Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

During a hostage situation gone awry, nine-year-old Izuku Midoriya is caught in the crossfire of the battle between the police, professional heroes, and the infamous supervillain, Lazarus. With the emitter quirk 'Missing,' Lazarus has the uncanny ability of somehow making whomever he touches disappear for the span of one week. Thus far, no one has been able to determine where these people have gone or how they were able to return, including those his quirk has affected. This is due to the fact that, upon returning, his victims have gone mad -- foaming at the mouth, attacking the people around them, and a few have even had seizures. After a few years, though, these people recover but without the memories Lazarus had instilled. Midoriya, though -- Midoriya was different. He recovered, and he remembered.

***

When he'd awoken, the boy didn't remember anything: his name, his birthday -- he couldn't even remember what he looked like. What was he doing on the ground? Did he fall? Or was he pushed down, perhaps?

Using his elbows, the boy pushed himself out of the dirt and onto his hands and knees with a wince. His ribs hurt -- so did his head -- but he sat up anyway; he needed to find out where he was, or more accurately, who he was.

The first thing he decided to do was to make himself aware of his surroundings. Wherever the boy was, the space was narrow and the walls were long. Greasy trash bags and cracked, dust-covered beer bottles lined the ground where he sat. Flies and gnats flew into his face, getting tangled in his hair and occasionally getting themselves trapped inside of his mouth or up his nose. Deciding that he had no other choice than to ignore them, he looked up and realized that the night sky opened up above him. Could it be that he was in some sort of alley? How had he gotten there, and when?

By gripping the edges of the grimy dumpster beside him, the boy managed to pull himself into a standing position. He needed to find the alley's opening. Maybe if he were able to get ahold of the police...

He heard the sound of a motor -- a car. Where there were cars, there were streets, and where there were streets -- that's where the opening is. The traffic lights and street lamps illuminate the alley, and cars' headlights even more so. How he wasn't able to see it earlier, he didn't know. 

He stumbled toward the entrance of the alley, running his dirt-caked hand against the rigid, brick wall for both guidance and balance. His eyes, sensitive to the bright lights in the dark of night, remained trained to the ground. Between the cracks in the pavement, he noticed, grass was growing -- maybe, when it became warmer, flowers would grow. He made sure to side-step a particularly large black trash bag, grimacing at the putrid smell. Turning his head, the boy saw that the bag was blocking access to an old and chipped, wooden door. Did people actually live here?

During his moment of confusion and disgust, he forgot to watch where he was stepping. The bag that he'd originally been careful to avoid -- one of its edges crunched loudly beneath his shoe, causing rotted food and curdled drinks to ooze from where it had been ripped. He gasped, both in shock and at how intensely the stench had worsened. He took a few steps away and covered his mouth and nose with his hands. But before he was able to continue walking, he realized that the trash bag was shaking, ever so slightly.

The boy stopped moving, his focus once again being taken from him in favor of watching the bag. He was almost tempted to approach it again, just out of curiosity, but the anxiety of what it may be kept his body stiff. Suddenly, before he could react, a plump and hairy rat skittered out from behind the trash bag and across his shoes. His skin jumped and he let out a scream, kicking his feet. The rat, though cling as it may, was flung away from him, and, without looking back, scurried away and into the night.

His heart clenched in a sudden fear, and his steps became clumsy. When he had turned around, he didn't remember. But he looked inside of the alleyway from its mouth in both horror and vile disgust. He took one more step backward, effectively tripping over the uneven sidewalk -- he hadn't even been aware that he'd made it near the street at all -- to fall onto his back, hitting the back of his head on the door of a parked car.

Once again, the boy's skin jumps upon hearing the blaring sound of the car's alarm. Almost at once, lights flickered to life within the windows of apartments and shops that lined the alley as well as the street. A few people even opened their doors just to get a look at the boy and what was going on. Did they think he had tried to break into this car? Did they think that he'd tried to steal it?

For a moment, all the boy could do was wait in fear and anticipation. What was going to happen to him? Was someone going to call the police?

His question was soon answered -- just not in the way he would have preferred.

A man -- a rather large and buff looking man -- stepped outside of his apartment and began to yell, but he didn't understand what the man was trying to say. The language -- it sounded like English, but not the English he was familiar with. This man's vocabulary held a lot of words he didn't know, but the man's speech pattern was also strange -- almost like the words were slurred together.

The boy understood it now -- or, at least, why the man's words were so difficult to interpret. Wrapped in the man's fist was a bottle, not unlike the shattered one's littering the alley. The man was drunk.

The man was angry.

The boy couldn't help but back away from the man, eyes widening in fear. Was this car -- was this man going to hurt him? Still spouting what the boy thought to be English curses, the man continued to stalk toward him. Suddenly, the man broke into a run.

The boy gasped, scrambling to get up from the ground. His hands scraped against the gravel as he tripped and stumbled into a run down the sidewalk.

He tried to evade the man every way he could possibly think of; he ran across streets -- often times into oncoming traffic -- and weaved through strangers. At one point, the boy had even made an attempt to blend in with the homeless; he'd hidden under a low-rising bridge, that was already occupied by several other people, and patted dirt to his face and covered himself with a bug-infested, mud-caked sheet he'd found on the ground.

But the man kept on finding him.

The boy's legs were hurting, and his stomach was beginning to cramp. He didn't know how long he had been running or where he was going to try and hide next.

The man's footsteps echoed loudly behind him, reminding the boy that he still needed to run. Noticing the upcoming lack of sidewalk, the boy stuck out his arm and used the neck of a flickering telephone pole to swing himself around the corner and continued running down the next street.

This street -- it was strange compared to the rest. Whereas the others he'd run down were cleaner and simply more new-looking -- aside from the small bridge, of course -- this street was more rundown and dank. Shops lined the street, but they looked old and were boxed up. There was a theatre, and while it still looked to be up and running, it was obvious that business was a struggle, especially so because of the surrounding area. Not even a shop over, a broken windowed cafe had planks of wood nailed over its door and a 'NO TRESPASSING' sign half-hazardly shoved into the little amounts of dirt between the cracks in the pavement.

The entire place felt threatening. The boy had half a mind to turn around and run in the opposite direction. But he didn't; no -- he couldn't.

If he stopped now, he'd be dead-meat.

As the boy ran, his head turned every which way, eyes searching for some sort of escape from the man. Then, he saw it -- an open window about four stories up, and, just to his luck, there were fire escape ladders bolted to the outside of the dilapidated apartment building leading all the way up to his window of escape.

He bolted to the ladders, climbing up them without a second thought. A few times, the boy's sleeves caught on stiff rust, but not once did he stop. His pace quickened, however, after hearing the particularly loud stomping of the man climbing below him. The boy's steps became more rushed and sloppy, resulting in him slipping a couple of times, but he somehow managed to catch himself and continue -- albeit landing a few cuts and scratches in the palms of his hands.

Finally, using the small grates in the metal ledge outside of the opened window, the boy pulled himself up and through the window, scraping his stomach on the bricks. He tumbled through the window and onto the carpeted floor, quickly pushing himself up and scrambling to hide behind a torn up chair.

Suddenly, he heard a click, and the entire room was alight. It was then that the boy noticed how small the room actually was. Other than the chair he was currently hiding behind, there were only a few dusty cupboards, a small spindly nightstand, and a single pullout couch.

That's where the light came from. Upon the nightstand, a lamp shined bright.

Another man -- with dark, coal black hair -- sat up on the couch underneath a sheet and an itchy looking blanket. And hardly a second later, a woman with short, curly auburn-like hair sat up beside him, clutching the yellow-stained sheet to her chest. The moment that their eyes landed on him -- well, the woman was frightened at first, but, after gauging the situation she swung her legs over the side of the bed and approached him. But before she was able to do much else, a loud pounding came from their front door.

The boy's head whipped toward the sound, and his eyes widened in fear.

This time, the dark-haired man swung his legs over the side of the bed, but before he got up to answer the door, he pulled open a small drawer -- one inside of the small nightstand -- and pulled out what looked to be a -- was that a gun?

The dark-haired man spared the boy a glance before telling the woman something, to which she nodded. The woman then knelt beside the boy and tentatively pulled him further behind the chair and out of sight. What was going on? Were they going to protect him?

Against his better judgement, the boy allowed himself to peak out from behind the chair so that he may see what was going to happen.

