scaryscarecrows

[scaryscarecrows]

Fevers

Whumpees with aching eyes, too tired to keep open yet too sore to close, even the lightest pressure of their eyelids too much

Whumpee who's too weak and dizzy to do anything at all but lie in bed completely still, sweating through their blankets only to immediately start shivering after clumsily throwing them off

Whumpees with dry mouths, dry lips

The corners of their room are more shadowy than they should be, and they're too exhausted to bother to get up and see what's in there. The Hat Man will have to just wait his turn.

Strong enough to get out of bed but being so, so out of it. Caretaker finding them standing swaying in a doorway, pale as death, clearly seeing something that isn't there

Everything seems to be flickering. The air buzzes. Their skin prickles.

Getting to sleep is hard, because their mind is restless and racing. Once they're asleep though, they're down for the count

Chattering teeth. Their bones must be rattling, for how much they ache

[scaryscarecrows]

❤️💙Tumblr Tuesday: Ao3 x Tumblr—Love wins 💙❤️

It finally happened. After some romancing in the ballpit, we popped the question and, folks, THEY SAID YES. 

In short, we're in love! Now, we're in need of a ship name. Can you help? Vote below, or let us know if you come up with something better. This is now a matter of grave importance.

(Thanks to all the folks on X who added some excellent (& some funny) suggestions to our little list)

Anyway, the fan art is already absolutely incredible, thank you for celebrating with us:

@all-skedaddle-and-no-bop:

@miriko-chan-neko:

@mjlor-chan:

@bigrawrenergy:

@marshallena:

@cloutchase:

@gyarustara:

@blakeisspacing:

@proudgirlkissr:

@bunningchaos:

@urfavesarequadranted:

@twittypet:

@applejuiceyjuice-art:

@peppercornyy:

@andellaheartz:

@livingfurnace:

@rainbow-taishi:

@buumbamboom2763:

[scaryscarecrows]

technology has changed so much over the years, it's nuts to think about.

[scaryscarecrows]

Jason looks at Dick, expression unreadable, and turns away from him to go to the cabinet. Dick knows full well Jason's tracking his movements anyway, because that's Bat training and Jay was paranoid before. So he just stays where he is.

Which is why, when Jason reaches up for a mug and his shirt rides up, he sees the scar carved into his lower back. A heart with an arrow through it, sloppily done.

And.

And.

Bruce. Bruce had received a tape, one he'd kept from Dick because 'you don't need to see this, it won't help', and then Jay had died, they thought, and Dick had gone fuck it and watched it anyway, and he'd had that then, red and raw and bleeding, and--

Jason's arm drops. The rough scar vanishes from view and Dick tries to keep his expression neutral. That's not...how do you even begin to broach that? You don't, that's how.

"Lemon!" Jason calls. "C'mere, sour girl, I'll getcha dinner before we get started!"

The dog, the big asshole dog, lumbers in, tail wagging, and rears up to slap her big paws on the counter. Jason gives her a side hug and she mashes her head against his ribs, snuffling. Dick tries to muster a smile, but it doesn't quite come. If he keeps looking at Jason, he's going to scream. Or say something. Or both.

So he doesn't. He turns away to investigate the fern sitting near the window instead. Better. Safer.

[scaryscarecrows]

[scaryscarecrows]

For a moment, Jason isn't sure why there's light on his face. He keeps the blinds shut tight for multiple reasons.

Then things come back in a rush. Halloween. Scarecrow. Bruce.

"I'm sorry."

It's November first. He wasn't supposed to see November first.

Everything hurts. He'd taken some hits, and then the shaking, the godawful shaking from Crane's bullshit, fucking Bruce had pulled him straight into it

Straight out of hell, maybe, he could have left you and you would have deserved it

and...

A pop of green gets his attention and he flinches, twists over (owowowow sleeping on the floor is so bad) and looks at...oh, yeah. His fern. It's still here, waving cheerily at him in the breeze from the window he crawled through last night.

