Episode One: Dig, dig, dig, little animal.

It happened in a spark, a shift, with the raking of claws against the universe.

Colors blur as smoke fills a pair of young lungs.

Vivid in structure, in feeling, the state of red, yellows, and greens.

The consumption of a Robin.

A cat lands on two feet— only to break through the hands of Death like reality is made of glass.

Six Months after dying, a boy wakes up in his grave. 

The clash of thunder leaves the thick scent of ozone behind, crisp and electrifying.

Heavy rain does nothing to drown out the splitting noise.

Out.

Get out!

Darkness, enclosed space, trapped.

Blunt nails act like claws, raking and scratching; Satin rips, shredding.

Out, out, out…!

A shout, a yell, a yeowl , and—

Fingers brush the pages of a new book, one of the many that line the book stores selves. The cat on the cover looks pissed, red letters make up the author's name: Stephen King.

A young boy glosses over the cover again, drawn to the feeling it invokes, to the horror aspect.

“Sometimes dead is better”

Recoil.

A cry, the press of palms on wood.

“Help…!”

His pulse is the drum of Death, loud, all encompassing like the coffin he’s found himself in.

A mouth opens to scream— and gentle hands reach out.

Unseeing, the boy sobs, praying for release, mercy. A shattered mind grasps for the tendrils-of-sense that slips through broken thoughts. Don’t let Death take him—

Those invisible hands pull .

Limbs thrash, a fish on a line.

A deafening crack is the only warning he gets— before cold wet dirt pours over his face.

A dead bird gets a lungful of earth.

‘No!’

Choking, suffocating, and yanked back into Death’s hold.

A chilling silence goes unnoticed by the storm above.

…

…

...

Small.

The world is too big.

Covered in dirt, a pocket of air is his only salvation.

Hell, he’s in Hell. No… a body’s too alive, too breathing and a heart that flutters like frantic wings from a Bird-of-Life.

Claw, claw his way up!

Wet dirt turns to thick mud. Rain pours down like a warning, threatening to drown the boy.

Again, and again he digs and burrows like the worms that ate him up.

Mud like sludge, like clay, caves in and parts.

Out, out, out, get out–! Dad! Dad! Batman! I’m–!

Shelia, her smile… the gun in her hands.

"Mom...?"

Jason chokes.

Reality crackles and— An angel, an angel above as a boys hands reach out and up, and up, and–

The flash of lightning, the glint of a swinging crowbar–

—T e a r—

Jason Todd bows to the earth, forehead pressed against wet grass, and he cries out, tries to scream, only the keen of an animal in fear— in grief—leaves his weary and broken body.

Nothing.

Grass, just grass. Open your eyes, Jason sees grass… green.

Green, like— Hair.

Like Jo–

Breathing ragged, Jason's lungs are filled with smoke— with dirt— No, they aren’t. Not now. Not here.

When?

Limbs are like stone, heavy, unfeeling, difficult to move. But they twitch, swing, until the boy has them down, pushing against the ground, propping a dead revived boy up.

Lips move, a mouth filled with dirt, “D…da…d?”

No answer.

Dull eyes search, only seeing night, stones, markers of those gone. Legs shift and yank against swallowing earth— against a half-empty grave.

“Bat… man…?”

Nothing.

No one.

Rain falls like a clenasing, and it is a deafening curtain to the boy who had dug himself out of his own grave. Unseen. Unheard. Unwanted. Wrong. Right?

“Don’t need your teenage–”

No. Hurts.

Help.

Someone, help!

Jason gets up, and moves like a wounded dog.

Soaking wet, dirty. Grimey. Filth. Dis–

Down a hill, down a path, through a metal gate and–!

A road.

Hope.

Find. Must find.

Bright lights flash– Jason looks towards them, heart thudding loudly, and for a moment, he thinks of an angel.

But he’s not ready to go back, to warm or cold hands.

Lips part, “No…”

BAM.

Darkness.

A couple panics.

Their car screeches to a halt.

