Veridical Unreality - Part One (Out of Three)

- o0o -

"I don't know when they started – not exactly…"

- o0o -

"I think they've always been there, lurking beneath it all… triggered through every day events…"

- o0o -

"Dreams… nightmares… echoes… not of the past, but of a future which has yet to come…"

- o0o -

"Truthfully, I dread it, because I know… I know what awaits me…"

- o0o -

"But… having seen the path leading up to the distant future – however dreary it might seem – what am I supposed to make of it?"

- o0o -

"What would you do… if you already knew your own future?"

- o0o -

"Would you strive to change it?"

- o0o -

He is a kid of the streets, because even if he knows that there is still some kind of home for him to return to, he knows it will not last for long. He has already made preparations for the worst, because even though he fears it and even though he wishes it would never occur, he knows it will, eventually.

When he returns one day from a more or less lucrative day spent as a pickpocket, he finds his mother on the bathroom floor, dying from an overdose. He already knows it's too late, and even if he could technically run out and find someone to call an ambulance for him, he knows ambulances rarely dare to come into their area. He knows it's too late, and, finding himself powerless, he hates it even more.

Still, the day had been a fairly good one – financially, at any rate – and as such, he splits his earnings in half, using one half to secure some additional food supplies for himself and the other to pay off some neighbours to help carry his mother's body to the nearest graveyard and some additional for a shovel.

He spends the night digging his mother's grave.

When finished, he is so exhausted both mentally and physically that he passes out right on top of it, coming to only hours later, resuscitated by a sour taste and smell of vomit – his own, apparently – along with the sound of cawing of multiple crows up in the trees. He feels weak and tired, but he still pushes himself off of the ground, knowing it isn't his time to go yet.

- o0o -

For a while, he wanders aimlessly.

Then, he takes up stealing again, moving on from regular pick-pocketing to burglary.

Sometimes, he gets away unscathed. Sometimes, he does not, but either way, he makes a living, and even though it is not an easy one, he knows the alternative and prefers the former.

Occasionally, and more often from a distance than not, he watches the Bat and said bat's occasional companion – the teenage vigilante going by the moniker of Robin – and he knows them, somehow, even though they don't know him – not yet – and neither will they. He – Jason Todd – knows what their meeting will eventually bring about, and as such, he retains his distance, even though it proves difficult at times.

After all, in their eyes – though a petty thief and a young one at that – he is a criminal, and juvie does not sound very tempting to him. The streets may not always be kind to him or anyone else, but compared to what he has seen, the streets are much preferable to the alternative. His compelling circumstances aside, a crime is still a crime and he is a serial offender. It may not be in his blood – then again it might be, all things considered – but it is certainly in the way he was brought up.

His father – biological or not – had been a crook, and had worked as a henchman to some higher-ranked criminal in Gotham. He was also dead, and Jason knows that he will meet a similar fate unless he plays his cards right.

His mother – who hadn't given birth to him but been a far better mother to him than the one who had – had been Catherine Todd, but in the end – as he had known she eventually would – she took an overdose – accidental or not – and perished in his arms. He hates drugs; he hates them for taking his mother from him, first in a mental and spiritual sense and then in a physical one, but at the same time – through the eyes and experiences of the one in his dreams – he sees their potential.

Drugs are dangerous, but they're worth a whole lot of money. Besides technology and weapons, drugs are one of the highest rated commodities in Gotham and as such, the ones who are in control of the drugs are also in control of at least part of the city. He hates drugs, but he still realises that it is entirely possible to use a bad thing – such as drugs or threats of violence – to achieve something better than what could have been otherwise. Admittedly, it is not an ideal world, and the black-clad man the one in his dreams is up against is an idealist who refuses the practical in favour of embracing the ideal, creating temporary solutions instead of permanent ones since he has sworn not to kill while the one in his dreams has embraced a path of carnage and of striking true fear – one of death – into his adversaries.

As for his own path, he is still undecided, and all in all, it might be for the best, seeing that neither path appeals to him very much. Even so, he finds himself watching, knowing what will eventually take place, simultaneously waiting for and dreading it.

Years come and go, and at some point, the bird – Robin – seemingly leaves the nest, albeit temporarily, leaving the Bat to deal with the city singlehandedly.

