Failure

Not going into hypovolemic shock was overrated anyway.

Jason grumbled to himself, trying to fix a bandage on his arm that had slipped away in a mangled mess produced by a mix of blood soaking the bandage and the inability of his other hand to stop shaking. His arm wasn't even the wound that would kill him.

The knife to the gut. Or the bullet in his shoulder. Those were the wounds that would probably kill him. The fucking army of assholes who jumped him were probably taking bets.

Stupid of him to let his guard down, even if he was helping a kid. God knew what happened to that boy. He'd have to check on him when he made it out of his current mess. Make sure his little legs carried him fast enough. Decoy or not, he was too small to be a part of something like that.

The iron tang in the air wasn't unfamiliar to him, but the weakness of blood loss nearly made him retch.

There wasn't much he could do, and there wasn't any getting out of this. The realization would make his heart beat even faster, if it hadn't already felt like it was smashing against his ribs with every beat.

No. Not in an alley. He would not die alone in an alley like an animal. He had an alternative, but he dreaded using it for this. He dreaded using it for anything.

He dragged himself to his feet, his hand pressed to his middle as though he could keep the gush of blood from leaking through his fingers. He fumbled through his pockets, looking for the emergency call button he swore he'd never need, and pressed the button despite himself.

Then he leaned against the alley wall and hoped that standing would keep him conscious long enough to stay in control. It didn't. He couldn't stay on his feet, and before long he was sliding down, fingers scrabbling at the craggy surface of the worn alley walls. Black was flitting into and out of his vision like curtains on the breeze and he shuddered when he heard the sound of a loud, raucous engine at the mouth of the alley.

It was only then that he heard Oracle trying to rouse him through his helmet interface.

"How the hell did you tap into my helmet?" he growled, not because he was particularly angry at Babs, but because it was the only tone he could force his voice into.

"You called me, Hood. Besides, you should be grateful I could reach you this way," she said, all business. "Help is headed your way. Now you won't be alone until it shows up."

"I'm still alone," Jason said, but his lips were numb and his head was swimming. "Always alone. He won't get here in time. He never does."

"Now, how did you know I was sending B?" There was humor in her voice, a smile in the air, and it woke Jason right out of his stupor.

"Fuck, no. You didn't." He shifted, struggling to pull himself back to his feet, and blood bubbled over from his wounds. How many gunshots had pierced his armor? Who had figured out the bullet-proof rounds that could even get through? He didn't know. Wouldn't find out tonight, anyway.

Wouldn't find out anything for a long time, most likely. Maybe not ever again.

How many people had Gotham callously watched die? How much blood had her streets been fed? Jason wasn't sure it would ever be enough. Gotham was a monstrous beast with a never ending hunger nothing could satiate, and she was feeding on him, greedily, once again.

"Jay? Come on, answer me," Barbara's voice floated through the pounding of his blood.

He tried for a response, but his vision was blacking over. Panic shot through his veins, but it wasn't enough to rouse him out of the blurry mess of his head, just made him shaky, uncoordinated. His legs slipped out from under him, and he splashed ass-first into a puddle of his own blood. Fuck.