#he suffers from ragged breathing hallucinations and delirium

[pixelatedraindrops]

Yuma Month: Day 25: Broken

Night terrors, burning body temperature, delirious hallucinations, and glassy faded vision…

Helpless and afraid, he calls out for his caretaker…but he’s not there…

He’s all alone now…with no one to help…

Completely broken.

[thesandsofelsweyr]

THE CLIMB

《 CHAPTER 3/? // READ ON AO3 // TAG 》

My reimagining of how Jason escaped Arkham Asylum and ended up in Venezuela (Arkham Knight: Genesis Part 5 Retelling)

《RATING》 Unrated 《CATEGORY》 Gen 《WORDS》 2,467

《CHARACTERS》 Jason Todd, Slade Wilson, Original Male Character, Joker (mentioned), Bruce Wayne (mentioned), Catherine Todd (mentioned), Willis Todd (mentioned)

《TROPES》 Angst, Whump, Fix-It

《WARNINGS》 Implied/Referenced Torture, Aftermath of Torture, Blood and Injury, Head Injury, Delirium, Hallucinations, Flashbacks, Near Death Experiences, Suicidal Thoughts, Past Child Abuse, Swearing

《SERIES》 Part 6 of My Arkhamverse

《NOTES》

This was my first time writing Slade Wilson for public consumption so special thanks to @nonbinaryjaybird and dak for beta-ing this chapter.

If you enjoy the read please kudos, comment, and reblog 🧡

《 ALSO ON AO3 》 (comments & kudos there are very much appreciated!)

Jason stops dead in his tracks, paralyzed by the terror that cuts through him like the Clown’s scalpel. That wasn’t the voice of another ghost. That was real. He’d been so lost in his delusions that he hadn’t heard the makeshift trap door creak open or the heavy bootsteps descending the unfinished concrete staircase, approaching him. Panic grips his chest with a gauntleted fist, squeezing all the air from his lungs. Two bright beams of light pierce the darkness, illuminating him like a deer in headlights. 

“No…” His pitiful whimper catches in his throat. Any courage he’d regained from facing certain death had been sucked out of him the instant he heard that voice. How could he have been so careless? This is why I was left here to rot. This is why I was replaced. He should’ve known the Clown would never let him creep through these halls unprotected. He’d never let his prized plaything slip from his grip. His master will make him suffer for this.

He throws up a trembling arm over his face to shield his stinging eyes from the flashlights that are blinding him. His heart is galloping in his chest, racing toward that trap door that is now blocked by the pair of shadowy figures. He tightens his grip on the wall to keep himself from falling to his knees and begging these flesh-and-blood specters for mercy.

The faulty emergency floodlight flickers on again, the shadows rescind, and two living, breathing men emerge from the murk. They’re dressed in GCPD tactical gear, with helmets on and masks pulled up over their faces, hiding everything but their eyes. The larger of the two has a black patch over his right eye.

Jason licks his ragged lips with a parched tongue. He needs to explain; he has to make them understand. “This-this isn’t what it looks like,” he pleads desperately as nervous fingers pluck at his orange jumpsuit. Cold sweat drips down the sides of his face. “I wasn’t trying to escape, I swear. I-I was just thirsty. Please, it’s been days…”

The smaller of the pair pulls down his mask, revealing the round face of a kid not much older than he is; a face he doesn’t recognize. The kid’s thin lips skin back in disgust at the sight of Jason. “That’s the Batman’s partner?” he scoffs with a hint of an accent, looking Jason up and down with dark eyes. He slings his rifle over his shoulder, clearly unimpressed by the filthy, starved ex-sidekick who can barely stand. “Didn’t we just see him with another kid?”

Jason’s heart sinks and he has to choke back a sob. He’s here. He’s here and he’s close and he still didn’t come for me. He still doesn’t care. Warm tears pool in his eyes, but that other part of him refuses to let them fall. “You knew that already, dipshit. It’s past ‘time to face facts’ and man up. You’re steps away from freedom. You know the count. You counted plenty of times. Get the hell out of here.”

