It was his day off.

Then again, when you're a paramedic, you never have a day off.

Not really; not for Jason Todd.

Which is why he carried a medical bag in the back of his car—for days like today. He was driving home after a shitty date with a girl he would probably never see again, when he came upon the site of a car accident.

He stopped his car, ran to the trunk, and pulled out a pair of blue gloves. He then immediately slung his ALS bag on his back before running to the first of two cars—a grey Executive with a woman standing outside of it, looking at the damage done to the front of her car.

"What happened?" he asked her.

It made the woman whirl around with a wild look in her eyes. She was probably around 30, blonde hair tied into a bun, round reading glasses. Maybe a lawyer, Jason guessed, or some high-up business executive judging by that fancy suit… He didn't recognize brand names, but it looked expensive.

"The car in front of me just stopped!" she replied.

"Was there anyone with you in the car?" Jason asked, while he searched for any trace of blood on the woman's body.

She shook her head. "No, I was alone."

"Does anything hurt?"

"I'm okay…probably."

"Call 911 for me, please," he told her, and rushed to the next car.

It was a white BMW this time. Inside was a terrified teenager, wearing a hat that said 'SWAG' on the front. He gaped at Jason with wide, startled eyes.

"What happened?" he asked the boy, voice sharp and abrupt. It didn't exactly help the teen's nerves, but then again, Jason had never been extolled for his spectacular bedside manner.

"I… I think I killed him," he answered, tears in his eyes.

"Him?" Jason gestured to where he'd just come from, where the woman stood with her cell phone pressed to her ear. "She's fine. Not sure about her car though. Hope you yow got insurance, kid."

Jason frowned at the boy, who grimaced at the clear disapproval aimed at him. The thought that this brat was probably scared because he took his parent's car out on a spontaneous joyride, then crashed it, made Jason angry. He disliked reckless, self-centered teens. He'd seen too many results of juvenile stupidity, and how it usually ended. Not that he'd been any better at that age… It was frankly a miracle he was still alive, if he thought about it.

He didn't like to think about it.

"N-no…" The teenager pointed to the side of the road. "A motorcyclist, I... I hit him!"

That's when Jason finally noticed the crashed black motorcycle laying half-in-the-air—the back wheel still spinning. Looked like the safety rail snapped where the bike made impact too.

"I-I swear to god he came out of nowhere… He tried to pass me!" the boy cried.

Jason didn't really give a crap about his weak-ass excuses. Even though he could clearly smell the scent of weed coming from the car, he wasn't there to assign blame; he'd leave that to the pissed off parents and the cops. It wasn't his job.

Speaking of which—

Back in EMT mode, he quickly hurtled over the mangled safety rail and down the steep shoulder of the road. A body, crumpled, and covered in all manner of dirt and mud lay sprawled at the bottom of the bluff, face-down on the ground. Blue jeans, and a leather jacket were ripped and twisted around the limbs, along with a helmet still (thankfully) secured to his head. He wore only one boot—the other had clearly not survived the fall…

"Sir? Sir, can you hear me?" He carefully removed the helmet to reveal a shock of jet-black hair underneath. "My name is Jason. I'm a paramedic. I came to help you."

He leaned over to check the man, but to Jason's surprise, he flipped right over on his own.

"Tartar sauce," he mumbled, and put both his hands on his face.

"Sir, please don't move—it can cause nerve damage," when that didn't work, he tried again, "it could paralyze you!"

All efforts to persuade the man otherwise ended in failure, too stubborn and strong for Jason to hold him still. In the end, despite all the odds, the man sat up and ran a scratched-up hand through his hair, acting none the worse for wear.

"Why is my foot cold?" he asked, looking to Jason for a serious answer. Then he looked down. "Where the heck is my shoe?" He stood up, shaking the dirt loose from his jacket. "There she is!" he said a moment later, headed for an upturned boot about five meters away in the mud.

Bemused, and slightly disturbed, Jason started after him, medical bag in tow.

