The Man And The Hood

The rain fell in torrents, a relentless downpour that seemed to mirror the sorrow hanging heavy in the air. Each drop splattered against the earth, the rhythmic sound a constant companion to the quiet procession making its way toward the small graveyard behind Wayne Manor. The somber procession trudged through the rain-soaked grass, each step weighed down by the gravity of their grief. The storm seemed to seep into their very bones, an unspoken reminder of the pain that hung over them all.

Dressed in black, the Bat family stood united yet isolated in their shared loss. Their faces were obscured by a mixture of rain and unshed tears, their expressions unreadable beneath the wet fabric of their umbrellas. The umbrellas offered little protection against the downpour; their fragile coverings barely held against the storm's fury. Still, they raised them high, as if attempting to shield themselves from the weight of the world pressing in around them.

At the front of the procession, Bruce Wayne walked with his usual commanding presence, though now it was as though an invisible weight had settled onto his broad shoulders. His figure, always so imposing, now appeared hunched under the burden of grief. His face, usually masked in stoic determination, was softened with an unspoken sorrow, the anguish in his eyes betraying the calm exterior he fought to maintain.

To his right stood Alfred Pennyworth, the ever-faithful butler, whose face was a picture of quiet grief. His eyes, though calm, were shadowed by the pain of years spent alongside Bruce, witnessing the tragic losses that had marked his life. Alfred's unshakable composure did little to mask the heaviness in his gaze.

Behind them, Dick Grayson walked with his head bowed, his shoulders slumped under an invisible weight. Once the bright and confident Robin, he now carried the burden of memories—some joyous, some filled with the bitterness of regret.

As Nightwing, he stood not only as a brother but as a man haunted by the loss of his sibling in arms. Beside him, Barbara Gordon moved forward with quiet determination, her wheelchair seeming to glide across the wet earth as if nothing could stop her. Her strength, her resilience, stood as a quiet testament to the unwavering love she had for those around her, despite the unbearable ache of their shared grief.

The grave was ready, the coffin standing solemnly beneath the darkened sky, draped in black. Red roses had been placed around it by those who had come before, their vibrant color a stark contrast to the rain-soaked scene. The water pounded against the polished wood, creating a mournful rhythm that resonated in the silence that had fallen over the mourners. The only sounds were the rain, the wind, and the faint rustle of fabric as each person gathered around the gravesite, waiting for Bruce to speak.

He stepped forward, his movements deliberate and measured, though every step seemed to cost him more than the last. The others gathered behind him, their faces solemn, their gazes fixed on the coffin. Bruce paused before it, his jaw tightening as his eyes lingered on the polished wood. His thoughts seemed distant, his voice thick with emotion as he finally spoke.

"Jason Todd," he began, his voice steady, though laden with an undercurrent of pain. "Was more than just a partner. He was a fighter. Brave. Stubborn. Fierce." His voice cracked slightly as he continued, "He believed in the mission, in making Gotham a better place. Even when we disagreed... he never stopped trying to do what he thought was right."

The rain continued to pour down, but it did nothing to mask the tremor in Bruce's voice. He cleared his throat and pressed on, the words coming slower now, quieter. "He made mistakes, like we all do. But he was still... my son. And I failed him."

Dick stepped forward then, placing a hand on Bruce's shoulder, grounding him in the moment. His voice was soft, but firm. "You didn't fail him, Bruce. Jason knew the risks. He wouldn't have wanted you to blame yourself for this."

Bruce didn't respond, his eyes still fixed on the coffin as if he could will it to come back. The weight of his silence was unbearable, but he couldn't bring himself to look away.

After a long, still moment, he stepped back, making room for the others to say their goodbyes.

Dick knelt first, his movements slow, measured. His hand rested briefly on the coffin, and then he spoke, his voice tight with emotion. "You were a pain in the ass, Jason. But you were my brother, and I loved you. I'll never forget that." His voice cracked as he placed a red rose atop the coffin. He stood and took a step back, his eyes glistening with unshed tears.

Barbara followed, her hands steady as she gripped the rose. She leaned forward and spoke quietly, though her voice carried an unmistakable weight of affection and regret. "You were reckless, but you had so much heart. Too much, maybe. I just wish you could've seen how much you meant to all of us." She placed the rose gently on the coffin and took a step back, her head lowered in reverence.

Alfred's turn came next. He approached with the calm dignity that had defined him for decades, his movements deliberate, each step filled with quiet resolve. His hand trembled slightly as he placed his rose on the coffin, and his voice, barely audible above the rain, whispered the words that carried decades of care, loss, and fatherly affection. "Master Jason," he murmured, "you were far from perfect. But you were ours. Rest well, young man."

With the final rose placed, the coffin began its slow descent into the earth. The sound of the mechanism whirring as it lowered, combined with the steady beat of the rain, created an eerie dirge, a mournful soundtrack to their collective sorrow.

Bruce stood motionless, his face set in an expression of quiet torment, watching as Jason was slowly swallowed by the earth. The rain soaked through his coat, the cold seeping into his skin, but he remained frozen. A part of him wanted to reach out, to pull Jason back, to undo the irreversible, but he knew that it was impossible. Jason was gone.

As the grave was filled, a simple headstone was placed, bearing Jason's name, the dates of his birth and death, and the words: Beloved Son. Fierce Protector. Taken Too Soon.

The family lingered for a moment, each lost in their thoughts, their grief too heavy to speak of. Finally, it was Alfred who spoke, his voice gentle but firm. "Master Bruce, it's time to go. The rain will do us no favors if we linger much longer."