The image of a boy soaked to the bone and standing in the middle of the goddamn road, is seared into the back of their eyelids.

A boy whose body was hit by the front of their car!

Rain is the drum of death.

The woman, a brunette with short locks and brown eyes to match, gasps for air, hands reaching out and banging against the dashboard, “Fuck–! Fuck!”

The man, a blond with hazel eyes has a white knuckled grip on the steering wheel, the sound of someone being hit by his father’s car has him springing into action, curing all the while as he unbuckles, and scrambles out of the side door and into the downpour.

The woman calls out, “Randy!”

Randy doesn’t stomp, nerves standing on end and fire burns through his veins like the burn of cheap alcohol. He barely feels the cold of the ongoing storm.

Blood. Blood on his brights, on the grill, gleaming, and incriminating. Guilt is a noose around the man’s neck.

Please. Fuck. I’m sorry–

A small body lies on the cold road.

…and the relief is the way his body settles in his own shoes.

The woman, still stuck to the passenger seat, watches as her boyfriend— bathed in the bright lights of the car, and soaked to the bone— goes from horror… to a sobering relief. A smile spreads on Randy’s face, and he looks up, over to her.

She almost doesn’t believe his words.

“It’s- It’s just a cat!”

…

What?

Swallowing the thorns that had filled her throat, the terror, the woman unbuckles, and slips out of the car.

The coat she wears protects her from the chilly dampness.

“What…?”

Randy crouches down, out of view, forcing his girlfriend to come around the side, to the front where–

A small black kitten lies limp on concrete.

Pressure can be felt behind her brown eyes, “O-oh.”

The relief is a sweet thing, but the pain still lingers at the broken body before them.

The woman crouches down, and hand reaches out and… she gently touches kitten soft fur.

Randy sighs, shoes scraping on the rocky ground, “Just a cat.” The words are said with an upwards tilt, yet the feeling conveyed isn't joy. Light, but not bright.

The woman sniffles, “We killed it.”

The man grimaces, “...Yeah.”

His girlfriend withdraws her hand, “What do we do?”

Randy shrugs, “We could put it by some bushes? Under a tree. We’re right next to the cemetery.”

“Can’t we bury it?”

“I left my equipment at my dad’s place.”

The woman’s chest tightens, “An animal is going to eat them!”

Randy frowns, “Then what do you suggest, Sara?”

Sara rubs her nose, and begins taking off her black hoodie.

“Sara!”

She ignores him, ignores the harsh cold of the pelting rain drops. The woman carefully picks up the dead kitten, bundling the body up, hiding it from the world, and out of the rain.

This close to the cemetery, the world smells earthy.

“I’ll bury them at my place, my mom’s backyard.”

Randy eyes his girlfriend, but knows he can’t talk her out of it, “Alright, alright. Let's just get out of this rain.”

Sara buries a dead cat, doesn’t tell her mother, but feels good at the thought of the animal at rest.

One day later, the grave is dug up— or something dug out — the kitten’s body is gone, and a dead boy walks through Gotham.

What is Reality?

What is living if everything feels foggy? Far away? As if he’s a passenger to his own body. A body that isn’t his own.

Steps feel like a balancing act, seeing is a struggle between dreams, memories, and reality.

Unreal.

Static.

Dad?

Da- 

“Besides, with you coming to help me, we’ll crack the mystery in no time! ”

“Jason… that’s not exactly why I’m here.”

…

B…ruce?

The boy carries on, searching with no sense of direction. As if ingrained, hard-earned lessons are scattered puzzle pieces now. Nothing makes sense.

Where?

It’s started to rain again. An exhausted, broken, body is drawn towards shelter like a moth to a flame.

A boy with an empty head huddles against discarded cardboard boxes, underneath the overhang of an abandoned book shop. His eyes are foggy, dull. His skin is paler than it should be, as if the life had been sucked out of him. As if he is still dead.

A dry throat burns.

Cold hands push, warm hands pull.

A stray brown tabby cat presses against his mud-covered pants. Heat, soft, a purr can be felt from the small creature.

