Work Text:
Here is the thing.
“Ohoho, it’s not looking good for Robin here, folks.”
When tragedy becomes spectacle.
“What’s this? A comeback from the opposing team! Will it be enough to even the odds?”
When bloodshed becomes entertainment.
“The polls are closing soon, people! Will the Boy Wonder live? Or will. He. perish?”
Humans forget that they are humans.
“Bruce? …Dad? Why are they… We’re heroes right? W-we keep trying to save- to help”
Slaves to the chemicals in their brains that crave pleasure, they prioritize their complacency over rational thought, over empathy.
“Why do they want me dead?”
So deeply entrenched in their ignorant escapism, they forget that the character bleeding out and held hostage isn’t just a tragic figure made to progress the plot..
“Times up, folks!”
“No, NO!”
It was just a child.
“He was a child, Alfred. He was… He w-was..”
Humans truly do embody the very animal they deny themselves to be.
“He was-”
What does love mean to an apex predator?
“My Boy.”
It is a liability.
“My SON.”
It is a grand performance.
DEATH FROM THE PEOPLE
by Vicky Vale
A ballot held by the Joker caused the death of vigilante Robin after a majority vote for the crime fighter’s demise….
And it looks quite good for the ratings, doesn’t it?
21 days, 17 hours, and 3 minutes since Robin’s death.
21 days, 1 hour, and 2 minutes since Batman’s last sighting.
20 days, 6 hours, and 7 minutes since the Batcomputer managed to track down every single person who voted for Robin’s death despite the Joker’s efforts to wipe out the digital footprints of those involved.
15 days, 20 hours, and 5 minutes since the funeral.
7 days, 9 hours, and 8 minutes since Nightwing’s last contact.
3 days, 5 hours, and 12 minutes since Batman’s last return to base.
A pair of hands covered in thick, black gloves choked the steering wheel.
0 days, 0 hours, and 0 minutes since Batman’s last stakeout.
Inside the black sedan that he was now more familiar with than the Batmobile, Batman found himself parked in front of a middle school.
His eyes were trained on the little girl waiting for her parents on a bench in front of the school. She was happily chattering away to her best friend.
Kelly Evergreen
Age: 13 years
Height: 5 feet 2 inches
Appearance: Black hair, green eyes, a crooked nose from when she fell out of a tree at 7 years old
Parents: Dana and William Evergreen. Owners of “The Daily Goods” shop.
Case-related activity: Logged onto the Joker’s polling site with her iPad and voted for Robin’s death.
Important notes: No significant age verification system was implemented by the Joker. Citizens under the age of 18 were able to access the website without parental supervision.
Batman saw the girl sneak some of her friend’s chips into her mouth, those unblemished hands should’ve been tainted red from the blood she had smeared herself with.
“You sure I can’t come to your place for the project later tonight?” the friend whined, their petulance recorded clear as day by the bug planted on Kelly.
“Geez dude, you know my schedule’s gonna be packed today,” the girl teased.
And it was.
Every Wednesday, her mother would pick her up 5 minutes later than usual due to increased traffic around the neighborhood. Afterwards, she would drive her daughter to a 2-hour-long piano course that would be immediately followed by a trip to their aunt’s apartment. The visit usually ranged somewhere between 1 to 2 hours depending on the predicted travel time back to their house courtesy of Google Maps. Once home, the pair would be greeted by the father, who makes food that day. Family dinner was mandatory.
A typical day for a typical middle school civilian.
“You say that, but then you somehow make the time to go on sketchy websites and-“
“Hey, I thought it was a prank! How was I supposed to know it’s real? A bunch of others didn’t either.”
Because that was what 73% of the 6,064,200 overall voters were at the end of the day.
“It’s still a messed up thing to do ya know, real or not.”
Civilians playing God.
“Whatever man.” Kelly rolled her eyes. “Joker was gonna kill that poor kid either way. That stupid poll probably didn’t matter.”
“It matters to me,” Batman wanted to scream
He loved this city. Batman and Robin, they both loved Gotham and the people who lived within her so much.
