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“Replacing me already, huh? I figured you’d at least wait until I was cold in the grave.”
Jason’s leaning against the Batcomputer, peering thoughtfully at the faces and names of Robin candidates Bruce had compiled. It was a list started when Dick had walked out of the manor, and admittedly had been partially expanded and edited when Jason’s funeral had ended. Jason peered thoughtfully at a blond girl before turning to face Bruce, who felt frozen at the sight of him.
Jason was still wearing his uniform, even though the memorial case Bruce could see in the corner of his eye held it. It was stained in dark red patches, torn and dented and frayed, just like the boy wearing it. Jason himself was covered in blood, oozing past his lips and dripping from a cut on his head. One of his arms was twisted unnaturally, an ankle facing the wrong way, and there was no doubt a shattered hip impacting the way he leans. He can even spot the way part of his head seemed dented from a particularly vicious blow, despite the mangled curls trying to hide it. Brown feathers cling to his hair, a few tumbling to the ground as he casts a judgemental look to Bruce.
“I’m not replacing you,” Bruce insists.
“No, no. I understand.” He raises his hands, placating. Some of his fingers seemed oddly bent; bone peeked out of torn flesh. “I was a soldier to you. And I broke. You were going to replace me anyway, weren’t you? That fall I took in San Fran- it fractured me. What use is a broken toy soldier?”
“It wasn’t like that. I loved you, Jason. I just wanted you to be safe. To be cared for. And you were on a downward spiral I didn’t know how to stop.”
“What a shame.” Jason’s laugh isn’t even bitter. “You can only tell me you love me when I’m dead.”
Bruce swallows.
“So who are you going to pick?” Jason turns back to the screen. “Who’s going to be Dick Grayson 2.0? Because that obviously wasn’t me.”
“You never had to be Dick Grayson,” Bruce insists. He takes a step forward, but when Jason turns back, those lifeless eyes peering into his own, he stops. His feet are filled with lead, and despite how much he wishes he could rush towards his son, cup his face in his hands and cradle him close to his chest, he can’t bring himself to move an inch. “I love Dick. He’s my son. But so are you. You never had to be him for me to love you. I loved you as Jason.”
“If only you had told me. Dick was right about one thing- you’re basically a brick wall at times. I was crazy to think you would ever really love me.”
“Jason-“
“So who’s it going to be?” Jason reads the names off the list. “Lots of good candidates here. Helena doesn’t need training. Stephanie has a tragic enough backstory. Timothy has the brains. What are you looking for?”
You.
“What makes a good soldier?” Jason appears to almost be musing to himself. “Well, clearly, they have to not die. The bar’s a little low, but I’m sure they could do better than me. It’s not hard, after all.”
“Jason-“
“They need to be troubled. But not too troubled! You don’t want them to be like me. Not that sort of trouble.”
“Jason-“
“You want them angry. Not enough to want to watch the world burn, and not enough to become self destructive, but enough to want justice. You want them young. Not enough to cause guilt, and not enough to make childish decisions, but enough to be trainable. You want them loyal. You want them obedient. You want them perfect. You want them replaceable-“
“Stop!” It’s an order. It’s a plea.
“Being Robin destroyed me.”
Dick’s standing at the door to the manor. Bruce is on the stairs, looking down on him as his hand lingers on the doorknob. He always has to have the high ground.
“You fucked me up,” Dick says. “Your single minded path of so called justice- what justice is there for me, Bruce? For that twelve year old kid trained into a living weapon?”
Bruce’s jaw clenched. “You wanted to be Robin. It was your idea. Your name. Your colors. Your aspiration.”
“I was twelve!” For a moment, Bruce sees that twelve year old. Tear stained red cheeks still plump with baby fat, and so much anger behind his eyes. But so much hope, when Batman had showed him the Batcave for the first time. So much hope, for a better world, for justice, for humanity. “You turned my grief into a weapon! You turned me into a weapon! I can’t stop being this- I can’t ever go back. You turned me into this, and you can’t undo it. You destroyed me, Bruce. I won’t ever be able to forgive you for that.”
“And you still decided to anoint another Robin,” Jason titters. He’s sitting on the hood of the Batmobile, Crime Alley leering, the moon light making the blood on his face shimmer. “And look where it got me. I can only wonder what’s in store for the future Robin.”
Bruce steps forward. He’s Batman, his gloved hand reaching out for Jason, but Jason only wags a tire iron at him, like a school teacher with a ruler.
“I died,” his son says, simply. “But I guess losing your son isn’t as devastating as your parents?”
