bruce misses the deeper issue.

Jason feels rejected. He is benched as Robin. Soon afterward, he leaves to search for his biological mother.

Personally, I think Jason's Robin run often portrays Bruce as an out-of-touch billionaire—which, in many respects, he is. I also believe Jason's original run was influenced by broader political attitudes of the era, particularly the demonization of the lower class during the Reagan years. Whether intentional or not, it's fascinating that a Robin many readers could directly relate to, a poor kid from Gotham's streets, was killed off, only for his eventual replacement to be a wealthy kid from a privileged background.

No criticism toward Tim Drake, of course. I love Tim. I simply find the contrast interesting.

'THE ANGRY ROBIN' :

I dislike the tendency to reduce Jason to "the angry Robin." During much of his Robin run, Jason was actually a good kid. If anyone had a stronger claim to being the angry Robin, it would arguably be Dick. Jason was generally obedient to Batman, partly because he lacked confidence in his own abilities and relied heavily on Bruce's approval.

Jason's greatest "crime" was caring deeply about people the system had failed and becoming unwilling to accept explanations that left victims without justice. This is the same kid who once described being Robin as magic. Jason was also incredibly intelligent. His detective skills are often overlooked, but he managed to track down his biological mother entirely on his own while searching for a genuine connection.

Most importantly, he was just a child.

One of my favourite quotes comes from Red Hood and the Outlaws #14, where Jason reflects on his childhood fears:

"One, something happening to my mother. We know how that turned out. Two, an empty bread basket. Yeah, food issues. Three? Superman. Seriously, he could drop-kick the moon out of orbit if he woke up on a bad day. Tell me that's not scary."

LAZARUS PIT RAGE :

One thing I've always found interesting is how Cassandra Cain was also resurrected through the Lazarus Pit, yet discussions of "Pit Madness" rarely follow her character. Jason's anger, meanwhile, is often immediately attributed to insanity rather than acknowledged as a legitimate emotional response to what happened to him. There's something uncomfortable about reducing Jason's very real pain and resentment toward Batman into a supernatural side effect. Bruce trained him to be a soldier as a child. Bruce brought him into a war he never needed to fight. Jason has genuine reasons to be angry. Calling all of that "Pit Madness" feels like an easy way to dismiss those 'irrational' feelings rather than engage with them.

HATING BRUCE :

The fundamental traits Jason possessed as Robin continue into adulthood far more than many people realize. However, after being brutally tortured and murdered by the Joker, whatever remained of Jason's childhood innocence is destroyed. The Joker doesn't just shatter Jason's body, he destroys his trust, his worldview, and his belief that Batman's love for him was unconditional.

A common misconception is that Jason hates Bruce. He doesn't. Jason feels betrayed by Bruce, rejected by Bruce, and abandoned by Bruce. Those emotions come from love, not hatred. He is not jealous of the other Robins, nor does he want his old role back. In fact, Jason explicitly states that he does not want the Robin mantle again. There are moments where he begins to say, "Bruce would never..." before cutting himself off, revealing his lingering belief that Bruce would never truly accept him. It's not hatred. In many ways, that rejection exists precisely because Jason still loves Bruce.

APPROACH TO CRIME :

Red Hood's approach to crime is fundamentally different from Batman's.

Batman believes in redemption and non-lethal justice. Jason believes some criminals are too dangerous to be allowed to continue operating. Despite his violent methods, Jason's motivations still come from a desire to protect innocent people. He genuinely believes he can save Gotham in ways Batman cannot. While he often acts as a loner, he has found community through groups like the Outlaws and through temporary alliances with members of the Bat-Family.

His relationships throughout the Bat-Family are equally complicated. Dick often acts as a mediator between Bruce and Jason. Barbara's relationship with Jason is strained due to the trauma surrounding his death and resurrection, though moments of mutual understanding do exist. His relationship with Damian is particularly interesting. The two frequently clash, but there's also an underlying sense of camaraderie due to their shared experiences with the League of Assassins.

One of my favourite unintentionally hilarious comic moments involves Ra's al Ghul essentially explaining that he hired the Joker as a distraction for Batman, only for the Joker to accidentally go too far and kill Jason. Ra's then resurrects Jason through the Lazarus Pit to make amends, loses track of him entirely, and later discovers Jason is running around Gotham terrorizing Batman.

The entire conversation basically amounts to:

"Sorry about that. I'll stop interfering."

It's absurdly funny.

A small detail from my notes: Jason is particularly fond of French literature. Just in case you feel Jane Austen is ever overused.

PERSONALITY :

He also talks constantly. It's not necessarily arrogance—it is often a distraction technique. Jason uses humour, banter, and random conversations to keep people off-balance and maintain the illusion that he has everything under control. However, when confronted with something genuinely painful or personal, that facade tends to collapse into anger, grief, or vulnerability. He is dramatic by nature. Whether through words or actions, Jason often makes a point in the most theatrical way possible.

Despite killing, he still has a code. The people most likely to receive lethal force are child abusers, sexual predators, and individuals who threaten or kill those he loves. Some fans argue Jason should kill more often, but stories that depict him doing so are frequently unpopular. Personally, I think lethal force works best when reserved for the most extreme circumstances. Jason can empathize with criminals because he grew up among them. His father was a henchman. His mother struggled with addiction. Jason himself has crossed moral lines. He does not see himself as inherently superior to the people he fights. What he cannot tolerate are powerful crime lords who exploit others for wealth, status, or control.

Jason is incredibly driven. Under the right circumstances, he can be almost as determined as Bruce himself. At the same time, there are situations he simply does not care about whatsoever. Understanding what motivates him is essential to writing him well.

IDENTITY :

Jason is Red Hood, and Red Hood is Jason.

Unlike Bruce Wayne and Batman, or Clark Kent and Superman, Jason does not really maintain a separate civilian identity. Red Hood isn't a mask he puts on, it is simply another name for himself. Because of this, Jason often struggles with superhero culture and the performative aspects of secret identities.

In Red Hood and the Outlaws, Starfire describes Jason as one of the first people she's known simply as a friend. The same applies to Roy Harper. Their relationships aren't built around superhero identities—they're built around being people. The same is true for Artemis and Bizarro. Their friendships are rooted in personal connections rather than crime-fighting. Meanwhile, Jason struggles with Bruce because he rarely feels like he's speaking to Bruce Wayne. Whenever Jason reaches out, it often feels like Batman is the one responding. What Jason frequently needs isn't Batman. He needs a father.

BACK TO PERSONALITY

Some writers, even official ones, have a strange tendency to portray Jason as unintelligent or less skilled than the rest of the Bat-Family. I strongly disagree with that portrayal. Jason is an exceptional fighter, strategist, detective, and tactician. He has gone toe-to-toe with members of the Bat-Family and held his own repeatedly. He has fought highly trained opponents and emerged victorious.

Don't be afraid to make Jason competent. At the same time, avoid turning him into a flawless character. Jason is at his best when he is highly capable but still deeply flawed.

Finally, Jason is often a jerk. It is a defense mechanism.

He deliberately pushes people away, provokes them, and creates situations where they are likely to disappoint him. In many ways, he sets people up to fail because it hurts less than genuinely trusting them and being let down. Jason gives people opportunities to prove they won't stay. That way, if they leave, he can tell himself he expected it all along.