"Screw you," Jason said defiantly, coughing up a spurt of deep crimson, still trying to resist the Joker's games.

It was only after the clown left that he allowed his head to slump and the tears to form.

His arms were tied to the ceiling; he couldn't feel them anymore, and his shoulders were in near-constant pain.

His ankle was likely broken, bent at an unnatural angle.

It hurt, but then so did most of his body. Hunger had stopped being a concern days ago, when his stomach had begun to refuse the rotten slop he was fed.

"Just kill me already," he groaned at the goon still in the room with him.

"End this." Joker's flunkies never responded, but this one was new and could potentially still be reasoned with. Maybe Jason could at least be granted the mercy of death.

No one was coming for him. Not Batman.

No one.