Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Friday October 21, 1:03 p.m.

Danny hadn’t thought he was going to regret accepting the comm so soon, but here he was: standing in front of Sr. Gutiérrez's desk. Regretfully.

The relationship between standing in front of Sr. Gutiérrez's desk and regretting the comm was convoluted, admittedly, but the Danny from a week ago wouldn't be in this position. Hell, the Danny of yesterday wouldn't be in this position because yesterday, Danny didn't have a comm, and today, Danny did. Today, someone had been trying to contact Danny via comm once an hour every hour. While he was at school. Danny had taken to silencing it by pushing the talk button and then hanging up, but unfortunately, he'd dozed off during Spanish and thus had slept through the very important ritual of 'push the button before the comm beeps'.

Sr. Gutiérrez had not been asleep and so had not missed the incessant beeping. He'd thought Danny was playing on his phone, had confiscated said phone, and asked Danny to come see him after class.

So, yeah. Regrets. Danny had 'em.

To be fair, maybe he shouldn’t have brought the comm with him to class. But what was he gonna do, leave it in his locker? That was asking for it to be stolen. Which was the last thing Danny needed.

Speaking of needs.

Sr. Gutiérrez didn't seem to be in any particular hurry to start speaking. Which was awkward, because he'd initiated this whole 'see me after class bit' for a reason.

Danny also wasn’t in any particular hurry to get to his next class (Government as a class was almost as useless as the Actual Government), but standing here wasn’t exactly the thrill of his life, either.

Though, his Government teacher was more unforgiving than the Actual Government, and the Actual Government hunted him for sport.

So. Maybe Danny should actually hurry this along.

"Am I in trouble?"

Sr. Gutiérrez frowned and told him, "You're not in trouble." Then failed to elaborate.

"Okay…so then am I free to go or do I need to call a lawyer? 'Cause either way I'll need my phone back."

The Frown deepened.

"Danny," said Sr. Gutiérrez with the tone of an adult about to ask a prying question, "Are things alright at home?"

Well. That was an unexpected pivot.

"You've seemed tired lately," he continued. "Inattentive."

"I'm…sorry?"

"You don't have to apologize to me, Danny," Sr. Gutiérrez said, electing to prolong this unwanted interaction. "I know you just moved here. Gotham can be a difficult place to adapt to."

"I've done okay, I think," Danny said with a shrug.

Sr. Gutiérrez raised a dark eyebrow.

"You fell asleep in class today."

Ah. So he'd noticed that, after all. Danny had almost dared to hope the whole beeping fiasco had distracted from that.

The one time it would have been convenient for everyone to overlook him. And Danny Got Noticed.

"I've had a busy week,” Danny said, trying to think of an excuse that would garner sympathy while not inviting further questioning. “Picked up some extra shifts. Money is…tight these days. The economy is in. Um. Shambles? Inflation. S'bad."

He could tell Sr. Gutiérrez didn't quite believe him, but what was he gonna say? 'The economy is fine, actually'? Danny didn’t think he'd ever heard anyone say that.

Danny squeezed his hands into fists, counted to ten, and said, "Look, I really am sorry that my phone went off and that I fell asleep in class, but if you're going to give me detention, is there any chance I could do it on Monday instead of after school? I won't be able to find a cover between now and when my shift starts."

"I told you, Danny. You're not in trouble."

"Are you sure? Because I kind of feel like I'm in trouble here."

Sr. Gutiérrez looked unimpressed. But maybe his face was just like that.

"I try to keep an eye out for things others might overlook. Like test scores."

Uh-oh.

"Listen, if this is about that poetry test last week, I'll do better next time."

"Really," said Sr. Gutiérrez.

He picked up a stack of papers from his desk and flipped through them until he found one and pulled it out, sliding it across the desk.

It was Danny’s test. Written in red ink across the top was 96/100.

"Yours was the best grade in the class. By a noticeable margin."

Huh. Danny thought he might actually be proud of himself, maybe. Unless he was being accused of cheating because he'd done well?

“I thought we weren’t supposed to get these back until next week.”

"I found I had some extra grading time during a staff meeting about the infrastructure budget."

"Oh, big mood."

That comment almost won Danny a smile. That was good, right? People liked smiling.

It dawned on Danny then that he was not being accused of cheating, and had in fact gotten the best grade in the class.

