Demons (Damirae)

Chapter Fifty-One

It's odd. How time soars. One moment, life is a bramble bush of untameable chaos; the next, rolling green plains stretching for straight miles as far as the eyes can see. Of course, there lies a grey space in between, a purgatory of sorts. Those 'it could be better, but it's not terrible' instants. It's just...grey.

Those inhabiting Wayne Manor were stuck in a grey period. A grey, grey, grey period. The pursuit of a certain maniac jester persisted through the bitter snows of the New Year as life continued. A key lesson one learnt from living in the life of a hero, anti-hero or villain, is that life (no matter the circumstances) always continues. Despite death, heartbreak and loss, the world moves on, people learn to move with it.

To move on from The Joker's attack on Harley.
To move on from the Council's potentially illegal dealings.
To move on from the occupation of the realm of Hell.

...

Nah, I'm fucking with you, this lot will hold a grudge till they pop their clogs. And then they come back to kill the jackarse who messed them about.

Talk about a chip on the shoulder.

Forgive? Pah!

Forget? Ha. Hilarious.

Forgive and forget?... how about 'Fuck Off'?

Following this broken moral compass, Jason twitched his finger, firing a single, smoking bullet between the man's eyebrows. Lip curling as the led slashed through the man's head-spraying The Redhood with blood and squidgy worm-like brains- Jason stepped around the man, not waiting for his deceased body to hit the ground.

It had been a dead end.

Misinformation.

The Joker hadn't used that hideout in years, hence, it had been teeming with locusts and people not worth anymore than the insects they lived among: these weren't the regular, unfortunate souls who wore dirt like a second skin; these were the scum who put people in those positions, flashing gold teeth as they stole daughters and shot sons. To add icing to the cake, the majority were gold-chained ex-accomplices of The Joker (gods be damned if Jason didn't wrap those chunky valuables around their necks, tightening and tightening till the struggling stopped).

Beating around the red smoke clouding his mind (anger or some other driving emotion, perhaps satisfaction?) the crimson-soaked Redhood registered a sound akin to floors being scrubbed, or squeaky clean teeth. Stowing away the hand gun, Jason kept an ear open, itching to find the source of the noise.

Attempting to make as little noise as possible, Jason trod over decaying wood, rusty doors opening beneath his feet with every cautious step. Creaking pace by creaking pace, the sound grew louder.

Warm.

Warmer.

Warmer still.

BOILING.

In a single, powerful blow, Jason kicked the locks of the door (locks, plural, for there were many locks of all manner of shapes and sizes littering the side of door). Upholstering the gun in a practiced jerk of the hand.

In a millisecond, the weapon hit the floor.

Casting aside the sights in his periphery (the depressingly common setting of a dingy room tainted with growing mould and feeling of poverty, an imitation of a home), Jason crouched low, his fingertips touching the floor. A mishmash of rage, indignation and empathy setting his eyes afire, Jason inched towards the poor creature huddled before him, whimpering.