The taller man with the broad shoulders and the eye patch steps up to Jason, his one blue eye appraising him. Jason drops his own paler blue eyes to the floor like he’d been trained to do. “Looks like the Bat’s got a spare. Helluva retirement.”

Jason’s blood goes cold: they know who I am. Then his mind catches. That was an old fear, one instilled in him by Batman. Who the fuck cares anymore? He’s a nobody now. Just another plaything left to rot in the Clown’s funhouse. He idly wonders if these goons had dropped by to torture him on Joker’s invitation and he didn’t remember them. There are lots of stretches he doesn’t remember. Probably for the best. 

“Sorry kid, it’s nothing personal,” Cyclops drawls, and Jason hears the sound of a gun pulling free from its holster. “But don’t worry, I’ll make it quick. I wanna get back to all the shows I DVR’d, and my compadre here wants to get laid. Now, down on your knees like a good boy so we can get this over with.”

Jason glances up, and his brow wrinkles in confusion. “You’re here to… kill me?” he asks, incredulous. His brain’s still mush, and the ringing in his ears and the pounding headache aren’t helping him make sense of what’s happening here. 

“Yep,” Cyclops replies as he motions impatiently at Jason with his gun—a wordless reminder that he wants Jason down on his knees. “Your friend the Clown pays really well.”

Jason gapes at the gun and then back at the man holding the gun. “He-he wants me dead?” he asks dumbly. That doesn’t sound right. If the Clown really wanted him dead, he wouldn’t send an assassin to put a bullet in the back of his head, to give him a clean, quick death. No, when the time’s right, Joker will use his own hands and savor every single agonizing second. He’ll peel the skin from my bones, saw off my arms and legs, cut open my stomach, then rip out my guts while I watch. He’ll make me beg and beg and beg for death, and I’ll suffer until my last breath. A wave of nausea rolls through him, and he bites down on his tongue to silence a whimper.

“Uh-huh. Gave me a generous down payment to get rid of the secret prisoner he’d stashed down here. That’d be you.”

Cyclops’ words hit him like a punch to the gut. “Oh,” he says in a tiny voice. His head droops between his sagging shoulders. In the end, even Joker didn’t want him. How does someone fail at suffering? How useless am I? A stifled sob escapes his tight throat before he can swallow it down. He never thought the Clown could hurt him more than he had with all of his toys. No one in the world wanted him now. No one in the world would ever want him. Why the hell am I still alive? He still doesn’t understand what he did to deserve any of this. He fucked up, sure. Fucked up a lot. But he’d tried his best to be good for his mom, for Bruce, even for Willis… even for Joker. Yet, in the end, every one of them abandoned him. “...thrown you away like an unwanted puppy.” Sorrow and despair wring out his heart, and like the weak little coward he is, he breaks down and bawls. He welcomes the bullet this man has waiting for him. He’s ready for the sad story of his life to finally end. He doesn’t even feel like breathing anymore, so he just slumps against the wall and lets his broken body slide to the floor; a useless heap of meat.

“Wait, is he crying?” The kid aims a kick at his sore ribs, and he moans as he doubles over. “At least die like a man.”

“That kid’s got a point, you worthless waste of space,” Robin sneers, disgusted.

Cyclops kneels in front of him, and he can’t help but shrink back; a learned response from over a year of non-stop abuse. He keeps his eyes trained on the black and white floor tiles. “So it’s true, then? You were Batman’s partner?”

Being reminded of the man he thought had loved him, the man who’d replaced him without so much as a second thought, hurts like another kick in the ribs, and a broken sob shakes his cadaverous body. Then that sob’s sucked back in when a heavy hand seizes his jaw, thick fingers digging painfully into his thin flesh. His face is yanked up, and his eyes go wide as his body stiffens. “Answer me,” Cyclops demands cooly, a cold flame burning behind his one blue eye.