"What're you lookin' at," he murmurs, scrubbing a hand over his face and whimpering at the pull on his aching shoulders. The fern does not reply.

Jason peels himself off the ground, crackling and crunching, and staggers first to the window, fishing out a cigarette and his lighter as he goes. Gotham's sunny this morning, sunny as she ever gets, and already there's people who said fuck it and came back. He's not sure how to feel. Last night feels like a fever dream, and this morning feels unearned.

But he's still here, for better or worse.

He watches a pair of cats posture at each other until they both book it down an alleyway before turning away, stomach shaking. He didn't mean...he's been on borrowed time, he was supposed to finish everything last night but...

He stubs his cigarette out and tears himself away from the window, closes it with more force than maybe it needs. He checks the fern's water first--all good--before picking it up and schlepping to the bathroom to shower off...everything. For the first time in years, he doesn't have a plan, or a backup plan, or even a want for anything.

I shouldn't be here.

[scaryscarecrows]

Crane’s official files don’t have much else to offer. Jason was right, Walker ended up in Arkham at sixteen (Jesus…), but even now, with more background knowledge, they’re exactly what they looked like before. No new information. He finds, however, when he digs deep enough, an audio recording. It’s not Crane’s, it’s Richardson’s; apparently Crane had spent two weeks out of work with a flu. Shame he didn’t die, but you can’t have it all.

Interestingly, however, this isn’t an official recording. It turned up when they did the investigation into the Scarecrow Incident, but it’s personal. More importantly, it was made after the supposedly-fatal riot. It’s staticy and parts of it are cut off–bad upload, sounds like–but he can certainly get the gist.

“--to put a gag in to keep him from swallowing his tongue,” Richardson’s saying, voice horribly apologetic. “Sorry, love. Don’t be sick next time. All right, Mister Walker, you’re ready for this. Patient will be receiving…mrrsh-grams of compound beta intravenously…tchhgrat…”

She might have gagged him, but it didn’t matter: the next clear thing on the recording is screaming. It’s muffled, sure, but it’s unbroken and painful, the kind that leaves you mute for a week. Richardson’s voice comes back.

“--faster reaction time than the previous formula by about…ten seconds,” she says. “Stronger, too; almost no build-up. I think this one might be a good candidate for the aerosol.” Good God. In the background, Walker continues to scream. “I’m going to remove the gag, see if our patient has any constructive criticism.”

There’s choking and coughing and then, abruptly, the screams turn to words.

“--BURNING! BURNING! BURNING!”

…

Well. Word.

“I don’t think moths like fire after all,” Richardson says. She laughs, easy and conversational. “I’m not going to kill him without you, don’t worry, but I want to see how much external stimulus he’ll register.” Jason can just see Crane listening to this, making his own notes and inquiries, shaking his head with a soft smile like he’s been brought a surprise candy rather than a torture tape. “I’m lighting a match and holding it near him. I am not going to drop it on him, touch him with it, or burn any hair. It will be roughly six inches from him, so don’t you dare complain that I did a damn thing to him.”

…

Jason does not want to know.

There’s more static, or perhaps just the striking of a match, and Walker’s screams devolve right back into wordless panic. “External stimuli registered…shhcckk…”

[scaryscarecrows]

When someone is so tired they physically cannot keep themselves upright and don't even notice that their quiet, tough, removed teammate has noticed them wobbling for the last 10 minutes and quickly moved across the room to stand next to them. When their eyes eventually slide shut and they pitch forward, their teammate is already prepared; they grab them gently, and knowing full well they are in no shape to walk, scoops them up, carries them to their bunk and tucks them in.

[scaryscarecrows]

Jason loved the miticide so much that he grew too big and had to get kicked out.

OUTSIDE. Not away. He now lives on a patio and has nearly doubled in height. Truly, his name fits him. Smallish, got a weird spa treatment, and NOW look at him.

