The clang of metal rings through the vast, empty warehouse. Funny how scenes of brutality always play out in abandoned warehouses. Must be something about their interior design, or lack thereof.
They would've trashed any other place, in trashing each other. And they've trashed each other good. Jason's mask lies shattered in one corner, his face now torn and bleeding, his nose most likely broken, the tendons in his left leg ruptured. He also must've cracked a rib or three during a particularly vicious mallet-clobbering, because every goddamn swing of the crowbar hurts like a motherfucker.
Still, he's fairly sure he looks a damn sight better than the bitch whose complexion's now in line with her costume, all thanks to him.
Sparks fly when the crowbar hits the concrete instead of her face and the sudden jolt shudders through his screaming sides. To think the bitch can still evade after he's put two bullets into her hip joints and went to town beating her like the clown beat him once. At least she's no longer bellowing in rage. Breathing's a chore with a fractured sternum. He remembers it too well.
It should be fucking sweet, fucking ironic, to finally get his revenge like this, but he's not the one laughing.
"What's so fucking funny?" he demands, dishing out a backhand hard enough to unscrew that loony head of hers. He could smack that face for hours and it still wouldn't quell his rage.
When she looks up again, a grin's stretching her split lips over teeth stained bright red. She crooks her finger at him, eyes glittering with madness, beckoning him to lean closer. Her other hand has snaked into his hair and tugs at what it can.
"You're really sweet, bird-boy," she wheezes, every word strained and laborious, "for taking care of me when Mr. J's indisposed."
"Crazy bitch," he growls, grabbing her ridiculous pigtails and bashing her head against the ground.
Her eyes roll up but she stays conscious. Groaning, she blinks several times, then spits blood into his eye and chuckles. "No crazier than you, Boy Blunder. Thinking you could get at him through me. It's rather cute."
She's tough, he has to give her that, tougher than he was. Must've had a lot of practice with the clown if she can take this much and still laugh into Jason's face. She disgusts him. How can she continue to stay loyal to that rabid dog, knowing what he's capable of?
"It'll get to him, don't worry. I'm counting on him to not let this slide."
Her jaw splinters when he catches it mid-swing, and this time her head doesn't lift again.
Her death might not faze the clown as much as Jason's did Bruce, but it'd be a start. This scum's always been carrying out wars on the backs of others. If Jason has to play by house rules to clean out Gotham's trash, so be it. He's prepared to become that monster.
Perhaps he already has.