What happened

Either Jason's natural affinity for the city streets was leading him, or the City itself was being particularly kind. Either way, his blind sprint through the backstreets, half-blinded by tears, had led him to the back of Midnighter's appartement building. He took a moment to stop, catch his breath, and try to remember what floor his new friend lived on, before shooting his grapple at the balcony. He hoped he was right.

He landed perfectly, flipping himself over the iron railing and standing still for a moment, before the violent shudders began. He looked down at his hands, willing them to stop shaking, before letting out a strangled sob. One hand began tearing at the front of his costume, the other scrabbling at the door. By the time he made it into the kitchen, no doubt alerting Midnighter and half the neighbourhood, he had stripped down to his light vest and armoured shorts.

He leaned against the refrigerator and let himself slide down to the cool floor, no longer holding back the tears.

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Jason Todd woke up tired and sore.

This wasn't an irregular occurrence for a Robin. In fact, if Jason didn't find at least half a dozen new bruises the morning after a patrol, he counted the night as a failure. But this, this was different. Before he was even fully conscious his mind began cataloguing the pain: wrists and forearms, as if he'd been defending himself; his head in general, as if he'd been hit a lot; his right kneecap, as if he'd fallen or landed badly; his ribs, as if he'd been hit by a frickin' truck. No broken bones, but the dull ache of a barely-healed injury all over his frame.

What the hell had happened to him-

"Fuck fuck fuck!"

In one practised-if-stiff move he rolled to his feet and into a defensive crouch, eyes darting wildly behind the lenses of his mask. The Joker had to be around here somewhere. Jason knew the guy liked to play "jokes" on his opponents. Hell, he was named for it. So if that apparently meant beating them, healing them and then letting them think they were safe, Jay certainly wasn't going to fall for it.

He held position for a full ten minutes before his legs gave way and he fell into a shaky heap.

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He felt sick, staring into a face that he couldn’t say he had once trusted, but one he felt familiar and relatively comfortable with. Just another “thing” to go wrong.

It figured, in the completely illogical scheme of things with his life, that he was staring down at Max. The Max he had known was the scuzzy bussiness man with some humanity. Not this stranger with ideals of lunacy.

Maybe that was why Beetle didn’t feel fear when he saw the arm moving in slow motion, mimicking death scenes in movies. It just figured.

Go to Hell Max. Cliché, and not the most suiting for last words, really. He couldn’t help but feel anger, not just of betrayal. And it wasn’t just directed at Lord. He had to face this alone, defending those who didn’t even listen to him.

Native nobility. His whole life. Wasn’t that what they called Woodrow Wilson? Or was it Roosevelt? Couldn’t remember. Why did it matter? The gun was raised at eye level.

White. Pain.

It figured. The one time Booster became worried, the one time Michael showed fear.…

When the white faded into grayness, to blank and unfamiliar streets and the pain dulled into a mild headache, Ted had a delayed reaction. His hand swung up, reaching for where he was sure he had been shot, excepting gore, ooze, anything. He drew away his hand from his face and found that his glove clean, the costume spotless. He frowned and looked around again, the climate not pleasant, but not what he expected from Hell. Not like that short visit. One of the few reasons why he was able to drop fast foot craving for good. It was a city, like Chicago, the Hub, Gotham, Metropolis, expect nothing distinct caught his attention. It wasn’t Hell.

Pat Robinson, Ted thought with a slight frown as he absently rubbed the back of his head, growing faintly alarmed there was no damage of a bullet through the head under his finger, is going to be one pissed off camper.

Ted pulled off his goggles and cowl, as if he hoped that they were somehow blocking the obvious and found that to be of no help. “If this is Heaven, someone better have a really good explanation.”

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