That hadn’t happened to Danny since…well, ever.

He rolled it up into a tube and stuck it in his pocket.

"Guess I'll have to stick this to the fridge or something so Uncle Milo has something to brag about over the water cooler."

Actually, Milo probably would be proud. That was kind of embarrassing, though Danny wasn't entirely sure why.

"I just wanted to tell you that, class naps notwithstanding, I know you're a good student when you apply yourself," Sr. Gutiérrez began.

Ugh. When you apply yourself, like Danny wasn’t trying.

"—so if you still haven't found someone to interview by Monday, let me know. We can work something else out."

"Something else?" Danny pulled his sleeves down over his palms, trying not to fidget. This conversation was one hell of a roller coaster. "Like what?"

"I reached out to some old colleagues of mine. There are a number of assisted living facilities that would welcome a visit from you, as well as night school classes at Gotham Community, or if those don't appeal, I'm sure there's someone at El Instituto Cervantes who'll speak with you."

Had Sr. Gutiérrez called around looking for people to talk to Danny?

Embarrassing.

"Um, look, that was really...nice of you? But not really necessary."

Sr. Gutiérrez folded his hands on his desk again.

"Do you know what the point of this project is, Danny? Connection. Communication. Community."

"Well, it is called 'the inter-generational communication project'," Danny said with a chuckle before remembering that this was his teacher and he probably shouldn't sass him.

He cleared his throat. "But I did find someone to interview. So. Yay?"

"Oh?" Sr. Gutiérrez's shoulders relaxed. Danny had never seen such palpable relief before. "That's—good. Very good."

"He's, um. Not that much older than me though, so if it's a problem…"

"It's a little outside the parameters of the assignment, but that's fine." He said it with something that was maybe a smile. "As long as you're exploring the rich tapestry of Hispanic film, books, music, and the links they build between people, I'm satisfied."

"Right."

"I always enjoy this project. I get great book and film recommendations from it every year."

Danny…was pretty sure that was a joke. "I'll bet."

"Anyway, if there is something wrong at home, there are people you can talk to. People who can help."

Aaaand they were back to probing questions. Deflection time.

"Like Batman?" Danny joked.

Sr. Gutiérrez didn't laugh. "I meant someone a little closer to home, but if the problem is that serious—"

"There is no problem,” Danny rushed to say. “Really. I’m sorry I fell asleep. I’m just…adjusting to life here. It's… different. Not all bad."

He smiled, hoping to really sell it. It was mostly even true.

Sr. Gutiérrez didn’t look quite convinced, but most people wouldn’t push when you told them what they wanted to hear.

"There's a lot to love once you get past the rotating cast of characters that blow things up."

Danny was sure that was definitely a joke. Mostly.

Finally, he let Danny go, handing Danny his phone back with a firm but polite reminder to silence it before class next time. He even wrote Danny a late slip excusing his tardiness.

Silver linings.

Danny hurried down the stairs, surprised to see that they'd fixed up the window again.

Even more surprising: Emily was staring at it. She didn't normally show up during school hours.

"Hey, Emily," he called.

"They fixed the window," she said by way of greeting.

Danny tried not to let the guilt sink its teeth in. Since everything with the Bats started, he hadn’t been to see Emily in the hospital, a fact he was reminded of yesterday, considering the similarities between her and Jess’s mom. He’d been busy—not entirely by choice—and inevitably he’d dropped the ball. Several balls, really.

"Yeah, they sure did–"

"It won't last."

The pipes groaned overhead as if joining the conversation.

"Why do you say that?" he asked, wondering how to redirect the conversation to less emotionally laden topics. This was the fourth time they'd been replaced in a month.

“Have you seen Principal Matthias around lately?”

Hello, non sequitur.

“No,” said Danny, because he hadn’t. “Why? Should I have?”

Danny had never once in his life actually cared where the Principal was or tried to find him. The man was, in a word, unpleasant. He had Government Minion Energy. Like a fed, but less effective.

Speaking of Government Minions.

“Listen, I can find him for you on Monday, but right now I really gotta—”

The pipes overhead groaned again. Why did there seem to be an endless budget for windows and nothing set aside for pipes?

“I don’t want you to talk to him. He’s…not safe.”

“Not safe?”

"That promise you made me," she said, flickering in and out of visibility. "Did you mean it? You'll help me, if I ask?"

