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The night had been ordinary.
Gotham’s streets hummed with the usual small crimes—streetlights flickering over scattered litter, a purse snatched in the distance, a mugger caught mid-run by the city’s surveillance. Nothing major. Nothing to pull them out of routine.
Jason laughed at one of the petty chases, a fleeting sound that reminded Bruce of why he did this—why he trained the boy, trusted him, let him fight by his side. His voice bounced off the rooftops, light and careless. For a moment, the night felt almost normal. Almost… safe.
Bruce noticed how distracted Jason seemed. Not entirely off-task, but fidgety: hands twitching along the grappling lines, eyes darting more often than usual. A boy’s nervous energy, Bruce thought. He reminded himself it wasn’t unusual for Jason to be wary. He’d been restless lately—worried that someone was watching him. Bruce had dismissed it internally, confident that whatever Jason felt, whatever danger he imagined, it wouldn’t touch him—not while Bruce was there. Not while he was right beside him.
But then—
It happened in a blink.
A shadow detached itself from the alley, moving too fast, too precise. Jason’s figure was yanked forward like a ragdoll with a yelp. Bruce lunged, cape snapping against the cold air, but the alley swallowed him. Empty. Only the faint echo of laughter lingered, curling along the walls like smoke.
“Robin!” Bruce’s voice ripped through the night, raw and low. His cape whipped against the empty alley as he froze, heart hammering in disbelief. For a split second, he stood there, staring at the shadows where Jason had vanished, his mind refusing to accept what had just happened.
Then rage ignited. Bruce moved. Fast. Every muscle coiled. He stormed toward the Batmobile, slamming the door closed, tires screeching against the wet asphalt as he roared into the city streets.
Fingers flew over the car's computer, trying to pull up the tracker embedded in Jason’s suit. He couldn’t possibly have gotten far. The systems lagged, stuttering and glitching—as if interrupted. Every second that passed felt like torture.
“Agent A,” Bruce barked into the comm, voice tight with fury, “Robin’s missing. He’s been…taken. I think it’s Joker. The laughter—I heard it. It’s him.”
There was a pause on the other end before Alfred replied, voice calm but heavy. “He couldn’t have gone far, sir. The tracker—he’s still transmitting, wherever he is.”
Bruce growled, eyes narrowing at the flickering Batcomputer screen. The tracker pulsed weakly, signal bouncing and cutting out like it was being toyed with. “There's interference,” he muttered, jaw clenched. “I can’t tell if it’s on the Batmobile or with Jason’s tracker. I… I can’t find him.”
The Batmobile slowed to a half on the rain-slick asphalt. Bruce’s fingers flew across the keys, hacking into the interference, overriding signal scramblers, rerouting frequencies, everything he knew and more. Fifteen minutes—or maybe an hour, time had no meaning—he battled the glitching feed. The engine hummed beneath him, tires still warm on the wet street, but all he could see was Jason, snatched from beneath him.
He grimaced, teeth grinding as he worked, mind racing. What is Joker doing? Why Jason? Why now? I let them get him. I let him—pull him out from under me.
Lines of code blurred across the screen. Every failed attempt to stabilise the signal made his chest tighten. Every flicker of the tracker teased him with the possibility—and the fear—of finding Jason too late.
Then, finally, a ping. Coordinates locked in.
Far from the city, deep into the industrial outskirts.
Bruce pressed his food down hard on the accelerator, Batmobile roaring as it sliced through the night.
A sharp ping cut through the tense silence of the Batmobile’s cabin. Bruce’s eyes snapped to the console. A single notification. No name—just a message flashing in neon green, jagged text that made his stomach tighten.
I see you’re far behind, Batsy…
He didn’t need to check the source. He knew it was the Joker. Without hesitation, he tapped it, and the screen blinked to life.
Jason.
Tied to a bolted rickety chair, his small frame wrapped in barbed wire that cut into his skin with every tremble. His arms were pinned, wrists scraped and raw, knees pinned to the wooden legs. The thin blindfold over his eyes made him flinch at every sound, every subtle movement.
And then he saw him.
Joker. Standing just beyond Jason, smiling with the glee of someone who’d been given everything he’d ever wanted. His hair clung in greasy tangles, his clothes streaked with grime and darker stains, the sour reek of sweat and rot hanging off him. He hummed a high, tuneless note that crawled beneath Bruce’s skin and stayed here.
He circled Jason, hands twitching, movements jerky and grotesque. There was always something rancid about him—like every pore of his skin oozed corruption, his pleasure drawn from other people’s fear. The room around him felt tainted, heavy, as if even the shadows didn’t want to touch him—his eyes glittered with the kind of mania that made the air itself recoil.
Then came the crowbar.
Joker twirled it like a cane, letting the metal click and scrape against the concrete. He leaned down, brushing Jason’s hair back with one filthy hand, speaking low and sing-song.
“You thought he was safe, Batsy… all your clever tricks, all your training…and yet, I grabbed your little bird right from under your nose.”
Jason flinched at the touch, a soft whimper escaping despite himself. The crowbar traced along the exposed skin of his elbows, shoulders, knees—just light contact for now, enough to tease, threaten, make every nerve jump.
Jason growled through clenched teeth, then jolted back sharply as the barbed wire cut into him. Pain, fear, and instinct collided in a harsh whimper that made Bruce’s chest tighten.
Joker’s grin widened at the display. “Ohh, a spitfire!” He laughed, ragged and harsh. Then suddenly, without warning, he grabbed Jason’s face with his other hand, dirty fingers digging into his cheeks, jerking him close. “Just like Bat~man! Such spirit… so cute, so delicious… but oh, so fragile.” He said manically.
