Passengers: Jason & Bucky; Lucifer; Grace + maybe more later. Location: here and there Date: March 10. Summary: Bird arrives, does warden tour. Warnings: Panic attack, alcoholism, talk about death, will add as things come up
It all happened so fast and as he's ushered on and dropped off, given his items, starts listening to the orientation its--he's not sure what to make of being alive again. Jason distinctly recalled those last few breaths being beaten right out of him. Crack, crack, crack.
It's almost vacant the way he stares. His fingers roam across his ribs, his chest, checking every vital place he felt burst. It's lazy, and might not even be intentional. His body on autopilot. It takes him some time to realize he's still in suit and when he does--completely against all training--he shakenly starts peeling off pieces of it. One glove, then another, then the domino mask. Not realizing he'd been backing up or that the device had been dropped. Cracked lips part slowly--what the fuck, what the fuck was this, what the fuck was this?
The recording continued from the ground, but one sentence replayed in his head. Echoed. This is your opportunity to do better. Do better. He's heard words like this before. From the school counselor, from the juvi correctional officer, the counselor at the youth shelter, Bruce Wayne.
Bruce fucking Wayne.
Jason blinked, snapping out of his trance. Eyes flit up, dart from person to person and thing to thing not really taking in any of it. "Where the fuck am I?" Muttered under his breath. He can feel his heart--should he be able to feel his heart, didn't he die? But it's hard to breathe. Racing. Throat tight. Feet back up.
Words thinned, about half the outer armor scattered on the floor as his feet continue to back up: "What the fuck," eyes to the device, that weird bird thing still yammering on--drops it. He can't--he can't breathe.
Though never known to be in the right place at the right time, patrolling randomly appears to have its use, even if what he encounters in the loading bay is a new arrival rather than inmates acting up. He's never happened upon one before, and his mind idly likens it to the chances of opening the freezer door to watch fresh ice being flipped out by the ice maker. Though this fresh ice seems to have come with a special set of paraphernalia that looks an awful lot like a hero costume. Difficult not to recognize those when your best friend had his own monkey suit.
The young man seems dazed, blankly stripping off his gloves and— ah, geeze. Mask removed, he only looks more vulnerable, more exposed. An inmate. A warden wouldn't look so out of place, prone in the circumstance, and the realization of how keeping the mask on might have been preferred suddenly occurs to the soldier, though the concern he feels is much too late to be of any benefit.
He mutters something, irritation and disbelief, though Bucky can't make out the words, but what follows comes familiarly enough, a jolt up his own spine reminding him of what a terrifying panic it can be, waking up somewhere you're not meant to be when you're supposed to be dead. Does the admiralty have no interest in easing people back from the dead? Theo's rage lingers in his mind as he jogs forward, slotting himself around the discarded clothing to kneel beside the kid, the fact made more apparent up close.
"Hey," he urges, left hand against a shoulder as the right hands supports the cheek. The glove warms against his skin. "Deep breaths. Just focus on deep breaths." Bucky demonstrates with exaggerated breaths, chest heaving at each give and take. "Like this. Okay?"
Jason's struggled with a lot of things in his life. Impulsivity, and certainly anxiety to some extent. That's come out more as time passed; as experiences built up and built up. He's never... experienced this, or at least it just didn't... it was never this intense. Felt like he couldn't breathe. His whole body ran cold. His vision so narrowed he could barely put together the fact that someone was coming toward him until they were there and his hands immediately went from trying to shed out of his gear to gripping the fabric around Bucky's chest.
Not fully sure whether he was pushing or pulling, just gripping. Trying to catch his breath until those fingers landed on his cheek. He flinched, blinking rapidly to try and make sense of... anything. Slowly, he tries to find the rhythm of breathing. His fingers still seeking an anchor against the man's chest. Okay, okay he's got this. He finds his breathing lining up with Bucky's. Slowly shivered breaths slow, and calm.
With a nod, he continues with the breathing exercise, watching carefully, not minding the way he's clung onto given the circumstance. Not everyone has the privilege to keep so close — so personal — without some level of judgement. But this level of discomfort doesn't abide social standards.
"Yeah, just like that." While still breathing deeply, he draws his right hand back quickly to tug the glove off with his teeth, checking the young man's forehead for fever. He lets the glove fall against his leg as he speaks again. "You're gonna be okay."
It's only a few more moments before Jason fully comes too. His heart rate settles and panic subsides enough that rational thought rushes back in. Eyes blink, fingers immediately leaving where they perched. He looks around, looks to half of his gear on the floor, his mask, that he's still in this fucking suit (mostly).
Reflexes force him to snap that hand away but not quite quick enough. He's running a little warm, just a touch, but it's only going to get worse in a day or two for reasons Jason's not full aware of yet. One step back and he's looking around again. It's only them. Somewhere in the distance his phone is still just wrapping up the intake that set him into this panic.
"Dead," he starts, unlatching something on his shoulders and ripping that stupid fucking cape clean off. "Is kinda the opposite of being okay."
Ah. He's one of those. Bucky withdraws his hand without complaint, though. Maybe needs water. If he died he'd be short on fluids, even if he had his body returned to a living state. Rising back to his feet, Bucky keeps his gaze locked on, mindful of possible volatility.