Aaand another change in topic. Danny was loving this day so far.

If she had asked him two weeks ago, he’d have had all the time in the world to help her. Well, not all the time, but some. This was his lane—helping spirits. This was what he was good at.

Instead, he was busy doing something he wasn’t good at but had to do anyway.

"No, yeah, I remember, but I'm kind of late for class, so if you could ask me later, maybe—"

“Later might be too late.”

The pipe groaned again before settling. Danny held his breath until it did, eyes focused on the ceiling. It was probably a bad sign if the building were already this responsive to Emily’s feelings. She wasn’t even dead but it was practically her haunt.

“Too late for what?” he prompted.

She turned to him. “You’ll help me Monday.”

He didn’t even get the chance to say yes (or no) before she blinked out of existence, pipes groaning as she went.

Well. Alright then. Whatever it was, it looked like he was gonna deal with it on Monday. He just had to get through this weekend.

And the one after that, and the one after that...

Nope, he decided, it was Too Much to think about. One thing at a time, Danny.

Friday October 21, 2:30 p.m.

Jason woke up to about seven missed calls, a hundred texts, and the sound of someone knocking on his living room window.

He contemplated just going back to sleep—he'd only just managed to nod off for a nap after being woken up and forced to listen to his neighbors argue for hours about whose turn it was to take out the trash. He had been prepared to go over there and take it out for them if it’d get them to shut up.

Ultimately, he decided against it; after a night in Crime Alley, he wasn't fit to 'people'. The rot of it ate away at him, like it always did. The futility of loving something beyond saving. He hadn’t tried tracking down anything more about Markovians weapons deals,or Mezmur, or Anton’s; Jason figured they'd learned everything they could about it from the streets.

Instead, he'd spent the night being a good ol' crime deterrent. Sometimes, just a glimpse of him was enough to remind those who needed reminding that a momentary absence wasn't an opportunity to take advantage of his distraction.

At least, not an opportunity worth the cost.

Because he had been distracted, but he never forgot. He never let himself forget. And once Anton’s was dealt with and whatever that whole plot was about concluded, there would still be Gotham, and the street, and the regular shitheads who made life here just a little more miserable.

It wasn’t good to get back to it; even now Jason could feel that hum of rage beneath his skin. But the familiarity of it was almost a comfort. Being the reminder that for every threat out there, Red Hood was a worse one.

Gotham would keep being the kind of place you could only fix in inches and always lost by feet.

But Jason would be there too, scraping every millimeter he could get under his fingernails and holding on with spite. He'd make every victory the scum took a painful one.

Speaking of ceaseless. The knocking continued and so did the pings on his phone.

He decided the knocking was first priority.

Normally, people coming to see him didn't knock, but when they did, it was on his door. So this was either a not-so-clever ruse, or it was someone who didn't normally come to see him. Or maybe Roy had ditched the Team Arrow Healing Retreat (understandable) and had come to Gotham specifically to annoy Jason.

Jason slid out of bed and stealthed his way over to the living room window, bat in hand, ready to—

He lowered the bat with a thunk.

Danny waved at him from the fire escape.

Undoing the trip wire over the latch was quick work, and then Jason was opening the window to a patiently waiting Danny, slightly damp from the drizzle.

"How did you find this place?"

"Uh, I asked a ghost?" said Danny, like it was obvious.

Maybe it should have been. Jason wasn’t firing on all cylinders just yet, though.

Instead of belaboring the point, he stepped away to let Danny crawl through the window.

“Shouldn’t you be at school right now?”

“Nope,” said Danny cheerfully, “the school flooded so they canceled classes for the rest of the day.”

Jason shut the window. “Your school flooded?”

“Eh. Just half of the first floor in one building. Burst pipe. You know how it is. Old pipes, angry ghost, poorly allocated infrastructure budget” —Danny mimed an explosion with his hands— “boom. Classes canceled. Thank you, Emily. Rest In Pieces, South Stairwell Window number five.”

Danny pulled out a book from his backpack, making himself at home at Jason’s kitchen island.

“Anyway, long story short, I had some time to kill before work and you live closer to my job than I do. Also, the stupid comm's been ringing all day, so I figured I’d swing by and see what’s up.”

