souvenir
Taken from this log @ C&C. Without reading the RP log, it is still probably clear that Slade has dosed Jason with his whatever hallucinatory chemical thing. (I'm so eloquent.) The log is... even stranger, okay. Consider: if you could give Jason Todd a superpower, what would you give him?
Eyes open, he's sixteen again and he sits up, listening for Bruce rather than looking for him. Because that's how he's learned to do it- no, that's not right, he's not sixteen anymore, Bruce let him die-
When his guard is down he still reacts like he's in training, even though it's been years, so many (not so many...) years of anger and confusion, but he's standing anyway, he touches his shirt and tries to remind himself: I'm almost 20. I dreamed I was trapped in a city in another universe. No, I really was trapped in a city in another universe-
Before he can get farther along that train of thought, darkness skirts the edges of his vision and he turns to follow it without quite managing to catch sight of who it is. Then, blinding pain and he's on his knees, gasping for breath with his head in his hands, his head is going to crack open and bleed plastic all over his skull. The Joker raises the crowbar again, and like a mutilated slide show, his image skitters to the side, replaced with that of himself beating the Joker. But every blow reverberates in his own head, and all he knows is he's failed again.
Jay.
He doesn't sound like that, Jason tells himself. He's just a man. He's not shadows over granite heaps, empty gratings, a whisper of a lost child, nothing timid but accusatory; his voice isn't shifting like black sand, it doesn't come from all around, Jason knows these tricks, he can do them himself-
The line of tension in the air widens, swallows up space and expands into the shape of his cowl, cape fading before it hits the ground. Empty eyes, no face. More than Jason could ever be. He can't get off his knees, can't fight the surge of fear and anger the apparition provokes. It is a silent charge of his crimes, his failures. It is all Bruce has left for him.
"I did it for you!" He grits, but it makes no difference, and speaking makes his head hurt worse. A thousand things that he is settle restlessly about him, a cloak of insects close to his skin. Killer. Mutilator. No one's son. Red Hood. Robin. Jason. Jay. He flings out one hand to dispel the crawling fabric, distantly realizing it's not there and that he really is crazy- no. It's not crazy to want to fight who you are. He is no one's son. He is no one. But that voice keeps calling his name.
He doesn't want to hear it. Pressing his hands hard against his head, he shivers in anger, strange shaking that centers on his shoulders and upper back. The room is filling with dead people: people he has killed, people he hasn't killed, people he didn't save. And, he knows with sudden clarity, this is all happening for a reason. Slade is making this happen. Slade wants his 'dignity'.
"We all want things," he whispers, staring at the floor.
Fire. Gotham is burning...
"Dick, I just wanted..." Lost in his memories of New York, Jason shudders at the hallucinatory Nightwing's curt shake of the head. Too far, Jason. Too much.
Then he's choking on dirt, clawing his way upward with the taste of damp earth in his mouth, salt clay in his eyes. Six feet is an eternity. His head has a glowing crack of magma in it, seeping from the earth such that a red-haired battle goddess could spring forth, fully formed. He can hear the rain. The dark water extinguishes him, wood-wedged garnets steaming from the jagged jut of his fingernails. Oh, the finer things in life. He'd woken up one morning and barely recognized his hands. He didn't tell anyone. If they didn't know, they wouldn't send him away.
Eyes open, he's sixteen again and he sits up, listening for Bruce rather than looking for him. Because that's how he's learned to do it- no, that's not right, he's not sixteen anymore, Bruce let him die-
When his guard is down he still reacts like he's in training, even though it's been years, so many (not so many...) years of anger and confusion, but he's standing anyway, he touches his shirt and tries to remind himself: I'm almost 20. I dreamed I was trapped in a city in another universe. No, I really was trapped in a city in another universe-
Before he can get farther along that train of thought, darkness skirts the edges of his vision and he turns to follow it without quite managing to catch sight of who it is. Then, blinding pain and he's on his knees, gasping for breath with his head in his hands, his head is going to crack open and bleed plastic all over his skull. The Joker raises the crowbar again, and like a mutilated slide show, his image skitters to the side, replaced with that of himself beating the Joker. But every blow reverberates in his own head, and all he knows is he's failed again.
Jay.
He doesn't sound like that, Jason tells himself. He's just a man. He's not shadows over granite heaps, empty gratings, a whisper of a lost child, nothing timid but accusatory; his voice isn't shifting like black sand, it doesn't come from all around, Jason knows these tricks, he can do them himself-
The line of tension in the air widens, swallows up space and expands into the shape of his cowl, cape fading before it hits the ground. Empty eyes, no face. More than Jason could ever be. He can't get off his knees, can't fight the surge of fear and anger the apparition provokes. It is a silent charge of his crimes, his failures. It is all Bruce has left for him.
"I did it for you!" He grits, but it makes no difference, and speaking makes his head hurt worse. A thousand things that he is settle restlessly about him, a cloak of insects close to his skin. Killer. Mutilator. No one's son. Red Hood. Robin. Jason. Jay. He flings out one hand to dispel the crawling fabric, distantly realizing it's not there and that he really is crazy- no. It's not crazy to want to fight who you are. He is no one's son. He is no one. But that voice keeps calling his name.
He doesn't want to hear it. Pressing his hands hard against his head, he shivers in anger, strange shaking that centers on his shoulders and upper back. The room is filling with dead people: people he has killed, people he hasn't killed, people he didn't save. And, he knows with sudden clarity, this is all happening for a reason. Slade is making this happen. Slade wants his 'dignity'.
"We all want things," he whispers, staring at the floor.
Fire. Gotham is burning...
"Dick, I just wanted..." Lost in his memories of New York, Jason shudders at the hallucinatory Nightwing's curt shake of the head. Too far, Jason. Too much.
Then he's choking on dirt, clawing his way upward with the taste of damp earth in his mouth, salt clay in his eyes. Six feet is an eternity. His head has a glowing crack of magma in it, seeping from the earth such that a red-haired battle goddess could spring forth, fully formed. He can hear the rain. The dark water extinguishes him, wood-wedged garnets steaming from the jagged jut of his fingernails. Oh, the finer things in life. He'd woken up one morning and barely recognized his hands. He didn't tell anyone. If they didn't know, they wouldn't send him away.