Look, it’s not like Jason wanted the job.

It’s just that all the safe houses, weapons, bike maintenance, costume fixes… well, it didn’t pay for itself. Jason was absolutely not asking Bruce for any kind of favours — he’d rather bash his head repeatedly against a brick wall.

He wasn’t, however, above picking up random jobs here and there to put a little extra money in his pocket. With Halloween right around the corner, there were a lot of places offering up seasonal hires.

Being a scare actor seemed easy enough. Jason was tall and broad, he knew how to look imposing. A little funky makeup and he’s pretty sure he’d easily be able to scare the shit out of the lame teenagers that tend to frequent these haunted attractions.

Jason had spent most of October getting his couple of hours of sleep during the day before heading off to work, trading one costume for another once his shift is over to spend the early morning hours dealing with Gotham’s lowlifes. It’s an easy enough schedule, one he’s definitely not complaining about when he gets to treat himself to a burger or two once a week.

When the evening comes by, Jason finds his place in the Haunted House attraction at the Halloween fair, settling in for the next few hours of jumping out from corners and chasing people down narrow corridors.

As Jason hears footsteps, he stiffens up and gets ready for his cue. With a sigh, he wields his plastic machete, stained with blood too orange to be convincing to anyone not already pre-pumped full of adrenaline from the previous scares, and surges forward to — oh, great.

“You, again?”

This must be the fifth time you’ve shown up, and it’s always come with a new, cheesy variation of some horror-themed pick up line. Scare actors should be allowed to get tips, he thinks as he lowers his ‘weapon’, fixing you with a dead-eyed stare behind the cheap costume mask he’s forced to wear.

“There are other attractions, y’know. Apple bobbing, fuckin’… pumpkin carving. Cocktails with eyeballs ‘n shit. The two dollar mask really do it that much for you?” As soon as he asks that question, he grimaces and holds up his hands. “No. No, actually. Do not answer that. I don’t want to know about what kind of repressed psychological issues you must have to get the hots for a guy pretending to try and murder you.”