He's not supposed to be able to walk, he heard himself thinking, he should have suffered serious trauma, and he just shook it off like it was nothing. Maybe it's brain damage, a concussion, or maybe just post trauma and adrenalin? And did he just say, 'tartar sauce'?

Definitely concussed, Jason thought to himself, if not worse…

"Sir, please stop moving!" he shouted at the man, who was currently hopping on one foot, tugging on the recovered boot and double-knotting it. "You could seriously be exacerbating any injuries you already have!"

"Look, it is okay, Jaden." The man threw him a dismissive wave, wandering towards the road he was thrown from. "I don't need any medical attention, I'm fi—"

The man froze as he set eyes set upon the figure that had just vaulted over the safety rail, his eyes widening in sheer terror. He grabbed Jason roughly by the front of his shirt, and said only one word:

"Run."

The most amazing thing about the human brain, Jason thought, was how fast it can process information. The resounding bang brought Jason right back to his childhood days in Crime Alley. The unmistakable crack of a gunshot was a wakeup call. That's when his instincts kicked in, and he started running alongside the man in earnest, no longer concerned by his miraculous recovery.

A series of shots exploded after them.

They didn't stop until they reached the distant tree line, taking cover amongst the fall colored leaves, ducking under branches, jumping over rocks, roots, and boulders, while the leaves crunched underfoot. Jason's breath was coming quicker now, huffing and puffing like an asthmatic wreck. Though he was a strongly built man, he was woefully out of shape, and he was paying for it. His unlikely companion far outstripped him, and he was left wondering just what the hell they were feeding this guy.

It didn't last, though. They'd only just stopped for a breather, and Jason was about to demand answers about why the fuck they were being shot at, when he noticed the blood. The man collapsed against a tree, his knees buckling as he slid to the ground like a stringless marionette.

Without hesitation, Jason threw his bag down and rifled through it for a pair of scissors, doing what he should've done in the first place. Shoving the lapels of the jacket aside, he cut easily through the "Property of Gotham" t-shirt, and pressed a stethoscope to the man's chest.

"Shit, it's probably pneumothorax," he muttered, checking for a pulse, and—

Nothing.

Jason scrambled to do what he could, relieving the pressure with a chest drain and chest compressions, but there was not much he could do stuck in the middle of nowhere, with no hospital or blood transfusion in the middle of the woods. He cursed at himself for leaving his phone in the car. After thirty minutes, he gave up and decided to call it. Jason searched the man's pockets for an ID but could only find a pair of dog.

"Well, Richard J. Greyson," he read off the engraved metal, "I hope you had a good life…"

He checked for a pulse again, but he knew it was a pointless effort. He was sure the woman or that kid would send the cops and paramedics his way when they arrived, assuming those gunshots weren't for them. All he could do now for the moment was wait and get his breath back…and wonder who this Richard Grayson was now that he was gone.

He checked the license again, looking at the date of birth, and sighed.

Jason hated losing patients, especially when they were young, and life was just beginning for them—even more so when they were so close to his age. It was like looking at himself in the mirror. Usually, this young, there came a lot of loss, a bigger hole ripped into society by such a sudden, violent exit.

Jason considered himself an exception to that rule, with no family, no one to rush home to. He hoped Richard Grayson at least had someone to mourn for him besides a very confused and medically amazed EMT. Anyone, a brother, parents—maybe even a few disgruntled enemies—just someone to notice he was gone. A good, or a bad life, this Richard hopefully made some sort of impact before death clawed him out of this world like it does to everyone else, sooner or later.

Jason slowly packed up his bag and stood up. He planned to make his way back to his car, see what the situation was there. Hopefully the cops were already there so he could point them in the way of Grayson. There was nothing left for him to do at this point.

He turned to leave the way he'd come, night having fully set in, making it harder to tell where he was supposed to go as light streamed through the branches and leaves, spilling upon the ground.

It was a beautiful night to die.

Too beautiful, the thought privately, looking up at the moon shining through the crisscrossing skeleton fingers of bare autumn trees.

But all contemplation of life and death came to a sudden, and abrupt halt when he heard a soft murmur behind him.

"Tartar sauce…"