Martha’s pearls scatter across the alleyway.
“A parent’s greatest fear, some say, is outliving their child.” Jason lazily makes eye contact. “But not yours, hm? Is it because I was a replacement for Dick? Or a soldier in your war on crime?”
Bruce closes his eyes. For a moment, the entire world disappears. Jason’s phantom is unseen, but not gone, a presence that wraps around him like a straight jacket. Bruce’s jaw is tight when he answers, “A father should never out live his son.”
“Is that what I am to you?”
“Yes. A million times over, yes. You are my son, Jason. You’re my son, and I failed you. I failed you in a way I promised you I wouldn’t. I failed to keep you safe. I failed to make you feel loved. I failed to provide and care and love you. You weren’t a failure- I was. A failure as a mentor, and a failure as a father.”
Jason simply nods. “There’s not a lot of hope for the next kid, is there?”
“There won’t be a next kid.” The honesty, the resolve, almost surprises Bruce himself.
Jason watches him, head tilted carefully. “No?”
“I could never replace you.” His voice is soft. “I would never want to. And I’m clearly not a capable father or mentor. And I won’t allow there to be any more dead Robins.”
Seventeen year old Jason leans against a tire of the Batmobile. Three are missing, hidden away in an abandoned building Jason had been squatting in for the past few months. The tire iron in his hand is gripped tightly despite the exhausted look he gives Bruce. “Do you mean it?”
There’s something metal in Bruce’s hand, too. The crowbar is heavy in his palm, but his knuckles are wrapped tightly around it. “I do.”
“This will destroy everything.” Jason’s expression shifts. He’s Robin, out on his first patrol. His hair is wind blown, though still covered in Robin feathers, his suit brand new, his eyes dangerously close to bright and merry. “Everything you’ve done. Everything you are. It’s going to desecrate everything Batman stands for. You’ll fail your mission. Your legacy will be tarnished, corrupted. Neither Bruce nor Batman will come back from this.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Jason’s nose is crooked, snapped. Blood covers his chapped lips. He’s inches away from Bruce, his mangled body doing it’s all to keep him upright. A hand is tenderly placed over Bruce’s. He’s no longer in the Batman suit; Jason’s bloodied hands stain Bruce’s.
“The moment you commit this sin, you can’t take it back. The moment you take justice and turn it into vengeance… there’s no going back. You’ll be throwing away Batman. You’ll be throwing away Bruce. This will be the end.”
“It’s worth it.” Bruce presses his forehead against Jason’s. He’s seventeen again, wide eyed and so painfully thin. “God, it’s worth it. When Batman is gone, when Bruce is gone- do you know what’s left?”
His eyes are so wide. The hope is damn near tangible. He’s seventeen and he had stolen three of Batman’s tires, and when confronted he had denied the crime before hitting him in the gut with the very same tire iron, then frantically ran from the scene after calling him a ‘big boob’ in a haze of panic. And Batman, standing in the middle of Crime Alley, on the anniversary of his parents’ death, had laughed. A full belly laugh, something true and genuine, something Batman hadn’t done in years, something Batman thought he had forgotten how to do.
Jason is seventeen, when Batman catches him. He’s seventeen and terrified but tries to fight anyway, to stand his ground, bristling like a cat, like a dog that’s been hit too many times, until his stomach growls and Batman offers to take him to Big Belly Burger, and makes a life changing proposition in that booth, Jason mid bite of his sandwich. His eyes are wide, with a hope that seemed too big to carry on his bony shoulders.
Jason’s looking at him that way now, when Batman had offered the position of Robin to him, ketchup smeared on his chin. It’s hope.
“What’s left?” Jason whispers. “If you’re not Bruce, and you’re not Batman. What’s left?”
“A father.”
-
The average crowbar weights eighteen pounds.
For Batman, it is the weight of the entire world, held in the palm of his hand as he stalks through the halls of Arkham. It is a grounding presence as he lurks in the shadows of the asylum, ducking under broken lights and empty hallways. The culprit will be obvious, of course, when the footage of tonight is combed through, when they realise a crowbar from the evidence ward is missing. The motivation is plain for all to see, for Robin had been taken from Batman just three days ago, and truthfully, every citizen of Gotham had been waiting on a knife’s edge ever since the news first broke out about Robin’s body being found in the amusement park. And perhaps long before, when Batman first cast a shadow over Gotham.
