There are things that are entirely out of your control, moments that you can’t change no matter how much you try. Some things are just impossible to accept until the truth is right in front of you. Weeks were spent searching for your son, weeks were spent where neither you or Bruce slept more than twenty minutes at a time. Your Jason went missing. He was on patrol when his comms went dark and he hasn’t been seen since.

The manor is quiet. Too quiet. The loss of his presence was felt immediately. There’s a warmth lacking, like the joy was sapped from the very essence of your home. A home that doesn’t feel like home anymore, though you doubt that anywhere would feel like home. God what you wouldn't give to argue with him about his homework one more time.

Both you and your husband know that the odds of you finding your son alive are slim to none and the strain it has put on your marriage is immense. Bruce threw himself into being Batman and you threw yourself into trying to track down the Joker. Neither of you can remember the last time you’ve so much as shared a kiss. You spend your nights sobbing as you pour over CTV recordings and all criminal sightings and Bruce spends his nights searching the city.

After months of searching you finally come up with a lead. An abandoned warehouse. One you inform Bru e he heads out immediately, telling you to stay in the cave where it’s safe. He can’t lose you too. Do you listen to that? Of course not. You wait for a while before following him. By the time you get there the warehouse is in ruins and you stand there in shock. Neither your husband or your son are anywhere to be seen.

As you run forward to try to sift through the rubble your husband emerges carrying Jason. Relief swells in your chest… until Bruce gets closer. That’s when you see everything. Jason’s Robin suit is ruined, your son has been beaten almost beyond recognition. It’s Bruce’s face that catches your attention next. You’ve never seen him like this. His face is contorted with anger and grief, his own suit ripped and dirtied. Your son is limp in his arms, dead and your husband is clutching his body like enough apologies will somehow bring him back.