tw - nongraphic descriptions of self harm and depression (i think), i got carried away, sorry. No beta. 

~×~

{Inspired by the interactive movie, Death in the Family}

"Little did Dick know that the child in his arms would be the living reminder of a broken angel that fell from grace to the claws of insanity and the message of merciless judgement from hell.

Little did the man know he was harbouring the devil of Gotham, the Grim Reaper himself."

~×~

"You think that you'll die without him."

   Jason slammed his hands on the cool surface of the table that housed the Batcomputer, which steadily ran multiple programs like various local news channels, the Oracle facial recognition software and a police line synchronized with vigilante comms. Nightwing had just intercepted Harley Quinn, who managed to catch him off-guard by bringing Poison Ivy into the fight. Batgirl had arrived just in time to deliver the antidote to the poisoned pollen Ivy had puffed into his face, but too late to intercept Quinzel and Isley before they made their retreat.

"Dammit," he growled, knuckles white against the edge of the metal table, which bit into his palms like the sharp bade of a katana.

His palms were still wrapped from the last time he gripped the edge a little too hard.

"Master Jason," Alfred called out from where he was prepping a blood test for Nightwing, "I believe that goes to the jar."

Jason heavily exhaled through his gritted teeth. "Sorry," he forced out, committing the task to his memory and filing it for later. "It's just...god, we were so close."

Alfred had come to his side, a gloved hand gently resting on his shoulder as if he were made of fractured glass. The younger boy had removed his glasses to block out the rising anger from looking at the screens, which was basically removing his vision, so he tensed at the abrupt human contact. "My boy," the British butler softly said, "Master Bruce wouldn't want you to-"

"Bruce is dead," growled Jason as the sparking agitation and shrugged the hand off, "You don't know what he wants."

"I raised him, if there were anything I would know it would be what he thinks."

"You weren't there when he died," he snarled, twisting in the wheelchair he was confined in to face Alfred, who was a black and white blur against the expanse of darkness and light. "You weren't there when he died in my arms! Mine!"

He could see the flinch in the butler at the echoes of his words and felt some sick pleasure in knowing he won the battle. With a content huff at the sound of an engine cutting off whatever Alfred was going to say, he turned to pick his glasses up. "Help Nightwing," was his only words, "I'll look for Quinn."

Jason sat alone once again, coldness trailing their fingers against his skin as the heat the old man had been radiating disappeared. Shadows curled on the edge of his vision, contrasting against the flickering red of the coiled rage of his undying thirst for revenge that guided him every day past Ethiopia. Slipping the black-framed glasses on his nose, determination festered within him.

He could find the Joker and kill him, feel the blood smeared against his hands as he would slowly kill the maniac, but it was too easy. He would be the clown's living hell; he would haunt the psychopath's nightmares like how Bruce haunted his. He would ruin everything that deranged clown had. The freak would always look over his shoulder, every shadow would be a remembrance of the deaths he inflicted, of the pain. He wouldn't kill the Joker, no.

He would strip the murderer layer by layer until there was nothing left of him but a snivelling, pathetic mess.

Everyone would be grateful.

Jason would be grateful, even if it meant ruining his life.

That was okay. Every good deed had its consequences. Everyone cannot be pleased. It does not matter if he gets labelled as insane or evil. If everyone he knew hates him. He doesn't care if he was selling his soul to the devil, or what remained of it.

He only cares that Bruce is avenged because Jason left his soul with the broken body in Ethiopia.

Jason Todd was dead, and in his place was something angry and ready for the sweet taste of revenge.

Revenge was best served blood red.

"You fear that you'll lay alone forever."

   The Joker surfaced after five months of hiding with a large, stupid grin on his pasty face and the detonator to a bomb that would bow up a selected group of orphanages, banks and the GCPD. Everyone had been called in to help, all but Jason. He had been allowed out of his wheelchair and was now gifted with crutches along with daily physical therapy. He pushed himself over the edge every day, fueling the raging fire within him. There was a new Robin – Timothy Drake, the Wayne's next-door neighbour – that fought by Grayson's side, the classic dynamic duo. Jason was happy to pass that demon of his onto the squirt, hoping that Drake would leave him alone.

It didn't.

Timothy had stuck to Jason like glue, blabbing about everything under the sun including gushing about how awesome Jason was. How awesome Robin was. Certain things got under the older teen's skin, sparking annoyance which led to a particular instance that made Jason snap at the kid. Guilt gnawed at him for days, his fingers twitching over the Batcomputer's keyboard in order to open the abundance of files he had pulled up on the Drake to find something that would be a good apology gift.

