Chapter Text
Jason stared ahead of himself at the group of Scarecrow’s goons closing in on him. A half circle of brown leather-clad figures, tightening, shifting around him. He had been stupid. He stumbled backward, feeling the cold solid of a concrete wall behind him. He shouldn’t have come alone. He looked between menacing faces, his breath quickening.
“Boss would love to have a chance to chat with Boy Wonder, don’t you agree?” A woman spoke up, wiping sweat from her forehead with a leather-sleeved arm as she looked to her compatriots. Jason could see a sickly smile beneath the hole in her burlap mask.
“Are you stupid?” A man shot back at her, throwing an arm across her chest before she could advance toward Jason. “If the kid’s here, Bats is around the corner.”
A spur of cockiness seemed to spark Jason’s mouth at just the wrong moment, “I don’t need him to kick your asses.” He snapped, fists clenching in his gloves. Regret pooled immediately in his gut. He pressed his finger to his ear, swallowing his pride as he pushed on his com. His eyes widened when no familiar static-altered voice came through.
Jeering laughter erupted around him. The group of fifteen or so stepped closer, a feeling of claustrophobia falling hard on Jason’s chest.
“That’s not going to work in here, Birdy.” Someone held up a jammer control, waving it tauntingly. If that had worked on his com, it would have no trouble with his tracker.
A wicked smile crossed the face of the man who had spoken before, “Never mind then.” His arm dropped from blocking the woman, “I guess Daddy’s not here to save you.”
Color drained from Jason’s face. As if it were a wet, bloody string being dragged agonizingly up from his stomach and through his throat, Jason gagged on fear.
The first punch landed hard at his side, he’d done nothing to block it, frozen by dread. He choked on his breath, instinctively moving to block and dodge further blows. He felt tears pricking at his eyes, his chest tightening. Panic filled him as he convinced himself he was going to be beaten to death here. With each hit he avoided, two more landed. His knees hit the concrete below hard, the thick fabric of his pants scuffing with the impact. His resistance became erratic, illogical.
“Focus. You’re not going to live if you panic.” Batman’s voice resonated low in the back of his head. Jason looked up- faces, fists, the butts of guns, swimming above him.
“Calculate.” The voice ordered, “Organize.”
The black tread of a boot slammed hard into his nose, blood pouring immediately down his face. Each attempt to get up was met with a kick throwing him back to the ground. He felt nausea raging in his stomach, pain pulsating to numbness across his body. There was no escape. He was trapped. Pinned between a concrete wall and 15 henchmen. Practically dead.
Helpless, he stilled, feebly pulling an arm over his head in mediocre defense. The pounding attacks slowed, noticing his lack of resistance, retreating. Still, everyone needed a chance to land their kick on the endlessly obstruent Boy Wonder.
“What’s going on here?” A familiar voice echoed in the warehouse, terrifying simply in implication of what it always preceded. Scarecrow.
The hits stopped coming, frozen by a silent order from their superior. Though fresh fear stung Jason’s veins, he worked to calm himself. His body pounded with agony, he focused on each painful breath as the voices of Scarecrow and his henchmen hazed around him. He found himself staring as footfalls passed back and forth across his vision. Focus shifted in and out, each shift out making the thought of shutting his eyes more appealing.
Bruce’s voice was ordering him to make his escape, claw his way to the door while they weren’t looking, but blackness was closing in. His head was not only throbbing, but now felt as though someone were squeezing gradually harder at his temples. Though Jason knew he lay still, he watched the world tilt violently, spinning and blurring and making nausea run up his esophagus until finally, it flipped into darkness.
-
Jason woke to the sensation of his arms being pulled roughly behind his back, around the sides of what felt like an aluminum chair. His shoulders protested the sensation, pain screaming through his battered joints. A rough binding rope was pulled taught around his wrists. It was either that he hadn’t been out for more than a few minutes or they’d been stupid enough to leave him unbound for longer.
Not stupid enough to leave him with his gloves and boots, he noticed. The brown leather figure of a henchman came into view at his knee, harsh fingers wrapping his ankle to bind it to the chair.
He kicked hard, the contact of even his bare foot to the man’s chest made him fall back, sputtering and coughing. “-little shit.” He rasped, getting to his feet and drawing his gun. Jason flinched away, but the cold metal struck his forehead hard. He grunted, the sensation of something hot and wet trickling down to his brow. The henchman took his moment of reaction as an opportunity to tie his ankle down.
Jason struggled hard against the rope, his free foot kicking into the empty air in front of him, muscles aching at the movement. As often as Batman had told him, in the event of capture, “avoid further injury,” “stall,” and “don’t get killed,” Jason found himself ignoring the orders. His mind screamed for anything but to go down easy, anything but to let them tie him down without a fight.
He cried out as pain exploded from his ankle, the clatter of metal on concrete joining his grunts and heavy breaths of pain. The world was tilting again, lurching wildly in front of him. He watched a metal crowbar fall to the seesawing floor, now spattered with his blood, having been dropped after the henchman’s last-ditch effort to put down Jason’s resistance. It worked, and Jason yelled again as his fractured ankle was pulled roughly to the leg of the chair and tied to it.
“Ah, Robin.” A sickeningly cold and aloof voice reached his ears through stubborn ringing.
“Scarecrow.” Jason tried to growl back, but heard only a sluggish gurgle in response.
“It’s lovely to see you.” Crane replied, stepping toward Jason from his place by the door. The world seemed to settle itself, the violent swinging lessening to a half-hearted sway. “I’ve actually been looking for someone to test my new toxin on, I’m running low on expendable goons.”
Jason’s heart pounded in his chest. Batman had never let him close enough to Scarecrow’s fear toxin to feel its effects but Jason had seen people under its thrall. Screaming, clawing at their own skin, writhing, and screeching. He’d seen people’s hearts give out because of it.
His burlap mask inches from Jason’s face, Scarecrow leaned in, his withered finger lifting Jason’s chin to force him to meet his eyes, “Tell me Robin, what are you afraid of?”