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The first things he hears are the feedback of the microphone, a morbidly excited giggle, and—
“Jason Todd.”
The sound of his own name swims in his ears, but all he can do is curse every single asshole who had ever wrongfully submitted his name for “poor behavior” in his head.
He can't speak, can't breathe. His feet move automatically to the stage, where a woman– in pale face paint and dressed like the usual jesters everyone knew represented the Capitol– presses a clean white cloth to his cheek.
He isn't sure when he started crying.
“You okay, birdie?” She asks.
“What?” His voice doesn't sound like his own in his ears. Too rough, too shaky.
She smiles, painted lips making her look almost like something from one of the Capitol's animated advertisements played during the games each year. “On your shirt.” She giggles, tapping his chest with her finger so suddenly he nearly jumps. “A robin, right? Like little Dickie?”
Jason blinks, finally exhales the breath he's been holding far too long. It makes his head release some of the pressure pounding behind his eyes.
“Dick Grayson?” Words still feel strange on his tongue.
She nods. “Yeah. He's in the Capitol right now, ain't he?” She smiles, wipes his cheek again. “But don't you worry, birdie. We've got another Victor who'd be happy to teach ya. Taught Dickie himself!”
Jason just nods without really looking at her, still swaying slightly on his feet. It doesn't feel real. A hand presses to his arm, surprisingly steady and firm for the dainty woman in front of him.
“Come on.” She nudges lightly, nodding to the girl he knows must be at his side– there's always two, after all– and drags his feet to her brisk pace as he's escorted away.
The first thing Jason notices about Mr. Wayne is that he's quiet. Jason likes quiet, likes that Mr. Wayne doesn't bombard him with more information than he's ready for at a time in his guidance. When Mr. Wayne talks him through how to bandage himself with one hand, he doesn't attempt to take over when Jason fails his first few attempts.
“Like this.” Mr. Wayne mutters over the sound of the train on the tracks without even lifting his gaze to look at him, once again tying a bandage on his wrist snug using only his other hand.
Jason breathes. Tries again. Fails. Succeeds. Breathes again.
“Good.” Mr. Wayne says, but the words mean more when Jason knows how hard Dick Grayson must have been pushed to go from the helpful, goofy “older brother” of his neighborhood in District 6.
He nods, and grins when he earns a nod back from Mr. Wayne.
The first thing Jason does when he's met with the blinding simulated sunlight of the arena is shield his eyes, arm held over his head while the other stays near his chest defensively.
He looks around. He's fourteen, but some of these kids easily look twice as young.
It makes his stomach churn knowing he has to kill them to make it out alive.
How did Mr. Wayne do this?
How did Dick Grayson do this?
How is he going to do this?
The first thing Jason tastes is the other boy's blood.
The last thing Jason remembers is the tight safety of Mr. Wayne's hug before he was taken away with the other contestants. The smell of whiskey on his shirt collar, the way his chapped, pursed lips brushed against his temple in what Jason inherently understood was an attempt to comfort him, however small.
“Do your best.” Mr. Wayne had muttered, so quietly Jason had almost imagined his words at first. “It's enough. I know it. Just do your best.”
Jason felt like a child, then, reaching out for him with tear-filled eyes as he was pulled away.
Like now, his arm extended in front of him as the harsh artificial light of Gotham arena blinds his eyelids until the light fades into comforting dark.
The first thing Jason thinks as he wakes up in a gaudy room, handcuffed to a plush bed, is that he lost.
He died. Winners don't die.
Even if he was, technically– his win is a fucking technicality– the last man standing, in the end.
Harley fusses over his suit just like she used to, adjusting his cuffs to let his wrists breathe without allowing them to slide off. Her hands tremble, but her smile is wide enough for the both of them and then some.
“Looking handsome, birdie.” She says, soft and gentle and slightly wavering as she combs fingers through his hair to neaten it. “Mr. J will like that.”
“Mr. J?” The name makes his blood run cold.
“He's the one who got your clock tickin’ again.” She pats his chest lightly. Jason winces at the touch. “Thought you'd be a great story for the people. I agree.”
Jason glances again around the room. The windows are gated with metal bars, the only door has at least six men standing outside in matching dark green suits.
“Welcome home, birdie.” She whispers, giving his limp hand a firm squeeze.
The first time he's allowed back on camera, it's after Joker drilled the speech into him so perfectly he could recite it backwards beat for beat. “I'm lucky to be alive.” The words don't feel like his own. They aren't. “It's thanks to the Capitol, to President Joker, that I'm still alive today.”
He isn't allowed to speak to anyone the Joker hasn't introduced him to personally, in the president's home in the Capitol. This, of course, means he only speaks to Harley– she's the only one who treats him like he's still human, after all.
He misses Mr. Wayne. He misses District 6. He hopes this isn't what Dick Grayson went through.
The first and last thing Jason sees as he's jolted awake in bed is Harley bursting into the room as a cloth comes over his nose and lips.
The first thing Jason realizes about Dick Grayson is that he's a lot different than he was the last time anyone in District 6 had seen him years ago. Being used as a source of entertainment by the Capitol has changed the way he carries himself now, and being the face of a rebellion he never meant to start only adds to the tiredness in his features. His smile is the same, but it doesn't reach his eyes now.
Jason can relate.
“Glad you're safe, Jaybird.” He ruffles Jason's hair, and Jason doesn't protest after months without contact with someone from home.
Jason shifts in his flat bed, a monitor beeping faintly tracking his heart rate. “Where's–”
“Mr. Wayne?” Dick finishes for him when Jason’s voice dies after one word. Jason nods. “I'll get him. He'll want to see you.”
Jason sits alone as Dick leaves, counts his breaths, presses a hand to his chest to feel it move with the action.
He hears Harley's familiar shouting further down the hall, and the gruff murmuring he's come to know Mr. Wayne for, and exhales until his lungs feel completely spent.
Jason breathes.