This is Jason, my Contrary Little Fucker:

Sounds mean. It's not. The dogs were outside, my mother was in the kitchen, and I was well on the other side of the room. I cannot stress enough that no one was anywhere in his vicinity.

Mum: That big green thing of yours has a new leaf! :)

Me: Oh, nice! :)

Jason, five seconds after this exchange: *drops the brand new leaf straight off onto the ground*

[scaryscarecrows]

Did you know that horses are still used for logging? Not just as a way to keep traditional handicrafts alive, but because horses are genuinely better at some jobs than machines?

Horses are much gentler on sensitive ecosystems, they're more flexible in rocky terrain, and they don't topple over on a hillside.

They can enter dense forests and drag out one specific tree without damaging the other trees and without compacting or eroding the soil.

They also run on hay instead of gas or electricity. Horses don't pollute the ecosystem with either oil leaks, gas stench, or noise.

In conclusion, draft horses are awesome c:

[scaryscarecrows]

For every 'Jason should have 1000000000 scars' and 'he should be the shortest' and what-have-you, like.

On one hand, yes. And YES it's fun to play around with things because God is dead and so is DC continuity.

But on the other hand...

The point, the whole point, the massive point here is that he died. Not 'was thought dead', not 'died for a second', DIED. WAS BURIED. Everyone knew where he was, he was in a box in a graveyard, he died and you're not supposed to come back from that, but he did, and he's not the kid that died. He doesn't look like him, not really, that's something else that's come up out of the dark. No scars to prove it; can he really be sure of anything? It's so easy to minimize what happened to him when there's not even a scratch on him, it's easy to say he came back wrong (or did he even come back at all?) when he doesn't look like Robin anymore, but he did, he came back whether anybody wanted him or didn't, but God, you ever think he ever doubts what happened? Maybe he's a clone and doesn't know it. Maybe everyone's just playing the world's most dickish joke on him. Maybe his memories are completely wrong somehow.

Who knows.

[scaryscarecrows]

[scaryscarecrows]

Donald Trump gets attacked by an eagle.

This eagle truly represents America. What a majestic symbol.

[scaryscarecrows]

I'm Gonna Bring a Little Hell

Sometimes, Jason thinks these people just spawn in like a cheap video game mob. There were, when he got here, two or three people tops. Now, ten minutes and multiple bodies later, they’re still fucking coming out of the woodwork! There’s goons in the elevators. There’s goons on the stairs. He’ll swear on whatever you want that there’s goons in the goddamn rafters. Point is, they just keep coming and he tried, he tried so hard to be stealthy. You overlook one guy in the bathroom and all of a sudden, everyone hates you forever. There’s no winning here.

He just wants one lousy flash drive. He knows this is a front for a trafficking ring, he just needs the rest of the information so he doesn’t accidentally leave any rats behind. That’s literally all. In, drive, out.

But now it’s in, kick ass, drive, out. Jeeze…

He dodges a baseball bat, grabs it from the owner’s hands, and ricochets it off the wall into the head of some bastard with an automatic rifle. There’s a crunch and said bastard goes down, only to be immediately trampled by his cohorts.

Ouch.

Finally, finally they stop coming. Some of them are still alive, sure–he ran out of bullets, shit happens–but none of them are walking out of here. Or walking at all. Between the busted spines, serious head injuries, and mangled legs, they’re staying down one way or another.

Stairs are healthy but elevators are restful. Leg day, he has not skipped. He takes the elevator to the top floor, screw five flights of stairs.

Okay. Out of bullets, but he’s still got knives and a handgun he stole from some woman who grazed his helmet. It’s got…four shots. Not bad. Surely, surely the place is empty now. That lower hallway is a mass of bodies. No way, no possible way, is there anyone left.

