Archive of Our Own

I.

The ending is this:

1. You die
2. You live, again. You come back wrong.

These things are simultaneously true. A lot of things are.

Above Gotham, the dark sky opens into a storm. The streets glisten, reflecting the amber glow of streetlights, and life for the people walking among them continues as it always has.

Across time, in every direction, that same Gotham rain seeps into the cemetery earth, through to an empty grave. It is empty because the boy has not died yet. It is empty because he already has. He died long ago.

But still there is a grave. There has always been a grave.

Across time, in every direction, you see your entire life before your eyes.

You almost go home. (you can’t). You forgive your father. (you try to). You sit by a grave. You take the hit. You pull the trigger. You wait for a train.

The bell has not yet tolled. You hear it echo. This is your ending, and you know it. You’ve always known it, to some extent, though always too late to change it. But still. You could sense the story happening, as everybody else began to tell it.

II.

You lean forwards from your place on the underground platform, craning your neck to stare down the track. You do not see a train.

But knowing is a funny thing. You know there is a train, hurtling down the tracks. You cannot see it, hear it. It has not happened. You stand here, still, and dread it.

You do not look the other way. You know what awaits at the end of that line, too.

The pockets of your bulky leather jacket are empty, save for your smashed up brick of a phone. You didn’t buy a ticket – not that you could have. Park Row station died long before you (were born), after all. The city didn’t see much value in trying to keep it running.

So, you just jumped the turnstiles. You used to do it all the time, back when you’d come down here for shelter on stormy nights.

You check the time mechanically. 6:34. April 27^th. The train is late, by now. But you aren’t bothered.

Waiting, watching, is the point.

In the tiled echo-chamber of the subway, your phone rings –

                         and rings out.

Your fingers twitch, like they never do on the trigger. You force them to still.

The train rushes through the silence. The windows are clear, and the seats are empty. It doesn’t stop, the words “Carriage Full” flickering on each car as it thunders through. Every carriage is full. The emptiness is bursting.

And you remain on the platform, still.

The train keeps going. Slows.

You slow.

Amidst the metallic rustling and the bright blur of the lights, you see something on the other side of the platform.

It flickers in and out. Flicker. There and gone.

It’s a figure, a shadowy-red smear against rusting steel and neon lights, visible only in those moments when that void between train cars opens before you. It lingers longer and clearer each time.

You know the answer before you see the evidence. Know the end before the telling, as and before it begins.

The spectral child stares. They do nothing but stand across from you, blinking in and out of existence, flickering between states. 

As still as when they died.

As still as when you did.

As still as when you (them) killed them (you).

The train passes, and the humming fades into the distance.

And you are left alone.

III.

This world does not care if you are guilty. You don’t either – not anymore. You remember the first time you hit someone – you were nine, maybe, and scared witless – but you don’t remember when you learned. ‘Too young’ is the general theme of your life, you suppose, and it works as an answer here pretty well. Maybe you always knew.

And here you are again. Barely been back in Gotham for a couple of years, and her cruelty back in your blood. It never really left.

Or, rather, it definitely got worse.  

Dying tends to do that.

The man (monster?) hits you back, and it’s a familiar feeling. You taste familiar blood. It tastes like it always has, and it shouldn’t. You’re a different person now.

You don’t cry.

You were always a half-feral, scrappy kid, and that hasn’t changed either. You bite him. You taste foreign blood. But this too, is familiar. You grin, despite your fear, and know what you look like. The Joker hits you again, then lunges for the kid behind you.

He’s dressed up in your old colours, the bomb still armed and fastened around his neck.

Not Robin. Not again.

Your hand closes around a pipe, sitting expectantly on the floor. It’s familiar. You don’t allow yourself to flinch. You hit him. Again and again and again.

IV.

Some things just don’t change. The alleyway, with its filth and general ambience of criminal activity, for one. The vigilante in the alley, you suppose. Or just you. It’s a pretty Jason Todd place to be.

There’s been another fight here. Another death. Oops. You don’t really regret it, though.

For another similarity, there’s a kid. There always is.

Resisting the urge to kick the trafficker’s corpse as you step over it (barely, but still), you kneel down, taking off your helmet and setting it aside.

Your hands hover after that, almost reaching out awkwardly, before you decide to just rest them on your knees, deliberately in sight.

“Got a name?” you ask.