Let them vie for Batman’s death, he couldn’t care less. He chose to wield the darkness as a tool for vengeance. Batman knew the risk, he would’ve understood their ire.
But Robin was- he was light. The mantle was a symbol of hope and better tomorrows. A bright star of guidance for those at the edge of their rope.
So then why was Robin the one bound eternally in mahogany and dirt? What did his precious boy do to earn their hate?
“Genuinely though, I just thought it would be fun. Didn’t really care for the dude and thought the Joker's schtick was pretty interesting.”
This is the answer Batman realized after 20 days, 6 hours, and 4 minutes of digitally and physically stalking, surveilling, and observing the 3,150,000 citizens who had voted for his son’s death.
His son wasn’t a victim of their hate. He was a victim of their apathy.
“…Put down the phone and touch grass, Kel. It’s the Joker, how is anything he ever does neat?”
There were villains of course, those who held an actual grudge against Gotham’s vigilantes. But most of the voters didn’t give a damn about the kid hero clad in red, yellow, and green.
They were just bored. They wanted to see something interesting. They wanted a tragedy just for the sake of it.
Bah, Robin’s getting stale. No one cares about him anymore. Why not just kill 'em off and see how Batman reacts to it? That sounds better, doesn’t it?
This teenager, barely at the cusp of living her own life.
The cheerful baker who gives his leftover bread to street kids every night.
The tired office worker managing her deteriorating marriage.
The college kid who was currently doing a paper on the effects of Gotham’s contaminated water on Vitamin D-deficient individuals.
The fast food employee who was constantly late to their night shift.
And so many more…
They were kind, they were sane, they loved and laughed and cried and raged just like every other person on this planet.
21 days, 17 hours, and 3 minutes ago, these typical, average, everyday humans opened a page on the internet full of toxic green and pressed red.
Batman supposed it wouldn’t have mattered if Superman had failed to stop him from dealing the finishing blow against that clown.
The Joker had already won.
That love that burned within the depths of his soul had withered and died into cold ash, buried alongside his dead son.
“See you later, loser,” Kelly hollered exactly 4 minutes later from the car’s open window as her mother drove them away.
There wasn’t a point in following them at this stage. He had obtained everything he needed to know.
Batman pulled out of the shade and tailed them regardless.
Dick stared at his phone screen with a resigned scowl.
He was standing in the middle of a grocery store aisle. His shopping cart only had a single bottle of milk and bereft of anything else.
Dick came here to stock up on groceries, get some fresh air, do all the things Kori kept reminding him to do.
Other than his day job, there wasn’t much else he can, or felt like, doing currently.
Messages failed to deliver. Call not answered.
Yep, the old man was still avoiding him.
“I’m sorry,” Barbara whispered. “I think he’s shutting you down from his side. I can’t do anything, not yet at least. I’ll work something out.”
“I haven’t seen him in days, Master Dick,” Alfred confessed with a stoic face and pleading eyes. “I do not think his lack of communication is entirely deliberate. He hasn’t brought a device that could trace back to any of us since… since..”
They should meet up again in person.
This was- this was Bruce. No matter what happened he’s still Dick’s fa- mentor.
He really should…
“Leave,” Bruce growled, low and wavering. His cape fluttered against the restless wind as the moonlight trickled down upon him. “I don’t need you here. I never needed a partner. I never should’ve taken a partner. I’m doing this alone.”
He couldn’t.
What right did Dick have anyway? Bruce didn’t say it out loud, but the unspoken blame was obvious.
Dick left them all for the stars and came back down to a dead brother and a broken family.
He wanted to rage when he first returned to Earth. He wanted to march up to Bruce and ask why the fuck did he let his brother die? Why is the Joker not dead-
“The Gotham citizens, they voted for it Dick,” someone had said then. He couldn’t quite remember exactly who it was anymore. “The Joker got some help from some crazy tech genius and set up a poll on whether Robin should die or not. Of those who joined in, a lot of them voted… th- they wanted Robin to...”