He leans against the wall and closes his eyes, Twilight Zone-esque elevator music blending easily into the mechanical hum. It’s been a pretty productive night, really. Almost over, too; he can get what he came for, head home, take a hot shower. See about dinner. Burger sounds pretty nice–it’s been a good day, odds are good he won’t freak out at the cooking meat–but then again, he does have some homemade mac and cheese still…choices, choices…

He’ll see how tired he is, he decides. He doesn’t have to decide right away. 

Ding!

Floor’s empty. Of course it is, how could it not be empty, but still. He stalks out, hoping for peace to just find what he wants and go home. Okay…copy room, break room (dirty dishes in the sink? For shame.), office, office–ah! Here it is. The big office. The fancy executive office.

Spitefully, he rubs a bloody hand over the sofa. Have fun cleaning that off.

It’s a big office. Nice view of Gotham, up high enough that the filth in the streets isn’t visible. Professionally decorated, looks like; a couple of corn plants sit tastefully on either side of the massive window, there’s a gallery wall of black and white urban architecture, and there’s an antique bolo knife mounted on the far wall, surrounded by equally antique tapestries. A water carafe and glasses sit on a tray that costs more than it has any business to and the guest couch is genuine leather. The whole room screams wealth and power.

Hm.

He ignores the sofa, the antiques, and the plants in favor of the desk. The irritatingly minimalist desk, with a place that a sleek Macbook sits during the day and no immediate signs of a flash drive. The drawers are filled with papers, and if he has to, he’ll take those, but his source confirmed, multiple times, that there really was a drive with names and locations and all that fun stuff, and that it never, ever left the office.

So.

If I were an incriminating flash drive, where would I be hiding?

His first thought is the gallery wall. There was one murderer who taped the murder weapon–a hammer–to the underside of a shadow box, where it sat undetected for well over a year. But running his fingers around the frames, and even taking the pictures off the wall to check the backs, turns up nothing. Next, he checks the plants. Bad place to hide electronics, but in a plastic bag…nope. These things need water, though.

He divvies the carafe between them and is just thinking to check behind the tapestries when the door flies open and some punk with a shotgun hollers, “Found him!”

Oh, come on…

The punk raises the shotgun. Jason’s faster on the draw, but he’s not familiar with his stolen pistol and it’s an ill-maintained piece of shit that jams immediately.

“Son of a…”

Cruel laughter comes from the door and Jason throws the handgun at the man’s face*. Hits him dead-on, too, shuts him right up. And to add insult to injury, the pistol unjams and the resulting shot hits him in the balls.

Please, let there be a camera that got that.

“AGH-!”

Unfortunately, his yell before wasn’t a bluff. More people, in the black uniforms of security, crowd into the room.

Seriously, where are they coming from?

It doesn’t matter. It’s an enclosed room, which makes them squirrely about shooting and means he can clean up. He starts by shattering the water carafe against a man’s head and shoving a shard of glass into his eye.

Four…five. I can do five.

…

Damn, I’m glad I took the elevator.

Someone tries to tackle him and he kicks her in the chest, sending her flying backwards into the tapestry wall. Someone else gets too close and gets their head introduced forcefully to the desk, putting them down for the count. Another one decides to risk getting a shot off, but joke’s on them, that big window is really reflective and he sees them in plenty of time to dodge, flip over a guy and disarm the other one without breaking a sweat. This new gun’s better maintained, lets him drop one more, and he’s just turning to–

There’s a noise, when you get stabbed deep enough. Not a scream, or a gurgle, but the sick noise of flesh being cut into. And you tend to feel pretty damn cold pretty much immediately.

Like now.

The woman he’d kicked into the tapestry pulled the bolo knife down, and well, Jason’s going to be honest. When it came to heavy armor versus movement, he chose movement.

Tonight, it cost him.

Both he and the woman look at the knife jutting out of him, at the blood dripping to the floor, at her hand still gripping the thing she doesn’t remember how to let go. And Jason pulls in a ragged breath, grabs her wrist, and pulls, ignoring the cutting-slicing sound and the pain and the cold and her shriek of terror.