Jason is still keeping an eye out for him – keeping an eye out for the big bad Bat – and he wonders, now that things have gone differently from him compared to the other, whether or not it'll soon be his own turn to face the Dark Knight of Gotham. So far, he has stayed clear of the man, but all in all, his own activities – most of which are by no means legal – have been getting a bit more attention as of late, especially after someone – some photographer – managed to capture him on film while wearing a very conspicuous red hoodie, giving rise to the moniker the Red Hood, a name which by no means helped him stay under the radar as much as he would have liked.

After a close call too many, he adds two automatic handguns he has stolen to his general arsenal, but they're far more of a last resort than anything else, seeing that automatic or not, there is still a certain amount of recoil to deal with, and even though he has taken care to keep himself in prime shape, it is still a whole lot for his still-growing body to handle. Still, though he rarely uses them – not to kill, at any rate – he finds that he is a surprisingly good shot. Initially, his hands shook a bit when handling them, but after the first few shots had been fired, it was as though he had adjusted to them – physically as well as mentally – and he wonders if it has something to do with the other him, seeing that the other him – the older him – seems so fond of them. However, knowing better than to rely on only one type of weaponry, he also carries a stolen taser as well as a few other gimmicks – tape and stuff – that he has managed to get his hands on fairly easily, things that don't inhibit his ability to move around.

Fancy moniker aside, he is a very minor figure in Gotham's underground, and he works alone, and most of the time, its greater patrons leave him alone, even though there have been occurrences when he has been forced to defend himself against either them or their goons when he – accidentally or not – finds himself a tad too deep inside their proclaimed territory. He also makes a point out of avoiding any direct confrontations with the Bat, fearing what such confrontations might result in, and as such, he cannot help but wonder whether or not there is a higher power out there mocking him when he finds himself the spectator of a drama where the Joker – or the Crazy Murdering Clown Bastard, as the other him hisses – has actually managed to capture the Bat – however that had happened – and is on the verge of inflicting whatever madness the man could possibly be planning when he – when Jason, as the Red Hood – soundlessly lands behind him and proceeds to nail him in the throat with a taser, observing with seeming calm how the man twitches slightly as the electrical current runs through him before crumbling to the floor, still twitching slightly for a moment before going completely still, indicating the loss of consciousness.

Jason is mildly puzzled by how quickly and how easily the madman goes down, even while knowing the clown won't be down for long. The man at his feet carries little but a shallow resemblance to the one plaguing his nightmares, even though he knows them to be one and the same, though the time for that has not come, and neither will it if he has any type of choice in the matter. Still, while knowing that and while knowing the devious nature of the other, he nudges the other's head ever so slightly, and as he attains no major reaction, a fair deal of tension drains from his shoulders and he tears his eyes away temporarily while keeping his other senses trained on the man in case the other would show any signs of coming to, and instead focuses his eyes on the Bat, finding himself being watched in return. Then, seeing that the Bat is still only halfway through freeing himself, the Red Hood saunters over to a nearby table where the Bat's utility belt is clearly at, and he swiftly relieves it of two pairs of bat cuffs before returning to the Joker, locking the cuffs in place before straightening up, watching as the Bat has already managed to free himself. He steps away from the Joker again and snatches a nearby grappling gun from the table, inspecting it briefly before once again focusing on the Bat, who to his surprise has yet to approach. "You should be more careful," he finds himself saying. "He's dangerous."

- o0o -

He doesn't remember how he got away from the Bat at that time, but he knows that it hadn't been easy for him. Still, he had managed to get away from him and had managed to stay that way for quite some time, but it seemed as though far too little time had passed since their last encounter when they met once again, one stormy night on a rooftop in Gotham.

He has been feeling off for days. Part of it is probably because he hadn't been sleeping lately, as he has been plagued by nightmares. Every time he nods off, he finds himself back in that warehouse – on the floor, bound and beaten to a bloody pulp, with that man standing over him armed with a bloodied crowbar – and then the madman – the Joker – is gone and then there are numbers – glowing numbers – ticking down, down and down until…

He is torn out of his reverie as another thunderclap resounds nearby and he shivers where he stands up on the ledge of the roof of a tall building with his thin clothes wet with rain and clinging to him seeing that he had lost his coat in a scuffle earlier that night, emerging from it with a few minor bruises and a missing coat, but then again, he had been ambushed and they had – largely – ended up in a worse state than he had up until the point when the cowards had called for backup, leaving the Red Hood to make a hasty retreat, taking to the rooftops as the scum of the streets rarely ventured up there and especially not when there was a storm brewing.