Jason yawned and thought about whether that made sense. The first part, sure. But the second part…

“Why did you come here instead of answering the comm?" He asked. "Or calling me? I gave you my phone number for a reason.”

"You said it was for emergencies only."

Had Jason said that? He didn’t think so…but maybe he’d implied it. Whoops.

“Well, for future reference, it would be okay if it wasn’t an emergency, you know.”

“Who has time for a non-emergency phone call in this economy?”

Before Jason could decide how to approach that whole…situation, someone texted him on his not-for-emergencies-only phone. Again.

"Ah," said Danny. "So they're after you, too."

"Constantly," Jason mumbled, opening up his phone to see who was bothering him now.

You said you?? Have?? Information?? About Ivy??????????

Steph. He should have known; Steph’s texting etiquette was about as annoying as Dick’s when she wanted something. At least that explained all the missed calls and texts.

I’ll call later. Danny’s here. Call Dick if you REALLY can’t wait

Jason only realized his mistake when, not even ten seconds later, his phone started to ring: he'd been texting on the group chat.

Dickiebird calling.

He rubbed a hand down his face.

“Dick wants to talk to you. Do you want to talk to him?”

Danny rolled his eyes, but held out his hand for the phone, wiggling his fingers until Jason handed it over.

He answered with a put-upon, “What? Yeah, it's me, Danny. Because Jason handed me his phone. Well, if you don’t want to talk to me then—uhuh. That's what I thought."

Jason yawned again, considering whether he should intervene before he decided it wasn’t his problem. Danny sounded like he had it handled.

“I see,” Danny said, “and you couldn’t have waited until after school to tell me this vital information? Oh, you picked up that I'm annoyed by my tone, huh? Why am I annoyed? The comm has been beeping all. Day. All day, Dick. There's a silent mode? How should I have known? There's a manual?”

Jason wandered over to the stove and thought about making something to eat, only half-listening to the half of the conversation he could hear.

“Yeah, fine, apology accepted. Oh, you figured the puzzle out, huh? I knew you could do it.” 

Jason pulled out a few ingredients from the fridge—chicken stock, frozen pre-sautéd onions, some chiles. Eggs. If he was gonna go to the trouble to cook at the ungodly hour of—he checked the oven again—almost three in the afternoon, it was gonna be worth it.

“It's inside the North Gainsly Train Station? Kind of a weird vibe for a club.”

Danny paused, picking at the grout on the countertop.

“Yeah, okay, when you put it that way, I guess it would be a good place to hide a club from prying eyes, huh. This is why you’re the detectives, not me. So we have to go there, huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Repeat it it back to you? Really? Fine. Nine o’clock in front of The North Gainsly Station. Oh, on top of the North Gainsly Station? In the rain, though? No, it's fine. Weird, but fine."

Danny shot Jason a look that said ‘can you believe this guy?’

“Yes, Dick, I’m ready. Yes, I’m going and you can’t change my mind. Yes, I’m sure. Yes, I’m—you know what? I’m hanging up now, bye.”

He put Jason’s phone down on the counter. “Is he always like that?”

Jason hadn’t heard what Dick had said, but it wasn’t hard to guess.

“Not usually, but he gets in a mother hen mood sometimes.”

“So it’s genetic, then,” Danny said.

"We're not related."

“Spiritually genetic, I mean.”

“I don’t think you know what ‘genetic’ means,” said Jason, pulling the bread down from the top of the fridge. “Dick’s probably thinking something stupid like he dragged you into this against your will.”

Jason, in fact, knew Dick felt that way, because when Dick had called Jason in a panic at 4 am, he’d said, "I feel like we dragged Danny into this against his will."

Jason’s response, naturally, had been, “Go the fuck to sleep, Dick.”

Danny snorted. “I’d be doing this no matter what, unfortunately. Maybe not right now, but I always get dragged into ghost problems, and this is a ghost problem, so.”

“It’s not just ghosts, though,” Jason pointed out, setting the saucepan on the stove. “There’s drugs, and Penguin, and Two-Face, and Karma, and Markovian weapons dealers—”

“And ghosts.”

Well. He wasn’t wrong about that. But Dick wasn’t wrong to be worried, either.

“You don’t have training, though.”

“Look, I might not have gotten my vigilante patches at Bat Camp or whatever, but I’m not totally useless. I’ve even been shot at before and I didn’t completely lose my shit.”

