Jason dies in fiery flames from hell, the orange tongues licking his clothes and skin as he lays in agony on the ground. He dies at the hand of a cackling, insane clown, who's bone-chilling shriek haunts his nights still. Jason dies, and he wishes he was never born.
Jason died screaming for Batman to help him, his mask slipping off his face due to sweat and tears undoing the adhesive. His lungs begged for air as he tried, tried to move, cuts and scars burning as hellfire lashed their whips on him. He died to the smell of burning, his hair catching aflame as the fire ate his clothes. Jason died choking, his chest aching as his heart ceased to beat. He died, and the only way he can describe it is like falling asleep. Jason died in pain.
Jason was dead.
Jason was dead for two years, six months, and how many minutes it takes to get to four in the morning. He was dead when Tim came along. Dick went to college. Damian turned 7. Jason was dead, and yet life went on.
Jason woke up.
He woke up at four in the morning, surrounded by the same burning he felt when he had died. He woke up struggling like a damn heathen, because his agony was still fresh in his mind and he was going to kill that goddamn clown, he was going to take his crowbar out of his own hands and rip his fucking jaw off so he could never grin like that again. He wakes up shouting, only this time it isn't for Batman, it's for the Joker to show himself and face Jason like a man. Jason woke up fighting.
Now, Jason is alive.
He's alive, taking the coins off his eyes and pocketing them. He looks down at Gotham, the area looking no different than how long ago he died, trying to assure him no time passed at all. But Jason is alive, and he knows the lies Gotham tells. Jason died, Jason was dead, and now Jason is alive again. He's alive .
And now, he's pissed.