He has only just made it up to the rooftops before it starts raining, and once it starts, it pours, and with only his jeans, sneakers and his red hoodie to shield him from the elements, he knows that he shouldn't be standing where he is; he knows that he should be looking for somewhere hidden where he can dry off and further assess the situation before plotting his retaliation, but something keeps him there, even though each bolt of lightning and accompanying thunderclap causes him to startle where he stands dangerously close to the ledge.

He doesn't like lightning; it brings back bad memories, and reminds him of bad things.

There is another bolt of lightning in the skies and it is followed by a fair number of them in rapid succession, and the subsequent thunderclaps that resound following them rises to a tremendous roar which almost makes him feel like the ground is shaking beneath him, and when he finally opens his eyes – without realising he had even screwed them shut in the first place – he registers the presence of another person on the rooftop, and it is a dreadfully familiar one at that, but he still doesn't turn around to face them. Instead, he looks down, experiencing a momentary bout of vertigo before he finds himself and he turns his head ever so slightly as if to glance at the other out of the corner of his eye, even though he should really know better than to show the other his back.

He is tired – fatigued – to the extent that he wonders whether or not he would actually be doing himself a favour if he leapt off the rooftop here and now, because if he does so now, then maybe he would be able to avoid the fate of the other him, who was neither avenged nor allowed to stay dead once he had perished.

"Why did you come here?" His voice is barely more than a harsh whisper, but he knows the Bat hears him, because bats have sharp hearing even during conditions such as these. "What do you want?"

His only answer is silence, and he directs his eyes back to the cityscape below, silently contemplating his choices. In a heartbeat, he has one of his handguns out, uncocks it and them aims it at the seemingly unfazed Bat, his index finger already resting on the trigger. There is something distinctly familiar about the situation, but he pays it no heed; instead, he silently calculates the time it'll take for him to either take a shot or to point the gun at himself if such a need would arise. He will not go into either prison or juvie if he can avoid it, even if he has to take his own life to do it.

Seemingly aware of his reigning train of thought, the Bat finally speaks up. "Step away from the ledge."

It is not a request, but an order, and he finds himself snorting at it where he stands, lowering the gun but otherwise refusing to budge. "What's it to you, Bats? You don't care."

It is the other's voice rather than his own, the voice of one who feels like they have experienced the ultimate betrayal.

"What makes you say that?" the Dark Knight eventually inquires.

He is still dressed up as the Red Hood, but he is Jason through and through, and he turns around partially, watching the imposing figure of the Dark Knight of Gotham, his eyes narrowing at the sight. "Because it's the truth."

The other says nothing, so he continues instead, and he turns back to overlook the city as another bolt of lightning lights up the skies and is followed by another remarkable thunderclap. "One day, you might see it for yourself…"

"See what?" the Dark Knight repeats, and the sound of his voice is closer now.

Jason knows that he should be worried about this, but he finds that he isn't; he's too busy overlooking the cityscape below. "Ideals can blind even the best of men, not to mention the worst of them…" he says, and once again, he feels as though he is not the one speaking; he is just a medium through which the other Jason speaks, conveying words that were never said to another Batman in another time. "If you ever manage to see past yours, you'll know that I'm right – You don't really care, at all."

The other – the Bat – says nothing, but before Jason knows it, a heavy hand is just about to touch his shoulder and he cringes violently, swatting the offending limb away and raising the gun again, aiming it at the other. "Don't touch me!" he snarls, stepping to the side as stepping backwards would have been the same as stepping over the ledge and he still isn't ready for that, not even with the Bat all up in his face but still keeping his distance, approaching him much like one approaches a feral cat.

"You're shivering," the Bat says, keeping his distance though he is still far too close for comfort.

"Well, no shit, Sherlock," he snarls right back at him, taking another step away from him for good measure, even while knowing it'll hardly do him any good. "It's hardly any of your concern."

Before he knows it, a gloved hand has seized his wrist and dragged him away from the ledge, capturing his other wrist when he tries to tear himself free, capturing them both in one hand and forcing them against his chest while the other loops itself around his waist, trapping him against a much broader chest. At some point in the struggle, he loses his gun – vaguely, he hears it clutter against the floor – but he still struggles even though the other's grip on him is very much like that of a vice.

"You've been exposed to the elements for too long," the Dark Knight growls, stating the obvious.

Jason lashes out at him, though there's really little that he can do, trapped against the other's front as he is. "Let go of me, you bastard!"