The boy opens wide, sticks his tongue out, and instinctively catches rain drops.

—

More cats follow, curling close to the boy’s body, sharing warmth. Mangey things that break out into fights on their own.

The kid curls close to them, stiff fingers brush against matted fur.

—

The cats scatter.

People are dark figures, faceless movement. Faceless warmth or pain.

Someone drapes a coat over his small form.

“Just a kid…”

Another shares food, a cold sandwich that the boy eats quickly, filling an empty stomach.

A faire flickers from a dumpster, and the boy sits in a circle of others like him. People on the fringes of society,  people just as lost, hanging by a thread.

—

A man corners him, reaching out as words are spat out, meaningless to the boy.

Someone cries out, scared.

A knife flashes–

Heat floods Jason's body.

The boy is quick as a whip, lashing out just as fiercely!

He springs and lands, sending the man to the ground.

Fists pull back when the man is out cold.

Warm hands reach out, and he doesn’t pull away, kind hands, soft voices, and warm food is offered.

—

Darcy watches the strange boy, a small kid with dull eyes, but a kindness is seen by the heart the kit wears on his sleeve. The old man wonders if the kid acts just as bright as before… whatever had happened to him.

Because clearly something happened.

The boy shouldn’t be out here. That could be said for a lot of the people homeless in Gotham. But especially kids. It isn’t fair, but that’s life in general.

Darcy wants to help, but he can’t even help himself.

Then, one day… The boy is gone. Just as mysteriously as he appeared.

Regret is a feeling Darcy is familiar with.

The boy the Daughter of the Demon Head brought back is strange. A feral thing living on base instincts.

A boy who lashes out if provoked, fighting mercilessly.

Only to revert back to a passive puppet when left on his own. A doll with cold, lifeless eyes.

Slap!

The boy stays still, unfocused.

“He never fights back when it’s me! Explain that! Never when it’s me!”

—

Mind is a blanket of fog. Hard to see through, hard to think through.

Time doesn’t matter, when the mind isn’t present.

Cold, not warm, both hands push and pull constantly. Kind, coxing. But an indecisive cat, a wounded animal, dances over the line of Life and Death. Basking in the sun, and curling up in the inevitability of The End. Not scared, because the unknown is known.

The boy's body follows the woman with dark hair, sticking close, feeling something familiar from her.

He seeks out warmth when he is cold, and eats on his own. But other than that, it’s like his body is just… moving on instinct.

Talia is on a laptop, typing away as she goes about her business. She’s kept her son away from the former bird. But word of Talia Al Ghul’s new ‘pet project’ has spread.

Not that anyone is stupid enough to usher a word around her, or to anyone else.

Still, heads roll, and whispers turn to unspoken rumors.

Movement.

Talia’s eyes flicker over to the former robin, she pauses.

The boy’s dull eyes are… tracking. Pupils expand and shrink as they… watch shadows waves and flutter on the side of a bookshelf. The sun is dim, but the shadows are strong enough to be seen.

The dance of the tree leaves outside.

“Jason.”

The boy doesn’t respond.

A sigh.

She raises a hand, a pen within her grasp, and… waves it against the sunlight.

Jason’s dull blue eyes lock onto its shadow, staring.

“Hm…”

For the moment, it’s enough.

—

The first time Talia brushes her hands through the boy’s hair, it’s because he has taken a wash, and the black locks were messy, ruffled.

She doesn’t expect the former robin to press against her palm, eyes half-lidded and relaxes.

She stills.

For a moment, she’s reminded of her son. A boy forced to grow up quickly. Back when he was still a babe, before… when Damian still held that infant urge to seek out comfort.

She forces the ache in her heart to fade. It’s for the best. He is an Al Ghul.

He is strong.

But the boy here? A boy that’s barely there. A shell.

For the moment, she runs her nails over his scalp, and… Jason slumps closer, eyes falling closed.

It’s the most he’s reacted since the time she brought up Bruce, and Jason had cried.

A good sign then. He just needs more time. Time to come back to this side of the line.