It didn’t matter. Batman would be no more after this night. It would mangle his legacy, shatter the very foundation Batman was built upon. Redemption, second chances, a genuine belief in the good of humanity. He would fail his mission, he would desecrate his legacy, and so be it. Batman would be no more, and perhaps this is the best outcome, truly. Batman will deliver the finishing blow himself, instead of waiting to die in the throes of a final fight. Batman will toss aside the mission, the mask, the hope- all by his own hand. Is it a good death? He doesn’t know. It is not just. It is not gentle. It is not heroic.
The lights above flicker.
He knows this asylum like the back of his hand. Hundreds of breakouts have left him comfortable with the layout of the building. He’s in the east wing, encroaching on the basement floor, where solitary confinement cells built from cold concrete and metal loom. It is dark in the lower levels of the asylum; few rarely wonder down here, and even fewer intentionally work. It is a crypt, freezing no matter the heat, eternally somber, eternally covered in shade.
Batman makes no noise as he slithers through the asylum. He has not come across a single worker as he glided through the tomb. Like a sea parted, his path to revenge is clear; no obstacle stands before him, as if God himself has offered a hand in this reckoning.
He finds his mark.
The cell is in the very back, kept far from prying eyes or curious bodies. There are four different locks on the door; Batman snaps them using the crowbar. The cell won’t be in use for long. This is the last time Batman will ever visit. And it is the last day of the Joker’s stay.
He slides the door open, before gently closing it. It does not matter if they find Batman, but only after the deed is done.
Joker is splayed across the miserable mattress they call a bed. His hands are bound; they found he escaped from straight jackets quite easily. He appears not surprised by the Batman’s apperance, but curious, raising a brow as Batman looms near the door.
“Bats, my old friend,” Joker greets. “How lovely for you to visit. I’m afraid it’s quite difficult to be a gracious host when I’m so tied up- do forgive me.”
“Joker.”
It’s spat like the curse that it is.
“The one and only.” Joker watches him carefully, his eyes lingering on the crowbar Batman made no attempt to hide. He eyes trace the flecks of blood on the tips, and he smiles. “So that’s what this is all about, hm?”
“This ends. Tonight.”
“Are you going to break all of my bones? Is that punishment for for the crime?” Joker stares directly into Batman’s eyes. They are white, the cowl’s lens protecting him, but the Joker has always been able to see right through. His lips twist, a dark grin etched on his face. “What punishment is fit for my crime?”
“I’m going to kill you.”
Simple, truthful. Joker laughs at his words, a hyena backed into a corner. “After all these years! You don’t expect me to believe that, do you? You’ve always been all bark, no bite. Or the universe sweeps in to stop you from delivering the killing blow. This game we play, it isn’t going to end tonight. It isn’t going to end until we’re both dead and Gotham is in ruins. You’re going to back out at the very last second, like you always do, or Gordon or Batgirl or whoever is going to sweep in and remind you of yourself. You won’t do it.”
This has always been a game. Of course it was one to the Joker, who thought every encounter was simply a silly game of cat and mouse. Perhaps it was a game to Batman, long ago. It wasn’t anymore.
The first strike seems to take Joker off guard. He falls to the ground, surprise clear as day on his face when he reaches up to touch the blood dribbling from the cut on his cheek. He watches Batman for just a moment, almost curiously, before he grins. “One bad day! That brat dying was your one bad day! I was right! To think that all I had to do was pluck a birdie’s feathers!”
He laughs, maniacal, and Batman hits him again. He tilts over, hands grappling for purchase on the ground.
“Oh, come on now!” The words are mangled as the Joker spits blood from his teeth. “I hit the boy harder than that! I made that boy beg until his last breath. He called out for you, did you know? Begged for you to save him, begged and cried and bled.”
It’s a lie, though Batman doesn’t know this. Any footage of the crime was scarce, and soundless. But the truth is Jason did not cry, nor beg. He cursed the Joker the entire time until his jaw was broken, and his final act had been spitting a glob of phlegm and blood at the man’s shoes. He died fighting, with broken wings but sharp claws.
Batman doesn’t know this.
His fury spikes, boiling hot rage bubbling beneath his skin. The anger feels almost tangible, like Batman could reach into his chest and rip it out. It burns, a heat that threatens to turn everything in its path to ash.
“It was pitiful,” the Joker says. “Pathetic, really. You’ve really mucked up your training routine, producing such a boy blunder. The first one was way more fun.”
The crowbar slams into the Joker’s head. It catches on his ear, tearing it, producing a spray of blood as the Joker falls to the ground. His lips twists into a smile as he laughs, and Batman has heard that damn laugh a thousand times and refuses to hear it again. He slams the crowbar into the monster again, this time shattering a rob. The laugh tapers into a cough, but still, the Joker smiles.