Jason paused, holding the garlic above the skillet. “What?”

“Don’t act so surprised. You were there.”

Right. RPG. Markovians. The Iceberg Lounge.

It still amazed Jason that at this time last week, he hadn’t even known Danny’s name, where to find him, or why he’d been able to heal him. And now Danny was sitting in his kitchen doing homework. 

Jason noted in a distant way that it was weird how weird it wasn’t.

"Being fine with being shot at isn't a good thing or a measure of preparedness to infiltrate an enemy base full of potential hostages."

"I didn't say it was good, just that I'm used to it."

Jason took a deep breath. “Ignoring the fact that that’s a horrifying sentence—”

“Thank you.”

“—I’m not sure how much good your ill-got being shot at experience will do you.”

“I'm still here, so I'd say it's done me plenty of good already.”

Jason carefully did not look at Danny as he delivered the unfortunate news about the bullets the Markovians were manufacturing.

“Excuse me? Magic Ghost Bullets?" Danny looked personally offended, which was almost funny. "There's gotta be a Geneva Convention against that sort of thing."

"Terrorists aren't known for respecting the Geneva Conventions. So you see why Dick might be a little worried.”

Danny hummed, a skeptical sound. "I'm not going to be fighting anyone except for maybe ghosts, though. And that, I do have experience with. Not that I'm planning on fighting. Mostly I want to make sure none of you get got, you know?"

"You mean die?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of you guys getting turned into flesh puppets, but sure. Dying should also be avoided. Anyway. Whatcha making?”

Jason threw the epazote in the simmering stock, stirring it once. So, changing the subject, then. Fine. He'd rather not talk about it either.

“Migas.”

Danny tilted his head. “Crumbs?”

Jason chuckled. "You know what that word means but not what it is? What are they teaching in school these days."

"I don't know what school you went to, but none of my schools even offered Home Ec," Danny grumbled.

"I didn't learn how to cook in school." Jason almost laughed at the idea of anyone at Gotham Academy taking Home Ec. "My mom taught me."

The words just slipped out. My mom.

He felt that twist in his gut he always felt when he thought about Catherine. When he called her mom.

"She, uh. She was a chef."

Catherine had wanted to open her own restaurant, back before everything went wrong; before Willis, and the drugs, and sexism in the kitchen—before everything that happened to her ruined her ambitions.

“We didn't have much, but everything she cooked was amazing."

His memories of being with Catherine in the kitchen were all good ones. Even towards the end, when things got bad, she still made an effort to cook for him. Jason hadn't know what starvation felt like until after she was gone, and that was more than a lot of people could say.

"She could look at a bunch of ingredients and just...whip up a feast. I used to think it was magic."

She had been good. A good chef. A good person. A good mom. 

"She sounds cool," Danny said quietly.

"She was."

Jason just knew if they stayed on the topic of Catherine, and if it came up that she was gone, he might be tempted to ask Danny if she were still around. If Dick had ghosts, and if Tim had ghosts, then Jason might, too.

He wasn’t sure what would be worse: finding out she was unable to find peace or finding out she'd left him, again.

So Jason was glad Danny didn't ask any more questions about Catherine. At least, that's what he told himself.

"My sister is the only one in my family who ever really tried to cook, but she never really enjoyed it," Danny said after a minute. "It stressed her out. She wanted it to be perfect and...well. If it wasn’t, she freaked."

Jason stirred the chorizo carefully, not that it needed careful stirring. He felt like he'd just unlocked lore, though.

"You have a sister?" He asked as casually as he could.

Jason almost thought Danny wasn't going to answer.

"Yeah."

"Hm." More careful stirring. "Older or younger?"

"Older."

"Is she…" Jason trailed off, trying to think of a good way to ask. "Around?"

"She's not in Gotham. She's in college. Princeton.” Danny played with the utensils in the big cup on the island, expression melancholy. “She's gonna change the world someday, probably."

So, probably not dead. That raised all kinds of other questions though.

"Does she know you're here?"

"I sincerely doubt it."

"Do you want her to know?"

Danny scrunched the spring on the whisk and released it a few times before responding.

"If she knew, she'd come here."

That wasn't exactly an answer , but Jason could guess what Danny meant by it. She'd come here, and I don't want her to. Considering both Gotham's normal bullshit and the extra ghost bullshit happening right now, it was understandable.