Nightwing hasn’t been able to stomach donning his costume for a week now.
His little wing is dead. And the ones who handed Jason the noose were the very people they swore to protect.
“Are you nuts? You’re harping on me for wanting Joker dead?”
A man and a woman were gossiping from the back of the store. They spoke at each other in a passionate voice while languidly putting drinks into their basket.
“What he did was wrong, but you shouldn’t wish for the death on others-“
Huh, Dick was surprised to hear people still mentioning the topic. He thought the buzz had died down by now.
“Bitch, you sent memes during the aftermath of the Robin vote,” the lady snapped. “You don’t get to play the moral card now.”
“Yeah, but you’re mourning one guy and then hating on another?”
Dick’s phone screen shattered with a muted crack.
It baffled him, it absolutely baffled him just how many people compared and contrasted Robin to the damned Joker throughout this entire farce. Did people genuinely think the crime of vigilantism was equal to mass murder?
“There’s a difference between a minor and an adult literally killing people what are you even-“
His brother had saved lives, the only thing Joker ever did was ruin them. Yet some still paint them with the same brush?
It’s completely…
It’s not…
It’s-
…Does it even matter at this point? The right and wrong of it all?
After everything’s said and done, Joker ended up getting exactly what he wanted: the amusement, the attention. He rallied the crowd for blood and a bunch of them answered.
Dick knew for a fact that once Joker’s out of his coma, the clown’s gonna lap up the aftermath with hysterical glee.
He’s going to get everything, even behind the bars of Arkham. He’d still have gotten everything even if he were dead.
It’s not fair.
“I’m sorry…”
It’s not fair at all.
“I’m so, so sorry.”
God, this really was all Dick’s fault, wasn’t it?
He made Robin in order to bring hope.
All it brought his brother were false promises and unfulfilled dreams. Forever immortalized as a cautionary tale to those foolish enough to try and play hero.
It just wasn’t fucking fair.
Dick picked off a random box from the breakfast shelves and walked to the register. The list of items he made earlier left untouched in his pocket
xxx
Click
Terrible focus, figure too blurry and hard to read, not worth editing.
Click
Great silhouette, clear line of action that complements the background. Face entirely covered by darkness, exactly as Tim wanted it to. Minor adjustments in exposure could make the piece pop. Worth editing.
Click
….Too much emotion. Too much vulnerability. The main subject was in a rush and under extreme duress. Deleted immediately.
Click
Just an average mugging being committed. No person of interest captured. Not impressive, the only noteworthy thing was the pavement stained almost artfully in red.
Click
Just an average robbery. The windows are coated in a layer of red.
Click
An assault. Knife’s red.
Click
It’s red.
Click
Red
Tim slammed his camera down in frustration.
This was supposed to be a distraction. This was supposed to make Tim forget about this entire mess.
It sucks when your usual hobbies aren’t enough to take the edge off of things.
Within the dim space of Tim’s room, a thick, ratty jacket laid haphazardly on his bed. A pair of gloves and some dirty boots were bunched together in the corner, tossed and crumpled without a care in the world
Tim should’ve stored it properly. It was his outdoor gear, who knows what it might’ve picked up from his nightly escapades. He should wipe them down and store them in his closet properly in case his parents made a surprise return from their three-month trip to Indonesia and barged in without knocking.
It’s just… motivation was really hard to muster up right now.
His brain was starting to disconnect from his body. The scenarios and catastrophes playing out in his head were bringing about a sense of doom that had Tim’s fingers shaking and heart pounding like a drum.
Tim stared blankly at his Canon, thoughts a million miles away whilst also anchored by the scenes trapped within the device’s tiny little memory card.
It’s been weeks since Tim was able to get a shot of Batman. He knew the vigilante was still out there, as he had managed to catch the tail end of Batman and Nightwing’s argument on Crime Alley’s rooftops. However, Tim hadn’t been able to track the Dark Knight since.