Right before throwing Jason back against the chair, he leaned in closer, dragging a long slick of his tongue on his cheek. Jason whimpered with a grimace. Joker laughed harder.
Bruce’s knuckles whitened under the leather of his gloves as he gripped the steering yoke, jaw locked. “Hold on,” he whispered to himself, voice wavering with deep rage and fear. “Just hold on.”
The Batmobile screamed over slick asphalt. Bruce pressed the foot pedal to the metal, growling with frustration, tires slicing through the night. Time stretched, warped, slowed. Every second on the feed felt like an eternity.
On the screen, Joker hummed again, twirling the crowbar idly, eyes glinting with manic delight. But his attention wasn’t just on the weapon. He leaned close to Jason, brushing filthy fingers along the boy’s shoulders and arms, tracing over exposed skin like a grotesque, predatory pet.
Jason flinched at every touch, a frightened whimper slipping past his lips. He tried to shrink into himself, to make himself small, but Joker followed his movements, circling, watching, humming that high, nasal tune that made Bruce’s stomach burn in disgust.
“You think you’re brave, little bird?” Joker whispered to the camera, tilting his head with a twisted smile, his hands lingering too long on Jason’s sides, his fingers curling around barbed wire. “Oh… I do love it. All that fire… all that fight… even as you bleed, even as you strain… it’s just… delicious.”
Jason shivered, trying to turn his head away, but the blindfold limited him, and every movement only drew Joker’s attention more.
“You’ve been so very brave, little bird,” Joker whispered, voice low and wet, dirty fingers brushing along Jason’s bruised arms. “But I do love breaking spirits… and boys, too…”
Jason jerked, trying to pull away from Joker’s disgusting touch, but the movement caught on the barbed wire. He hissed sharply, inhaling through gritted teeth, before a tiny, broken sob escaped him—more from the implication of Joker’s intentions than the pain itself.
Joker’s grin widened, teeth glinting, eyes sparkling with manic delight. He leaned forward slightly, letting the moment linger, savoring the reaction, before standing as he erupted into a sharp, ragged laugh, wet and repulsive.
Bruce felt bile rise in his throat, stomach twisting with revulsion. Helpless fury and horror clawed at him as he watched Joker’s fingers trail over Jason, every movement erratic, invasive. He could do nothing but drive, the Batmobile screaming over slick asphalt, every second stretching endlessly, every mile a countdown.
Joker hummed once more, circling Jason and twirling the crowbar lazily, eyes sparkling with malice. Then, suddenly, without warning, he gripped it like a baseball bat and swung it into Jason’s ribs.
Jason screamed, a raw, wrenching sound that tore through the feed, and the chair rattled violently as the barbed wire cut deeper into his skin.
The crowbar came down a second time with a crack. Jason’s scream echoed through the cabin, sharp and sudden, before breaking off into ragged breaths.
Bruce flinched hard, a choked sound leaving him as he smalled his fist against the console. “No—!” The monitor flickered with static, Joker’s laugh rising over the interference—high, wild, and triumphant.
“Oh, he heard that one!” Joker jeered, leaning toward the camera. “Did you hear it, Batsy? You did, didn’t you? That little crunch? Music!”
Bruce gritted his teeth, fury clouding his vision as the Batmobile tore through the empty streets. The coordinates blinked ahead—five minutes out. Five long, impossible minutes.
On screen, Jason’s head hung low, shoulders trembling, the blindfold darkened with tears. Still, he was breathing. Still fighting.
Joker paced lazily behind him, humming, every sound amplified by the silence between blows. After a particularly harsh swing, Joker paused, his voice warm and manic as he turned back toward Jason.
“You’re doing so good, you know.” He leered, a bloody hand petting through his hair. Jason tensed, jerking away from his touch, forcing out a hoarse growl that only made the Joker laugh.
Joker swung the crowbar again, this time into his stomach. Jason folded with a strangled “ghrk,” bile spilling out as Joker laughed, delighted.
Bruce’s breath came short, heart pounding like gunfire. Every sound, every laugh, every whimper of pain clawed at his chest. He was close. He had to be.
Five minutes. Just five more minutes.
Static filled the feed—then sound. Wet, broken, uneven heaving. Joker’s voice echoing throughout the room. “I’m going to kill him, y'know, Batman!”
Jason gagged, spitting weakly onto the floor. The camera jolted, tilting sideways—just enough for Bruce to glimpse Joker’s wild grin as he lifted the crowbar again—
Then the feed went black.
Bruce slammed his hand against the console and screamed. “No—!”
The Batmobile screeched around the final turn, tires slicing through the wet streets. He tore through the gates of the warehouse, cape whipping behind him violently as he leapt from the car.
Empty.
Only the faint smell of blood, the metallic tang of it hanging in the air. The chair was still there—twisted, broken—but the room was silent.
He stepped closer, boots echoing across concrete. A drop of blood rolled off the seat into a thickly-formed puddle, still wet.
No body. No sound. No laughter.
Just the aftermath.
Bruce’s jaw clenched, a tremor running through him as rain pattered through the broken room. His comm crackled faintly—static, then nothing.
He was too late.
Or maybe—
Bruce swallowed hard, forcing himself to breathe. “Jason,” he rasped under his breath, scanning the shadows one last time.
No answer.
But he refused to accept silence as proof.
Jason was alive. He had to be.
And if he was breathing somewhere—anywhere—Bruce would find him.
He turned away, the word still caught between his teeth, fading into the hum of the storm.
Somewhere, miles away, a laugh echoed—faint, distorted—before Jason’s tracker went dark.
And there was nothing.