—

Jason willingly follows Talia around instead of being tugged along, she brushes it off. To Jason she’s become a familiar figure, subconsciously. It only makes sense. Nothing more.

—

“What’s this?” Talia asks as she looks at Jason.

The boy is standing in her room, looking unsteady, eyes still dull, but… he’s holding something. A slip of blue sticks out from one of his clasped hands.

Her eyes narrow and she reaches out, intending to take— Only scarred hands willingly give , opening up and holding out… a dead blue bird.

—

After the first gift , different things are left within reach, a colorful rock on her table, the tooth from one of the trainers he’s beaten beside her window sill, and a lone bird feather on her pillow.

But no more dead animals.

The Demon Head’s daughter doesn’t understand such presents.

The subconscious way of being thankful to a woman who took the boy in?

She won’t be getting any answers from a catatonic boy.

Time. He just needs more time, and the slow healing is enough for now.

Until it isn’t.

Green.

A hot grasp releases as Jason tumbles through the void.

Vocal cords tighten and jaws unlock as a yell, a cry, bursts from the dam made of teeth and tongue.

With it? Fear of the unknown, a wild thing that rushes out and back into himself, shocking his body. Muscles stiffen, eyes are opened wide, and limps kick and flail.

He is a bird that has forgotten how to fly, falling down… down… down— Into cold hands that envelope his miniscule form. They clasp shut, but do not crush or squeeze. As if Jason is something wanted. Precious.

No.

The boy thrashes, pushing against large fingers.

Safe.

Huh?

Jason stiffens, and the fingers part.

Static dances on his tongue, his vision turns to  corruption and jarring color.

Gone.

Safe.

Tears fall from the boy's eyes, his heart nearly bursts with emotion.

The sob that is torn from his throat catches himself off guard, off balance. As if his own body is alien to himself.

Clasping hands over his mouth, the boy sits at an angel, hutched inwards as shoulders shake violently.

Hot tears drip down his hands.

Safe.

A pulse, a constant.

Who?

A finger presses down, and runs down Jason’s back, delicate, an offer of comfort.

It doesn’t make sense. But damn if he doesn’t take it like a starving man takes food.

Safe.

For some time, Jason calms, tears dry up, and the pain and fear lift.

For some time.

The boy looks up again, unable to see a faceless, unseeable face.

A figure that offers so much.

Jason opens his mouth, thoughts race, questions build up, too much to say and–

“Meow?”

The Lazarus Pit smells of sulfur, and those who could wield magic would say it feels like bitter Death and sweet life. Devil’s magic, some would say. The waters swirl and bubble unnaturally, sickeningly, living dead waters.

Jason Todd, the second Robin… disappears within those waters. Drawing, sinking, and catatonic.

Talia stands tall, watching and waiting as she waits for… either Jason to emerge from the Lazarus Pit, or to be dragged down to a horrible end.

‘You are meant for something, Jason.’

The cave is full of other assassins, they had tried to stop Talia, Ra’s would not stand for the ‘dead bird’ to taint the Pit’s waters.

But now, everyone watches, waiting for an outcome.

Talia’s gaze is unwavering and resolute. She stands like a panther, posed to move quickly.

‘You were dead, Jason. Murdered, buried, and mourned.’

The water boils — A body begins to resurface, still under the glowing waters.

Talia locks onto the former robin, and she locks onto glowing green eyes, open with no recognition— Animal fear.

Jason Todd kicks— green water is splashed violently, the waters continue to boil and burst—  and he propels himself toward the surface.

Breaking through the Pit, a boy gasps for air, each breath is ragged, his whole body shuddering.

‘But you returned to this world. A miracle. And then you wandered into my view.’

Once blue eyes burn a toxic green, glowing— inhuman and cat-like .

Jason Todd lives again, but the thing that opens his fanged- mouth wide is something more . A sound like the harsh scream of a cat, and the shout of a burning human fills the chamber.

The sound twists as the thing boy pulls himself out of the green liquid of the Lazarus Pit with claws hands and bare feet.