The kid looks down, then shakes their head. You start to nod, slowly, trying to find the words. “Okay. That’s okay.”

You stand, still covered in blood. Yours, theirs. Who fucking knows. “I’m Jay.”

The kid grips your outstretched hand, seemingly unbothered. They stand, swaying slightly, a thin whisp in the air of the Gotham night. You don’t remember ever being that small. You couldn’t have been.

“D-don’t let them take me back,” they say, and their voice is so, so small. They cling to your hand tighter.

You squeeze back.

V.

You’re a fifteen-year-old runaway, and you think you’ve already died.

Wait.

That might not be quite right. That was earlier; never mind. Before everything, before Ethiopia. Or was it? It could be right.

Let’s figure this out.

You’re a fifteen-year-old – true. Maybe. The gravestone confirmed the dates, although months have passed since then. But you’re pretty sure you've remained unchanged by time, suspended outside of it.

You aren’t quite sure where you are right now. A thick fog envelops your mind, and you are left adrift within it. You blink slowly.

Runaway – also true. You ran then. You are running now. You cannot go home, and you know it.

You think you’ve already died.

A or B? Forehand or backhand?

Yes. You know it.

Maybe nothing changes, ever. Maybe you live the same story, the same way it was told.

Yes. You know it.

You’re in the last carriage — none of the others opened. Carriage Full. Carriage Full. Carriage Full. So, you chose this one. For a certain definition of ‘choose’.

It’s on the nicer end of train carriages, you think. Well lit. Spacious. All whites and greys and watered-down green. It has steel poles and hanging handles for standing, and you use them, even when the seats are empty.

You think, also, that it has far too many windows.

The one at the end of the carriage looks back at the track, at the station left behind. The opposite window looks into another carriage, and another after that. You opt look at that instead. At the rows of seats – mostly empty – and the few people who occupy them, still and silent.

You grip the pole tightly – you can’t quite reach the hanging handholds, even on tiptoes – but your hand slides down the stainless steel, smearing red over the mirrored surface. The train car rattles, and the lights flicker. You blink, slowly, and the red is gone.

The train grinds to a shrieking stop. A staticky automated voice announces “Now arriving at Bowery Station. This is the East End line travelling express to Gotham East Station.”

The few people leave. And you are left, alone.

You don’t get off at this station. You will have too though, soon. Beneath the fog in your mind and your blank eyed stare, you know this. You know many things.

Soon, a station will approach, unannounced, and you will pry open the doors and throw yourself onto the platform, as the train continues to speed past.

It will hurt.

And years later, you will stand on the same platform, and stare across at the apparition of a child; at the ghost of a boy who looks just like you did, mere days before you ran away.

It will stare back, at the terrible thing you’ve become.

This, too, is your ending.

You know it. You always have.

VI.

You know the end, when it arrives. How could it be anything else? The scene plays like it always does – in memory and in prophecy.

Screams echo on the steel walls, then fall away to silent sobbing. Your arms are heavy with fatigue, but they move without you meaning to. They swing down.

Everyone calls it a warehouse, but you can only see a slaughterhouse, just as you remember.

A factory of death, the concrete floor already stained with rust before any of this began.

The crowbar falls again, and finds its mark with a blood-curdling crack. The scream has sound again as it’s ripped, raw and bloody, from the little Robin’s throat.

You remember this part. Of course, you remember all of it. Remember crying for you father, so certain he would come. You don’t know why. You never used to think like that, before meeting him. It was better like that. It hurt less.

He ruined you.

You remember how it felt, as the hook of the crowbar pierced your skin, as it pried apart the flesh and viscera of your chest.

You stand over the child in the kill pit, surrounded by pens and the labyrinthine turns of narrow, fenced lanes. You remember once reading that the idea is that if the animals don’t see what lies ahead, they won’t know, so they won’t panic. You’ve never believed it. They’d know, surely. You did.

You knew. Too late, but you knew, once you were there. You just couldn’t do anything about it.

You can imagine your mother, half-smoked cigarette in hand, as you stand in her place. You can still see the kid hovering by her side, in bright Robin colours, eyes wide and trusting, ignoring everything in him that Knew. You remember feeling impossibly young, as she petted your little calf head. Before her touch turned cruel. Before the crowbar, in the hands of a madman, cracked it open.