“Yes sir,” Jason hears himself reply out of habit and cringes. His training runs deep. Like Pavlov’s dog, but with crowbars and cattle prods in place of the bell. His tongue flicks at one of the empty holes in his gums—one of the punishments for his bad manners—before his eyes fall back to the floor. 

Cyclops releases his jaw. “I’ll be damned,” he laughs as he straightens. “I remember this little punk,” he gestures at Jason with his gun. “Always running at the mouth, never knew when to shut the hell up. The Clown must’ve taught him some manners. Oh, how the mighty have fallen, eh?” He holsters his gun. “Guess it’s your lucky day, Boy Wonder,” he says, grabbing Jason up by his scrawny bicep, as if he weighs no more than a doll. “I’m in the mood to gamble so you get to live a little while longer.”

The man’s words slowly sink into his sluggish brain, then the stomach-churning realization takes hold: these men are taking him away from here, away from his home, away from his master. Jason tries to twist away, but Cyclops’ broad fist is locked around his upper arm, tight as a vise. “I-I can’t leave here,” he squeaks as terror mounts inside him with each hobbled step. “He’ll think I escaped!”

“He? Who’s he?” the kid asks. “The lunatic who locked you up down here?”

“You-you don’t understand,” he stammers on, “what he’ll do to me when he finds me.” Or would he? Does he even still care enough to punish him one last time? The Clown’s threat echoes in his ear, prickling the little hairs on the nape of his neck as if the creep’s looming over him: “I’ll have more than teeth and fingernails to add to your little scrapbook.” Jason can’t risk it. He can’t face that agony again. That humiliation… that mutilation… 

The floodlight flickers off and on again: a portent, a promise of pain. Goosebumps erupt all over his wan flesh. “Not my problem,” Cyclops says dryly as he drags him along toward the stairwell. Towards the exit. Towards freedom. The stairwell doorway yawns open, a dark maw waiting to swallow him; to chew him up then spit him out, like every other time he tried to reach that salvation beyond.

Icy dread sinks its teeth into him, sending a chill skittering down his spine. This has to be another game. He loves his fucking games. And it wouldn’t be the first time Joker recruited others to play with his toy. He thinks I’ll go with them, he warns himself, remembering Dr. Haywood. The ‘J’ on his cheek tingles. He wants to hurt me again, like he did before I became his partner. He wants to punish me. He wants to… he wants…

“Attention!”

His terror takes control. A burst of adrenaline surges through his veins, and he wrenches his skinny arm out of Cyclops’ iron grip. Then he bolts: half-sprinting, half-limping back towards the safety of his cell. His shattered ankle screams in agony, but he’s so crazed by fear that he’s barely fazed. Besides, that excruciating pain lancing up his leg is a mere bee sting compared to what the Clown will do to him for failing this test. He’ll break my other ankle. He’ll break every bone in my body before he… he… Jason clenches his jaw full of broken teeth, wide eyes fixed on the hallway, and his cell beyond. His heavy breathing is torturous beneath his splintered ribs, but he doesn’t dare stop. He’ll curl up in his corner and await whatever punishment he has to endure for leaving his cage. He’ll show his master that he’s loyal. He’ll prove he can be a good partner…

A deafening boom thunders through the narrow corridor, drowning out all other sounds, then searing pain explodes in his shoulder as the bullet tears through that abused tissue. He cries out as his knees buckle and he collapses. Blood’s bubbling up through his jumpsuit. He wraps his shaking hand around the wound, pressing down on it to try and staunch the bleeding. Hot blood seeps through the cracks between his fingers. He tries to push himself back up on his feet so he can keep fleeing, but his knees give way and he falls flat on his face with a grunt. Undeterred, he pulls himself down the hallway, clawing at the tile with his free hand, slithering over the dirty floor, leaving a trail of blood beneath him like a gigantic slug.