“I would love to know how you’re going to justify this to yourself,” the Joker wheezes. “If you actually think you’re going to kill me. Maybe you think you’re doing this for all of my victims. Or all of my future victims. Right? This is a preventative measure in your mind, isn’t it? A punishment for all the people I will hurt.”
“No.”
Joker pauses. “Hm?”
“This isn’t justice.”
For a moment, he lets the crowbar hang in his hand. The end of it scratches the concrete floor, a few drops of blood dripping off the handle.
“I wish I could say I was a good man. If I was, maybe I would justify this like you said. Killing you will stop you from hurting others, that is true. That is a good enough reason. It’s righteous. But this isn’t about all of your previous victims. This isn’t about all of your future victims. This isn’t about the Batman and the Joker.” He turns the crowbar over in his hand. “This is about my son. And this is for him.”
Batman smashes the crowbar into the Joker’s jaw. An audible crack echoes as the Joker spits out a tooth, barely able to keep himself from falling over. The Joker looks up, but there’s no manic glee in his expression, not any more. The Joker is realizing that the game has reached its end; that the Joker pushed Batman too far, and the board has been flipped.
“No!” The Joker shouts as Batman hits him again. Another bone is shattered as Batman no longer holds back. His full strength is gathered before he delivers another blow, this time pulverizing his patella. The Joker howls, but no one other than Batman can hear his fiendish screams. “No, no, no! You’re not actually going to do it! That’s now how this game works!”
He is silent as he reigns blow upon blow. It is violent and dirty and there is not a shred of justice to be found in the pile of shattered bones and pools of blood and flayed muscles. There is no justice here, as a father takes revenge for the buried son.
“You haven’t won,” the Joker spits. He’s a miserable pile of bruises. “You understand that, don’t you? If you kill me, I win! One bad day was all it took to reduce you to this! If you kill me, you’re proving me right!”
“No,” he says, simply. “I’m not winning. But neither are you.”
The crowbar continues to lash. Batman doesn’t know when the Joker dies, as he continues this brutal execution. The light has gone out at least a minute ago. He’s limp under his ministrations, mouth twisted, and it almost seems like he died afraid. At the very least, he did not die laughing. No, neither of them got the last laugh.
The Joker didn’t die winning. The Joker died hidden away from the world, in an abandoned and lonely cell. He died alone, he died afraid, and he died like a cockroach squished beneath the sole of a shoe. The Joker didn’t die in a blaze of glory for all of Gotham to see; he didn’t take Batman down with him; he didn’t turn Gotham to a rubble of chaos. He died insignificantly.
Batman stares down at the miserable pile of flesh beneath him. He did what he promised he would never do, the day the donned the mask and resolved to make the world a better place. He had promised his terrified eight year old self that he would stop others from feeling the same pain he had felt, that he would enact justice for victims like him. He had promised himself to never become the executioner.
There is no guilt, despite it all.
Perhaps there is something wriggling in the back of his mind. A part of him horrified at the prospect of having killed a man, of having broken his one rule, at having so violently and disturbingly killed. But there’s no guilt, at least not for the man who was murdered. There’s no guilt, only a faint sense of dread, but an even stronger sense of relief. The Joker is dead.
Jason can rest easy.
He exits the cell as quietly as he entered. It is so terribly easy to escape, to blend into the shadows of the asylum, to avoid the prying eyes of the staff. Soon enough, they will find the body when they deliver breakfast, and soon enough, they will find the camera footage of the Batman slinking around. They will notice the missing crowbar.
He escapes from the asylum and comes home, one last time. Dick is at the manor, hopefully finding some rest, and he almost hates to disturb him. But as a father, he owes him something, one last encounter, a simple explanation, before he abandoned Bruce and Batman entirely.
The crowbar clatters to the floor.
Dick is awake in an instant, wild eyes settling on the figure in the doorway. He wonders what he sees. Bruce Wayne, the broken son? Batman, the figure of justice twisted to vengeance? He’s neither, in that moment; he hasn’t been either since he saw the story of Robin’s body on the news, since Barbara Gordon personally called him about the newest body in the morgue.
Did Dick see a monster? Or did he see a grieving father?
“He started it. I ended it.”
“Ended what, Bruce?”
Dick knows. He can see it in his eyes when he turns the lamp on. Dick knows, but he still asks, because despite everything he had done to him, Dick was still his Robin, and Robin tried to be the light to Batman’s darkness.
But revenge had swallowed him. And worst of all, he didn’t even regret it.
And Dick can see it in his eyes.