The dark-haired man took a deep breath, tucking the hand that held the gun behind his back, and opened the rickety door just a crack, not even allowing the door's chain-lock to go taut. After a few minutes of what only seemed to be a back and forth of threats, the dark-haired man revealed his gun and spoke one last time.

The man that had been chasing him eventually left -- albeit with a bit of reluctance -- but not without glaring at the boy through the crack of the closing door.

Once the door was shut, the boy couldn't help but allow his body to go lax. The woman that was hiding behind the chair with him chuckled at his expression of relief and stood up, sharing a few more words with the dark-haired man.

The dark-haired man simply sighed and put away his gun -- in the same place he'd retrieved it -- and said something to the woman in return. The woman smiled and, once again, knelt beside the boy. This time, though, she began to try and speak with him.

However, as the minutes passed and she still received no answers to any of her questions, she seemed to finally understand. "You don't speak English, do you," the woman asked the boy, though it sounded a lot more like a simple observation. Her eyebrows were knitted together in worry and her face was set into a frown.

The woman sat down and crossed her legs. She then began to point toward herself. "Catherine," she said. The woman then gave him a light poke to the chest, a small smile on her face. "Name?"

While this was something the boy understood, he still could not answer. So he shook his head.

The woman -- Catherine -- frowned yet again and began to mutter to herself. She tried again. "Catherine."

Then she pointed to the boy, to which he repeatedly shook his head -- this time with a pout on his face. "No," he managed to say. "No name."

"Oh," Catherine seemed taken aback. As did the dark-haired man, who was now lying under the sheets of their pullout and waiting for her to return. Then she smiled -- but it wasn't one of happiness or joy; she just suddenly seemed unbelievably sad. "Then why don't we give you one."

Catherine thought for a moment, tapping her chin with the tip of her finger. She turned away from him. "Willis," she said to the dark-haired man, "help me out. What would be a good name for him?"

The dark-haired man -- Willis -- snorted and rolled over to face the other wall. "Hell if I know. Just make sure to call him something that he'll remember," he replied gruffly. "The kid's foreign so don't give him anything long or complicated."

Catherine gave him a smile and a small shake of her head before thinking once more. "How about," she said after a moment. "Willis, what do you think about the name Jason?"

Willis didn't reply, but she smiled anyway. "Look's like we've found you a name:

"Jason Todd."

***

In the beginning, the relationship between Catherine, Willis, and Jason was rocky at best -- or, more specifically, the relationship between Willis and Jason.

While Willis was doing whatever the hell he did during the day, Catherine would look after Jason: she fed him, bathed him -- she even tutored him, and, gradually, he began to understand what Catherine and Willis were saying. She cared for him, and it showed. He even began to call her Mom, which she absolutely adored.

In return for her kindness, Jason watched over her when she got sick -- usually due to drug withdrawal -- because Willis wouldn't. She'd be sat up and vomiting over the side of their pullout couch, and Jason, not quite understanding what was going on and why -- he was only nine, after all -- was doing everything in his power to help her feel, if not well again, more comfortable; whether it be holding her hair away from her face, allowing her use of his blanket for the night, and he once went as far as to scrounge for more drugs.

Willis, though -- Willis never did a damn thing.

Catherine could have been diagnosed with cancer, and he simply would have sniffed and moved on with his life. But Catherine, for a reason completely unfathomable to Jason, loved Willis with everything she had.

"He protects us, Jason," she said with a sad smile. Upon seeing Jason's incredulous look and the simple raising of his eyebrow, she chuckled and swept her hand through his hair. "I know how it looks," she said again with a sigh, "really, I do, but he'd been good to us -- in ways that you just don't understand yet."

But, no matter how much Catherine pleaded with Jason to give him a chance, he couldn't help but think that Willis was nothing more than a pathetic and worthless human being. And while Catherine and Willis' relationship was in no way physically abusive, there was also no way that it wasn't healthy.

Jason just didn't understand why she still stayed with him.

Then one day, out of the blue, Willis drug Jason aside and explained it. "Listen here, brat: I've been working my ass off day and night trying to provide for the three of us. Not only that," he snapped, "but because of your obnoxious green hair -- I'm not even going to question how the hell that's possible," he paused to let out a pent up and exasperated sigh, "But because of it, I haven't been able to teach you how to do your part."

Willis let out another bitter sigh before pulling out a small bottle, containing a dark liquid, labeled tannic acid, and another small bottle with a ground-up black substance inside. "I'm gonna tell you how you can help out around here, so we can be with Catherine. But first, we need to do something about that hair of yours."

So, using the contents of the bottles and some of their limited sink-water tap, Willis dyed Jason's hair black (which they would have to continue to do about every few months).

Not long after, Willis began bringing Jason outside with him. He told Jason to behave like an intern -- he needed to gain work experience, and what other way is there to do that other than through observation? They'd walked several blocks now and had made little-to-no interaction with anybody; Jason was getting sick of it.

But just when Jason was going to turn around and go back to the apartment, Willis grabbed him by the arm and pulled him into a thin alley, somehow managing to mask their presence in broad daylight. Jason turned his head to look at Willis who simply held a finger over his lips. "Be quiet," he hushed.

That's when Jason saw it: a car -- an expensive-looking car -- passed them by and slowed to a stop near the curb just meters away from their hiding place. A man in a clean suit stepped out of the car and took a moment to look around before sneering and walking inside of a dingy old pub.

Willis stepped out from behind Jason and exited the alley. Looking both directions, Willis let out a chuckle and pulled an oddly-shaped wrench out from the waistband of his pants, as well as two tire wedges and a small jack. He crouched down low and got to work. "What I'm using here, boy," he said before grunting as he loosened what he'd called the lug nuts, "is called a lug wrench. And this beauty, right here," he said proudly as he patted the underside of the car, "is called a Caddie. Hand me the jack, will you?"

Jason did what he was told, eyeing the pub in worry. Willis seemed relaxed though -- either that, or he was simply used to the rush of having to work quickly.

"Caddie?" Jason repeated.

Willis propped the jack underneath the car and began to raise the car with it. "Yeah, a Caddie -- or, actually, the car's a Cadillac; Caddie for short." Once the back tire was about six inches above the ground, Willis began to unscrew the lug nuts, tossing each of them into the street once he rid the car of them.

"Help me out, kid," he said, getting up. Together, Willis and Jason pulled the wheel and tire off of the car and set it aside. "We only have time for this one today, so you get the jack and wrench while I grab the tire and wedges, got it?"

Jason only nodded and did what he was told, crawling underneath the car to unprop it and quickly snatch the jack and wrench off of the ground. Shoving both into the waistband of his muddy jeans, he hurried to catch up with Willis who had already turned down the shady alley and was struggling to carry both of the wedges and roll the tire in front of him.

Propping the tire up on a dumpster, Willis hands Jason the wedges. "Hold onto these too, will you?" He then began to look at Jason, almost as if he were sizing him up, and eventually nodded his head. "Alright, this is what we're gonna do; you see this fence, right there?" Willis asked, pointing toward a chain link fence not even two meters away from them.

Jason nodded, muttering a small, "yes sir."

"Well," Willis continued, "you're going to climb over it, and, when you're on the other side, I'm gonna throw the tire over and climb over myself. Now listen here," he said, suddenly becoming harsh, "if anything, and I mean anything, happens to this tire while you've got it -- I don't even care if it's only a scuff," he growled, "you will regret it. This is a tough business and we cannot afford mistakes."

Then, without another word, he grabbed Jason by the underarms and hefted him on top of the dumpster. "Now, don't get used to that, boy; I expect you to be hopping fences like this in the next couple of months, you hear?"

Jason grunted an affirmative and swung his leg over the top of the fence and carefully climbed down the other side, all the while Willis complained about how slow he was going. Not even a couple of seconds after Jason was finally standing on two feet again, he heard the tire fall to the ground behind him. Hurriedly, he sat it upright and began to wipe the dirt and grime off of the sides as Willis hopped the fence with practiced grace.

When Willis landed, he, once again, began staring at Jason, but, after a moment, he began to smirk. He ruffled Jason's wild, curly hair. "Nice job, kid. In a few months -- maybe even less time than that -- we'll turn you into a true 'Crime Alley-Gothamite.'"

Jason was stunned silent. Willis -- the man he'd considered human-garbage -- maybe, just maybe, he deserved a chance.

"Now let's go," Willis said, grabbing Jason's forearm. "That guy will be coming out of the Row pub any minute now," he urged Jason to run alongside him. "We don't want the cops to get us, do we?"

Jason only shook his head, prompted to run even faster.

