"I don't suppose you'd deal in pocket lint, would ya?" Jason has arrived with literally nothing more than the clothes on his back and the boots on his feet. Every remaining weapon was lost in that last fight with Bruce, and for that matter, Jason's pretty sure he should be dead. Again. He remembers setting off an explosion in that abandoned, crumbling building, and he remembers that his intention was not to survive it.

And yet. Here he is. Surviving. Running for his life with some nightmare bird from hell on his tail and a guy running alongside him who's barely breaking a sweat. Come to think of it, maybe this is hell.