The Sky Above Magdala Valley
The mushroom cloud from the explosion was still rising, a pillar of fire against the starlit desert sky.
Inside the Batwing, the silence was deafening.
Bruce didn't scream again. He went cold. A terrifying, mechanical stillness took over his body. He stared at the thermal radar.
A single convoy of trucks was speeding away from the blast site, heading north toward the border.
"Target acquired," Bruce said. His voice sounded like a machine. "Joker."
He flipped the safety cover on the weapon stick. He didn't select the non-lethal cannons. He selected the Sidewinder Missiles.
"Sir," I said, my hand hovering over the co-pilot controls. "You are locking lethal ordnance."
"He killed him," Bruce whispered. "He killed my son."
"We do not know that," I lied. "The transponder signal was lost, but the blast radius... there could be a basement. A bunker. Survivors."
"There are no survivors!" Bruce slammed his fist on the console, cracking the glass. "Look at the thermal! It's an inferno! He's dead, Sebastian! And the Clown dies tonight!"
The targeting reticle turned red. The computer beeped. LOCK.
Bruce's finger tightened on the trigger.
I looked at him. I saw the darkness swallowing his soul whole. If he fired that missile, the Batman would die alongside the Joker. He would become just another killer. My contract would be void, for the "soul" I craved—the noble, tortured soul—would be gone.
I couldn't let him do it.
"Forgive me, Master," I whispered.
I didn't argue. I moved.
I jammed my fingers directly into the Batwing's dashboard, ripping out the firing control circuits in a shower of sparks.
"What are you doing?!" Bruce roared, wrestling with the controls.
"I am saving you from yourself!" I shouted back. "We are landing! We are going to dig! Because if there is even a one percent chance that the boy is breathing, you will not waste it chasing a ghost!"
I forced the stick down. The Batwing banked hard, engines screaming, turning away from the fleeing Joker and diving toward the burning crater.
The Blast Site
We landed in the sand. The heat was intense. The remains of the warehouse were just twisted metal and burning wood.
Bruce leaped out of the cockpit before the canopy fully opened. He didn't run; he stumbled, sliding down the dunes.
"Jason!" he screamed. "Jason!"
I followed, using my coat to shield my face from the embers. I scanned the wreckage with demon eyes, looking for a pulse, a heartbeat, a spark.
I found nothing but death.
Bruce was digging with his bare hands, tossing aside burning beams of wood. His gauntlets were melting, his skin blistering.
"He's here! He has to be here!"
He pulled away a sheet of corrugated metal.
And then, he stopped.
Lying in the ash, shielded partially by the body of his mother, was Jason Todd.
His uniform was gone. His body was broken, burned, and small. So terribly small.
Bruce fell to his knees. A sound escaped him—not a scream, but a low, animal whimper that tore at the throat.
He reached out. He touched Jason's face. It was cold.
"No," Bruce whispered. "No, no, no."
He pulled the boy's body into his arms. He rocked back and forth, cradling the dead Robin against his chest, oblivious to the fire around them.
"I'm sorry," Bruce sobbed into the boy's hair. "I'm so sorry, Jason. I failed you."
I stood behind him. For the first time in centuries, I felt a heaviness in my own chest. A pang of... regret.
I had encouraged the boy's anger. I had taught him to fight dirty. I had given him the transponder.
And I had arrived three seconds too late.
I looked at the mother, Sheila. She was dead too. Betrayal had bought her nothing but a shallow grave.
I walked over to Bruce. I placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Young Master," I said softly. "We must go. The local militia is approaching."
Bruce didn't move. He just held the body tighter.
"I can't leave him," Bruce whispered. "I can't put him in the ground, Sebastian. I can't do it again."
I looked at the broken man. I looked at the dead boy.
I knew the laws of nature. Dead is dead.
But I also knew the laws of the supernatural. And I knew that in this world, "dead" was a flexible term for those willing to pay the price.
I knelt beside Bruce.
"Sir," I whispered, my voice taking on a dark, seductive cadence. "Listen to me."
Bruce looked up. His eyes were red, hollow, empty.
"There are... stories," I said carefully. "Ancient texts I have read in the library of Nanda Parbat. Tales of the Al Ghul family."
Bruce blinked. "Ra's?"
"The Demon's Head possesses waters," I continued, staring at Jason's lifeless face. "The Lazarus Pits. They can heal the dying. They can restore the broken."
"He's not dying, Sebastian," Bruce choked out. "He's dead."
"The Pits have been known to defy even that boundary," I lied—or perhaps, I told a half-truth. "It is forbidden. It comes with a terrible cost. The soul that returns is often... changed."
Bruce looked down at Jason. He wiped the soot from the boy's cheek.
"Changed?"
"But alive," I whispered.
Bruce stared at me. The grief in his eyes warred with a sudden, desperate hope.
"Where?" Bruce asked. His voice was rasping, dangerous.
"The location is hidden," I said, standing up. "But I can find it. If you order it."
Bruce looked at the Joker's tire tracks in the distance. Then he looked at Jason.
He stood up, lifting Jason's body as if it weighed nothing.
"Take me home," Bruce said. His voice was dead again.
"Sir?"
"We're taking him home to Gotham," Bruce said, walking toward the Batwing. "We bury him. Properly."
I paused. He had rejected the offer.
"Are you certain, Sir?"
Bruce stopped. He didn't turn around.
"If I bring him back... and he comes back wrong... then the Joker wins twice. Jason deserves peace. Not to be a monster."
He walked up the ramp.
I stood in the desert wind. I respected the decision. It was the human decision. The moral decision.
But as I looked at the boy's limp hand dangling from Bruce's arms, I narrowed my eyes.
Peace is a luxury, Young Master, I thought. And vengeance is a necessity.
I pulled a small vial from my pocket. I knelt by the spot where Jason had died. I scooped up a handful of blood-soaked sand and ash.
"Just in case," I whispered, corking the vial.
I turned and followed them into the ship.
As the Batwing lifted off, leaving the tragedy behind, I knew one thing for certain.
Robin was dead.
But the ghost of Jason Todd would haunt Gotham forever.
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