Bruce didn't move immediately. His eyes remained fixed on the headstone, his thoughts swirling with memories of Jason—the boy who had challenged him, frustrated him, and, above all, made him proud.

After what felt like an eternity, Bruce turned away, the weight of his sorrow too much to bear. The family began their slow walk back to Wayne Manor, the rain continuing to fall, relentless as ever, as though mourning alongside them.

Inside the manor, the silence was deafening. The rooms, once alive with the sounds of laughter and bickering, now felt hollow, as if Jason's absence had left an irreparable void. Bruce retreated to the Batcave, seeking solace in the work that had long been his only refuge. But no matter how hard he tried, he could not escape the memory of Jason's lifeless body, the image that haunted him even in his most isolated moments.

The others gave him space, understanding that grief was a battle Bruce had to fight on his own. But they, too, carried the weight of Jason's loss, each in their own way, each unable to escape the shared sorrow that lingered in the house like an unshakable shadow.

That night, as the rain finally ceased and the clouds parted to reveal a pale moon, Bruce stood alone in the Batcave, staring at the Robin suit encased in glass. His hand reached out to rest against the cold, transparent surface. The silence enveloped him, broken only by the faint sound of his voice, barely a whisper.

"I'm sorry, Jason. I should've been there. I should've saved you."

The suit remained still, its silent presence a stark reminder of what had been lost.

****

[Meanwhile]

Jason Todd drifted in the void, a dark, empty expanse where there was no light, no sound, no sense of time or place. The absence of everything was suffocating, an oppressive silence that pressed in from all sides. He had no sense of how long he had been there, but his thoughts were sharp—razor-sharp—and they cut through the nothingness with a clarity that felt almost wrong.

"Where the hell am I?" he muttered, his voice breaking the stillness, but even as it echoed into the void, it felt too quiet. He paused, staring into the vast blackness, and then the realization slammed into him like a freight train. "Oh. Right. I died."

The memories hit him all at once—raw, vivid, and unforgiving. The Joker's maniacal laughter, the sickening crack of the crowbar against his skull, the blinding explosion that followed. The pain, the panic, the final, fleeting moments of life. It all replayed in brutal detail, each image searing into his mind like a brand, a reminder of everything he had lost.

"Is this it?" Jason's voice cracked, the question escaping him before he could stop it. "Is this where people end up when they die? Some pitch-black nowhere?" He tried to move, to lift his hands, to do anything, but his body refused to cooperate. It was as though he was paralyzed, trapped in this empty space with only his thoughts for company. Helpless. Frozen. A prisoner in his own mind.

Then, suddenly, a voice broke through the silence—deep, mocking, reverberating inside his skull rather than his ears. It was a voice that seemed both familiar and alien, like a shadow of something he couldn't quite place.

"You finally ended up dead. Killed by a fucking clown, no less. How poetic."

Jason's heart—or whatever remained of it in this strange place—skipped a beat. The voice felt like a jolt of electricity, a surge of shock and confusion. "Who the hell's there?" he demanded, his voice sharp and filled with a sudden unease. He strained, trying to pinpoint the source of the voice, but it was everywhere and nowhere all at once, an omnipresent echo that seemed to invade every corner of his mind.

"You can't guess?" The voice taunted, a smug, almost gleeful tone dripping with a familiarity that made Jason's stomach twist. "Come on, partner. You should know this one."

Jason frowned, confusion beginning to replace his initial anger. He had nothing but time here in this void, so he might as well try to figure out what was going on. "Why do you sound like me?" he asked, his voice quieter now, but still sharp with suspicion.

The voice chuckled darkly. "That's because I am you. Or at least, I'm the part of you that's actually got some sense left. You know, the voice in your head that's been trying to keep you alive all these years. The one that's been screaming for you to ditch Bruce, to stop pretending you needed him. But you didn't listen, did you? You just kept crawling back, like some desperate mutt, begging for scraps of affection."

Jason's jaw tightened, his frustration starting to boil over. "Oh, great. I'm stuck in some twisted version of hell, and my tormentor is... me?"

The voice scoffed, as though Jason had missed the point entirely. "Hell? Nah, this isn't hell. Though, it might as well be, considering how royally you screwed up. Let's face it, kid: You spent your whole life chasing Bruce's approval. And what did it get you? Dead. Beaten to death by a damn clown. And where was dear old Batman when you needed him? Nowhere. He wasn't there to save you. And guess what? He doesn't even have the guts to admit he failed you."

Jason gritted his teeth, anger and frustration surging through him. "Alright, enough of the pity party," he snapped. "What is this place, then? If it's not hell, then what the hell is it?"

"Questions, questions," the voice mocked, its tone annoyingly calm, like a parent humoring a child. "Don't worry, we've got all the time in the world to get to the answers. But first, let's play a little game. How about a nice stroll down memory lane? Let's revisit the events that led to your oh-so-tragic demise. Maybe seeing it all laid out will help you understand just how badly Bruce screwed up your life—physically and mentally."

Jason scoffed, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Oh, sure. A recap of my greatest hits sounds like exactly what I need. Not like I have anything better to do, right?"

The void seemed to pulse in response, the oppressive darkness shifting as if acknowledging his words. Then, a faint light flickered in the distance. At first, it was so small it seemed insignificant—just a pinprick of brightness in the endless blackness. But as moments passed, it began to grow, its light pulsing steadily, drawing Jason's attention like a moth to a flame.

....

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