Willis then took them to a small, abandoned building and hid the tire in a tiny, dusty closet. According to Willis, that was where Jason was to begin stashing the tires and rims he'd steal once he was good enough to go out on his own.

Of course, that didn't take near as long as Willis had thought it was going to. In only a matter of weeks, Jason was stealing two to three tires from each car he'd jack. He even managed a couple of compliments from passing tire-jackers that lived near Crime Alley or the Bowery.

But it made him cocky.

When he was ten, Jason came across famed socialite Selina Kyle, who had just gotten out of a black Lamborghini Aventador LP 700-4 -- a very, very expensive car that he knew had God's wheels. If he was able to get ahold of all of them, he'd be underground famous -- even better than Willis, and he was considered the best.

However, Jason hadn't even gotten finished taking off the first tire when Selina Kyle's chauffeur grabbed him by the ankles and yanked him out from underneath her car.

After being caught in the act, he was immediately arrested -- charged with several counts of burglary as well as theft and destruction of property, which were also pressed by wealthy pricks who had probably never even stepped foot in Gotham's East End district -- and sentenced to eighteen months in a 'Secured Juvenile Facility.'

Juvie, to say the least, was miserable.

After being tried, Jason arrived at the center around five o'clock in the morning (the following day) and was asked basic questions as well as filled out paperwork to the best of his ability. After getting his booking photo taken, he was immediately taken to the showers to strip and be checked for drugs ("I know you're young, but we need to be thorough, son"). Only after was he permitted to take a shower.

The water was ice-cold.

He then put on his issued blue attire -- which consisted of scrub pants and shirt, itchy underwear, and traction socks -- and entered the common area where he had to listen to a VCR about the rate of which rape was occurring within prisons. As soon as the unnerving documentary's tape finished rolling, one of the officers brought him a bologna sandwich, some juice and a glass of milk. She also made sure to assure him that it was very unlikely that he'd be raped, which he was thankful for, though still a little shaken up about.

When Jason had finished eating, the officer then told him that it was time for the inmates' morning exercise and beckoned him to follow her deeper into the facility and into a room full of other kids-- young and old -- doing various types of exercises. In the beginning, Jason didn't participate, but, after realizing that he wasn't getting out anytime soon, he decided that working out wasn't going to be unbeneficial.

After about thirty minutes or so of exercise, they were forced to participate in schooling -- which Jason absolutely hated. Not only was he unable to understand the drawling of their teacher, but he was also unable to read or write. This not only angered the teacher; it frustrated Jason to no end, but eventually, he was able to learn. He learned basic maths and sciences as well as history and how to more properly speak the English language.

Lunch was around noon every day. The food, to put it mildly, was horrible. Breakfast was usually something gross like powdered eggs and some bread, and lunch was typically some nasty sandwich meat -- like bologna -- on white bread. Dinner was probably the least dreadful -- they'd receive some stew or easy-to-prepare pasta.

When Jason and the other inmates had finished eating, they immediately went back to their schooling for the next two hours. From then until six o'clock in the afternoon, they had what everyone called 'rec time,' which consisted of them all sitting around, reading books or writing letters. For a while, Jason considered not writing at all, but, after another inmate, Johnny Bender -- with something called Moebius syndrome -- convinced him that, if he "had someone out there who cared," he should write.

So he did. Jason wrote most of his letters -- maybe eleven or twelve -- to Catherine, to which she replied as quickly as she could. He'd even written a couple to Willis, though he didn't write back, but that was alright; Jason knew what he was like.

Then they'd have a short dinner followed by what the officers called 'youth services,' where a pastor would come and speak to all of the inmates about remission and repentance -- which absolutely no one took seriously -- but sometimes the pastor would bring them brownies, so they behaved. However, the pastor only came on Tuesdays, so for the rest of the time he wasn't there, the inmates were given more time to exercise.

After the pastor left -- or they had finished their exercises -- the inmates were given some free time in which they were allowed to play cards or watch some TV until about ten o'clock. As soon as time was up, though, all inmates were expected to take their showers and go back to their cells for 'lights out.'

'Lights out' was the worst part: during the day, the entire facility was already freezing, so when it got dark out, it became even more cold. Jason was given a two-and-a-half inch thick mattress that was wrapped in vinyl, a thin-as-paper pillow that was also wrapped in vinyl, some sheets, and a short blanket. Not only that, but he, along with the rest of the other inmates, were ordered to sleep naked. This way, it would be easier for them to be checked by guards.

And there was that goddamned light.

It hung above him and shined directly onto his face. And it never turned off.

The guards and other inmates were also always yelling, whistling, singing, talking -- they were just loud throughout the entire night, every night.

Then, after getting a few hours of sleep, Jason would wake and the day would repeat -- that is, unless someone decided to get into a fight and trigger a mandatory seventy-two hour lockdown. All inmates were forced to stay within their cells and weren't allowed any amenities, like books or even their own letters. Their mattresses were also taken during the day, which meant that everyone was forced to sit on a cold, concrete slab with nothing to do but pushups; plus, for the next three days, breakfast, lunch, and dinner were only peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Because of this, the inmates hardly ever fought. But there was this one kid -- he punched one of the officers straight in the face and was put in isolation for an entire week.

Not gonna lie -- Jason kinda respected him for that.

Along the way, Jason met a lot of people: a fourteen year old rapist, a seventeen year old kidnapper, even a little kid about the age of nine that was sentenced a couple of months for chasing his mother around with a knife. They weren't friends, but the lot of them sure made Jason's life a little more interesting.

But finally, after eighteen long months, Jason was released mid-July at the age of eleven.

However, the day that Catherine came to walk Jason home, he realized something was dreadfully wrong. Catherine smelled different -- almost sour -- and she seemed really tired all of a sudden. He didn't mention it though, only happy that he was finally able to see her again. But, as soon as she opened the front door, Jason pieced it all together.

Their room was a mess: the cupboards were open and one even looked to have been ripped off of its hinges, beer bottles and cans littered the floor, and the entire place stank of alcohol. Dirty dishes and moldy cups play piled inside of the sink, prompting gnats to buzz around their heads. He even saw a trail of sugar ants leading underneath the couch. But that wasn't all; even with their room more cluttered than ever, something felt like it was missing.

Willis -- Willis was gone.

"Hey, Mom," Jason asked, voice beginning to shake. "Where's Willis?"

Catherine only met Jason's eyes for a second before turning her face away. She covered her mouth with the palm of her hand and fell to her knees as her eyes welled with tears. She pulled Jason to her body, embracing him tightly as she choked on a sob. "He's gone, Jason. He left us."

After that, Jason became the 'man of the house,' which mostly meant making sure that none of Catherine's dealers came around. If juvie did anything for him, it taught Jason how to keep people from messing with him. And to rack up money, Jason did what he had to do, whether that meant simply jacking tires or even going as far as to steal prescription drugs for Catherine when her headaches got bad. He wasn't proud of most of it, but, for what it was worth, he never hurt anyone when doing any of it -- physically, at least.

He couldn't say that other people were as kind.

He just managed to limp up the stairs and to their apartment door after a particular rough beating from one of Catherine's old hook-ups -- from before she and Willis even married -- after Jason had attempted to rob the man's house in his sleep.

Closing the door behind him, Jason let out a loud sigh, giving the pullout couch where Catherine lay a small glance before dropping a silver Rolex onto the arm of their only chair. "I'm home, Mom -- and, before you ask, no, I wasn't doing anything stupid; I was just going out for a small walk, so there's no need to worry."

She didn't respond -- which wasn't unusual nowadays -- but, for whatever reason, her silence bothered him. It almost felt too quiet; Jason could usually hear the sound of her raspy breathing or the creaking of their couch with every shift of her body.

Something wasn't right.

Jason dropped his room key, forgetting it on the floor, and rushed to the pullout, immediately yanking the sheets away from Catherine's body. For a second that seemed to contain an eternity, Jason stared into Catherine's face: at her open dull eyes, blank and expressionless as the windows of a deserted house, at her half-open mouth, which almost looked slightly sad. For a moment, he was unable to feel anything other than numb disbelief, but, after seeing a small opened bottle of prescription pills, Jason's mind had accepted what he was seeing.

Catherine Todd was dead, and she wasn't coming back.

He lashed out -- out of fear, anger. And in his grief, Jason did the only thing he knew how: he stole tires.