"Princeton isn't that far away," Jason hedged. "If you need a ride."

"It's farther than you'd think," Danny said with a small smile, "but thanks."

They didn't speak again as Jason finished cooking; Danny said he had actual homework to do before tonight and by God, he was gonna do it.

Jason didn't mind; he didn't normally talk to anyone before the sun set, anyway, so this day was already off to an unusual start.

As he started plating his breakfast-slash-lunch, he turned to ask Danny if he wanted some, only to see that Danny had fallen asleep.

It couldn’t be very comfortable, draped over the kitchen island with his spiral-bound notebook smooshed into his face like that. He must be pretty tired; he was out like a light. Not to mention the dark bags under his eyes. He looked utterly exhausted, even in sleep.

Jason had never had a problem collecting strays. Not like Damian or Selina or—if he were being honest—Bruce.

Maybe Dick was right to be worried, if not for the reasons he thought.

"What am I gonna do with you?" Jason mumbled, throwing a blanket over Danny.

Danny slept like the dead for almost an hour until an alarm on his phone went off—it made an awful sound like a rocket launch. Danny bolted up and swore loudly, stuffing things in his backpack and muttering about being ‘late again’.

“See you later!” he said, already half out the window without waiting to see if Jason had anything to say.

Jason just shook his head and pulled the cassette player over, getting back to his original afternoon plans: preparing for Danny’s Spanish project.

He pressed play, nearly dropping his fork when he heard Danny speaking near-fluent Spanish.

“Little shit,” he said fondly. Though really, Jason was the asshole here, assuming Danny was at an intermediate level or something.

He made some notes about the questions Danny was asking, but understanding what the interviewee said in response was hopeless. He caught maybe one word in five, but it sounded like ten voices overlapping and put through some kind of noise generator.

One thing was certain: this Spanish project just got a lot more interesting. Also, it was probably gonna take more time than he'd originally thought, which did explain some of Danny’s whole…thing around it; this wasn't exactly a small favor.

All the more reason to make sure Danny knew Jason didn't mind helping.

He set the cassette aside; he’d review it after the whole Anton’s bullshit was wrapped up.

With a sigh, he pulled out his phone, texting Stephanie back.

Just Before six

Tim rotated the image on his screen again, looking for a better angle. He wasn’t sure what was wrong with it, only that it wasn’t right.

Lucius had taken one look at him this morning and sent him right back home with a disappointed frown that rivaled Alfred's.

"I don't need you dragging Gala Flu germs into my R&D and taking out a whole section of engineers," he’d said. "Go home and catch up on some sleep. Or some paperwork, at least."

He hadn’t even looked at Tim through the requisite protests and insistence that he was fine, really. Lucius’ only response had been ‘do I need to make a phone call, Tim?’ by which he meant ‘Alfred’, which was the last thing Tim needed.

So he’d gone home. Sleep had sounded nice, after all, and he had plenty of things to work on at home. Or in the Bat Cave, as it so happened.

Sleep hadn’t come to him though, even when he tried it for like, five nonconsecutive minutes. Twice, even.

He considered caffeine, but that would probably only make it worse.

It was too cold down here, mostly because Tim kept wandering off with his Lab Blanket. He needed to fix that problem. Chain it to the desk, maybe.

He had powered through a splitting headache for almost two days now and he was starting to worry that maybe it was something to worry about. Was pre-worrying a thing? Proto-worrying? Almost worried, but not quite?

It wasn’t a migraine (he knew what those were like in several varieties, and it wasn’t this). It wasn’t allergies, or sinus problems, or muscular tension. He hadn’t had any concussions lately, and his stress was basically the same as it ever was, but still.

What he really needed was a nap.

Even if they wrapped everything up tonight, there was still the whole my dad is a ghost thing hanging over him like a bad penny. Or a bad metaphor.

Tim pulled the pictures over, the ones he'd taken what felt like a million years ago. His dad looked…happy, as a ghost. And it was—

Tim didn’t know how to feel about it.

His parents had sent him pictures, sometimes, when they’d been alive. Photos from their travels, neatly labeled on the back in his father's handwriting.

Your mother in front of Giza, your old man (me!) in Lascaux, us missing you in Cambodia!