"Let go of-…" It's no use. It's too much. He can't…

He can't possibly…

The Bat speaks again, but he can't hear what the other is saying; everything is blurring together. Another thunderclap resounds, and then he's gone.

- o0o -

It's warm; he's warmer than he has been for days, months even. Blearily, he opens his eyes, finding himself wrapped in a blanket of some sort while strapped into the passenger seat of a car he knows but has never been in. The Bat is there – in the driver's seat of the moving car – and though the man's attention is seemingly directed towards the road, he doesn't miss the look which is sent his way, signalling that the other knows that he has regained some degree of consciousness.

There are no cuffs on his wrists as far as he can tell, and that confuses him mildly, though after a few more moments of consideration, he draws the conclusion that in his current state, a mere seatbelt is enough to keep him right where he is.

"Two-Face killed my father…" he finds himself saying, and once again, he is left wondering whether or not he is actually the one speaking or if the words are another's altogether, seeing that they were originally one and the same and as such overlap despite the age difference. "With the rate he was going, it was bound to happen eventually… I knew he wasn't going to come back, so I took care of mother to the best of my ability."

"I tried to keep her away from the drugs, but I had to steal for us both and I couldn't do both. Six months ago, she overdosed, and by the time I found her, it was too late for me to do anything…" He is just rambling; he knows that, and he wonders if the Bat knows that as well. "So, what's it to you, Bat?"

"How do you know that Two-Face killed your father?" the Bat finally asks, ever the detective.

"It doesn't matter – not to me and not to you," he responds, letting his head fall to the side, averting his eyes. "I've 'fessed' up, so let me go."

The response to his demand is immediate and delivered without the least bit of hesitation. "No."

He closes his eyes, his awareness already fading. "If you intend to dump me into an orphanage or boarding school or juvie or whatever, forget about it. I'd rather kill myself than go to that kind of place…"

- o0o -

When he comes to again, he fully expects to find himself in some sort of facility, so the sight of the interior of a fancy bedroom – no, suite – throws him off momentarily before the pieces starts falling back into place, and the picture he sees is one which makes him sit up straight all too fast, and he feels like he's going to be sick for several moments before the nausea finally subsides.

There is a soft knock on the door, but he doesn't respond. Instead, even as he hears it being unlocked, he finds himself looking down at his hands, at his clothes – a pair of silk pyjamas he has no recollection of ever having been forced into.

Then, there is an ageing man – a butler – standing in the doorway. He realises he knows this man, even though he has never met him, and he is simultaneously stricken by two very different urges; the first being to run up and hug the man and the second to scramble the Hell away from him. Taking recent events into accounts, he goes for the latter. The butler – Alfred, the other reminds him, his name is Alfred – looks mildly surprised at this kind of display. "Will you be requiring anything, young sir?"

Jason just watches him warily.

- o0o -

He is wary about the man, about the place, about it all, but he finds himself warming up to them all eventually. They are all familiar to him in one way or the other, but they do take some getting used to and he is very uncomfortable, especially so whenever Bruce – the Bat's civilian persona – turns up while Jason is still confined to the room and largely to his bed for the first couple of days, physically weakened but still reasonably lucid once his initial fever had broken. The man – Bruce – talks more than his nightly counterpart. The Bat growls, and Bruce Wayne is almost chatty by comparison, trying to engage him into entering a bunch of seemingly innocent conversations about mostly casual topics. Jason mostly remained quiet throughout it all, limiting his responses to snorts and short sentences.

Then, when he is seemingly alone and awake, he gets up and sneaks out, making his way downstairs quietly with tentative but carefully measured steps. He hears the sound of the old man – of Alfred – in the kitchen, and he knows to stay clear of it, knowing well that the man would no doubt disapprove of this latest escapade of his. Alfred would no doubt disapprove, but Jason knows he cannot stay. He has to leave, for his own sake as well as theirs, and he does so quietly.

- o0o -

He has only just managed to get back on his feet again, having sought out and raided a few of his secret stashes to change his clothes and to rearm himself, picking his old life right up from when and where he had left it, when a dark shadow swoops down on him in a shady alleyway, and when he once again regains his senses, he is already secured in the passenger seat of the moving Batmobile.

The Bat says nothing to him – no admonishing, no nothing – and he is unsure as to whether or not he should be relieved or bothered by this.

Brought back to the manor, he makes two more escape attempts before seemingly giving in, temporarily resigning to the pitiful fate that has been carved out for him. Then, one day, Bruce presents him with a paper and a pen. He reads it slowly, his eyes widening in disbelief.