Jason hadn't been home in about four days and hadn't eaten in two. His stomach hurt from both the constant running and the hunger, but Jason continued doing his job, only taking breaks after making sure that he had safely and effectively hidden the tires and rims away in that old warehouse that Willis took him.

He was tired.

Maybe that was why he thought that it was a good idea.

Jason had just taken a wheel off of a mediocre Chevy Cavalier and was headed toward the warehouse to drop them off before possibly taking a small nap -- after which he'd go out again -- when he'd seen it. Down an alley he was passing by, Jason's eyes landed upon a car: sleek black, heavily armored -- wait a minute -- was that a Lamborghini?

Well, considering that it was obviously supposed to be some sort of assault and pursuit-and-capture vehicle, it was actually more like a tank.

Wait.

Dear God -- was this the Batmobile?

Jason can only bring himself to gape, allowing the single tire he'd just nabbed to slip from his fingers. Eagerly, he looked in both directions before cautiously approaching the car, a small smile inching onto his face. Once he was close enough, he ghosted his hand across its hood, careful not to leave any fingerprints.

There was no mistake: this was the Batmobile -- owned by the Batman.

"He's real?" he asked aloud.

To Jason, as well as the majority of Gotham City, the Batman was considered nothing short of a myth. According to witness reports, no one has ever gotten a good enough look at his face to see if the guy steadily putting a stop to crime was even the same person. And since there were so few to begin with, the idea that someone was actually dressing up in some weird bat-costume to rid Gotham's streets of evil was considered absurd. Of course, a couple years ago, eye-witness reports spiked after the arrival of the Batman's 'Robin.' But even so, there was no real evidence (aside from people's words) to support that either of them existed.

Well, not until now.

Without even meaning to, Jason glanced at the Batmobile's tires. They looked like they were some sort of mix between a sports car's Savini-forged SV3 wheels (likely using a three-phase commit protocol so that it was more resilient to damages), and maybe a smaller version of Hummer Bolt wheels? It was an odd mix (that Jason wasn't even sure was accurate), but if Batman has been around for as long as people suspected, those tires and rims have done their jobs, and they've done them well.

He wanted these wheels. No, he needed them.

One alone -- especially of that hybrid -- would be worth thousands. And, if Jason could cash in all four of them -- or at least three -- as well as the others he'd been stealing for the past several days, he could live off of the money he would collect for months.

Thinking it over one last time, Jason caved and pulled his trusty tire wedges out of his pant pockets, carefully, yet quickly, tucking them under the wheels to prevent any movement. Like Willis had taught him, Jason loosened the Batmobile's lug nuts the best he could and propped the car (if he could even call it that) up with his portable jack. After removing the lug nuts completely, Jason pulled the tires off of the car and set them aside.

Now, he needed to find something that could hold the Batmobile up so he could retrieve his jack; Jason looked around the small alley. Hey -- cinder blocks.

Well that was convenient.

He slipped one under each end of the Batmobile, no longer as cautious. He had what he came for, so there was no need for any formalities, even if the Batmobile was easily the coolest car Jason had ever seen.

He unpropped the car and shoved the jack into one of his baggy pants pocket, quickly making a grab for the wooden wedges and slipping them into his other one. He then picked the lug wrench up off of the ground.

"Who's there," a gravelly voice asked, though it sounded less like a question and a lot more like a threat.

Jason thought about running -- just ditching the tires and jumping into the nearest garbage bin -- but he didn't. The voice was one he didn't recognize, but that bothered Jason, and honestly, it scared him a little. It belonged to a man that was probably around Willis' age and, though he loathed to admit it, was probably just as big as him -- maybe bigger. And if that were the case, there was no way in hell that he would manage to escape.

Finally, Jason caught his breath and turned around.

The lug wrench slipped from Jason's grasp and fell to the ground with a loud clang. "Holy shit," he breathed. "You -- you're Batman."

***

To say that stealing the Batmobiles tires was the best idea Jason had probably ever had was the understatement of the century.

In the span of a week, Jason somehow managed to go from walking the streets (essentially homeless) to being the ward of famed socialite and billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne, who also just so happened to be the 'caped crusader' that caught him jacking the Batmobile.

And, as expected, once Jason discovered this, he immediately asked if Batman's Robin was real, to which Bruce confirmed his suspicions. Upon his findings, Jason then begged to become, if not the next Robin, some sort of superhero -- or at least someone that would be able to help out the Batman.

After a few months of Jason's pleas, Bruce finally relented but only under certain conditions: if Jason were to become Robin, he'd have to endure six grueling months of intensive mental and physical training.

Jason readily accepted.

And, just as Bruce said, those six months were probably the hardest Jason had ever endured. The first four months were entirely focused upon how well Jason was able to fight and defend himself. To do this, he and Bruce (Alfred came as well) spent hours a day in the Batcave underneath Wayne manor -- sometimes they'd spar; other times, they'd do things that seemed mundane, like yoga or simply stretching. A few times, Jason complained, but even so, he didn't dare slack off.

During the last two of the six months, Jason and Bruce continued his physical training, but it was much less strenuous and intense. This was because Bruce was trying to teach Jason how to become more mentally inclined and diligent; he wanted Jason to learn how to outsmart him.

Bruce also began giving Jason case files to study, slowly easing him into the more serious and morbid aspects of the job, such as surgical cases and autopsy reports -- not without warning and mental preparation, of course. Jason, to say the least, was actually a lot less uncomfortable than he thought he should have been.

And finally, when Jason only had endure one more month of training, he realized that Bruce had saved the worst part for last: school.

Bruce expected Jason to begin going to some private, rich-kids boarding school called 'Gotham Academy.'

Yeah; as if.

You know how, in the beginning, Jason complained about training but never really meant anything of it? Yeah, well this time he meant it.

"Bruce, I am not going to school," Jason growled from his sprawled out position on the mat. They were in the Batcave, as per usual, and were sparring for the first time in a couple of days, maybe even a week.

Bruce sighed and shook his head lightly at Jason's behavior. "I've told you, Jason: going to school is non-negotiable. Gotham Academy will not only provide you with an exceptional education, but it will also allow you to improve your social skills with the middle and upper classes." Bruce then held out a hand to Jason, which he took, and pulled him up and off of the ground.

Jason scoffed and crossed his arms. "Like you have room to talk -- social skills, my ass."

Once again, Bruce shook his head, but this time with a small smirk. "I see you've managed to pick up Alfred's bit of sarcasm."

Jason rolled his eyes. "Oh please; I got my crappy attitude from Willis." He then smiled, "But if I catch myself saying 'bloody hell,' you'll be the first to know."

Bruce chuckled.

And though Jason did manage to sway the topic of conversation in the complete opposite direction, he was still forced to attend Gotham Academy the following Monday.

Considering that Gotham Academy was supposed to be a school for pricks, it reminded Jason a lot of Juvie, albeit much less strict about the fighting.

Why?

Because Gotham's elite were too good to get into fights. They settled their arguments in petty retaliation: sometimes the girls would wear even more glamorous makeup or jewelry than the day before, while the boys would break people's pencils and make better grades.

It was rather stupid, actually.

But, after a couple of weeks, Jason began to realize that Bruce was right. If Jason wanted to help Bruce -- the Batman -- he would possibly be needed to do covert or undercover operations, which meant that he needed to be adept to socializing with classes higher than Gotham's street crime.

So, he began to branch out, taking an interest in clubs as well as other people. And after putting in a little bit of effort, Jason began making friends easily; turned out, his personality wasn't as awful as he had always thought it was.

Also while Jason was attending Gotham Academy, Bruce regularly sent him extra assignments, which he was expected to complete and email (on a secure line) back to Bruce on top of his schoolwork. It was dreadful and exhausting, but he did them without excuse.

And finally, after about a month and a half of having classes six days a week, all students were allowed a three week long winter break. Jason and a couple of his friends stood outside the gates of the academy, each waiting for their parents or chauffeurs (he sometimes forgot that everyone was about as rich as a typical socialite there) to pick them up.

When Alfred arrived, Jason waved them a quick goodbye and promptly got in the car; sure, he was a little sad to leave, but he also just wanted to go home.

When he and Alfred pulled into the manor, Jason grabbed what little of his belongings he was able to bring home with him and ran inside to tell Bruce of his experience as well as ranted about how easy the schoolwork had suddenly become toward the end of the semester.

"I don't even think Master Dick complained about becoming smarter," Alfred remarked.

Jason's face became red and he turned, ready to make a quick retort but, after a moment, only cocked a brow. "Who's Dick Grayson?"

