Jason Todd dies and the world deals with the consequences.
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Evil is like an invasive fungus. Cut off a head and a new one will sprout in its stead. Here or there, red or orange or blue, it will not matter. The network of its feet grows deep, breaking into the small cracks in the rocks and burying into the soil until it poisons the very water that feeds all life. Evil doesn't die, but sometimes… sometimes Bruce had the urge to try anyway. Burn it all to the ground. Dry the foundations. Destroy it all. Let it crumble and be reborn again. But there were people he still cared about, and he could not bring himself to take their hope from them.
It was because of love that he knew loss. Pain and hatred had infiltrated his heart, born of it. The love for his parents, his worst injury. Why had he allowed this to happen again? He let love back into his heart and now he felt every breath kill him with sharp clarity. Why were his hands coated in his enemies blood while his mind repeated the numb mantra of revenge? Usually he would have a different answer. Today, the reason was a name.
Jason.
That was why. His Jason. His kid.
He should stop, he knew. He needed to stop now, soon, before the consequences were irreversible. His knuckles felt raw and burning. The skin over his bones had burst open like too ripe fruit and now mixed with the scum under him. He couldn't stop. It wasn't even this fucker’s fault. He held onto the knowledge as he forced himself to stumble to his feet. He wasn't Joker. It was Joker he needed to hurt. Like he hurt. Like Jason had hurt.
Nevermind evil. Nevermind the fungus. This was a head he needed to pluck. Let a million Jokers be born from the stem. He would still spare the world the worst of them. The night was dark and quiet. The terrain around him, an unfamiliar fortress of rock, struck the sky in its impenetrable stillness. He let go of the man’s shirt. He plummeted to the ground and didn't come back up again.
Bruce breathed heavily, resisting the urge to dive back down for a final blow. His anger was a knife slicing him open. He could feel his insides cooling under the moonlight. Prometheus with his ribs splayed open. Who would finally strike him down and free him from the torture of the eagle and the ravenous hunger? No matter. For now, justice.
In its name he climbed the slope, feet traversing the hard terrain with steady determination. In his wake droplets of blood marked the path, and the red was like warpaint on a face. He tightened his fists at his sides. Thunder roared above like a beast on the prowl. Bruce appreciated the sound, so similar to the turmoil that clamored inside his own chest. Yes, he thought up at it, scream when I can't. Let them know, and at this he almost choked, let them know my son is gone, and I am coming.
The fortress came into view. A dilapidated thing, held together by dry mud and the guns that pointed down from the flat roofs. They could not stop him.
Shots fired, their blasts echoing in the air with deafening booms. Bruce dropped and rolled. He jumped to his feet and ran straight towards a piece of wall that jutted up from the ground. Shots relented for a second or two, but he would not let them reload. The second they stopped he was moving again, and he barrelled forward until he reached the building. He did not slow down, simply kicked up the wall, his inertia breaking gravity to bring him high enough to mount the edge of the flat roof. His cape fluttered behind him. The next round of shots left a string of smoking holes in the cloth. The bullets hit the men on the other side.
A man barked a word, raising a gun at him. The barrel aimed directly at his face. No. Not a man. A fungus. Bruce shot his arm forward and a batarang sliced through the air and flicked the firearm off his hands.
“You should die.”
He grabbed the man by the neck and pulled him up until he dangled like a doll from his grasp.
“I should kill you.”
The man's face mottled, turning red in splotches over his cheeks. He gaped like a fish, a strangled noise coming from his mouth. Bruce dropped him. The fall was higher than his quick climbing had suggested. The man bounced on the ground and went still, a thin trail of blood spreading from behind his head.
He could not dwell on it. If he had survived, it was fine. If he had not, it was just as well. It had not been his intention to kill him, but he would not save his life either. He pressed on, sliding down a wooden pole that once had supported electric cables. Bruce pulled a door open and let it clatter to the ground as the hinges gave under his grasp.
“Hello, Batman.”
His heart thumped in his chest.
Joker.
Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill him. Kill him. Kill him. KILL HIM. KILL HIM. KILL HI—
Something slammed into his side and brought him back to reality. Joker was under him, and his face was covered in blood.
“Stop it! Batman, stop it!”
Bruce turned to see the thing that had hit his shoulder. No. Not thing. Superman.
“You can't kill him.”
Bruce's eyes darkened, his heart thumping loudly in his ears as he felt his own hate poison every one of his senses.
“Why.” The word in his mouth felt foreign, as if he should not speak but growl. He felt like a wild animal pretending to be a human.
“Because the bastard has found a way to make himself indispensable.” The hero continued. His composure infuriated him. How could he stand there, clean and proper, dressed in the colors of a country that had let Batman be born?
“Why.” He repeated, and the dryness of his tone seemed to make Superman somewhat aware of his state.
Joker laughed. He laughed.
“No!”
Bruce had lost it again. His arms moved of their own accord, breaking teeth that would not could not laugh again.
“Stop, stop—!”
Clark pried his hands back until his arms were restrained in a perfect lock.
“Stop. Batman. Stop. I can't… I can't let you kill him. I'm sorry.”
Bruce's breath came in hot, heavy pants, and he could tell that some muscle in his jaw was ticking repeatedly.
“Let me… fucking… go.” He pronounced slowly.
Superman winced. The pity. The pity there was worse than the laughter. He threw his head back, colliding with the superhero’s nose. It surprised him enough to release him. In a second Batman's hand had drawn a knife.
Superman held his arm, the knife wobbling in the air as Bruce struggled to bring it down.
“I'm sorry. I can't let you do that.” Superman's hands grabbed the back of his neck, putting pressure on two spots on the sides.
“Fuck— no!” Bruce struggled, but the alien was impossibly strong. “No!”
Darkness creeped into his vision, blinding him. Still, he struggled.
No—
He felt himself grow weak. Joker must have woken up, because his laughter came again. It bounced inside his mind as he collapsed forward. It bounced and bounced.
Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha hahahaha ha ha ha…
‘Let me rest’, he thought, and the thought dissolved into his unconsciousness too. Perhaps out of mercy, the darkness finally overtook him.
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