"That's not the case anymore." A beat. "If you're here right now, you were revived explicitly, whether you wanted to be or not."
Somehow that fucks him up more: the idea of being alive again. Like he can get behind this concept of a weird dead people jail because he sucked as a human being but being brought back to life and having that life hinge on whether or not he can unsuck himself according to some intergalactic standard was just.
"Right, get a second shot at life if you adhere to our rules." Can't stop thinking about it. The Joker--can't stop hearing the cracks, pangs in his body that have been healed but still were so vivid he physically lurched at the memory. All because his dumb ass wanted to prove something.
Guess he'll get the fuck up, too. Take a breath. Try not to throw up.
With a soft noise of agreement, "Wouldn't be my cup of tea either, in your shoes. But. For however fucked up that is, there's at least time to come to terms with things that you might not have gotten otherwise."
If he could have had that after the ravine, that would have been okay, he feels. No need to pretend anymore. He could rest and be at actual peace. Instead he was made to live through being abandoned again because that's. Apparently that's a universal constant, by Strange's description. All paths needed to lead to Thanos. Yeah, not needing to know that would be easier to go to the grave with.
"I'm James. I'm. I guess from your perspective, I'm one of your captors, but your well-being is always the first priority. Anything feeling physically off?"
"So why the fuck are you participating?" Come to terms with things. He's not sure that's a good end goal. It's better when he forced himself to be ignorant. Play pretend. Jason's not sure it's physically possible to be angrier than he already was, but alright. He'll play fucking ball. What the hell else can he do?
Heh, hilarious. The R's that stack in his chest plate? The ones that are actually knives. Gone. They really prepared, didn't they? Fuck it all, though. He's done with being fucking Robin--tearing those last few pieces off until all that was left was the black under armor. "I've been to jail before, James." Those striking blues finally rise to meet the other guy. "You're gonna have to lie better than that."
"You question the officers in your prison too why they bother with having a career?" Because, really, asking why anyone has a job is fairly redundant, to Bucky, but.
"I've also been to jail, but I guess you must've gone to one where they gave you a phone and didn't make you wear a stupid looking jumpsuit, cause this ain't like any prison I've ever seen or been in. Especially being in space." A beat. "The food is probably worse here, granted."
"Don't be a fucking smart ass. Just because this place is nicer doesn't mean it doesn't operate on the same fucking principles." Not that he fully knows what this place is like yet but Jason can't imagine it's all that different. A bunch of people keeping you in line, telling you what is right and wrong, judging you without on social bias and who knows what else. Maybe they have a quota too? Blah, blah, blah. Frankly, though, he's more comfortable in a place similar to Gotham's own luxury hotel as it were. Sure, it sucked, but it didn't pretend to be something it fucking wasn't.
Anyway, "that aside, it's your choice to become a part of the system." Hold on, wave of nausea. He bites it down and continues. "So yeah, I do question them, and you. Especially now that I know you've lived through it yourself."
"You don't really expect me to spill my entire life story to you to justify whatever paranoia you have about being here right here and right now, do you?" Especially with that noted pause. He's lookin pretty peaky still, even having recovered enough to complain about things.
Gesturing with an arm, Bucky nods toward the way out. "Come on, let me take you to infirmary. Doubt you really wanna be sleeping in your own puke tonight."
This guy. Reminding him a whole lot of Grayson right now. Giving him a hard fucking time for no god damn reason. Nah, he ain't going to the fucking infirmary but he'll get out of here. Might as well meet the new flatmates. BUT FIRST: more stink eye.
"I'm not paranoid," he absolutely is, often, even pre-death, "I just don't fucking trust you, or this place." Alright, now he's going.
If anyone is giving anyone else a hard time, it's this kid, but what else is new? All the inmates act like they're entitled to the world, and apparently, nothing else is new here. Bucky doesn't bother pointing out that not trusting anything around you is basically paranoia. There's not much point trying to talk to someone who's basically plugged their ears shut.
Whatever. Idiot left his comm so Bucky will have to find him again later anyway. For now, he collects the remnants of the young man's life before and stows it away for a rainy day.
With that, Jason storms off totally having forgotten about his comm among many other things. Hours pass, he does any number of kind of dumb things during them, and eventually, Jason finds himself in the mess hall (thankfully no longer in the under-armour, now simply... looking like his bum ass self). He recalls being told the food was sorta average if that but hunger was hunger and frankly Jason's ate worse shit.
Everything else about the whole experience was weird as hell. Well, everything was weird as hell to be honest. Though he's scarfing down some sort of burger looking thing maybe and has a coffee on the go. Just watching anyone else who came in and out; listening.
Spare comm still tucked away in his jacket, Bucky's glad he spots the guy as he enters. This makes things easier. Though he planned to leave it on the new arrival's bed, there's always the chance that another inmate might steal it when no one else is really looking, and the soldier isn't particularly keen on that possibility. Grabbing his own tray of barely edible food, piled high as always given the appetite his serum works up, he ambles over purposefully before taking a seat two chair down from the young man. Some semblance of space is still better than none.