Bruce stiffened, and, upon which, Jason suddenly felt the need to explain. "Dick Grayson -- a lot of the teachers compared me to him, and a couple of them showed me some of his old assignments and academic awards."

"Oh," Bruce relaxed, and slowly, began to smile softly. "He was my ward, just like you are now."

"Really?" Jason's eyes widened, and he looked back and forth between Alfred and Bruce in surprise. "So, he's almost like -- my brother?"

"In a way," Bruce chuckled lightly. "Come with me, Jason."

So Jason did as he was told, following Bruce to the grandfather clock pressed against the wall. He turned the hands to match the time 10:47, and the entryway to the Batcave revealed itself. Bruce trekked slowly down the stairs -- as if contemplating something, Jason noticed. But Bruce shook his head and, with a newfound resolve, walked to the bottom of the staircase, where he waited for Jason.

Bruce should really invest in an elevator.

Jason caught up, and, without a word, Bruce turned on his heel and headed toward the area located underneath an archway, a place Jason was plenty familiar with. It was where Bruce kept the old suits -- the relics, like a couple of old Batman uniforms, Batgirl's first uniform, and Robin's (consisting of a red vest with green sleeves and briefs, as well as 'pixie' boots and gloves, and a faded yellow cape).

"Dick," Bruce said, lightly touching the glass that the suit was held within, "was the first Robin."

"Where is he now?"

Bruce sighed, "He works in Blüdhaven now, but I'm sure you've heard of him: Nightwing?"

"Shit; are you serious?" Jason asked.

"Language, Jason," Bruce frowned. "And do I seem like one to kid?"

Jason ducked his head bashfully but smiled nonetheless. "Not a chance, old man.

"Wait, what did you mean by first Robin?"

Bruce laughed aloud. "I didn't think it'd take you this long to catch on," he said, clapping Jason lightly on the back.

Jason stumbled forward but quickly regained his balance. "Uh, I still don't think I'm quite getting it." He began to rub his back.

"Your six months of training -- they've ended." With a smile, Bruce placed his hand upon Jason's shoulder. "And I want you to be my Robin."

Jason had gone over this conversation with Bruce in his head millions upon millions of times -- about being the next Robin -- although it was usually after picturing himself saving Batman's ass in front of tons of people and declaring that he was Robin on national TV, but now that it had actually occurred...

It was like nothing he had ever imagined.

And, as it turned out, "you're training has ended" actually meant that "there's always room for improvement" -- basically, "you're training will eventually come to an end" was probably the biggest lie that Jason had ever heard.

And now that he was Robin, he felt plenty entitled to complain about it.

But he didn't regret it. Afterall, it lead to what he had been desiring: to become a hero.

Jason's first takedown had to have been his most exciting. He was only fighting the Riddler, a newer, low-tier criminal with a name not known to many on the far outskirts of Gotham -- even Jason hadn't known about him before becoming Robin -- but Jason had felt absolutely elated anyway.

Riddler was stealing several pieces from an art gallery -- pretty lame, if you asked Jason. Upon arriving at the scene, he and Batman immediately cornered Riddler and his men (maybe five at the most). They were outnumbered, sure, but with a series of kicks and a punch to the throat, Riddler was down for the count.

"Riddle me this: what's green and purple but covered in red and yellow?" Robin joked.

Riddler grunted in reply, obviously not as joyous over the fact that he'd been caught.

"You, when I landed you on your ass."

Batman only shook his head, sighing further upon noticing that a couple of policeman actually laughed. "What have I told you about your language?"

"Oh, come on," Robin chuckled. "The last Robin had his trademark 'Holy Rip Van Winkle, Batman,' so I need a little something to be remembered by, don't you think?"

"Really? Rip Van Winkle?"

And over the next couple of years, crime-fighting became easier for Jason, though it was probably just coming with age; he was getting bigger, after all. But he was also becoming a lot more violent with criminals -- specifically, drug-dealing pimps.

A couple of days after Jason turned fifteen (on August 16), he and Batman busted a small, local drug trafficking ring. They tracked and trapped them inside of their shabby apartment of a headquarters.

"Don't move!" one of the men yelled, pointing a gun in Robin's direction.

"Or what: you'll shoot me?" he retorted, kicking the man to the floor. He quickly rushed the other man in the room, somehow managing to avoid being shot. Robin landed a punch in the other man's throat, effectively knocking him to the ground and out of the way.

Robin laughed as Batman entered the room, having taken down the others downstairs. "Twenty rounds a second and you still couldn't hit me."

Then, from the hall, they heard the cocking of a gun. Another man -- the last one standing -- fired his gun in their direction.

Immediately, Batman took action and disarmed the man with one of his batarangs, while Robin rushed him, just as he did the last one. Once the gun had fallen from the man's hands, Robin, using the but of his elbow, hit the man atop his shoulder -- hard.

The man fell with a thud, crying out in pain, but within the minute, he promptly passed out.

"Robin!" Batman yelled in reprimand.

"I had to take him down!" Robin argued defensively.

Batman, if possible, looked even more livid than he had before. "You shattered his collarbone!"

"He's a piece-of-shit dealer!" Robin replied just as angrily and gestured to the unconscious man. "I didn't think I'd have to prop up some pillows before I took him out!"

"We needed him," Batman responded, and though he'd said it in a quieter tone than earlier, he still managed to sound just as enraged. "He would have talked, but you put him into shock."

"Sorry; it was stupid," Robin conceded begrudgingly. "But he deserved it."

And after a couple of more takedowns gone wrong (a thieving addict that ended up with a broken knee, a murderer that was left with a missing finger, and finally, a rapist that was shoved from the roof of a four-storey building), Jason was benched from being Robin. Bruce re-enrolled him in school -- a public school -- where, unlike last time (at Gotham Academy Boarding School), Jason did not make any attempt to befriend anyone or do well in school.

He was angry, but more than that, he was crushed.

Bruce was more than a mentor to Jason; he was a role model, the father-figure Jason never had. And to be pushed away for something as trivial as doing his job more efficiently, albeit a little harsher than necessary, it stung -- a lot more than he'd like to admit.

So, for whatever reason, Jason felt the odd urge to visit his parents' old apartment in Crime Alley after school one day. Did it bring him comfort?

Nope; none at all.

But he still went. Maybe it was just to spite Bruce a little -- seeing his ward visit his old home in the ghetto.

Jason walked that familiar street, making sure to tuck his watch up his sleeve and hold his phone firmly within his hands, which were both in the pocket of his hoodie. He said hello to the few people he recognized and ignored the grease and filth-covered men he saw underneath expensive-looking cars.

When he finally made it to the old apartment, he considered just walking inside and crashing on their pullout (which he figured was absolutely filthy by now) for a couple of hours before walking home, but thought otherwise when he heard the voices of young children inside; someone must have snatched the place up when they realized he was finally gone.

With a sigh, he sat on the floor and leaned against the dusty wall, beginning to pick at the peeling wallpaper.

"My stars!" he suddenly heard the voice of an older woman. "Jason, is that you?"

He looked up and let out a gasp, standing up immediately. "Jesus -- Mrs. Jeremy!" He wrapped his arms around the plump, old woman in a tight hug. "It's good to see you."

Mrs. Jeremy chuckled and brushed some of the dirt off of his hoodie. "Look at how grown up you are," she marvelled, pinching his cheeks. "Oh, Jason, you must come in."

"Mrs. Jeremy," he said a tad timidly, "I couldn't."

She laughed and opened her door, which was directly across from his old room. "So Mr. Wayne's given you some manners, has he?"

"I've always been a delight to be around." Jason scoffed with a smile and followed her inside. "Thank you for having me."

"Oh, don't get all sentimental with me, boy," she chastised him lightly. "I remember the way you used to hide away with my cat -- couldn't find either of you for hours."

He chuckled.

Her apartment was much better kept than his family's was: the wallpaper was clean and looked rather new, she had ample dishes and furniture -- everything just seemed well-furnished.

He sat at her small, round table, and she sat a moment later, handing him a cup of hot tea.

"How is our little Goldie, by the way?" he asked, smiling fondly.

She hummed lightly and took a sip of her tea. "Oh, she died about a year and a half ago, the poor thing. She was so old, you know?"

Jason nodded, having become disheartened. "I see."

Mrs. Jeremy shook her head and reached across the table to grab Jason's hand. "None of that nonsense; this is a reunion and it's going to be happy. Now," she smiled once more, "tell me: has life been good to you now that you're with Mr. Wayne?"

