Red Remembrance

a beautiful lie

{Part one of Colours series}

Crime Alley was based off rumors and lies. Jason knew this better than most; every day the lies came out easier, more honeyed and convincing until one day lying came as easy as breathing - which was harder in Gotham due to the sheer amount of smog that hung lazily in the air. Lies, in Jason's mature innocence, were half-truths and quarter-truths. It was an important ability in the streets; all had it, but not everybody had mastered it like Jason.

So, like anyone would, he put his services on the line for a good buck.

It was mostly charming street vendors to give him a free pretzel while being robbed blind, convince clerks to leave their counters and distract officers while heists went down. All simple, nothing big. The scummy men that normally hired him took pity on the boy - they had heard of Catherine Todd's condition - and gave him much more than he deserved.

That he normally gave to the girls; they needed it more.

Gothamites had a thing for names. Jason had no idea what they called it before, but they called the ally "Fortuna" - luck, or something like that. The girls were always there, huddled in packs with their too high stilettoes. There was an old woman, Sherry, who took it upon herself to manage the funds equally as she was one of the rare alley-borns that finished school. Catherine Todd had swung by these parts before, worked a job or two when Willis was in jail to keep her family afloat. Jason tagged along once, wide eyes curiously peering at the ladies, who seemed to melt at the sight of the boy. It was when Jason kicked an unwanted guest in the shin that the girls decided he was one of them and was welcomed to Fortuna whenever he wanted.

"Boy," Sherry would huff through the stub of nicotine and tar in her mouth whenever Jason handed a fistful of money, "People like you in a place like this? They end up dead. Have you heard the word martyr? You'll become one."

No "thanks for the money," or anything like that, but that was the alley way of thanking people; not by some words, but by looking after each other.

And no, Jason did not know what a martyr meant. That meant a trip to the library, just a few blocks down.

The library was his sanctuary, a quiet haven for street filth like himself to stop looking over his shoulder and settle in the soothing scent of worn-out pages and that twinge of strawberry from the librarian's intern, Barbara, who had a strange attachment to Jason.

The daughter of the cleanest cop in Gotham found Jason pouting into a book, soot and grime on his face, trying to understand the words. She had popped out of nowhere, helping the boy and offering to teach him English and math. That followed with warm evenings in the library and even a brisk - warm - showers at her place. Jason was a quick learner, quicker than any daft doofus in Gotham academy - Barbara's words, not his. It helped the boy many a time in the past and future.

It did not help Jason then.

[][][][]

Soon Barbara had nothing left to teach him, nothing else to offer. Liability, Jason had read somewhere. Barbara said it was when something was not useful or not needed anymore, when something weighed you down. Was Barbara a liability to Jason? Was Jason the liability? It was hard to find friends like Barbara on the streets, and he did not want to lose her. They had so many moments together - laughing about their auburn hair, impromptu acts from Shakespeare dramas when dressing each other up in ridiculous garb - and so many feelings, Jason had gone soft.

In Gotham you couldn't go soft.

It was clear when he stumbled into the cold, pathetic excuse for apartment with blood pouring down his nose, bruised side on fire. He had been cornered and beaten to send out a message for Gordon, despite having no connection to the Commissioner. All he could think before he was saved was the fact that it was him, not Barbara. He would do it over and over to protect his friend because she would be safe.