He hears a deep chuckle as the two men leisurely stroll up to him. Then a strong hand is under his arm, hauling him to his feet, ending his comically feeble escape attempt as soon as it began.

“Look, kid,” Cyclops explains in his ear as he steadies him. “You’ve got two options: the easy way or the hard way. You can start walking, or I’ll put the next one in your knee and drag your ass out of here. Either way, you’re coming with us.”

“What? You’re bringing him with us? I thought you had a deal with this Clown guy.”

“This kid’s got some valuable secrets. The kind of secrets that your kind of people will pay a helluva lot more for than 2 million bucks. And by the looks of him, the Clown’s already loosened his tongue for us. Never had much faith in that pasty-faced psycho anyway.”

“Crazy Yanqui,” the kid spits. “The Dons won’t give you a dime for this rat bitch. C’mon. Finish the job, and let’s get the hell outta here. I’m freezing my nuts off in this city.”

Cyclops ignores his sidekick, and shoves Jason forward, nearly sending him sprawling. He stumbles ahead, jarring his ankle again. This time the pain is blinding and he yelps. He sucks in a gasp through gritted teeth as he regains his balance. 

He weakly shuffles ahead as he grips his bleeding shoulder, panting as he goes. Every other hobbled step earns him a rough prod from Cyclops. Without the fog of fear clouding his addled mind, it’s obvious once again that he’s on death’s doorstep. He glances up again at the dark stairwell only steps away and he can’t help but giggle. “That’s more like it, you pathetic fuck.” His giggle balloons into laughter, and soon he’s cackling as hysterically as the Clown. He can’t help it. It’s so fucking funny. These men are dragging him out of this pit. His suffering is finally at an end, but he’s not gonna make it past the trap door he tried to reach so many times before because he’s about to drop dead. His side starts to ache from his boisterous laughter.

“He’s lost his mind,” the kid comments, but it’s only a soft echo in his blood-starved brain. Jason takes another step, then the ground tilts up to meet his face.

Darkness.

[sky-kiss]

Can I make a ficlet request? Can I suggest a dialogue between ozai and azula?

A/N: This got away from me a bit and I still would have liked to do more between them. But. Hopefully this is kind of what you were looking for? iapologizeifnot. Post Series conversation between Ozai and Azula.

_____

Friends, Ozai’s not a good dad and Azula’s been through some stuff...

______

The first week after the asylum she thought she might die.

Her recollection of the first three days was broken at best. Her consciousness came and went. She remembered someone carrying her from her cell. She remembered her body felt as though it was on fire. She remembered...flashes of conversations. Zuko screaming.

At mom. He was yelling at mom.

Even in her delirium that had made her want to laugh. Oh, how the prodigal son had fallen. Ursa weathered it, lips pursed to a thin line. The stern quality of her voice was one Azula recognized. Disappointed, judging, ready to lecture (Zuko had refused to act; and so Ursa had).

Through the din, one sentence stuck with her: she had abandoned her daughter once before. She would not do it again. Fire Lord Zuko had no response to that.

The fever was bad. She was simultaneously freezing and on fire. The hallucinations were worse. Whatever they’d given her to suppress her bending had a hell of a falloff. She brought her knees up to her chest, begging it to stop. There was nothing left in her stomach and she couldn’t stop vomiting. The taste of acid lingered on her tongue.

Her mother would offer her water. Some sort of bone broth on her better days. Her mother would hold her. Her warmth was softer, healthier, body heat instead of a firebender’s strength. Azula clutched the woman, burying her face in her mother’s shoulder. She smelt of jasmine, of summer, sweet to contrast the bitterness of her memories.

In the evenings, long after she should have slept, when Ursa was dozing beside her on the too narrow cot, her father would visit. Sleep addled and delirious, she told herself it was a just another hallucination. He would sit by her bedside, stone face, brow quirked. Her condition...puzzled him.

He reached out to her only once, the tips of his fingers grazing her cheek.

He said she would recover. He had made her stronger than this.