Jason nodded once more. "Yes ma'am," he said. "Before he took me in, I didn't know it was possible for me to be this happy. I have a brother too -- do you remember the first kid he adopted, Dick Grayson?"

"Oh, yes!" Mrs. Jeremy said. "He's been in Gotham recently, hasn't he? That boy's a stunning young fellow, yes he is."

"Yeah; Dick's pretty cool, but he went back home a couple of days ago." Jason then frowned. "I know you told me to keep things happy, but I was wondering how those people managed to get our old room."

Mrs. Jeremy simply gave him a confused look. "What do you mean?"

"Well," Jason shrugged, "I just kind of assumed that Willis would have come back here after I up and left when my mom died."

"Oh, Jason," Mrs. Jeremy said, suddenly saddened. "Willis died years ago, just before you got out of Juvie; that man, Two-Face, got him."

Jason stood abruptly, spilling the contents of his cup onto the floor. "What?"

"Willis got involved with him and ended up owing the man a debt he couldn't pay," she attempted to explain.

"Wait! How did you know about this?" Jason asked desperately. "Why didn't anyone tell me?"

Mrs. Jeremy sighed and gave him a tired, yet somehow pointed, look. "Alright, I'll make you a deal: if you clean up this mess, I'll tell you everything that I know. Does that sound okay to you?"

Jason nodded numbly, and, with shaking hands, he grabbed a rag and began to wipe the tea up from the floor. What did she mean by 'everything?' What else did he not know that she did?

When Mrs. Jeremy had left the room, Jason wasn't sure, but she returned with an old photo in her hands. She set it down on the table, grabbing Jason's rag and tossing it over the sink's head. Once again, she sighed, and, suddenly, she seemed much, much older. She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Your mother and I, though she was so young, were friends for many, many years, Jason. So when I asked her about you -- specifically when you'd first arrived in Gotham -- she told me what she was able of the truth."

Jason listened intently and didn't interrupt.

"She told me that you were a lost, foreign little boy with nowhere to go and no place to call home, and, knowing Gotham, there was no way that we were simply going to take you to the police, so Catherine had me try to find your biological parents by other means." She frowned. "But after about a month or so with no luck, we realized something: Willis had always hated children."

She looked Jason in the eyes. "So why did he take you in?"

Mrs. Jeremy continued. "The only reason that we could come up with was that you were, in fact, Willis' biological son and that the mother must have come to Gotham, knowing that he lived here, and dropped you off in the middle of the street -- and that Willis somehow managed to figure it out.

"So, Catherine and I investigated further, and she found this old thing," she said, holding up a picture of a young blonde woman. "She's foreign, and from what Catherine told me, this woman and Willis had a fling a little over fifteen years ago, about the time you should have been born."

Jason was stunned silent. His entire life had been a lie: he'd grown up believing that his biological family had abandoned him and left him for dead, that Willis had left him and his mother without any explanation, that he was alone after Catherine died.

"Her name is Sheila Haywood," Mrs. Jeremy concluded, sliding the picture in front of Jason. "And for the past twelve years, she's been living somewhere in Ethiopia."

Without another word, Jason snatched the photo off of the table and left the apartment; Mrs. Jeremy didn't stop him. Head down low and footsteps quick, Jason was in and out of the manor with a single backpack of belongings in no time, and, with the card and information of a young, rich idiot (that Jason had once stolen from -- didn't catch his name, unfortunately), he booked a flight to the only place available: Addis Ababa, Ethiopia's capital.

Sure, the flight was long and Jason knew for a fact that Bruce was going to be, if he wasn't already pissed at him, but he couldn't help it. This woman, Sheila, could be -- no, was his biological mother, and Jason wanted to have a relationship with her. But even more than that, he just wanted to have a mom again; he wanted to be held by her when he was scared, to be sung to when he was unable to sleep, and if there was even the slightest chance that Sheila could give that to him, it was going to be well worth it.

The plane landed, and Jason was the first one off. He ran through the airport, which was a lot larger than he thought it was going to be. But right before he could exit the building, someone stepped directly in front of him and blocked his path.

"Hey!" Jason yelled, "What's the big idea?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," the tall man said, voice frighteningly familiar. "I guess I didn't see you, Jason."

"Bruce?" Jason gaped. "How the hell did you get here? I left you," he said pointing in the direction of the plane, "at home -- just, what?"

Bruce frowned. "You forget: we own a private jet." He then sighed. "I knew where you'd gone the moment I realized you used the ID of Andrew Mallory, a kid that's been in Arkham for several years now."

Jason pulled out the kid's old card and shrugged. "So that's who I snatched this off of."

Bruce rolled his eyes and beckoned for Jason to follow him outside. There, they waited to be picked up and driven to a nice hotel.

"So," Jason started, dropping his backpack on one of the beds, "if you only came to get me, why are we staying the night?"

Bruce sat at a desk in the corner of their large room and opened his laptop, typing something onto the screen. "Well, I was actually following the Joker's trail when you'd left, but, by some miracle, both you and he led me to Ethiopia -- specifically, to Magdala, about a hundred miles from the border of Eritrea."

Jason was confused. "Why would the Joker want to be in Magdala, of all places? Doesn't it have, like, one of the biggest refugee camps in all of Ethiopia?"

Bruce grunted in affirmation. "The Afar Refugee Camp -- I was wondering the same thing. Why would he go there when Ethiopia's capital has all of the tech he would need?"

"Do you think that he might have a contact stationed in Magdala, or maybe the refugee camp?" Jason suggested, taking a seat at the foot of the bed.

"Possibly," Bruce agreed. He closed his laptop and turned around in his chair. "So tell me," he said with a disappointed sigh, "what made you decide to run away from home?"

Jason couldn't help but cringe, and he ran a quick hand through his hair. "I went and visited one of my old neighbors yesterday -- Mrs. Jeremy -- and she told me the truth about my family."

"The truth?" Bruce asked, curious.

Jason's eyes narrowed. "That Willis was killed by Two-Face back when I was still a delinquent and that my biological mother is some random lady named Sheila Haywood."

"Did you say Sheila Haywood?" Bruce asked suddenly. Upon seeing Jason's slow nod, Bruce elaborated. "Sheila Haywood is a doctor that's been working on a famine relief project here; she used to work in Gotham as a surgeon, but the death of one of her patients ended her career."

Jason raised his eyebrows. "But if she's working as a part of the relief efforts, wouldn't that mean that she'd be at one of the refugee camps?"

Bruce nodded, standing from his seat. "And, if I'm not mistaken, Dr. Haywood was recently spotted in the camp we'd mentioned earlier: Afar in Magdala."

Jason began to fidget, curling his toes and rocking on his heels. "So, is there any possible way that we could," he paused to give a shrug, "I don't know..."

"Yes, Jason?" Bruce asked with a smirk.

"When we go to Magdala to catch the Joker," Jason started, less nervous than before, "can we find my mom -- please?"

"Jason," Bruce sighed and got up from his chair, placing a hand on his knee. "Are you sure about this -- about finding Dr. Haywood?"

Jason gave Bruce a small smile. "Yeah, Bruce; I know that she's probably not going to be all that I've hoped that she is -- I mean, she practically dumped me on the streets," he exclaimed. "But I need to meet her, and," he added, "if there's even the slightest chance that she wants me to stay with her, even if it's only for company and not some sort of mother-son relationship, I think that I'd still do it.

"Bruce, I haven't had a mother in a while," he said, now slightly downcast, "but Mom wasn't like Willis; you can't replace her like you could him, and Alfred can't either. Sheila, though -- I just feel like she might be able to help me, you know?"

Bruce, if at all shocked by Jason's decision, masked it well, and, instead, ruffled Jason's hair, much to his displeasure. After listening to Jason's gripes, Bruce smiled lightly and stood up once again, but, this time, he did so to pack his bags.

Jason startled but soon got the message and did the same (although he didn't have as many things to gather up).

"So we're going right now?" Jason asked once he'd finished.

Bruce nodded. "I've already called for a taxi to take us back to the airport," he said. "And from there, we'll fly from here to Mekane Selam -- where, unfortunately, we'll have to hail another taxi to get to Magdala."

Once again, Jason let out an agitated huff.

The flight to Mekane Selam was short, just as Bruce said it was going to be, but the finishing drive to Magdala felt like an eternity -- to Jason, especially so. Jason kept his eyes locked on the dry land flashing past him through the window, and his stomach began to churn.

