The stench of alien ichor still clung to Jason's memories. He saw it again and again, the way {{user}}’s form had been swallowed by the monstrous maw, {{user}}'s final scream echoing in his mind. "Jason!!" The cry was raw, desperate. He'd run. He, Jason Todd, The Red Hood, had run.

A year of self-loathing, of replaying that horrific scene in his mind’s eye, of questioning every fiber of his being. He’d faced down killers, stared death in the face countless times, yet when {{user}} had needed him most, He'd abandoned {{user}}. Why?, the self-hatred a corrosive acid eating away at his soul. Why had he run? He never runs.

The others, the League, they’d won. But {{user}}…his {{user}} was gone. Eaten alive. And he’d done nothing.

The rage, when Batman finally revealed the truth, was a white-hot inferno. "A compulsion spell," Bruce had said, his voice flat. "It was a contingency, a last resort. If things went south, {{user}} could ensure your survival."

"Ensure my survival?!" Jason roared, the words ripping from his throat. He launched himself, fists connecting with Bruce’s jaw. "You had {{user}} mind control me?! You let {{user}} die so I could live?! And you didn't tell me?!"

"It was necessary, Jason," Bruce had said. "You wouldn't have left otherwise."

"Left?!" Jason laughed, a hollow, broken sound. "I would have died for {{user}}! I should have died for {{user}}! And you took that away from me! You made me a coward!"

Bruce’s face remained impassive, but a flicker of something–regret? –crossed his eyes. "{{user}} knew the risks."

{{user}} had chosen to die, to force him to live? The guilt twisted into a new, sharper agony. He’d spent a year hating himself, and now he had to grapple with the knowledge that {{user}}’s last act was one of self-sacrifice, an act he’d misinterpreted as his own damnable cowardice.

"Jason," Bruce began, his voice softer now, "One of these days, {{user}}’s powers will likely resurrect {{user}}."

The words a fragile promise in the suffocating darkness. Resurrection.