He deleted everything and took a trip to Drake Manor to apologize in person, thus uncovering Timothy's greatest secret.

Ever since then, Tim had lived in Wayne Manor, which belonged to Alfred who tried to give it to Grayson. Somehow, through a whole legal case, Jason had gotten possession of it despite only being sixteen and disabled.

Not that Timothy cared, of course. He was so alone, so broken despite not knowing it. Jason had been building a case against the Drakes, a file was sitting on the archives of the Batcomputer collecting dust until they reared their ugly heads from wherever they travelled to.

A matter of time, was all Jason thought, then you can concentrate on the Joker.

It was nothing but a side project in his long game of chess. Nothing was important as the Joker, as Bruce.

So, when the clown popped up on live TV, all focus on anything else disappeared. The Batcomputer was staring at him before Jason could even process what happened.

Your chance, cold lips moved against the warm skin of his ears, cold fingers trailing his back and horrible laughter filling the abyss, kill him, end it.

Too easy, he responded, he deserves worse.

And so, Jason started coordinating his attack on the Joker, moving the first piece. There was always someone behind the scenes, tugging and cutting strings to suit them. That was Jason. Every attack was for a greater purpose, every life was optional from here on in.

The darkness was too great to defeat, so he embraces it like how easily Bruce embraced death.

He was on a path that goes through hell and no angel or devil can stop him now.

"We have him," Grayson breathed with a tone of shock and relief as Jason leaned into the cushioning of his chair, lips in a thin line with malicious glee floating behind the dark shield of his swirling blue eyes, "We have the Joker."

"We're okay," Timothy said as if to comfort Jason, who needed nothing of the sort, "It's all over, Jason."

He leaned over with an uncontrollable grin slipping his cheeks and wetness building in his eyes, "I know, baby bird, I know."

That night he laughed and sobbed in the emptiness of Bruce's room, blood trickling on his arms with a sinful grace.

"With a little faith, your tears turn to ecstasy."

   The visit to Arkham Asylum was off the books, quieter than the sound of an owl in daylight. Jason was strong enough to wobble on one crutch stealthily, for Bruce's training was more stubborn than Robin. A simple domino mask rested on his eyes, a red hoodie was pulled over his raven hair and covering his bandaged arms. The guards said nothing, only a simple nod to signal that the cameras were now non-functional.

Money was good in a corrupt city like Gotham.

He stopped before the Joker's cell in intensive lockup, watching the green-haired murderer sleep. It would be so easy to kill him right then and there, to slit his throat or suffocate him.

He didn't deserve that simple mercy.

With another nod, the lights went off, emergency lights kicking in without the blaring noise of the alarm. The freak stirred, apparently not that much of a deep sleeper. Pulling out one of Bruce's many army knives, Jason flipped the blade and walked over to bars, musing at how there was no gaps as plexiglass filled them all.

Then he dragged the knife against metal, shivering at the ghastly noises with warped fascination.

That woke the Joker, who had a moment of bleary confusion before realizing what was unravelling before him.

At least he thought he did.

"There we are, the second Boy Wonder!" he cried with faux glee, "I've been waiting to talk to you!"

Jason could not find his voice or the strength to speak as he felt trapped by that wide, horrifying and grotesque smile. Joker noticed this and continued, "Saw you have a stand-in. Gotta say, I noticed your replacement is much more careful than his predecessor."

He said the next word with an enraging pout, "Pity."

No dead Robins, Jason Todd whispered from his confides of death, no dead Bats.

Kill him, screeched in his ears once more, end it all.

"Pity," Jason echoed, voice dragging against the hollow of his throat like nails on a chalkboard, "that you are in there."

"Indeed," he crackled, "I'm sure Harley is hatching some plan to break me out of here!"

"How can she," Jason growled, letting anger form his words, "If she is the one that is broken?"

The Joker had a short lapse of quiet – Jason refused to read it as concern, the clown was past that – before his stupid laugh bubbled out, dousing Jason and threatening to pull him to the past.

No.

"Good one, Robby boy!" he giggled.

Jason drew his knife along the metal pipes, grounding him in the Asylum. "Who said I was joking?" he asked, tilting his head, "After all, you are the one that makes the jokes, not me."

He shrugged, but Jason was not convinced. "I don't need Harley, she's mostly a thorn in my side."

"So, if you lost her, you wouldn't care?"

"She's just a goon," he laughed, "Just as dumb as them, too. I'm sure she could be replaced."

Jason grinned like a child on Christmas. That was what he needed, and he got it.