Starvation and death casted a shadow across the land. Refugees -- that they'd passed by -- flocked to nearby camps in droves, almost by the thousands. It was hard to look at, but most of all, it was utterly heartbreaking.

Bruce shook his head, tearing his gaze away from the dozens upon dozens of starved and crying people trudging their bare, and no doubt, burning feet through the rocky sand. "When we return home," he muttered with a frown, "we're sending money up here for further relief efforts -- my God."

Jason only nodded, doing his best to keep a cringe from settling on his face. 

Eventually, they paid the driver and stepped into the Afar settlement. And, for a moment, the grim surroundings momentarily caused Jason to forget why he was really there, but one look at Bruce's stone-like features was enough to yank him back to reality.

They were in Ethiopia to find the Joker; they were there to find his mother.

Cautiously, Bruce and Jason approached an older man who used a makeshift cane to walk.

"Excuse me, sir," Bruce called to him, speaking Tigrinya, a language Jason had a difficult time understanding -- but, seeing as this was an Eritrean refugee camp, it was only natural for them to speak in their official dialect.

The man's eyes widened. He must not have expected tourists, let alone American citizens, to know his given language.

Bruce continued speaking, ignoring the man's bewilderment. "Do you know of a woman -- a doctor -- by the name Sheila Haywood?"

The mention of Sheila's name seemed to have knocked him out of his stupor. "Dr. Haywood?" he asked. With a shaking hand, he pointed in the direction just left of where they were standing. There, several faded tents were pitched and people were walking in and out of them -- clearly busy and clearly tired.

"You'll find her in that tent," the man directed them toward one that was bland and beige. "It's her office."

Before Bruce was even able to properly thank the man, Jason bolted from his spot beside him and in the tent's direction. Bruce shouted after him and grabbed onto his shoulder just before Jason was able to rip open the tent's entrance flap. "Jason, calm down."

Jason, although his excitement continued to bubble up inside of him, even threatening to boil over, took a single deep breath. A smile made its way onto his face as he turned to look up at Bruce. "It's okay, you old geezer," he teased. "I'm not gonna regret this."

And without another word, the two of them stepped inside. In the tent's center, hunched over a small, wooden desk, was a thin blonde woman, obviously deep in concentration. Sweat dotted her brow as she heaved a sigh and filed through her paperwork.

"Dr. Haywood?" Bruce asked her.

Sheila whipped around in surprise. "Oh my-" she gasped. "You're Bruce Wayne, the billionaire! I recognize you from my days in Gotham." She took a moment to collect herself before asking, "What are you doing here?"

Jason stepped forward and held out a hand in greeting. "My name's Jason Todd."

She took his hand, shaking it. "Todd?" she asked upon letting go. She brought a hand to her mouth not even a second later. "Oh my God -- Willis!"

Jason could only beam as Sheila seemed to connect the dots he'd laid in front of her. However, he frowned when she crossed her arms, a look of disconcert flitting across her face. "So Willis actually had a kid, huh?"

"What are you talking about?" Jason took a step back, steadily becoming more and more unsettled. "Aren't you my..."

Sheila uncrossed her arms, realizing her mistake too late. "Oh no, sweetie," she brought her arms up, almost as if she were having trouble deciding whether to provide physical comfort or attempt to soothe him with her words. "I didn't mean-" she hung her head, dropping her gaze to the floor. "Mr. Wayne, would you mind stepping out for a moment?"

Bruce did so without complaint, simply giving Jason's shoulder a light squeeze before exiting the tent.

Sheila and Jason were alone, and the tension was eating him alive.

"Jason -- sit, please," she grabbed him a chair, in which he sat down, burying his face within his hands. "I was a struggling med student when I met your father," Sheila started. "Back then, Willis was a good man, and we were even planning on getting married." She sighed, "but I got into trouble when an operation I was assisting was botched; the incident put an end to my medical career."

"But I don't understand," Jason argued. "Didn't you and Willis -- weren't you pregnant?"

Once again, Sheila sighed. "I was -- just before the operation, actually. But Jason, I had a miscarriage; the baby died."

Jason's eyes widened, and he stood abruptly from his chair, knocking it to the ground. "But that's impossible," he murmured. "If you aren't my mother, who is?" he asked accusingly.

Sheila's face became saddened. "I'm sorry, Jason."

Jason walked away, leaving Sheila inside of the tent, and she didn't make any move to stop him. 

With his newfound downhearted attitude, Jason dropped down to sit in the dirt, just meters away from where the refugee children were playing. Some, upon noticing how down he'd become -- as compared to only moments earlier -- approached him. They were five, maybe seven years at the oldest, and each of the two little boys were merely skin-and-bones.

"Did Dr. Haywood fix you up?" the boy with freckles asked, awkwardly placing his hands behind his back as he rocked on his heels.

Jason answered, "yes" to the best of his ability. Tigrinya, as well as Russian, were probably his worst spoken languages. They seemed to catch on to this, but whereas the freckled boy was merciful and only asked Jason simple questions, the other boy (one with tanned skin) asked him about complicated things and laughed when he failed to answer -- not that Jason minded, of course.

Back when he was a snot-nosed brat, Jason would have done the exact same thing.

"Where did you hurt?" the freckled boy asked, to which Jason, after a moment's thought, pointed to the tip of his elbow.

"I hit it on a rock," he replied slowly, beginning to chuckle along with them. "Dr. Haywood saved my arm."

They continued on, speaking with each other, goofing off; Jason even taught them small and easy-to-learn handshakes.

Jason heard the sound of a motor from behind him, causing him to turn around. Pulling up beside Sheila's tent was a worn-out, rusty jeep, in which several shady men stepped out and headed inside.

But, for some reason, one of the men -- a particularly thin man whose head of hair was covered by a sunhat -- Jason knew him somehow.

“This calls for a little bit of eavesdropping,” he muttered to himself. Gently and with a small apology, he ushered the tan and freckled boys back to their mothers, who were each sad and reluctant to leave.

Jason approached Sheila’s tent, keeping his head low and his body in a crouch so that nobody would notice him. Lightly, he pressed his ear to the tent’s fabric and, eventually, heard voices from within it.

“Everything’s in order, I’m assuming?” God, that voice was familiar too -- although, it sounded a little strange -- almost as if the person inside was attempting to sound differently.

“Yes,” Sheila replied from inside, “but it’s not going to be easy to cover this up.”

The man spoke again -- this time, with a short bark of laughter. “All I care about is getting my hands on six truck-loads of medical supplies. How you arrange it is your problem, sweet heart.

“But remember,” he threatened once more, “if you screw this up, your superiors will catch wind of the -- what was it?” he asked with a mocking pause, most likely for emphasis. “Oh, all of the ‘medical trouble’ you’ve gotten yourself into over the years.” He laughed again, and this time, he did so with little restraint. “You know, the Gotham Police are still interested in who might have performed that sloppy abortion -- left the girl dead on the table.”

Jason could hear a bit of shuffling from inside the tent and repositioned himself farther away from the entrance.

“Don’t mess this up, Sheila,” the voice said, and Jason could almost hear the accusatory finger pointing in her direction. “So, let’s go to your warehouse, shall we? My drivers are awaiting our arrival.”

The tent’s entrance flapped open, and Jason took cover, staying out of Sheila’s and the shady men’s sight. When he was sure that all of their backs were turned, Jason peeked out from behind the tent’s corner and stole a glance at each of their figures and body-frames.

The thin man whispered one last thing into Sheila’s ear as he beckoned her into his jeep, and Jason finally got a good look at his face. The man looked to be wearing a thick layer of tanned foundation, but that wasn’t what took Jason aback; his eyes were a bright, crazed green.

There was no mistaking: this man was the Joker -- Batman’s archenemy.

Jason’s chest felt like it was about to burst as the Joker’s jeep sped away, just after Sheila’s step inside. Jason turned his head every which way, looking for some sort of mode of transportation -- anything. Then, as if somebody upstairs were looking out for him, Jason noticed a man -- obviously a part of the relief efforts -- getting off a motorcycle.

Perfect.

He rushed the man, shoving him to the ground, and effectively stole his bike in order to follow the Joker. Pulling a small communicator out of his pocket, he pressed the tiny comm link into his ear and turned it on. “Bats,” Jason said once he caught sight of the Joker’s vehicle, “we’ve got some serious trouble.”

“What is it?” Bruce’s voice replied.

Ahead of Jason, Joker’s jeep pulled up and near to a small, wooden warehouse -- the one he and Sheila must have been discussing -- where several other trucks were already parked.