You realise you’ve stopped. The crowbar, glistening red, hangs by your side. The child tries to drag itself to the door.

It’s a nightmare, probably. Or you’re losing your mind. Either way; you live it again.

You’re alone, now, and the ticking seems louder. It echoes off the towering steel walls as you kneel down.

You cup the child’s cheek in your hand, but his eyes are clouded with pain. He keeps crying, keeps screaming.

Like he always has.

You might be crying as well. You can’t tell if the tears are the same.

Your mother did not comfort you. So, you live this again. Again, and again and again.

But part of you enjoys it. This is a dream, a wish, a relief, as much as it is a nightmare. You are your own grim reaper. A killer and saviour of children.

You cradle the broken robin’s fractured head, as his mouth opens and closes wordlessly, eyes glassy and far away. You know the name he tries to mouth, as blood bubbles over his lips, and it makes you sick. For a second, you look away.

But child keeps crying.

And still, your father does not come for you. Why would he?

You and the boy who is Robin — but won’t be, soon — watch the seconds tick down.

The boy closes his eyes. He knows the end. Like he always knew it. He can’t change it. No one can.

You don’t. You watch.

Your father never comes for you. Batman will come for the corpse, you know. And he will love it, in death. The way he cannot love you.

VII. Interlude.

Listen. It’s nothing personal – not from the three of us. How else could your ending be written?

Look around you. Look at our production line. At the sliver thread, on ancient looms. Look at our human code, our 1s and 0s, our yes/no buttons. The telephone numbers – two of them, in 1988. Look at the book, at the ending – you’ve read it, right? It was written long ago. Look at your life. Look at the corpses in the corner.

This is a universe factory.

VIII.

You wake up in the dark.

You don’t know where you are. You died. It was over. You knew it.

Yet here you are. Wherever here is. You start to reach up, but your hand bangs against something firm. Your stomach drops.

No.

You hit it again. And again and again and again. Your heartbeat – the miracle that it is – thunders in your ears, loud and far too fast, and you think you are going to throw up all over yourself in your coffin, and you can’t breathe, could you ever –

It would be so cruel, to die like this. To be given a second chance, then have it snatched away. To be dealt another loosing hand.

You don’t die.

It was still cruel.

You lie on your back, collapsed over your tombstone and the dug-up earth, and stare up at the sky, hanging low and dark and heavy above you. There are no stars.

You wonder if you ever left the grave at all. But you breathe deep and clear. Again and again, you keep breathing.

You roll over, trying to get your knees under yourself, trying to get your broken legs to stand. Once again, your hands press into the damp, dark earth.

The hole in the ground sings to you. There is a gaping space where a dead boy used to be. But you are here. Pain shoots through you, as you try to stand. The darkness laps at your mind, but you don’t collapse, stumbling to the cemetery gates. You’re fading, you can tell, your awareness dipping below the waves of fog.

You walk down the road.

But you never truly leave.

IX.

You’re twelve years old, and The Batman has bought you a burger. It’s as weird as it sounds.

He sits across from you in a shitty diner booth. The bat themed paramilitary outfit makes even less sense in like, a normal building, with (mostly) working light bulbs, and a shitty speaker next to the counter playing pop hits from five years ago. You can see him, for one thing; make out details and everything. He’s like, clearly an actual person, even though he’s massive and still fuck-off scary. Just a little bit.

And he’s just…sitting there. He’s not eating (does he even eat?? Can he??). He sits attentively, hands clasped together and resting on the table, in all its peeling laminate glory.

And when he speaks, asking if you have a place to go, if there’s someone looking after you, it sounds…. genuine, you guess. He speaks softly, nothing like the gravelly impressions you’ve heard from the guys in gangs and shit, and with a tremor of concern in his voice.

It’s nice and all, but kind of dumb. You can take care of yourself. You take care of other people. And sure, taking care of Mom didn’t end that well, but. You’d done a pretty good job, before that.

He’s a sucker, you suppose. Who parks a car like that in the alley? Who buys the thief a burger??

Who would give a flying fuck about Jason Todd.

Later, after a whole bunch of shit, he’s offering to take you home. To give you a place to sleep, and stuff to eat, and school, and you don’t even gotta pay.

He’s giving you Robin.

Something tells you it will end badly.