Azula turned away from him, curling more tightly against her mother.

___

“Where” they were was a small island on the very fringe of the Fire Nation. It was pastoral, in its way, far removed from the glamor of city life. On the opposite side of the island was a small town, no more than forty settlers. Their...cottage was miles away, overlooking the sea. The breeze that wafted through the house was tinged with salt, cool and blessedly fresh.

It was pretty, she supposed. Azula had never found much pleasure in nature. It was her mother who found peace in the Palace gardens. For her part, she had preferred the sparring ring.

She welcomed the silence during the day. She dreaded it during the night. With the sun warming her skin it was a simple task to sort her demons. Compartmentalization was an art in their family. Some hurts she could forget; some she could write off. Others she buried. It was only at night when they manifest anew.

She dreamt of drowning. She dreamt of the asylum, her arms bound, trapped within the confines of her own body. She dreamt of her father’s face before he left her behind.

Some wounds were more difficult to hide.

____

A month passed before they spoke. Her father was there, much as he ever was, a looming presence in the back of her mind. He took his breakfast before herself or Ursa. He dismissed himself from their company and kept mostly to the beach. She would catch sight of him from time to time, moving through the katas with the same eerie grace as ever.

It was different. She could feel it whenever he was near. No heat. In his prime he had radiated energy, almost suffocating; now there was only empty space, a hollow place in his chest. Azula took an almost savage glee in this debasement. He had left her, rewarded her years of service with treachery. Now he was suffering. His every day would prove suffering.

After the joy came guilt. She hated herself for hating him. She longed for the better days. When victory was still in their grasp. When he had looked at her with pride and something she could almost pretend was affection. She longed for it, hungered for it.

“He’s avoiding me,” Azula bit the inside of her cheek, pushing her food from one side of the plate to another. Her appetite had yet to return.

Ursa sighed, “Your father is still wallowing in  his self pity, my love.”

“It’s been more than a year.”

Her lips quirked up. The smile struck her as secretive, tinged with mischief, “You overestimate your father, Azula. He has, and will, sulk for far longer.” Her mother leaned across the table, setting her right hand over Azula’s left. The physical contact was still strange. The last six years had been primarily devoid of it.  Things were still...disjointed with her mother. Some days were better than others. The woman brought their joined hands to her lips, “You could speak to him if you wanted.”

“I have nothing to say.”

“You could talk to me, then.”

She stiffened, the muscles in her forearm tensing as if to pull away, “No, mother.”

Ursa nodded. She could make out the traces of hurt, there one moment and hidden the next. Her own face had looked the same often enough throughout the years.

Sometimes their resemblance was uncanny.

_____

She found him in the garden.

Azula approached, silent at first, her bare feet barely a whisper on the flagstone. His shoulders were rolled forward. A gentle quack broke the monotony of silence. A few turtleducks paddled in front of him, plucking the bits of bread from his outstretched palm.

“Does mother know about this?”

He grunted, half turning to look at her. In the morning light, it was obvious just how much the past year had aged him. Not on his face; that was primarily unchanged, aside from a few new wrinkles near the corners of his eyes. There was grey near his temples, woven into his beard. It was written in the heaviness of his stare, “It would be impossible to miss. This hovel being what it is.”

“Not here,” she fought the urge to snap at him, crossing to stand by the water’s edge. “After she left. I’d catch you out in the gardens…”

“Ah. So you knew.”

“It always struck me as a curious...indulgence.”

Her father smirked, dusting the remaining crumbs from his hands, “Weakness is what you wish to say, daughter. Don’t bother parsing your words. You were never good at hiding your intent from me.”  

“I never tried, father.”

“How loyal of you.” A half truth. She’d survived as long as she had, remained in his favor as long as she had, because of half truths. Ozai gestured to the space beside him, “Sit. I have missed intelligent conversation.”

Azula smirked, “You don’t enjoy my mother’s company?”