The patrol algorithms Tim had created to map out Batman’s movements were currently useless. Tim knew with absolute certainty that if he had the data of those involved with Joker’s plot almost a month ago, he would be able to make better predictions on where exactly Batman would go.
The problem was, everything related to the website, including any information about the users who participated, had been wiped out clean from the net. It was impressive, there was absolutely nothing left behind that Tim could use.
He wasn’t sure if this was the work of Joker’s anonymous partner, or Batman himself.
Now here he was, camera full of outdated photos and eyebags darker than a shot of espresso. Sitting with his back hunched and wallowing at how things could’ve gone so horribly wrong.
Robin was dead. Both Nightwing and Batman were MIA. Was it any surprise that Gotham and Blüdhaven have devolved into utter chaos?
The criminals who once feared the shadows were becoming bolder with each passing day. Crimes that used to be done in hushed whispers and soft voices were becoming loud and violent, increasing collateral damage and victims.
Their offences were no longer being punished, their fear unrewarded. Of course the lowest of lows would slither out from the depths and devour order whole.
Gotham was eating itself alive, and Tim was hopeless to stop it.
Realistically, what could he even do? He was just a 13-year-old rich kid with a near-unhealthy fascination with the Bat and the Birds. He’s pretty good at programming, decent at sleuthing, but it was nowhere near enough to take down the Joker’s plot when even Batman himself failed.
Tim could sneak in small tips to the GCPD, he’s done it before with some criminal schemes he caught early. Heck, that’s what he did before returning home tonight.
For something like what happened in Ethiopia, though? For something that involves the Crown Prince of Crime himself?
Tim knows there was nothing he could’ve done. This knowledge doesn’t stop the guilt that’s drowning him from the inside
A guilt which grew twice-fold with every conversation he heard at the Academy.
“I still can’t believe Joker went through with it, you know? I mean, everyone knows he’s crazy but that whole thing was…”
“Hah, to be honest I thought it was a set up or something. Respect he actually pulled it off.”
“Robin’s been really violent lately anyway. He’s not as nice as he used to be.”
“I think this might be a new guy? People who’ve seen it mentioned that his height changed drastically. They say this one is meaner, none of the charm of the old one.”
“If that’s the case, Joker just did Batman a favor. Now he can just find a better guy to become Robin.”
“Oi, isn’t that kind of harsh?”
“Who the fuck cares about a bunch of crazy guys in spandex playing heroes? Joker should’ve gotten rid of them both.”
Idiots.
Every single one of them was a privileged, young, and sheltered idiot who thought they were above the problems of the world. That they were invincible, untouchable.
How could they be so callous? How could they gossip about it all so easily when every reminder of that day made every part of Tim want to scream?
Tim knew the truth. He knew how important Batman and Robin were to the city. One cannot exist without the other, and a prolonged absence of both would be disastrous.
Back then, the moment Tim realized that the Joker was serious about his game, he got off his “I won’t participate in this madness” high horse and used every tool he had at his disposal to try and even the odds. He used bots, new accounts, anything to skew the results in Robin’s favour. Many of them were recognized as fraudulent, hence some of the votes fell through, but he still wanted...
He wanted Robin to live, he wanted Robin to live so badly.
But no amount of wanting was able to save his hero in the end, not with so many of Gotham’s own residents working against him.
“This is stupid,” Tim whispered to himself. “You’re not even involved in this. Batman and Robin don’t know you. You mean nothing to them, they should mean nothing to you too.”
From the window of Tim’s room, Wayne Manor could be seen in the distance. Dark and gloomy as ever.
Time walked away from his desk and placed his right hand on the fogged-up glass.
“Besides, there’s nothing I can do about this, is there?”
Even the winds denied him an answer.
1 month, 15 days, 4 hours, and 7 minutes since returning from Ethiopia.
Batman lurked from above as the boy ran into a dead end.
What had he been doing before this? All the stakeouts and the stalking were starting to blend together in his mind. Batman was at least sure he had been following up on a few persons of interest. Maybe some goons? Or someone else?
