Of all places, he was buying fucking cigarettes when it happened.
Jason was digging through his wallet when the woman behind him suddenly screamed. He whirled around and—
Hang on, didn't she have a kid with her? He could've sworn there was a toddler whining about candy just now. But when he looked, his eyes were met with a pile of dust and the lady staring at her hand, face pale.
Behind her were a group of teenagers. The shortest one—couldn't have been more than 14—turned to the others and said, "Guys, something's wrong." But before anyone could react, his skin cracked and he crumbled to pieces, leaving his friends scrambling.
The cashier dialed the police. Someone demanded to know what was going on. Without his helmet or guns, it wasn't as though Jason could say he got this all taken care of. Cigarettes forgotten, he slipped away from the crowd and called Bruce.
No answer. So he tried again, and on the third time he left an expletive-filled voicemail before hopping on his bike.
He zipped past the changing signals and swerved around the three-car pileup forming as he tried Dick's number. But all he got was that godawful singsong voicemail that Dick recorded years back.
That was two down already.
No, he wasn't gonna think like that. Those two knuckleheads were fine. Hell, with a family of detectives, they were probably cracking the case as Jason broke a red light.
He picked another number.
"Jason." Roy's ragged breathing almost made his words unintelligible. "It's Lian. She—she..."
"It's happening everywhere," Jason said. "I don't know who's behind this but I'm gonna keep you updated."
There was nothing on the other line. Not a breath or panicking keen. His heart dropped.
After several attempts, he had no choice but to hang up.
He didn't even wait for his motorcycle to stop completely, dumping it next to the others.
The Cave was far, far too quiet. Jason grabbed his domino and a batarang lying on a bench.
He stuck a comm in his ear. It crackled to life.
"Guys, we have a situation. Is anyone reading me right now?"
He spotted a familiar wheelchair in front of the glowing Batcomputer and let out a sigh of relief.
"Oracle! I'm glad you're—"
But there was no red hair or keyboard clacks to go with it. A steaming coffee cup was tipped over, soaking a case file and dripping onto the floor.
Alfred had to be okay. He's Alfred.
Jason raced upstairs, almost missing the three piles on the couch with purple, yellow, and orange video game controllers buried among them. In the cat bed is another one. His lunch crawled up his throat, but he swallowed it down and moved to the next room.
"Alfred?" His boots echoed through the halls with each step. "Anyone here?"
He checked the kitchen, but it wasn't Alfred he found. Rather it was Damian, staring at his ash-covered fingertips just like the lady at the store.
"They were right here." Damian's voice trembled. "Me and Cain and Pennyworth, we were talking and... and..."
He stumbled forward. Jason caught him.
"I got you. I got you." He wrapped his arms around the kid.
Something about it made Jason's blood run cold.
"Don't say that. You're fine." He squeezed tighter.
"I—I don't want to go. Not again." Damian's fists—oh God, they're so tiny—clung to Jason's shirt.
But all the pleading in the world amounted to nothing as the atoms of his baby brother slipped through his fingers. And even though it felt like everything was bubbling to the surface, he couldn't scream or cry out. All he could do was kneel there, numb, wondering who would have the audacity.
After who-knows-how-long, he felt Ace nuzzle against his ribs.
"You're right." Jason swiped the tears from his face and stood up. "Fetch me my guns. There will be hell to pay."
