Surrounded by these black walls
WHO: Jason Todd
WHAT: Second nightmare. It's not pretty.
WHERE: ... In a coffin.
WHEN: 28 September early afternoon.
Batman had told him to stay where he was, to just watch - but when Jason saw his mother come outside to smoke, he hadn't been able to let the opportunity pass. She was his mother, his real mother, and they'd barely had a chance to speak once before the Joker had put her in danger. He had to get her out of there, get her to safety, so that... so that he'd have his mother and they could - he didn't even know, but he knew that he'd have nothing if he didn't try.
He didn't know that she'd betray him to save herself from jail.
She handed him over to the Joker once she knew he was Robin, to stop him and Batman arresting her for embezzling funds from the Red Cross. He was too stunned to even be mad - couldn't even find the words to voice how he wouldn't turn her in, she was his mother, and - then it didn't really matter. All he could do was try not to cry out as the Joker's crow struck him, over and over again, breaking bone and bruising flesh, sending jolts of pain through him to an extent he'd never felt before.
And his mother watched the first strikes fall before turning away, ash drifting from her cigarette.
When the Joker finished, he thought Jason was dead - Jason thought he was dead, or close enough. He hurt all over, sprawled on the floor in a pool of his own blood, hit so hard his costume had torn, but somehow he held onto the flickering edges of consciousness. He had to... he had to know his mom was okay...
But she wasn't.
He was only faintly aware of it, at first, but it steadily became more certain - the Joker was tying her up and leaving the both of them here, with... oh, no. A bomb. He waited until the Joker was gone before moving, painfully slowly but as fast as he could - bomb - to untie his mother. He ignored her protests that he needed to get out of there, focusing on one thing: saving her. He finally got the ropes untied and she helped him to the door, let him rest against the wall while she pulled it open.
But it didn't open.
The Joker had locked them in, and in the last few seconds, Jason was closer to his mother than he had ever been before, holding her and putting himself in the way of the blast, desperately trying to shield her from the explosion with his already broken body even though a part of him knew that he wasn't big enough, that he couldn't protect her enough.
That he'd failed her.
There was heat, and noise, and pain, and then nothing - it felt like the nothing went on forever, and lasted seconds. Then he was waking up in the dark, incredibly cold, and his shoulders bumped against something - padded, but firm.
And the pain was back, every injury burning with it in familiar places, his head feeling like it was going to split open and his face wet with blood.
He screamed, and it echoed in the small space. He punched upwards and hit - the lid. He was in his coffin, again. But this time, he wasn't alone - he realised there were bones poking into him, the smell of blood and rotting flesh mingling and threatening to turn his stomach. Because what he really needed right now was to vomit.
He was still screaming, he had to calm down and stop, think - he was in the same kind of neat black suit he'd been buried in the first time, from the feel of it, but there was a weight in one pocket - the journal. That would help. It had to.
He'd have to dig himself out again, there was no way out of that, but this time maybe there'd be someone waiting when he got out, instead of him being alone.
WHAT: Second nightmare. It's not pretty.
WHERE: ... In a coffin.
WHEN: 28 September early afternoon.
Batman had told him to stay where he was, to just watch - but when Jason saw his mother come outside to smoke, he hadn't been able to let the opportunity pass. She was his mother, his real mother, and they'd barely had a chance to speak once before the Joker had put her in danger. He had to get her out of there, get her to safety, so that... so that he'd have his mother and they could - he didn't even know, but he knew that he'd have nothing if he didn't try.
He didn't know that she'd betray him to save herself from jail.
She handed him over to the Joker once she knew he was Robin, to stop him and Batman arresting her for embezzling funds from the Red Cross. He was too stunned to even be mad - couldn't even find the words to voice how he wouldn't turn her in, she was his mother, and - then it didn't really matter. All he could do was try not to cry out as the Joker's crow struck him, over and over again, breaking bone and bruising flesh, sending jolts of pain through him to an extent he'd never felt before.
And his mother watched the first strikes fall before turning away, ash drifting from her cigarette.
When the Joker finished, he thought Jason was dead - Jason thought he was dead, or close enough. He hurt all over, sprawled on the floor in a pool of his own blood, hit so hard his costume had torn, but somehow he held onto the flickering edges of consciousness. He had to... he had to know his mom was okay...
But she wasn't.
He was only faintly aware of it, at first, but it steadily became more certain - the Joker was tying her up and leaving the both of them here, with... oh, no. A bomb. He waited until the Joker was gone before moving, painfully slowly but as fast as he could - bomb - to untie his mother. He ignored her protests that he needed to get out of there, focusing on one thing: saving her. He finally got the ropes untied and she helped him to the door, let him rest against the wall while she pulled it open.
But it didn't open.
The Joker had locked them in, and in the last few seconds, Jason was closer to his mother than he had ever been before, holding her and putting himself in the way of the blast, desperately trying to shield her from the explosion with his already broken body even though a part of him knew that he wasn't big enough, that he couldn't protect her enough.
That he'd failed her.
There was heat, and noise, and pain, and then nothing - it felt like the nothing went on forever, and lasted seconds. Then he was waking up in the dark, incredibly cold, and his shoulders bumped against something - padded, but firm.
And the pain was back, every injury burning with it in familiar places, his head feeling like it was going to split open and his face wet with blood.
He screamed, and it echoed in the small space. He punched upwards and hit - the lid. He was in his coffin, again. But this time, he wasn't alone - he realised there were bones poking into him, the smell of blood and rotting flesh mingling and threatening to turn his stomach. Because what he really needed right now was to vomit.
He was still screaming, he had to calm down and stop, think - he was in the same kind of neat black suit he'd been buried in the first time, from the feel of it, but there was a weight in one pocket - the journal. That would help. It had to.
He'd have to dig himself out again, there was no way out of that, but this time maybe there'd be someone waiting when he got out, instead of him being alone.