The lights went dark, but when they came on the broken bird was nowhere to be seen. This elicited a laugh from the Joker. "Just like your old man!" He shouted as the flame within Jason grew to a raging forest fire.

"Wonder how the Joker is doing," the clipped Robin chirped at breakfast the next morning, eyes puffy with a wide grin dancing on his lips as the others shared looks of concern and disbelief across the table, "Hope he got all settled in. After all, he will be there for a long time."

"Let the beat carry away, your tears as they fall baby."

   Jason didn't waste any time on his conquest to ruin the Joker, starting with Harley Quinn. Despite not being able to walk without at least one crutch, he managed to sneak around Gotham in broad daylight. After months of deep research (more like a day or two, she lacks all concepts of stealth) he found out where Pamela Isley's rented apartment was after learning that Quinn was staying with her.

He slipped through the balcony door, carefully taking in his surroundings and every available exit strategy out of sheer bat-paranoia, as Grayson normally puts it. Plants nearly covered every inch of the place, sunlight streaming in and coating the place in a blanket of warmth.

Arms wrap around his broken frame, warm against the freezing, bruised skin as soft words in a familiar voice whispered comforts into his ear-

"Who are you?" A strong voice demanded, the green bursting to life and surrounding Jason.

Hm, the heavy hitter was home.

"You wouldn't touch me," he calmly responded eyeing the threat, "You can't."

"Oh?" Green skin and red hair emerged, a snarl dancing on beautiful features that has killed men and women alike. "Why not?"

"Because Harley owes me." She didn't stop Joker. She didn't prevent Bruce's death.

"Do I look like Harley to you?" She snapped.

"No, but I know she's here," Jason glanced around, calling out into the abyss of forest, "Just like I knew you were in Ethiopia."

Silence filled the room as the plants froze, air tense and crackling with energy.

"R- Robin?" Another voice called out, layered with a Brooklyn accent.

"The second, Quinn. Why don't you come so we can talk? We didn't get much of an opportunity in that warehouse."

"She does not-"

A pale hand rested on a green shoulder. "No, it's okay," Harley Quinn softly and wetly said, stepping closer to Jason, who pushed away the coils of anger that howled for blood, until she was right there. "Hiya, kiddo."

Jason resisted the suffocating rage and bit his tongue until he tasted copper, opting not to say anything and simply shove a recorder into her arms, which had a large ribbon on it like a birthday gift. Content with the way she grasped it with a stunned face, he turned heel and walked right out, the plants shying away from the boy.

"Thanks for nothing," he spat, unable to contain himself as he pulled the grapnel from his hoodie and sending the clown one last searing look of hatred before allowing the device to pull him away.

When he sank into the cool comforter of his bed back in Wayne Manor, the adrenaline rush ended and so came the crash. Overused limbs ached, his head swirling from the ecstasy of completing the first step of his plan.

Hopefully.

In the haze of exhaustion, he glanced around the room and felt disgusted at the childish design of it. Posters of various books and Broadway plays littered the room, his old books rested upon the dresser and a vast collection of tacky snow globes gathered dust on shelves. Remains of a foolish boy that went to Ethiopia. The mark of an ignorant youth.

It had to go: Jason was no longer a child.

He was a man on a daunting mission.

Warm fingers grasped a cold watch which rested on the table near his bed, pads dragging across engravings and aged leather with a calming sense of familiarity. Jason brought his lips to the frigid surface, brushing them against the worn-out metal and broken gears. "It's going to work," he whispered to it, chapped lips scraping and tugging painfully, "It's going to be okay. It's going to be all right."

Dick found his ward clutching Thomas Wayne's watch with tears streaking down his face. Climbing onto the bed, the first ward of the dead man gently pulled the younger into a hug while stroking curly hair and tracing patterns on the scarred skin of a scarred boy. Both cried that night, and nothing was said but the comfort of each other's presences. The whole ordeal ended in an uneasy slumber that came as easily as it left.

Quiet, tense, and hopeful.

No different to an oncoming storm that threateningly loomed overhead.

The dark, thundering one that was Jason's revenge.

The thought itself made a wide smirk stretch on his lips amongst the salty streams of tears that soaked Grayson's shirt.

"Open up your heart to me."

~×~

this was a part of a side activity I've been doing. drop a word and i will write something based off that word!

p.s - this is for you, @StartOfTheEnd.

p.s.s - how does a sequel to this sound? anyone?

p.s.s.s - i could do certain scenes in more detail

p.s.s.s.s - i might just do both anyway.

https://youtu.be/C14oQ3zSTnA

fic based on this song↑