Clambering onto land, the sound cuts off as more rough gulps of air take place. Unsteady legs, both familiar and foreign to the boy. His mind is a storm, the world is spinning around him.

And a tail whips around from behind him.

Wrong .

The unwelcome, but not unfamiliar feeling of unease flickers to life in Talia’s chest, like the flames of a forgotten fire, embers make flame and they dance and waver.

"Pit Demon! A monster! We must kill it!"

Talia snaps into action, “ Stand dow–!”

Assassins charge with their weapons drawn.

Jason’s head snaps to attention and he springs forward, dodging a sword and— digging clawed hands into a man’s chest.

Blood is spilled onto the ground, hot, and red.

Ducking under a swinging blade, a leg shoots up, catching another under the jaw. Clawed toes dig in and a throat is cut.

Gurgling.

Fire shoots through Jason’s limb— and a sword guts him.

“Ack-!”

What…?

Organs spill out.

The copper taste of blood spews from his mouth.

Wait.

“ Jason–!”

No…!

Darkness…

…

…

…

Dying is just a part of living, it’s hard, but being dead? That’s easy. Nothing hurts. Nothing really matters anymore.

Life is warm, but even Death’s hold is a cool comfort.

Until hands push him away.

Into a body too wrong—

…

…

…

‘Fate is commanding your life in a way that I can barely fathom.’

Hot.

On fire.

Reality flickers with the distortion of a broken record player.

Snap, crackle, layered voices, screams.

Double reality, a black cat arches its back, a silhouette in front of the Pits green glow—

The world is muted.

Springing up from the ground, Jason snarls like a beast, and he leaps and twists in the air like the bird he once was.

The assassins stand no chance. He moves through them like a whirlwind, taking out each one with brutal efficiency. He’s fast, powerful, feral . 

Sound comes back to the crack of bone.

A kick, a punch, claws and sharp teeth tear his attackers apart.

It’s like watching a natural disaster, a force of nature unleashed.

The last Assassin falls, and the large room is cast into silence.

There is no cat.

Only heavy breathing, and the bubbling of the Lazarus Pit echo off the chambers walls. 

Jason is panting heavily, muscles taut and tensed, his green eyes wild and feral, almost glowing in the dim light of the cave. He's not quite a mindless beast, not yet, but he's close. Nothing makes sense. He remembers pain, but his mind won’t go there…

A woman takes a step forward, her eyes trained on the changed boy. Looking at him as if… 

Glowing feline eyes fixate on the woman, eyes that don’t remember.

Jason’s frozen in a fighting stance. A predatory stance.

For a moment, the two just stare at each other, but the tension in the air is thick. Jason doesn’t attack, but he is very much ready to. 

"Can you understand me, Jason?" Her voice is firm.

A spark within those inhuman eyes.

Confusion. Thoughts string together like beads on a wire spelling out a name… ‘ Talia’ …?

A small nod, but his eyes remain wild and wary.

They’re running out of time. Why are they running out of time?

“Come here.” She reaches out.

Jason hesitates at Talia's command to come to her. He's still in a state of confusion and wildness, the Lazarus Pit's energy coursing through him, “Talia…?”

‘I have done this for love.’

“You must go, or my father will have your head.”

Talia watches him closely as he hesitates for a moment before taking a step forward, approaching her cautiously.

Where is the boy that trusted her so openly?

But it could be worse, if Jason had lost all ability to think and reason they would be in more trouble than they already are.

One step at a time.

‘And I hope that will guide you into what you will become.’

When Jason is close enough, Talia reaches out to carefully lay a hand on his shoulder, studying his eyes and expression as she does.

Jason's muscles tense under her hand. His skin is hot to the touch, but not burning, warm.

Talia could feel the tension in him, the coiled power, the wildness, it was like being near a caged beast, one that was about to burst free, "You will come with me."

The changed boy... nods.

Talia turns, a hand grasps onto his wrist… and she runs.  

Jason keeps up.

—

Off a cliff, a broken bird falls…

…down, down, down…

…and, like a cat, lands on his feet.