You go with him anyway, with butterflies in your stomach and stars in your eyes. Because there is a bad ending, you know there is one, and you know it’s pretty fucking likely. But you don’t know how you get there. Maybe this is the way out.

You cannot help but hope.

X.

Your… henchman, you suppose, limps away. You didn’t realise you were going to snap his leg before you did it.

There’s an anger burning in you, but you don’t see green – this has nothing to do with the pit. You don’t see much of anything at all. The everything within you simmers, you feel so much, you feel it constantly. It’s like a star exploding. You move without thinking.

It’s a habit, you suppose. One of your worse ones.

You can’t decide if you were always this cruel. Surely not. You were a child once. And children are innocent, no matter what, even by your rules. You were good once too, you think. And yet…

You must have done something. To deserve it.

XI.

Your father can’t love you. Either of them. They tried, sure, and look where it got them. Look where it got you.

It’s the early hours of the morning, and you’ve gone home for the night. The Batman hasn’t. You keep your curtains closed.

When you first came back to Gotham, you stood across from your father, your murderer between you, and told him to choose. You tried to recreate the story. You tried to change the ending.

You know, better than anyone, how the narrative works. You know that it won’t change; that the monsters will never die. Why would it? Why would they? We wouldn’t have a story.

You all go through the motions – the Joker, the Batman, your siblings and you. You enact what is written. And you do it again and again and again.

You know this. But still.

You want your father to love you more than his code. You want him to love you more than he loves being himself.

An identity is an easy thing to kill. Just look at you.

…Alright, you can admit it. He loved you once. He might even love you still, you can admit. It isn’t enough. You’ve had a lot of parents that loved you. And none that kept you safe.

So, it’s fine. Sort of. Not really. But it is over.

You’re playing nice – you haven’t shot at your brothers in months, even. The Bats are everywhere, and you tolerate it. You spend time with them, work with them. You are not, can never be, one of them.

Even now, in Gotham cemetery, there is a hole in the ground. There is an empty grave. The Robin vacancy is filled. But there is a room in the manor, there is a case in the cave; the absence is loud, and it never leaves.

You cannot return.

Even now, in the cave, there is an apparition. A good soldier. A memory suspended in time, living untouched while you rot.

But memory is a fleeting, changing thing; it is easier to make anew. To forgot about the facts of that boy’s life and his death. That he was the boy who left Felipe Garzonas fall, because it was better he died than hurt someone else, and Batman was never going to stop it. He was going to let it happen again.

They can imagine that he would react to his own death differently, if he were here. He would hate what you are doing. He does. You are not the same person. He remains dead. You killed him. It is so easy to pretend.

So fuck it all. You make a fantastic Medea. You’d strike a match on your life, to keep it for yourself. You stand here, burning, and they cannot look away. You do not let them.

It mattered.

Your father – the last one, the one that you’d never acknowledge as such aloud – has taken to perching on the fire escape outside your window. He had cameras, you know. But he sits there all the same. He does not speak.

He is out there right now, you think, but do not check.

You’ve been seeing him on patrol, but you both stay on separate, opposite rooftops.

You still do not speak.

You close your eyes when he looks at you.

You cannot breathe.

XII.

You know the end, when it arrives. It pulls right up at the station, like a train, except the trains never stop, not here, so it pulls right up at the station, unlike the train, like the train does not.

You blink, and you’re back on the platform.

The train passes. As does the child.

And you are left alone.

Your hands shake as you check your phone. One (1) Missed Call.

Unknown number. Maybe: Bruce.

You stare.

You don’t have to wonder how he got your number – it’s Bruce. Enough said. But you can’t fathom why he called. The Red Hood has been on playing semi-nice on bat comms for the past few months. Why call Jason?

As you stare, the phone screen dims, then goes dark. It becomes a mirror, enmeshed in spiderweb fractures.

You aren’t in costume right now. No Red Hood – you aren’t even wearing a domino. Maybe, if you would allow yourself to look, you’d see the same child in your new face. Or see the child they remember. And maybe you could drag your corpse home, and be loved for that child again.

You could haunt your family, instead of haunting this emptiness. Instead of haunting this body of yourself.

Maybe you could be forgiven.

You could leave the train station, and walk your own path home. To your safehouse in the Alley. To the manor, if you dare. Another city. Another life. Walk anywhere.

Time passes in every direction.

And you are breathing, still.