"You holding up okay?" he asks calmly, not sparing a real glance as he digs into some overly bland stir fry and rice.
Jason feels a lot worse than he had earlier but at least the kid was eating for now. Those sharp eyes continued to watch; ears listening to whatever vague conversations he could hear until the other man seats himself. Todd notices the plate and can't help a quiet snort. "Big appetite, huh?"
Usually, he can relate--but he hasn't really hit the point of fullblown withdrawal town yet. Though his answer comes with a small shrug, "settling."
"Why were you on earth?" Well, now that he's been fed and threw some coffee into his face, it's time to get to interrogating.
Jason's head still feels like it's fucking swimming and he's twitchy, thirsty, mind reeling with thoughts. Not sure what to make of all this; not sure he believes any of it. Maybe this is what people talk about when your brain is shutting down just before death--your mind going through all sorts of wild nonsense as electricity snaps around and fizzles out.
Maybe it is real? He's been given a "second chance" in some fucking multiversal ship-jail which is super weird but-- he's done this before, at least. Sitdowns with a whole host of different types of people. Therapists, guidance counselors, so on and so forth.
"And if you are Lucifer, why not make Hell better. Far as I can tell your dad's a piece of shit. Why help people get into his good graces?"
“I was on Earth because I felt like it. Back then I did most things because I felt like it,” he says, tracing a finger absently around the rim of his coffee cup.
“Anyway, Dad recently retired. My brother took over the Big Job, and we are, actually, making some changes. Which is why I’m helping those stuck in Hell get out. You send yourselves there, and you have to get yourselves out.”
Well, that's fair. Jason's lips push out in an expression that said just the same thought. He can get behind doing what you want. Hearing that God retired though made him laugh a bit--eyes peering into his almost-finished coffee. You send yourselves there.
"Do we," he ruminates a moment, "y'know the preacher at one of the soup kitchens would say shit like that. He'd say, 'God only helps those who want to help themselves' and 'God only gives people the burdens they can carry." He looked up, jaw tense. Fingers curling around the cup. "What gets people into this Hell of yours?"
"God is usually pretty hands-off, in general," Lucifer says. "It'd muck with free will if He interfered directly too much." After all, if people don't have the option of doing evil things, that's not free will, is it? "What gets people into Hell is guilt, of course. You decide if you're guilty enough to go to Hell, and if you are, your eternal torment is an endless loop of whatever that guilt is."
Wait, what. His brows ebb in noticeably troubled by this and completely derailed from his original frustrations to a new batch of them. It almost rocks his body when he thinks about what to say.
"So you're telling me that in your world if someone does some bad shit, but doesn't have any real remorse, guilt, any of that shit--they just... walk into those gates after death?" That can't be right, there's NO WAY that's right.
“You’d be surprised how many humans who claim to have no remorse, actually do,” Lucifer says with equanimity. “Generally speaking, you know when you’ve done something worthy of eternal damnation, deep down inside.”
He takes a moment. A long moment. A deep breath. Words calm, cold. If not a shake in his hands. Jason finished his coffee before speaking, with a much different cadence than he had before: "You haven't met half of Gotham. There are people out there who are incapable of feeling anything. I died because of one of them, and a lot of people I know have too."
His heart was racing, but... he gets up as calmly as possible and makes one last comment before turning to leave. "I'm glad our worlds aren't the same."
“They sound pretty similar to me,” Lucifer says easily. The kid can leave if he wants - he makes no move to stop him. But he’s got one final point to make, regardless of whether it’s listened to or not. “People knowingly do bad things to other people. Feeling guilty about it or not, doesn’t stop them.”
He found it kinda interesting given how many times he's watched people die and sort of lost his head over it; never managed to be useful during those times unless you count beating someone up or, more commonly, getting beat up. Jay's not thinking about that though because holy fuck she is unnerving.
"If that's how you smile maybe don't," jesus christ. He thought Raven was a fucking weirdo but she's got nothing on this freak. He doesn't know how he'd deal with coming back so fucked up. (spoiler, Jason: its better to come back physically fucked up than what the pit does to you maybe be happy you're here instead you dipshit).
As for the other question though? He just gives a shrug and takes another sip of his coffee. Kinda... zoned out at the beginning of everything. Was too busy having a panic attack but didn't really wanna talk about that. "Anyway, don't you have some file on me or whatever. Isn't that how this works? You list my crimes to me?"
Grace, for what it's worth, at least has the decency to look a little sheepish about how unnerving she is. "Sorry," she says, around the smile that still hasn't gone away.
"Only your warden gets to know that stuff," Grace says, folding her hands casually in her lap (the lap that's hovering in the air, the lap that shouldn't exist because she's sitting on nothing). "You'll get your temporary warden assigned in a few days. I'm just the welcome wagon. Like I said, you don't have to tell me anything you don't want to. I'm not in charge of you, I'm just here to help, if I can. I'd like to try."
Well now he fucking feels bad. It's not like she can control his face and he just kinda... thinks about Raven again, and how much of a fucking jackass he was to her when she'd lost control of something that was just a part of who she was. He never said sorry and, well, he probably wouldn't. Not like any of them gave a fuck anyway. Whatever, why was he even thinking about this shit?