A good distance away and hidden inside of a deep dip in the uneven desert ground, Jason got off of the motorcycle. “I found the Joker,” Jason spoke quietly, sneaking toward the Joker’s camp. “Apparently, he’s been blackmailing Sheila for medical supplies.”

“Where are you?” Bruce said again, sounding more urgent.

Jason ducked underneath one of the large and empty trucks. “Just give me a minute,” he whispered, watching several of the shady men from earlier unloading boxes from the other trucks.

“Each box contains enough gas to cover a four-acre stretch,” the Joker explained to Sheila, who seemed positively disgusted. “Just consider it my contribution to the war against hunger -- think of it as a way of cutting down the number of mouths you need to feed!” he let out a loud and ongoing cackle.

Jason couldn’t help but wince at the sound. The Joker’s laugh was strange; it somehow seemed to be sinister, intimidating, and unnaturally gleeful all at the same time -- but most of all, it felt as if the Joker’s true insanity seemed to stab through the hearts of those who heard it.

It was awful; it was terrifying.

Jason took a quiet and shaky breath and whispered once more, “the Joker has a convoy carrying a lethal laughing gas on its way to the warehouse I’m at, a refugee outpost, and enough to take out the people in a…” he took a moment to do the math, “three-to-four hundred acre radius.”

Jason could hear Bruce grunt in affirmative. “I’ll stop the convoy -- you stay there and keep an eye on the warehouse until I meet up with you. Take no action until I get there,” he said, tone becoming serious. “I repeat: no action!”

Jason sighed, “Alright, I’ll wait.”

After hearing Jason’s response, Bruce’s comm went silent.

You know, even to Jason's own surprise, when he'd told Bruce that he'd wait for him, he actually meant it. But then he heard the sound of gunshots.

Eyes widening and instinct taking over, Jason stripped himself of his outer garments, in which his Robin uniform lay underneath. Rolling out from under the truck and covering his eyes with his domino mask, he burst inside of the warehouse.

It seemed to be empty, but Jason kept his eyes open; he knew what happened to most of Joker's victims, and he did not want to be next.

Boxes of what he assumed to be filled with laughing gas were stored inside, from the ground to ceiling, casting dark shadows along the tiled floors and walls as well as making the area cramped.

The silence was eerie and filled Jason with a weary sense of trepidation. Sweat dotted his brow and clung to his face as he held his fists out in front of him, trying to prepare himself for anything to come.

But, directly behind Jason, the Joker stood, hand clutching a crowbar raised in the air. He could almost feel it before he actually saw it. Jason only had enough time to gasp before being hit with it right between the shoulder blades.

Jason fell to the ground with a thud, choking on the air forced out of his lungs as the Joker let out one of his maniacal laughs and proceeded to hit him again. Jason could hear the bones in his body creaking, feel his skin bruising as he was continuously beaten. His uniform tore and blood soaked the ground where he lay sprawled.

When Joker had cuffed his wrists, Jason wasn't sure, but every chance he could, Jason attempted to stand and run, but, almost as if teasing him, the Joker would force him back into the ground.

Jason gasped for breath, grunting when he breathed too deeply.

"So," the Joker chuckled, swinging the crowbar in his hands like a little girl's baton, "let's try and clear this up, okay?"

The Joker raised his arm, and Jason winced away from him. "What hurts more: A," he asked, hitting Jason over the head -- he drew blood -- "or B?" he asked, swinging again. "Forehand, or backhand?"

Face to the ground, Jason panted, and, with what little strength he had left, he turned his head up toward the Joker. "Fuck you."

The Joker's laughing ceased, and he crouched down to Jason's level. "Sorry, I didn't quite catch that," he smirked, grabbing a fist-full of Jason's hair. "I think you might have a collapsed lung; that always impedes the oratory."

Jason raised his head what little he could and spat in the Joker's face. "Fuck you," he said louder, voice raw.

The Joker then slammed his head to the ground and stood up. "Now that was rude," he chastised, dabbing his cheek with a handkerchief. "The first boy-blunder had some manners."

In a moment of defiance, Jason gave him a pained but sarcastic grin through his crooked and bloodied teeth.

The Joker simply sighed with a shrug, putting away his tissue. "I suppose I'm going to have to teach you a lesson so you can better follow in his footsteps." He raised an eyebrow in consideration before muttering, "No," and raising his arm once again, "I think I'm just gonna keep beating you with this crowbar."

His heart hurt, and his head hurt; his entire body was in pain.

With the continuous cracking of the metal against Jason's skin, every second seemed like an eternity -- it felt like the pain was never going to end. He knew that the metal was cold, but it felt as if white-hot knives were piercing every inch of his skin -- perhaps it was because the metal was cold that he felt this way -- and his head felt as if it were about to burst. He wanted to scream more loudly than he'd ever screamed in his life, but he just couldn't.

He didn't want Joker to have the satisfaction, but that wasn't why; he just couldn't get enough air into his lungs. With every blow to his body, he felt like he was being shoved further and further underwater, but, at the same time it was like the air was being sucked out of him by a vacuum.

And finally, it all stopped. The Joker wiped the blood from his hands and huffed at the red lining the ankles of his pants. "Okay, kiddo, I've got to go," he called out, opening the warehouse's door. He turned back around, flashing Jason a wicked smile. "But it's been fun though, right?"

It took all of Jason's strength not to pass out -- he knew he couldn't, but the promised end of his pain was tempting.

"Well," the Joker laughed lightly, "maybe a smidge more fun for me than you; I'm just guessing since you're being awful quiet," he said, straightening his trademark purple coat. "Anyway, be a good boy, finish your homework, and be in bed by nine -- and hey," he cried out. His voice then dropped into something a lot more sinister. "Tell the Batman that I said 'hello.'"

The Joker let out one last laugh before shutting the door behind him.

You know, Jason didn't talk about it much, even to Bruce, but behind the masks -- underneath the capes -- it was always there: the reality that death was standing right beside him every time he leapt off of a building, every time he avoided a blow powerful enough to remove his head.

She was patient, just waiting for him to allow her an opening. She'd tap him on the shoulder and say, "It was fun, but you must now come with me."

And in the end, there was nothing else to say except, "goodbye."

But Jason wasn't even allowed that much.

Avoiding as much pain as possible, Jason pushed himself off the concrete flooring and onto his hands and knees with a grunt. His ribs hurt -- so did his head -- but he carefully brought himself to his feet. He attempted to straighten his back for comfort but all it did was cause his ribs shoulders to ache further, so he allowed himself to stay hunched over.

Body trembling, both in pain and fear, Jason took a short step forward. But as soon as he put his weight back onto it, the feeling of pins and needles began to stab into the bottoms of his feet, and he collapsed.

Jason lied for a moment, doing the best he could not to let the tears that had gathered in his eyes fall. There was no time for him to cry -- if he started now, there was simply no way that he'd be able to stop.

Then, with what little strength he could muster, Jason drug himself to the base of the door. From the floor, he reached up to grab the handle, and a small blossom of hope bloomed within his chest.

But the handle wouldn't move.

The door was locked.

Jason, seeing as there was no other option, shifted his body into a more comfortable position and rested the back of his head against the door. He clutched his side and did his best to calm his ragged breathing as well as stop the humming groans that fell from his lips with every breath he took.

Then he heard it: the ticking.

His head whipped toward the sound, and, just across the room, securely planted among the boxes, a bomb  awaited detonation, slowly counting down from ten.

Jason’s once settled breathing picked up pace; he wasn’t ready.

He didn’t want to die.

Not yet.

There were so many places he had yet to see, people he had wanted to meet. There was so much more that he wanted to do -- no, more than that, there were so many people he wanted to apologize to, to thank, to simply say goodbye to.

"I just wanted to stay a little longer."

But, as his time continued to run out, he didn’t find himself becoming panicked. Instead, he found himself to be calm and collected. There was nothing he could do to stop this from happening, so why not think about what he had done instead of what he could have.

He thought back on his memories with Bruce, Dick, Catherine -- hell, even his time with Willis wasn’t all bad. Jason was satisfied with the time he’d had on this earth; he’d lived a fulfilling life.

If his time had come, then so be it.

He rested against the door, allowing himself to be lulled to sleep by the rythmic sound of his oncoming demise.

It was time.

Then suddenly -- just as the ticking ceased and flames began to envelop the room -- he remembered; his name was Izuku Midoriya.