Jason
Steam rose from the stock pot in slow spirals, steeping the apartment in seaweed, garlic, and ginger. He sat on the couch, hand hovering with the remote, clicking through channels. Two bowls of miyeok-guk sat on the coffee table.
The bathroom door creaked open. His mother stepped out, tying the belt of her green robe, hair wrapped in a red and yellow paisley bandana.
“You should quit that job,” she said, easing down onto the sofa. “Focus on school now, hmm?”
“It’s just a few hours after class. Delivering packages,” Jason set the remote on the table.
“College. That’s what you think about now. Not this...package boy job.” She coughed into her sleeve, then pulled a tissue from her robe and turned her head.
“I’m not smart enough for that.”
She clicked her tongue. “Aigo. You smarter than most. Just don’t believe it yet. That’s your problem.”
“If you say so.”
He dipped a spoon into the bowl, his gaze flickering to television. Its jittery light flickered across the room. On screen, a young tan woman with thick black curls stood with a mic in hand.
“I’m here in South B, where just hours ago a brutal murder took place.” The reporter stood stiff in the rain, gesturing toward the taped-off storefront. “The victim, twenty-year-old Manjit Singh, a student at Gotham University, was dismembered--”
The feed cut immediately back to the anchor at the desk.
“Thank you. That was Marion Perez with graphic details out of Uptown. Let’s move now to Vicki Vale in Midtown.”
Jason scooped a mouthful of soup and swallowed hard. “I heard about that on the street. Maroni’s been recruiting Dominicans from Crown Point.” He went for another spoonful. “They like using machetes.”
His mother set her spoon down, resting it against the rim of her bowl. She didn’t speak at first. Then, slowly, “These deliveries...they’re not--”
“I’m not working for a gang, Mom,” he said. “I’d never do that. Pop would’ve pummeled me if he were still around.”
She stared down at her bowl. “Just be good, my J.J.”
“I am.”
“And find a good girl.”
Jason nearly choked. He coughed into his fist, wiped his mouth, face turning red.
“They like you, J.J.”
“Hm.” He kept his eyes on the soup, spoon hovering.
“You just need to talk to them. That’s all most girls want. Someone who walks up, says hello then shuts up and listens.”
He let out a short laugh, still avoiding her gaze.
“You a handsome boy, J.J.”
“Okay, Mom. Don’t start.”
“Before I forget,” she said, reaching into the pocket of her robe.
She pulled out a small white box and held it in her palm.
“For you. For graduation,” she said quietly. “I know it’s early, but.”
She stopped mid sentence. Her hands said what she couldn’t. Thin, wrinkled, skin marked with dark bruises like ink bleeding across paper.
He took the box and opened it. Nestled inside was a gold necklace, fine and simple, the pendant no bigger than a dime. He looked closely.
“A man on horseback,” he said, “Spearing a dragon. Cool.”
“Saint George,” she corrected. “Brave men, good men, are burdened, J.J.”
Her eyes welled, she blinked the tears back and brushed her cheek dry. Jason slid an arm around her shoulders.
“You carried it for me and your dad,” she whispered. “When I’m gone, still...you carry it.”
Her arms wrapped around him.
“We’re always with you,” she said, voice cracking.
Her hugs used to crush him like water pressing in from all sides. Near the end they barely held on.
❖
Now, the river closed over him. The pendant pressed against his chest beneath the black suit. It held a trace of warmth, but the Gotham River bled through, locking his joints with every stroke. His cape pulled, heavy as hands at his shoulders, dragging down to the depths. Tempting to ditch it, but he didn’t. He’d never hear the end of it.
He kicked his legs and drove his arms through the current until his hands broke the surface. He pulled in a long deep breath. The mask washed the world in gray, but he still made out the warehouses clinging to the south side of the old shipyard. The fight carried on there, on a concrete platform above the water.
Croc crouched low, tail thrashing as it slammed the ground and sliced the air. Another figure flickered in and out of sight, marked by the flash of white eyes and the hiss of a grapnel line.
Jason swam for the dock. His fingers caught the edge, he hauled himself up. The cape now a few pounds heavier, his black boots leaden and waterlogged. A few feet ahead, the rifle lay where it had fallen, the tranquilizer half seated in the chamber.
Croc roared, then croaked a mumble of half-formed words. His clawed hands seized a rusted railing and snapped it clean. He raised the metal high and swung at the shadow staring back at him, but the blow cut through empty air. Another wild swing carved back and forth through the air, but the shadow moved too fast for him.
Jason grabbed the rifle, fiddled with the dart, aimed then fired. The dart struck the scaled plate near the rib cage.
Croc’s yellow eyes snapped to him. His mouth peeled open, exposing rows of blackened, sharp teeth. When he screamed, it came out as a deep, guttural growl. He charged forward with the steel pipe clenched in both hands.
Jason twisted aside. The pipe passed close enough to brush his cape and yank at the fabric as he rolled across the ground. He came up on his feet and circled wide. Up close, Croc loomed taller and stank of sewer rot and something rancid.
Jason grabbed another dart from his belt.
Croc lunged. His hand clamped around the barrel, wrenched it free, and hurled it into the river.
Jason stepped back and ducked the pipe, but Croc’s tail knocked him off his feet. He went down hard. His face slapped against the concrete.
Croc loomed over him, arms lifted for the kill. For a split second, Jason caught it: a scar on the inside of Croc’s left thigh, showing through the torn black cloth of his trousers. Chevron-shaped, with three lines cut deep at its center.
A small black orb arced through the air and burst at Croc’s eye level. He recoiled and clamped his hands over his eyes as the pipe slipped from his grip and crashed to the ground with a heavy thud.
Jason staggered to his feet with his head ringing. His nose throbbed as blood or river water slipped down his lip. There was no time to check. He fired the grapnel and climbed toward the warehouse roof.
The fight ended with Croc leaping into the Gotham River and vanishing into the dark water.
“You’re too reactive.”
Jason flinched at the voice and the presence that stepped beside him.
He swallowed his reply.
“Where’s the rifle?”
Jason exhaled hard. “I lost it in the river.”
“Never.”
“Leave tech behind, yeah. I remember.”
The radio clicked. Static crackled. Jason was relieved when Alfred interrupted them.
“Oney from South Miller paged in. Looks like we’ve got another group of adventurers.”
They both sighed.
Jason didn’t know which was worse. Bruce’s scolding, or dealing with idiots. He tried to remember his mother’s words about burdens men carried and all that. But right now all he wanted was to hit something.