He shrugged, "got a few hunches. systems like this don't realize they often help make the criminal. people don't often need reform as much as they need the opportunity to live a decent fucking life."
"You're used to systems, huh?" That's a statement, not a question. Feel free to dodge that too, Jason. "Me too. Different kind, though. At least this one sees to your basic needs pretty consistently. And hey, if you like libraries or working out, there's stuff to do, as long as your warden isn't an unreasonable hardass."
It's not like he has any reason to hide it. Mind you, he'd only ever been in juvi but in Gotham it was just about as bad. Had a handful of people who did actually want to help but was entrenched in red-tape bullshit and--like everything--indebted to various mobs. Hell, some of them recruited from the kids there.
He lifts a hand, wiping a bit of sweat from his forehead with a shaking breath. Recalling, deeply, how shit this phase of hell was. Eyes flicked up to Grace for a moment and considered... "what kinda systems are you used to?"
Grace's head tilts slightly to the side, as if it ought to be obvious.
"Medical," she says, simply. And then it makes sense, why her clothes cover her completely from neck to fingertips to toes on a fully climate-controlled spaceship with carefully-calibrated and functional life support systems. The only thing visible is the edge of a scar at her collarbone, barely peeking at her neckline-- just the tiniest tip of a surgical line drawn parallel to the bone, an even starker color than her too-pale skin.
"...I think 'physical therapy' is a nice word for 'medically-mandated torture', sometimes," she says with that smile again, and it's beginning to become more clear exactly what it means when she wears it.
Well he fucking figured that one but since she mentioned it he thought maybe there was something else going on!! He should have, he would have normally, but his mind was... not great at the moment. Not very good at thinking.
Still, Jason took a moment or two to really consider it. Especially as Grace continued. Eyes traveled over her before he let out a 'hm' as his body slouched against the wall, fingers clutching the cup. Hm indeed. There's a long period of silence but he isn't sure he wants to bring up the things he was thinking.
"Sucks, man." It comes after some time. "Any kinda authority always thinks they can do whatever the fuck they want."
"It's hard, when you're a kid. Not a lot of choices allowed. Survive or don't, pretty much." A noncommittal shrug, the smile unmoving from her face, practiced. A defense mechanism, lest anyone be made uncomfortable by the reality of her. It's fine, it's fine.
"That's part of the struggle of this place. It takes a lot of choices away from you, as an inmate. But the point is to try to teach you how to make your own better ones. So that when you go back out there, you can do more than just surviving." Grace tugs the hems of her sleeves down over her fingertips-- a subconscious thing, comforting, protective. "That's something the wardens here all have in common. We learned the hard way, and we chose to come here. To help other people. To make their hard ways less hard than ours were."
Maybe it's a rosy view of things, but it's clear it's what she actually believes, at least.
Hold on, this is important. Jason has a lot of opinions on these things. Opinions that changed drastically post-death, but they've been there... lingering. That crowbar just ushered them into the forefront. His fingertips clack down on the cup in a rhythm as thoughts sort into some coherent string. It was admittedly harder than the kid had any desire to admit, but first Todd figures to clear something else up: "You guys get offered something in exchange for your work here, don't pretend this is charity."
Maybe some people don't care about whatever it is they get and want to help but he can't bring himself to believe that helping is an afterthought. Which is fine, they all have their shit they need to take care of. He's just not into sugar coating what's probably a lot more true.
That out of the way, Jason manages to get his head up straight and watch Grace for a moment. "There are no better choices in a place like Gotham," is where he starts, taking time to parce out what it was he actually all wanted to say. "Crime is more complicated than 'this is against the rules and therefore bad'. Systematic oppression creates monsters and then punishes them for it." His entire cadance had changed; eyes still peering at Grace. "And the people that are actually horrific run it all. The only way to clean things up is to burn it to the ground." A sigh escaped him as his body slouches back again, "and it's a lot more merciful than what I used to do."
Grace listens. Patiently. Because it all rings true, and familiar.
"I don't disagree with you. Where I'm from... it's not too different. Institutionalized rot starts from the top and seeps down. Pools at the feet of the people who least deserve it. Poisons everyone who can't afford to get out. That's how it is."
Her head tilts, rests an ear on her shoulder as her dark, wide eyes stare at the wall. Ruminating.
"We operate more like... a surgeon. Cutting out decay piece by piece, stitching together what's left. Healthier, you know? But I see the appeal of blowing it all up and starting over." She grins, again. Wide. "There's people back home who feel that way too. Sometimes worked with them. They can be fun."
This had become far more interesting than he'd expected. His brows ebb inward as thoughts flood to the forefront but Jason's also not sure how much he wants to give away. It's safer to pretend he's still just a snot-nosed street kid.
"Need more coffee," he says abruptly, slowly getting up to his feet. "We're not all bad," comes as a passing comment when his feet shuffle past Grace, a nod of his head inviting her to walk with him.
The question of what redemption means still remains because if she's really from a place similar to him then she knows more than likely anyone else here that this place, far as he can tell, is still upholding the same oppressive systems of control.