Whatever he was working on, the sight of a scared child passing by below him had thoroughly distracted the vigilante from his work.
Batman spotted the pursuer a few steps behind the kid. Tall, lanky, with hair dyed black with blond roots showing. Not a lot of muscle on the limbs, terrible posture. He was wearing a face mask that Batman recognized as a staple from a specific dollar store branch, which means its purchase would be laughably traceable. This man was a desperate, grade-A amateur.
Unfortunately, the man was also wielding a pistol, possibly a Glock 19. Guns never needed a seasoned handler to take a life. Batman would know.
It seemed that the would-be criminal didn’t have an accomplice with him. The man cornered the boy alone.
“Just you and me, kiddo.”
“No, no mister, please-“
The child seemed oddly familiar to Batman.
“You see, brat, I’m not usually one to threaten little kiddies.”
He should leave, let the GCPD or some other party handle this. Batman had his own work to do.
“But your pops owes me, and he’s been late in returning the money he borrowed.”
What did it matter if he saved the child? These people, they let his son die, why should he be any different?
“Let this be a reminder to daddy dearest, the boss isn’t fond of waiting.”
Why should he care?
“No, NO SOMEONE HELP!”
Why should he care?
“Sorry, kid. It’s nothing personal.”
A batarang flew through the air and embedded itself in the ground right behind the older man.
Startled, the person whipped around and pointed his gun at the source of the disturbance. The weapon aimed away from his original target.
No chance of an accidental discharge.
“Who’s there?” he yelled. “Show your… your-“
The criminal looked down at the bat-shaped projectile and froze.
Time to strike.
Batman leaped out of his vantage spot and landed between the gunner and the kid. In a swift motion, Batman grabbed the man’s wrist, disarming him, before hitting the back of his head and knocking him unconscious.
And if he had used more force in that strike than what was strictly necessary, well, it wasn’t anyone’s business.
Once it's over, Batman took out a pair of cuffs from his belt and restrained the downed man with them. Slowly, he stood up and faced the boy he had just saved.
The child was trembling violently at the sight of him. Tears were starting to pool in his eyes despite the brave face he was trying to pull.
He was young, oh he was so young. Couldn’t have been older than eleven, perhaps closer to ten.
“It’s alright,” Batman whispered, kneeling in order to be at eye level with the boy. “You’re safe now, I’m not gonna hurt you.”
The child tensed briefly when the Bat approached, before relaxing after it became clear the vigilante meant no harm.
“The bad man mentioned you had a father,” Batman prodded gently. “Is he waiting for you?”
The boy nodded. “Yeah,” he began. “We were walking home from the park, but then we got separated. And then the weird man came to me. Asked me things I don’t… I- I got scared.”
“It was so scary. I don’t wanna- I want my daddy!”
“Hey, everything’s going to be fine,” Batman assured him. “We’ll find your daddy, but I’ll have to get you somewhere safe firs-“
“Lucas? LUCAS!”
A haggard, middle-aged man slid to a stop right outside the alley and rushed to scoop the child into his arms. He turned to Batman, relief blooming brightly in his eyes, before they melted into sheer horror.
“Batman? Oh no. Oh no no no.”
Ah, that's why Batman felt like he recognized the boy. Now he remembered, it was the reason he had been in the area to begin with. Batman was trying to track down the boy’s father.
Gale Adams
Age: 35 years
Height: 5 feet 8 inches
Appearance: Brown hair, brown eyes, a deformed right ear from a robbery gone wrong.
Family: Wife divorced and out of the country. Has sole custody over son, Lucas Adams
Case-related activity: Logged onto the Joker’s polling site at the behest of his coworkers and voted for Robin’s death.
Important notes: Worked for various villains over the past 5 years to support his son’s ailing health. Recently quit doing crime and currently working as a cashier.
“Please don’t… I’m sorry,” Gale begged. He tightened his hold on his son. “I didn’t mean to… Robin.. I wasn’t… I-“
It’s almost amusing how the man assumed Batman knew exactly what he did despite not saying anything.