“Ursa lectures. She does not converse.” Ozai inspected her face, reaching out. He curled a finger beneath her chin, turning her head to the side. “You look more like yourself.”

She recognized his tone. As seemingly innocuous as the statement was it served as an evaluation. The response was hardwired into her, immediate, dispassionate. She turned away from his touch, “Yes, father. Thank you.”

It earned her a smile. Positive stimuli for a pleasing response, “Good.”  They sat together in silence. Azula frowned, staring down at her hands. The girl scoured her memories. She snickered, shaking her head. When her father spoke she could hear the irritation, barely veiled, in his voice, “What amuses you?”

“This. Us,” she gestured around them, a bitter smile tugging at her lips. “All it took was...losing everything. And suddenly we’re this picture perfect little family. Sitting together by the turtleduck pond. You have to admit it’s funny.”

He scowled at her, “Irony and humor are not the same thing.”

She shrugged, “No, the irony was that once upon a time this was exactly what I wanted.”

“To rot in some spirit forsaken corner of the earth? Whiling away your potential?”

She shook her head, “To sit with you. To speak with you. To have something…”

“Something?” He snorted, “You had everything, child. I shaped you in my image,” Her father held his head high, jaw set. Even in rags he was aristocratic, projecting an air of strength, authority. Every word was punctuated by a slicing motion of his hand, “Clever, cautious, powerful, beautiful...my daughter, I made you into something without equal.”

“I didn’t ask for that. Or want it,” she scrubbed her hands over her biceps, feeling cold, feeling small. The drugs were out of her system but she could still feel the aftereffects. It itched. Something under her skin itched. She brought her knees to her chest, “I wanted you to be there. Zuko had mom. I was alone.”

“You were a princess. You could have had anyone or anything you desired.”

“Never a father.”

He frowned. She would not say his features softened. She would not say she say guilt or regret flit across his features. A Phoenix King, a Fire Lord, did not have the luxury. His attention flicked to the surface of the pond. The wind played across the waters surface, leaving little ripples in its wake, “What I offered you was all I was capable of giving.”

She snorted, burying her face in her robes. The fabric was coarse, too heavy, peasant wear in contrast to the silks she preferred. Yes, all he was capable of giving. His conditional approval. The heaviness of his stare when she was simply adequate rather than extraordinary. The omnipresent fear that one day she could end up just like Zuko. Discarded for a newer, prettier, more talented model.

The uncertainty was the worst, she supposed. Hatred she could stomach. Pain was in the mind. But fear? Stress? The omnipresent dread that one day he would wake up and realize she was not everything he imagined, everything he desired…

...it had eaten at her. Torn at her insides and her mind.

Azula took a steadying breath, focusing on calming herself. It was more difficult now. Something inside her head was off, out of balance. The scales eternally tipped to the left. Yes, she’d lived in fear. And that day had come. Mai and Ty Lee had abandoned her. And there was only Father. Only ever Father. He’d looked at her. He’d looked at her and seen the fragments in her psyche, the frayed edges in his perfect creation. And her one fear, her only fear, had become manifest.

Her voice was quiet in comparison, calm, “You shouldn’t have left me behind.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, “You were to hold the seat of our power, Azula. You were to protect our nation. You were meant to keep your brother from doing precisely what he did.”

“If I had been at your side the Avatar would have fallen. We could have won, father. If I…”

“You were never meant to stand at my side.”

Azula stiffened. No, never at his side. She could serve as his hand. She could as his enforcer, his wrath, his agent. But he never created her as an equal. The girl straightened, “And so here you are. Phoenix King Ozai: no bending, no throne. No legacy. Just a shell of a man, feeding turtleducks.”

He surprised her. The right corner of his lips curled up, half smirk, half sneer, bitter. Even in his age he was a handsome man. The expression left him...ugly.  Ozai chuckled, reaching out to set a hand on her shoulder. Even stripped of his power, his touch burned, “Yes, daughter, here we are.”