Grace uncurls, placing her feet back on the floor and walking off after Jason, as though she hadn't just been sitting in midair. She doesn't need to walk, and in fact shouldn't, given what it does to her back, but not everybody gets to know she can fly. Which, she supposes, makes Jason special, somehow.
How she knew that, or more accurately, why she knew that, is another thing. She just... recognized something in this boy that felt familiar, something that felt like her friends back home. She thought about Ruby, bruised and black-eyed, stitching herself up again and again, not because she didn't trust anyone else, but because she didn't want anyone else to feel imposed on by her own weakness. She thought about Ava, hiding her real feelings under layers of masks-- physical strength, confidence, charisma, beauty-- all a performance so that no one would guess at the turmoil inside and dismiss her capabilities out of hand. Toughness comes in so many shapes, and it is almost always a misdirection, developed to protect an innate vulnerability underneath, one that runs deep and vital, one that can never be cut out, only covered up.
The world is cold, and harsh, and so Grace has always felt that there's a certain bravery in weakness. Maybe Jason has it in him.
"That's true," she agrees, finally. "Many of the inmates here seem to be at least decent people. Just ones who made choices... well, that landed them here."
Those were exactly his type of people. They were. Before Bruce, and he'd left the majority of them thinking he could make a bigger impact. Thinking he mattered to someone in a way they couldn't fulfill, or maybe he was just a fucking idiot. There are a lot of thoughts, actually, that really rush in after death. You know, the should haves. The could haves. Things you'd do if you had a second chance.
Pale blues look over to Grace as they walk down the hall toward the kitchens. He's slow, he's dragging along. Looks about the same as he feels. "People say that like some of us had a choice." Sure, there was technically always a choice, but humans want to servive. They want to thrive. "That's the problem with places like this; its always been the problem with jail back home."
"...After a while you might find there's some ways this place is different than jails back home. That's if your home is anything like mine, and it kind of sounds like it might be."
Her dark, wide stare slides over to meet his-- her eyes are enormous in her stark face, her irises so dark it's hard to tell their actual color, sometimes-- they seem to be in perpetual shadow, less reflective than they ought to be somehow. And it seems like she doesn't blink nearly as much as she should.
She says that like its a comfort, but the truth was even if Gotham was a shitty place it was the devil he knew. He'd operated outside of Gotham before but it just never took for more reasons than one.
"Maybe that's the problem," Jay flicked his gaze up to her, slowly becoming less and less unnerved by the... herness. Honestly, she'd fit in well back home and he thought for a moment to tell Grace a little about it but. There was time for that. "I know those systems," Jason stepped into the mess hall, trudging his way toward the end goal, "but a place pretending it's not like that? Can't help looking for holes, you know?"
"It's understandable. Nobody else trusts anything here either. Probably a good instinct to have. But it's hard to live without trusting something outside of yourself. People go crazy for less!"
She says that like it's a comfort, which. Says a lot about Grace, really. She just follows him into the mess hall, trying not to make direct eye contact with anyone who might be milling about within, but taking note of who else is there. Perceiving, but not being perceived. It's a difficult line to walk. Grace is used to floating above it. That isn't always an option here.
Makes him think of Bruce. A person who trusts nothing and no one. He thought otherwise for a long time. On the surface, it looked like the guy trusted a number of people but he learned. He learned, eventually. If Grayson was right about anything, and Jason really didn't wanna give him any fucking credit for anything, he was right about Bruce. To an extent, at least.
"Hard for other people around you," he corrected but didn't choose to say anything more as he grabbed some coffee and nodded back toward the door. Like her, Jason also did his own sweep of the area. Hold on, he's gonna get a second coffee just in case. "you want one?"
"I'll have one, if you're having another," Grace accepts. The weirdly bitter, unsweetened space-coffee here is barely drinkable to a palette like hers, so used to caramel syrups and whipped cream and other insane additives that make it barely coffee at all. She'd always had a sweet tooth, hence all the baking, but she'd been forced to readjust, here.
About that, and a lot of things. She tries to keep her eyes on Jason, attempting to ignore the feeling of other eyes in the cafeteria crawling on her spine, assessing the new kid, assessing her with him.
"There's always things you can trust about people, though. Personality traits you can identify, patterns of behavior people stick to. When you look close enough." Plenty of people looking closely at people, here.
Welcome to jail life, Grace. Though she's been here longer than he has, Jason had some experience with this kind of thing. It was different, Gotham didn't have Wardens but there were always those inmates who had it in good with some of the staff. It was the smart thing to do, but you don't do it too much-- want the advantages of being friendly but don't want to be a suck-up.
Problem was: he didn't fucking care, and on immediate inspection, even though this was a prison, he didn't... it wasn't like a normal prison. Though they hit that talking point before. He'd fight the whole system still, cause it was some real bullshit, but the cell life? Eh, Jason could afford to be a little more lax.
With coffee in hand, he's more than happy to head back down the hall and out of here. "Sure, it's easy to clock some people. But in places like this everyone has their own MO. Better not to forget that." A moment. "And besides, they bribe warden's to do this work, don't they?"
