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If Batman was an urban legend, then a Shrike was a myth. Almost nobody had ever seen her, and most of those who had seen her caught just a glimpse of her before everything went black. When they came to, they came with harrowing accounts of a woman so terrible that even Batman’s fist seemed like a mercy.
She was powerful.
She was terrifying.
And she was standing over him.
Jason swallowed hard “P—please, I didn’t mean to—”
He didn’t mean to? He was on his knees in front of her car, the car that was missing three tires.
Shrike placed her hand on the hilt of her sword and frowned. “Who sent you?”
Did she think he was working for one of the mobs? Jason’s heart pounded in his chest like a crowbar against his ribs.
“N—no, I’m not working for anybody, please—”
Her fingers teased her sword an inch out and then back down into the sheath in a warning silent but for the hiss of the blade. Jason’s fingers twitched on his tire iron, but fighting back would only make it hurt worse. He could only hope that Batman would show up before she began her torture or at least that he would kill Jason if he was too late.
“Please, please, I don’t know anybody, I just—I’m just—” Jason stammered.
Shrike’s severe frown deepened. “You expect me to believe that you would attacked me with no training and no malice?”
Jason shook his head, but was he supposed to nod? He wasn’t sure what he could say to convince her that he was sorry and he’d never do it again.
“I was just hungry, please, I don’t know what you’re talking about—”
Shrike growled. “If you leave now, I will grant you your life. You may return to my father and tell him that I am staying here and my son is staying here with me.”
Jason had no idea who Shrike’s father was—he didn’t even know who Shrike was. Jason had no idea why she would think he had anything to do with her father or what the custody deal was going on there, but he was pretty sure she was letting him go.
Jason scrambled to his feet. “I—I don’t know who your father is, but I can I can take a message for him if you tell me where he is?”
He would not take a message to her father—he was going to leave Gotham. Hell, he was leaving New Jersey entirely, if not the entire east coast.
Shrike scoffed. “Still denying?”
Jason didn’t know what she wanted. “I don’t know who your father is! I don’t know who you are! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please, I was just hungry, and I thought I could sell the tires, but I’ll give them back; just don’t kill me!”
Shrike tilted her head, staring down at him silently.
Shrike lunged and slammed Jason by the throat against the hood of the car. Jason screamed and swung his tire iron aimlessly, but she grabbed it and twisted it from his fingers. It clattered against the wall with a terrific clang before it clattered to the ground.
Jason dug his fingers into her gloves, but she had him entirely at her mercy.
Shrike held him down with one hand on his throat, freeing her other hand to fly over his body, prodding and feeling all over him. She hooked her finger under his knees and forced them to his chest so she could pat over his legs.
Jason clenched his eyes against tears. The last time he’d had someone throw him over a car hood and touch him like this…
Shrike pulled off his shoes.
Running barefoot down the needle-littered streets of Crime Alley was sure to give him HIV if he didn’t already have it.
And then she pulled back.
Jason rolled onto his side with a half-hearted plan to run, only to find Shrike shaking his shoes.
He just stared.
When all that fell out of Jason’s shoe was five dollars and thirty-seven cents, Shrike started pulling and prodding at the shoe.
When she looked up, her lip was curled in disgust. “You’re not an assassin, are you? You’re just skinny and—” She snapped her mouth shut and leaned closer. “You’re just a street child, aren’t you?”
Jason trembled but nodded as best he could. Was—was she going to kill him instead? Please, he’d like that better.
Shrike huffed and dropped both his shoes to the alley floor. “Where are your parents?”
Jason’s eyes welled with tears, and Shrike faltered just slightly.
“…Are they dead?” Shrike asked, her tone gentling.
Jason hid his face behind his hands, but he nodded.
Shrike sighed heavily, and then she was touching Jason again. Her gloved fingers trailed over his hair, soft and gentle instead of demanding and rough the way they’d been only a few moments before.
“My mother is dead as well,” Shrike whispered.
Jason shuddered, but her hands did not go any lower or grip his hair and yank him about. It felt…she was going to kill him, but it felt so nice.
“You’re hungry…” she mumbled as she pushed a button on her earpiece and mumbled something in another language.
Shrike suddenly grabbed him under the arms and hoisted them into the air. Jason gasped and tried to thrash away, but Shrike pulled him up against her chest and started to walk down the alley.
“Your American food is—” She sniffed indignantly. “—egregious, but we will have to settle.”
Jason whimpered. “Wh—what?”
Her hand patted his back in a slow, firm pattern like a mother with an infant. “We are getting you something to eat while my husband tends to the tires. Peace, habibi. I will not hurt you.”
“But—”
“Ssh, child. You’re mine now. I won’t let anything hurt you.”
An hour later, Jason was sitting in the backseat of the Batmobile, his gaze flitting between Shrike, Batman, and the last of his milkshake. The silence felt oppressive.
Batman hadn't said more than ten words to Jason as he put the tires back on as Jason sat as still as he possibly could on Shrike's lap as he choked down the huge burger and serving of fries she’d bought him. He hadn't wanted to sit on her lap, but he didn't think she’d have let him get up without breaking his ankles.
While he was doing what she wanted, though, Shrike was gentle. Kind, even, if that’s what he could call it. She’d fed him, hugged him, petted his hair—she’d pet his hair a lot, so she might want to disinfect that hand later—and called him habibi, whatever that meant, and hummed quiet songs in another language.
It was terrifying, but it was also…nice.
Maybe…if he kept doing what she wanted, she would keep being nice to him. He’d learn to read her and Batman like he’d read his dad, and then they’d feed him and sometimes be nice to him. Beatings from his dad had hurt. Beatings from Shrike or Batman might kill him.
“We’ll be home soon, habibi,” Shrike said in that strange accent that had bled into her words over the course of the last hour. He didn’t know where she was from, but he wasn’t going to ask any questions.
“Yes, ma’am,” Jason whispered.
Ma’am carried him through the rest of the night. Was he still hungry? No, ma’am. Would he like a shower? Yes, ma’am. Did the clothes she’d given him fit? Yes, ma’am—even though they draped off him like they were five sizes too large. Would he like to sleep in the middle of the giant bed? He’d thought it was her bed, hers and Batman’s, and that he finally understood what she wanted, but when she’d tucked him into the bed and kissed his forehead with a soft goodnight, ya ibni, she left, closing the door behind her and leaving Jason in the dark uncertainty.
What in the world was she going to do to him?