Joker knows best. Bruce knows best. Rotten lies, all of it.

The years in the Arkham Tower had broken him. The tower, what was meant to be connected to the Asylum of the people whom Bruce Wayne had taken down. It was ironic. Jason was meant to be the Robin, the next great Knight raised by the Bat, like Nightwing was—all to their respective names as knights.

The knowledge that the Bat wasn’t coming for him, had replaced him, that he no longer was going to be redeemed from a criminal boy in the streets, was torture enough, but the Joker had his own fun to have. The insane crowned jester who’d turn into a villain amongst criminals. So many bones were broken, his vocal cords had nearly torn from how much he screamed for help, Screamed for the Bat to save him. Screamed for anyone to save him. He really should have just killed the knight back when he was thirteen.

Jason was replaced by some other boy who was no doubt still a teenager, even after what happened to him. Hatred began to boil. He told himself to never listen to a word the Joker would say but his mind began to change, he began to think that maybe he was right, and the Joker was.

He escaped. Of course he did, when one of the criminals who tortured him was a mercenary, all for pay with little loyalty. Although by that point he was well beyond the idea of still being a hero, or redeeming himself. Jason had only one thing on his mind; killing Bruce. Escaping made him see the world through new eyes; and everything was red.

And he would do anything to reach that goal.

He kicked an armored knight to the ground after ambushing from the darkness of the forest. "Come on," he snarled, sharp sword gleaming in the moonlight. "If you don’t know where the Bat is you are useless to me, and if you’re useless, you’re dead, got it? So start talking," he muttered, pressing the sword against the think gap between the helmet and the chainmail’s end. Jason always hated knights anyways, the time with Bruce only changed it for a bit, made him think wrong.