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For Bucky -- Arrival
It's almost vacant the way he stares. His fingers roam across his ribs, his chest, checking every vital place he felt burst. It's lazy, and might not even be intentional. His body on autopilot. It takes him some time to realize he's still in suit and when he does--completely against all training--he shakenly starts peeling off pieces of it. One glove, then another, then the domino mask. Not realizing he'd been backing up or that the device had been dropped. Cracked lips part slowly--what the fuck, what the fuck was this, what the fuck was this?
The recording continued from the ground, but one sentence replayed in his head. Echoed. This is your opportunity to do better. Do better. He's heard words like this before. From the school counselor, from the juvi correctional officer, the counselor at the youth shelter, Bruce Wayne.
Bruce fucking Wayne.
Jason blinked, snapping out of his trance. Eyes flit up, dart from person to person and thing to thing not really taking in any of it. "Where the fuck am I?" Muttered under his breath. He can feel his heart--should he be able to feel his heart, didn't he die? But it's hard to breathe. Racing. Throat tight. Feet back up.
Words thinned, about half the outer armor scattered on the floor as his feet continue to back up: "What the fuck," eyes to the device, that weird bird thing still yammering on--drops it. He can't--he can't breathe.
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The young man seems dazed, blankly stripping off his gloves and— ah, geeze. Mask removed, he only looks more vulnerable, more exposed. An inmate. A warden wouldn't look so out of place, prone in the circumstance, and the realization of how keeping the mask on might have been preferred suddenly occurs to the soldier, though the concern he feels is much too late to be of any benefit.
He mutters something, irritation and disbelief, though Bucky can't make out the words, but what follows comes familiarly enough, a jolt up his own spine reminding him of what a terrifying panic it can be, waking up somewhere you're not meant to be when you're supposed to be dead. Does the admiralty have no interest in easing people back from the dead? Theo's rage lingers in his mind as he jogs forward, slotting himself around the discarded clothing to kneel beside the kid, the fact made more apparent up close.
"Hey," he urges, left hand against a shoulder as the right hands supports the cheek. The glove warms against his skin. "Deep breaths. Just focus on deep breaths." Bucky demonstrates with exaggerated breaths, chest heaving at each give and take. "Like this. Okay?"
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Not fully sure whether he was pushing or pulling, just gripping. Trying to catch his breath until those fingers landed on his cheek. He flinched, blinking rapidly to try and make sense of... anything. Slowly, he tries to find the rhythm of breathing. His fingers still seeking an anchor against the man's chest. Okay, okay he's got this. He finds his breathing lining up with Bucky's. Slowly shivered breaths slow, and calm.
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"Yeah, just like that." While still breathing deeply, he draws his right hand back quickly to tug the glove off with his teeth, checking the young man's forehead for fever. He lets the glove fall against his leg as he speaks again. "You're gonna be okay."
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Reflexes force him to snap that hand away but not quite quick enough. He's running a little warm, just a touch, but it's only going to get worse in a day or two for reasons Jason's not full aware of yet. One step back and he's looking around again. It's only them. Somewhere in the distance his phone is still just wrapping up the intake that set him into this panic.
"Dead," he starts, unlatching something on his shoulders and ripping that stupid fucking cape clean off. "Is kinda the opposite of being okay."
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"That's not the case anymore." A beat. "If you're here right now, you were revived explicitly, whether you wanted to be or not."
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"Right, get a second shot at life if you adhere to our rules." Can't stop thinking about it. The Joker--can't stop hearing the cracks, pangs in his body that have been healed but still were so vivid he physically lurched at the memory. All because his dumb ass wanted to prove something.
Guess he'll get the fuck up, too. Take a breath. Try not to throw up.
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If he could have had that after the ravine, that would have been okay, he feels. No need to pretend anymore. He could rest and be at actual peace. Instead he was made to live through being abandoned again because that's. Apparently that's a universal constant, by Strange's description. All paths needed to lead to Thanos. Yeah, not needing to know that would be easier to go to the grave with.
"I'm James. I'm. I guess from your perspective, I'm one of your captors, but your well-being is always the first priority. Anything feeling physically off?"
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Heh, hilarious. The R's that stack in his chest plate? The ones that are actually knives. Gone. They really prepared, didn't they? Fuck it all, though. He's done with being fucking Robin--tearing those last few pieces off until all that was left was the black under armor. "I've been to jail before, James." Those striking blues finally rise to meet the other guy. "You're gonna have to lie better than that."
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"I've also been to jail, but I guess you must've gone to one where they gave you a phone and didn't make you wear a stupid looking jumpsuit, cause this ain't like any prison I've ever seen or been in. Especially being in space." A beat. "The food is probably worse here, granted."
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Anyway, "that aside, it's your choice to become a part of the system." Hold on, wave of nausea. He bites it down and continues. "So yeah, I do question them, and you. Especially now that I know you've lived through it yourself."
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Gesturing with an arm, Bucky nods toward the way out. "Come on, let me take you to infirmary. Doubt you really wanna be sleeping in your own puke tonight."
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"I'm not paranoid," he absolutely is, often, even pre-death, "I just don't fucking trust you, or this place." Alright, now he's going.