An adoption form? "No."

"Why not?"

Adopting him? "No."

"No?"

Adopting him? "You can't."

Why?

"I have the paperwork ready to be filed immediately if needed be."

"Why?"

Familiar eyes bear down upon him. There are hands clamped on his shoulders. "Because I care."

He doesn't understand it. "You don't. Not about me – just about what you think is right."

"What's wrong with doing what you think is right?" The man – Bruce – isn't listening to him; he doesn't understand. "Besides… I do care about you, believe it or not."

No.

"Jason…"

No.

"Talk to me."

No.

It isn't real – that future; he wants no part of it. He wants no part of it precisely because he knows it; he wants no part of it because even with the times of joy that would no doubt follow, it would all come to an end eventually and what came after that just wasn't…

If he accepted it, he would end up hurting not only himself but also the man in front of him and all those around him in ways unimaginable. He had already avoided the other Jason's fate once by staying clear of stealing the Bat's tyres, so why would he…

He feels his lungs constrict. He can't breathe. He really should already have seen it coming; he should already have taken precautions to make sure it would never be, but…

"Jason?"

He screws his eyes tightly shut, a hand clutching his chest. He wills the knot there to unravel once more, but his body won't oblige and only strives to continue suffocating him from within by cutting off his capacity to retrieve oxygen, reducing it to a bare minimum from which he could not possibly continue to sustain himself.

There are hands grabbing at him, supposedly to steady him, and the voice is there again – ever familiar, both in a comforting and dreadful kind of way – but he finds can't hear it properly. He feels like he is deeply underwater, even though he knows that he is not. "Jason!"

He is pulled back down before he knows it.

- o0o -

He feels like he is floating in darkness, somewhere above the greatest depths and the glimmering surface somewhere above him. Then, there are voices, muffled by interference. There is the voice of a man he both loves and dreads and of a woman who is also familiar to him somehow, even though he cannot quite place her. He feels himself twitch.

"Leslie, what's the verdict?" Leslie? Leslie who?

"It's hard to tell without the test results. It could've been a reaction to the stress he's been under, but I took a few blood samples to determine whether or not there's any residue of drugs in his system. Then again, I take it you've already done so, have you not?"

Suddenly, he feels the other Jason's presence within him. "Doctor Leslie Thompkins," the other whispers. "Bats…"

"I have yet to test them."

He vividly feels the contempt of the other then, contempt alongside anger alongside bitterness alongside deep regret. Batman, he finds himself thinking even though the thought is not quite his own. Ever so meticulous…

Why?

He wants to ask the other, but isn't too sure that the other will hear him, and before he is able to do so, the voice of Leslie Thompkins cuts into his world again. "Contact me if you find anything. I'll do the same. Also, if he gets worse, then give me a call and I'll be right over."

Gets worse?

What?

He forces his eyes open. Afternoon daylight assaults them and he screws them right back shut, trying to roll onto his side and curl into a foetal position, choking down on a pained whimper as he does so, seeing that his limbs feel as though they had recently been penetrated by at least a thousand needles and his head is faring no better, feeling like it is about to explode at any minute.

"Jason… Jason… Are you alright?"

It is a migraine, or so he vaguely realises. It is the migraine which will end all migraines. "Hurts…"

"You had another attack." Yeah, as if that wasn't already bleeding obvious.

He wants to lash out at him, both verbally and physically, but the pain and exhaustion keeps him effectively subdued. "Figures."

He is in tatters, both his body and his mind. He feels hot yet cold. His skin feels clammy; he wants to curl up even further and to disappear back down beneath, beneath the duvets if nothing else. The outside world is too bright for him right now; it's simply too much to take in and too much to understand for him, and he wishes the man at his bedside could understand that, but with the firm hand on his shoulder, he doubts he will be having such luck.

Still, unlike both the Bruce and the Bat from the other's memories, this Bruce is firm but gentle; patient. "Jason… once the paperwork has been dealt with, I would like you to accompany me to the hospital."

He snaps his eyes right open and instinctively wrenches himself away. However, it is a feeble attempt at best and he falls back against the mattress, glaring at the other through narrowed eyes, both to show his discontent as well as to shield them somewhat from all the lights. "For what?" he snarls, and momentarily, he feels as though he and the other him have merged together to form one being and a cornered and feral one at that.

"Additional tests… to figure out the reason for the attacks."