He supposed Gale wasn’t wrong in his assumption.
“I’ll be out of your hair, right now,” he promised. “Please don’t turn us in, we can’t afford it. Please!”
This man had been involved in 10 different attacks throughout Gotham City, of which he was able to dodge responsibility for every single one of them.
Vengeance bayed for his blood.
“Daddy?” Gale’s son muttered warily. “Is something wrong?”
You have a son, Batman thought. Do you not understand what you’ve done?
Was it so easy to wish harm upon others as long as that pain wasn’t inflicted on one of their own?
“You know what it means to be a father.”
“You know what it’s like to love someone more than yourself.”
“You’d do anything for your child, wouldn’t you?”
“How could you?”
Batman wanted to say many, many things. He ended up voicing none of them, all except one.
“Keep him safe,” Batman growled. “Don’t you ever let him go.”
The Dark Knight didn’t bother to look at the pair again before he shot his grappling gun and disappeared into the night sky, the sound of the city drowning out his thoughts.
Alfred waited patiently in the Batcave. An alert had popped of signalling Bruce’s return. His son was coming home.
The sounds of a car pulling into the driveway echoed between the cave’s walls. A dozen bats flew off, startled by the approaching noise.
Bruce stepped out of the vehicle in staggering steps. He looked sluggish, disheveled, and utterly exhausted..
“Welcome back, Master Bruce,” Alfred greeted. “Is there anything I could do for you?”
Is there any way I could stop you from leaving again?
Bruce only nodded in acknowledgement without responding, before making his way up the cave.
Alfred knew exactly where he was heading.
There was a medium-sized glass tube, erected within the cave two days after the funeral. The Robin uniform, cleaned of any blood and patched of any imperfection, hung from a wire within it like a sword of Damocles.
Bruce stopped in front of it and stared.
“There are so many of them, Alfred,” he said. “Around half of the entire city is involved.”
Alfred’s heart clenched painfully. He knew from his experience how cruel the common folk could be. He’d seen the casual atrocities they could commit from the lap of laxity. Alfred had never wanted to be reminded of that fact again, not like this.
“How am I supposed to keep going?” Bruce asked. “How can I keep fighting knowing this is what it all led to?”
He clenched his fists
“I should be mad,” Bruce growled. “I should be angry, at them, at the Joker, at everyone.”
His boy pressed his forehead on the glass, right over Jason’s mask.
“I should leave them all to rot. They might not all be guilty, but it was enough, it was enough…”
Bruce, his stoic, stern, composed, and loving son, broke down. He laid his arms on the sides of the case as if he were trying to pull it into a hug.
“But I don’t want that. I don’t want to do that. I don’t want to feel that way. I just-“
“I just want him back. Alfred, I want him back.”
“Oh, Master Bruce.”
“My son...”
“Master Bruce-“
“I’m sorry I can’t hate them for you,” Bruce babbled to the precious child far out of his reach. “I’m sorry for not being good enough.”
“I know.” Alfred placed his hand on his son’s shoulders. “I know. I miss him too, lad.”
Bruce collapsed to the floor, the guilt and exhaustion hitting him like waves crashing onto a bed of rocks. Every ounce of struggle dissipating in the cold embrace of reality
Alfred could do nothing but mourn alongside him.
The plaque on the display case glittered mockingly under the cave’s artificial lights.
Jason Todd, a Good Soldier
Jason Todd, a beloved son.
Poor little bird, trapped in a play of others’ making.
Within the cemetery, muffled screams pierced through its somber expanse.
Poor little bird, a miserable puppet made to be killed off by its audience.
The noise came from the newest grave of the lot. The soil in front of the headstone shook and trembled.
Poor little bird, died too early, too soon.
Thunder crackled loudly across the gloomy sky. Rain poured down viscously, mixing with the earth, causing it to soften.
Forgive us, little bird.
A pale, wrecked hand glazed in red rose from the earth and grabbed onto life.
Forgive us.