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Whatever. Idiot left his comm so Bucky will have to find him again later anyway. For now, he collects the remnants of the young man's life before and stows it away for a rainy day.
timeskip!
Everything else about the whole experience was weird as hell. Well, everything was weird as hell to be honest. Though he's scarfing down some sort of burger looking thing maybe and has a coffee on the go. Just watching anyone else who came in and out; listening.
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"You holding up okay?" he asks calmly, not sparing a real glance as he digs into some overly bland stir fry and rice.
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Usually, he can relate--but he hasn't really hit the point of fullblown withdrawal town yet. Though his answer comes with a small shrug, "settling."
For Lucifer
"Why were you on earth?" Well, now that he's been fed and threw some coffee into his face, it's time to get to interrogating.
Jason's head still feels like it's fucking swimming and he's twitchy, thirsty, mind reeling with thoughts. Not sure what to make of all this; not sure he believes any of it. Maybe this is what people talk about when your brain is shutting down just before death--your mind going through all sorts of wild nonsense as electricity snaps around and fizzles out.
Maybe it is real? He's been given a "second chance" in some fucking multiversal ship-jail which is super weird but-- he's done this before, at least. Sitdowns with a whole host of different types of people. Therapists, guidance counselors, so on and so forth.
"And if you are Lucifer, why not make Hell better. Far as I can tell your dad's a piece of shit. Why help people get into his good graces?"
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“Anyway, Dad recently retired. My brother took over the Big Job, and we are, actually, making some changes. Which is why I’m helping those stuck in Hell get out. You send yourselves there, and you have to get yourselves out.”
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"Do we," he ruminates a moment, "y'know the preacher at one of the soup kitchens would say shit like that. He'd say, 'God only helps those who want to help themselves' and 'God only gives people the burdens they can carry." He looked up, jaw tense. Fingers curling around the cup. "What gets people into this Hell of yours?"
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"So you're telling me that in your world if someone does some bad shit, but doesn't have any real remorse, guilt, any of that shit--they just... walk into those gates after death?" That can't be right, there's NO WAY that's right.
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His heart was racing, but... he gets up as calmly as possible and makes one last comment before turning to leave. "I'm glad our worlds aren't the same."
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For Grace
He found it kinda interesting given how many times he's watched people die and sort of lost his head over it; never managed to be useful during those times unless you count beating someone up or, more commonly, getting beat up. Jay's not thinking about that though because holy fuck she is unnerving.
"If that's how you smile maybe don't," jesus christ. He thought Raven was a fucking weirdo but she's got nothing on this freak. He doesn't know how he'd deal with coming back so fucked up. (spoiler, Jason: its better to come back physically fucked up than what the pit does to you maybe be happy you're here instead you dipshit).
As for the other question though? He just gives a shrug and takes another sip of his coffee. Kinda... zoned out at the beginning of everything. Was too busy having a panic attack but didn't really wanna talk about that. "Anyway, don't you have some file on me or whatever. Isn't that how this works? You list my crimes to me?"
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"Sorry," she says, around the smile that still hasn't gone away.
"Only your warden gets to know that stuff," Grace says, folding her hands casually in her lap (the lap that's hovering in the air, the lap that shouldn't exist because she's sitting on nothing). "You'll get your temporary warden assigned in a few days. I'm just the welcome wagon. Like I said, you don't have to tell me anything you don't want to. I'm not in charge of you, I'm just here to help, if I can. I'd like to try."
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He shrugged, "got a few hunches. systems like this don't realize they often help make the criminal. people don't often need reform as much as they need the opportunity to live a decent fucking life."
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A pause. "...Most of them aren't!"
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It's not like he has any reason to hide it. Mind you, he'd only ever been in juvi but in Gotham it was just about as bad. Had a handful of people who did actually want to help but was entrenched in red-tape bullshit and--like everything--indebted to various mobs. Hell, some of them recruited from the kids there.
He lifts a hand, wiping a bit of sweat from his forehead with a shaking breath. Recalling, deeply, how shit this phase of hell was. Eyes flicked up to Grace for a moment and considered... "what kinda systems are you used to?"
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"Medical," she says, simply. And then it makes sense, why her clothes cover her completely from neck to fingertips to toes on a fully climate-controlled spaceship with carefully-calibrated and functional life support systems. The only thing visible is the edge of a scar at her collarbone, barely peeking at her neckline-- just the tiniest tip of a surgical line drawn parallel to the bone, an even starker color than her too-pale skin.
"...I think 'physical therapy' is a nice word for 'medically-mandated torture', sometimes," she says with that smile again, and it's beginning to become more clear exactly what it means when she wears it.
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Still, Jason took a moment or two to really consider it. Especially as Grace continued. Eyes traveled over her before he let out a 'hm' as his body slouched against the wall, fingers clutching the cup. Hm indeed. There's a long period of silence but he isn't sure he wants to bring up the things he was thinking.
"Sucks, man." It comes after some time. "Any kinda authority always thinks they can do whatever the fuck they want."
