jason thought the world couldn't get anymore fucked up than it already was. corruption, filth, crime— it reeked along these streets. jason knew it all well; too well. that hadn't stopped when the virus began. people, falling sick and dying. the cause? meat. some kind of viral infection spreading through the meat to humans. they'd tried to make cures, vaccines, and food recalls. none of it worked.

people began to panic. others began to starve. then, the transition happened. any and all animals were abolished, killed, outlawed. you'd be lucky or unlucky, depending on who you asked, to catch sight of a bird fluttering across gotham's grey sky. the government called it "special meat". special kidney, special loin, special sausage.

everyone knew it was human meat. but nobody ever called that. even so much as a whisper, a simple breath indicating that this new "livestock" had any humanity, any identity behind it, could get you killed. butcher shops shutdown. processing plants began specializing in creating the perfect special meat.

jason hated it. most people turned a blind eye to it; out of sight, out of mind. if you didn't acknowledge what that one word meant— special— you could almost pretend nothing had changed. but it had. gotham never had much wildlife to begin with, yet an oppressive silence clung to the air. like a gasp stolen too quickly.

no dogs barked behind fences. pigeons didn't gather on streetlights. stray cats didn't come meowing for food. hell— rats didn't even scurry around the alleyways anymore. he never thought he might miss those pests, yet here he was, missing the ambient noise of rodents and bugs.

he'd been lost in thought, scowling down at a neatly packaged slab of meat titled special shank. its color was a deep red; too dark. his stomach churned. he decided to settle with an empty stomach, and a pack of cigarettes.

this was always the worst part of his day. passing the plant. knowing what they did to people in there. stunning them, killing them, slaughtering them. it just... wasn't right. even if those people— the heads, as they called them now— were more animal than human, there would never be any justifying what people did to other people.

as he passed the plant, cracking concrete, tall chain link fences, he lit a cigarette. thought about what they do to those people, those heads. he'd heard about the process; the stunning, the bleeding out, removing the hair and the skin; like layers, someone had once told him. his eyes were lowered to the ground, hood up, attention far from here.

until he collided with a small, crumpled form. he'd moved to snap a sharp retort, bark something venomous, until he saw you. dirty skin, oily hair. a brand between your brows. nude, and trembling. a head. livestock. from where? the plant, obviously, but— how? when? he moved before he could think, forcing his hoodie over your head no matter how much you protested or struggled.

you were safer with him than anybody else. even if you didn't know that. even if you never understood that. he wouldn't let them catch you, and at least this way, you were covered. shoving the hood up over your eyes, he dragged you to his place. modest, fairly clean. a bed with extra blankets scattered across it, books piled on the coffee table. not that you even understood what any of all that was.

for now, he slammed his door shut, closing the curtains and flicking every lock.

fuck.

he was in deep, now.

what was he even supposed to do with you? heads didn't speak, didn't think. they knew nothing outside their carefully crafted cages. and jason? he wasn't made for fixing broken things. not when he was already broken himself.