“God-!”

“Guess again,” he taunts, and gives her a good yank towards him, her head flailing and snapping against his helmet. She goes down quick. Still conscious, but stunned. More importantly, she’s let go of the knife. 

Thing is, as much as he’d love to terrorize Bruce for being a theatre reject, this is all so, so much rooted in being a show. So it’s a bad idea and he might regret it later, but he pulls the knife back out, ignoring the sudden weakness in his knees, and cuts her head off before she can get up.

His armor is light but compressing. It’ll keep, for another minute.

He turns to the last two, knife gripped firmly in his hand because if he lets go, he’s not picking it up again. One of them books it, sprinting through the open door in a blind panic, but the other’s boxed in, and Jason moves towards him, slow and deliberate. 

“I’m lookin’ for a flash drive,” he says, steadily as he can, thankful the voice mod makes him sound stronger than he is. “Any idea?”

The guy–dumbass, not much older than Jason himself–points a shaking finger at the knife. Jason frowns, lifts it, and–well, what do you know. It’s not an antique, after all, just custom. There’s a hidden compartment in the grip, the seams just visible, and…ah!

“Thank you for your cooperation,” he says sincerely, tucking the drive into a safe place. “Much appreciated.”

He turns like he’s going to leave, hears the telltale release of breath that says relaxed, and whirls back around.

SCHWING!

Heads don’t roll as much as you’d think, not unless there’s an incline. Noses tend to stop the rolling. This one certainly does, and finally, the office is silent.

Jason drops the knife and sinks onto the expensive leather sofa, breathing hard. Bandage. One’a the good ones that he tries not to use, to stop the bleeding cold. Adrenaline shot, to get home. He can do this.

Jesus–

Think I’ll go with mac and cheese. Less work.

Something about this strikes him as hysterically funny and he slumps into the cushions, laughing. One minute. And he’ll get up and move. One minute.

In the distance, he hears sirens. 

Great reaction time…typical…

Doesn’t matter. He got what he came for. He pushes himself up and stumbles to the window, clinging to the wall for support and leaving a gnarly blood trail along the way, stark on the white carpet and the white wall. The window opens soundless and easy and Jason takes one last deep breath, braces himself, and jumps.

He’s long gone by the time the police lights surround the building.

THE END

*You can see a variant of this trick in Injustice 2.

[scaryscarecrows]

Chapters: 15/? Fandom: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham (Video Games), Batman (Movies - Nolan) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: Jason Todd Additional Tags: Jason is a menace, One Shot Collection Series: Part 9 of Cigarette Smoke & Snark Summary:

“Some of you are probably thinking that this is overkill,” he says. “Ages here is going to show you why it’s not.”

What.

“Sir,” he starts, but the Knight just turns to him and spreads his hands.

“Shoot at me.”

“What.”

“Your last physical said your hearing was fine.” Little shit. “Shoot at me.”

[scaryscarecrows]

Sometimes, Jason thinks these people just spawn in like a cheap video game mob. There were, when he got here, two or three people tops. Now, ten minutes and multiple bodies later, they’re still fucking coming out of the woodwork! There’s goons in the elevators. There’s goons on the stairs. He’ll swear on whatever you want that there’s goons in the goddamn rafters. Point is, they just keep coming and he tried, he tried so hard to be stealthy.

He just wants one lousy flash drive. He knows this is a front for a trafficking ring, he just needs the rest of the information so he doesn’t accidentally leave any rats behind. That’s literally all. In, drive, out.

But now it’s in, kick ass, drive, out. Jeeze…

He dodges a baseball bat, grabs it from the owner’s hands, and ricochets it off the wall into the head of some bastard with an automatic rifle. There’s a crunch and said bastard goes down, only to be immediately trampled by his cohorts.

Ouch.