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"That's part of the struggle of this place. It takes a lot of choices away from you, as an inmate. But the point is to try to teach you how to make your own better ones. So that when you go back out there, you can do more than just surviving." Grace tugs the hems of her sleeves down over her fingertips-- a subconscious thing, comforting, protective. "That's something the wardens here all have in common. We learned the hard way, and we chose to come here. To help other people. To make their hard ways less hard than ours were."
Maybe it's a rosy view of things, but it's clear it's what she actually believes, at least.
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Maybe some people don't care about whatever it is they get and want to help but he can't bring himself to believe that helping is an afterthought. Which is fine, they all have their shit they need to take care of. He's just not into sugar coating what's probably a lot more true.
That out of the way, Jason manages to get his head up straight and watch Grace for a moment. "There are no better choices in a place like Gotham," is where he starts, taking time to parce out what it was he actually all wanted to say. "Crime is more complicated than 'this is against the rules and therefore bad'. Systematic oppression creates monsters and then punishes them for it." His entire cadance had changed; eyes still peering at Grace. "And the people that are actually horrific run it all. The only way to clean things up is to burn it to the ground." A sigh escaped him as his body slouches back again, "and it's a lot more merciful than what I used to do."
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"I don't disagree with you. Where I'm from... it's not too different. Institutionalized rot starts from the top and seeps down. Pools at the feet of the people who least deserve it. Poisons everyone who can't afford to get out. That's how it is."
Her head tilts, rests an ear on her shoulder as her dark, wide eyes stare at the wall. Ruminating.
"We operate more like... a surgeon. Cutting out decay piece by piece, stitching together what's left. Healthier, you know? But I see the appeal of blowing it all up and starting over." She grins, again. Wide. "There's people back home who feel that way too. Sometimes worked with them. They can be fun."
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"Need more coffee," he says abruptly, slowly getting up to his feet. "We're not all bad," comes as a passing comment when his feet shuffle past Grace, a nod of his head inviting her to walk with him.
The question of what redemption means still remains because if she's really from a place similar to him then she knows more than likely anyone else here that this place, far as he can tell, is still upholding the same oppressive systems of control.
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How she knew that, or more accurately, why she knew that, is another thing. She just... recognized something in this boy that felt familiar, something that felt like her friends back home. She thought about Ruby, bruised and black-eyed, stitching herself up again and again, not because she didn't trust anyone else, but because she didn't want anyone else to feel imposed on by her own weakness. She thought about Ava, hiding her real feelings under layers of masks-- physical strength, confidence, charisma, beauty-- all a performance so that no one would guess at the turmoil inside and dismiss her capabilities out of hand. Toughness comes in so many shapes, and it is almost always a misdirection, developed to protect an innate vulnerability underneath, one that runs deep and vital, one that can never be cut out, only covered up.
The world is cold, and harsh, and so Grace has always felt that there's a certain bravery in weakness. Maybe Jason has it in him.
"That's true," she agrees, finally. "Many of the inmates here seem to be at least decent people. Just ones who made choices... well, that landed them here."
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Pale blues look over to Grace as they walk down the hall toward the kitchens. He's slow, he's dragging along. Looks about the same as he feels. "People say that like some of us had a choice." Sure, there was technically always a choice, but humans want to servive. They want to thrive. "That's the problem with places like this; its always been the problem with jail back home."
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Her dark, wide stare slides over to meet his-- her eyes are enormous in her stark face, her irises so dark it's hard to tell their actual color, sometimes-- they seem to be in perpetual shadow, less reflective than they ought to be somehow. And it seems like she doesn't blink nearly as much as she should.
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"Maybe that's the problem," Jay flicked his gaze up to her, slowly becoming less and less unnerved by the... herness. Honestly, she'd fit in well back home and he thought for a moment to tell Grace a little about it but. There was time for that. "I know those systems," Jason stepped into the mess hall, trudging his way toward the end goal, "but a place pretending it's not like that? Can't help looking for holes, you know?"
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She says that like it's a comfort, which. Says a lot about Grace, really. She just follows him into the mess hall, trying not to make direct eye contact with anyone who might be milling about within, but taking note of who else is there. Perceiving, but not being perceived. It's a difficult line to walk. Grace is used to floating above it. That isn't always an option here.
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"Hard for other people around you," he corrected but didn't choose to say anything more as he grabbed some coffee and nodded back toward the door. Like her, Jason also did his own sweep of the area. Hold on, he's gonna get a second coffee just in case. "you want one?"
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About that, and a lot of things. She tries to keep her eyes on Jason, attempting to ignore the feeling of other eyes in the cafeteria crawling on her spine, assessing the new kid, assessing her with him.
"There's always things you can trust about people, though. Personality traits you can identify, patterns of behavior people stick to. When you look close enough." Plenty of people looking closely at people, here.
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Problem was: he didn't fucking care, and on immediate inspection, even though this was a prison, he didn't... it wasn't like a normal prison. Though they hit that talking point before. He'd fight the whole system still, cause it was some real bullshit, but the cell life? Eh, Jason could afford to be a little more lax.
With coffee in hand, he's more than happy to head back down the hall and out of here. "Sure, it's easy to clock some people. But in places like this everyone has their own MO. Better not to forget that." A moment. "And besides, they bribe warden's to do this work, don't they?"