He doesn't respond; he just glares harder instead, willing both the ache in his head and limbs as well as the man before him to go away. "No," he finally snarls, attempting to get away and hide.

Bruce however isn't having any of it, keeping him right where he is.

"Talk to me." It is not a request but an order, but the man before him is not Batman – not at the moment at any rate – and he in return is not Robin, and thus, he has no reason whatsoever to oblige.

"You'll think I'm crazy," he snarls right back at him. "You'll think I'm crazy and send me off to Arkham."

"He already knows you're crazy," the other's voice assures him.

"Why would I do that?" Bruce openly challenges. "Why would I think that you're crazy?"

Jason doesn't answer; he blatantly refuses to. It is a clear act of defiance, and the Bat wouldn't have had any of it. The Bat's civilian counterpart on the other hand seems to have deduced that Jason's resistance cannot be broken with harsh words or threats of punishments, so he leans down instead, rubbing his shoulder gently only to have Jason hiss as the motion jars a few of his extremely sore muscles. The hand is immediately withdrawn, but the man's presence lingers. "Jason…"

Go away.

"I'll promise you that I won't go back on my word. No matter what you tell me, I'll still adopt you. I won't say you're crazy, and I won't send you off to Arkham. Just… trust me."

No. Just go away.

"You're not crazy."

You already know I'm crazy; you're just trying to determine just how mentally fucked up I am.

"Tell me." This time around, it is more of a request than an order, and however unwittingly, his resolve weakens. The result is that his mouth turns traitor on him, unable to disobey any longer.

"I see things," he hears himself say, his throat hurting every step of the way. "I know things I shouldn't. I dream."

"What do you dream about? What do you see?" Bruce asks, pausing momentarily. "What do you know?"

What doesn't he know? "Many things."

"Well…" There is a hint of feigned amusement to the other's tone. "We all dream, don't we?"

"You don't get it," he whispers.

"Then explain it to me, Jason," Bruce urges him. "I won't judge you."

The Hell you will.

"I'll try my best to understand."

You won't; you never did.

"I know locations I have never been to and people I have never met," he hears himself say. "I see them in my dreams, and I know their secret hideouts, networks and tactics. I see their plans before they do, as well as the outcomes. But… it's all in my head, and then it's not…"

It's all in his head; none of it is actually real. He's just crazy, that's all.

"You think you see the future?" There is a hint of scepticism to the other's tone, just like expected, even though it has been toned down a whole lot, presumably under the guise of politeness.

"You think I'm crazy, don't you?" It isn't a question, not really; it's more of a statement, really.

There is a brief pause, and then Bruce speaks up once more. "To be completely honest, I'm not entirely sure as to what I should think," he says, even though Jason is positive the man has made his mind up already, if not a long, long time ago. "But you have dreams – visions even. Then what?"

Bruce already thinks he's crazy, so what more does he have to lose?

"I didn't think much of it at first," he finally whispers. "They were just weird dreams to me back then. They came and they went – the nightmares – but then I noticed it…"

He has nothing to win, but nothing to lose either, seeing that he is quite positive that he has lost whatever remnants he might have had of his sanity already. "Nearly all the things I saw – the locations, the people – were real, and that I knew things I shouldn't have. I tried acting on it – this knowledge I shouldn't have had…"

"Is that how you knew?" The sudden question throws him off momentarily, and he cracks an eye open, blearily taking in his surroundings.

"Is that how you knew my identity?" Bruce clarifies, too close for comfort yet strangely comforting at the same time. "Have you had dreams about me as well? It sounds strange, I have to admit as much, but I've heard of far stranger things."

He doesn't answer, screwing his eyes back shut.

"Jason?"

"You don't believe me," he snorts.

"As I said," Bruce went on. "I'm not entirely sure as to what I should think."

Jason cracks his eyes open again, looking up at the man. Seconds go by and neither of them speak, and then, finally…

"What would you do…" Jason swallows, before trying anew. "What would you do… if you already knew your own future?"

Bruce looks mildly puzzled. "Tough question."

Jason just continues looking at him unwaveringly even if his eyes and head and everything hurt like he wouldn't believe it. "Would you strive to change it?"

"Perhaps," the man finally affirms after a brief pause. "If I didn't want it."

Jason vividly recalls never-ending nightmares of warehouses, laughter, the Joker, a bloodied crowbar and numbers – glowing numbers – ticking down, down and down, until…

"And if it's inevitable?"

Tick, tick, tock.

- o0o -