They'd looked happy in those pictures, too. But this was his Dad, smiling for the camera (smiling for Tim, maybe) in the armpit of Gotham, shooting Tim a thumbs up like it was the greatest archeological site of the decade. Maybe it was.

Tim wondered if his dad had been trying to communicate something in the photos of the graffiti, some message meant just for Tim—but that was a stupid rabbit hole to fall down. His dad probably hadn't known the pictures would turn out. He'd taken his chance to communicate when he'd gotten it, and what had he said?

I won't be around for a little while, if this goes the way I think it will. Just know it was worth it. (Leaving again, just like always)

I'm so proud of you. You're amazing. I'm sorry I never told you enough. I love you. (Words of affirmation, too little, too late)

Tell Damian he's wrong, at least in part. This isn't Phantom, it's— (his final words to Tim—for now—and they weren’t even about Tim)

Tim was starting to think maybe he shouldn't process this now. Or ever. He didn't know how to feel about it, but Warm and Fuzzy definitely wasn’t included in the shortlist.

He rubbed his eyes and checked the time. Just under an hour until they were supposed to meet Danny. He had time if he didn't add the shock charge for unauthorized removal—though he didn't have Danny’s fingerprints and/or DNA to make that work anyway, but he was going to try something new with an RFID chip in the gloves he'd give Danny, assuming he'd accept any of this—

"Timothy."

Tim. Did not startle. But he was still…adjusting to the name change.

"Hey Damian, what's cooking?"

"You'll have to ask Pennyworth, but that isn't important right now."

"Ok," said Tim, not caring enough to argue.

"We need to discuss our position on tonight's team outing."

Tim frowned, zooming in on a detail of the mask he was working on. Was that too much ornamentation? Hm…probably.

Damian made an impatient sound. Right. A Conversation Was Happening.

He really should have known better than to start a conversation while Tim was busy. Closed doors used to mean something.

Well. They'd never mattered to his dad, but his dad wasn't here right now. Bruce, on the other hand, knew what a closed door meant. Respected it.

Damian clearly had inherited his thought about closed doors from Talia.

"Do we though?"

Damian didn't look impressed.

"Unsurprisingly, it has escaped you how precarious our position is on this mission."

That's what this was about?

"Oh, I've never worried about that. I've shown up uninvited since day one."

Damian clicked his tongue, impatience bleeding through like a stab wound.

"Last time we went to a club I got relegated to roof duty and 'catching anyone who runs off'."

"What do you mean last time 'we' went to a club? I was here, manning the comms, because you threw a boomerang at me."

“You’re missing the big picture here, Timothy. There's a chance they'll ask us to run interference with Father again." He stood up a bit straighter. "Fortunately, I believe Father is sufficiently distracted. He's meeting with Constantine tonight."

"Great," said Tim, ready to zone out of this conversation and in to the mask design.

"He's specifically asked me not to come."

That did give Tim pause. Normally that kind of request was practically an invitation to tag along in secret. Or at least dig deeper.

Maybe that's all Damian needed? A little…validation?

"Suspicious. He practically dragged us to that gala last night and kept an eye on us constantly."

"I believe he took our intel…poorly."

"No, you think?"

"The point is that if the others find out, they might want us to tail Father. Especially given that neither of us is old enough to go to a club."

"Like I said, it's never stopped me before."

Tim did turn away from the tablet, considering Damian’s concerns. What he was asking for in a roundabout way. He looked as uncertain as Tim had ever seen him look.

Hm. Probably not good. Damian was confident to a fault.

"Did you…remember something weird? Ghost memories?"

Damian rolled his eyes. Sometimes Tim missed being an only child.

"This isn’t about any ghost memories I may or may not have."

"If they try to exclude us, we'll just point out how many things there are to investigate. They need us."

"But what if someone does need to tail Father and the Hellblazer?"

"Then be my guest. I'm going to Anton’s. Since, as previously discussed, I missed out last time on night club shenanigans. Besides, if everything goes well tonight, we should be able to wrap this whole thing up and still have time for Alfred's cucumber sandwiches."

"It's not like you to be so optimistic."

"How would you know?" Tim asked, rotating the display on the screen. It was…passable.

"Tt. What are you working on?"

"Cardinal Stuff for Danny."

Tim shivered again. Chaining a blanket to the desk was going to the top of his To-Do List.

Damian leaned closer, evaluating Tim's work with a critical eye.

"You should alter the design. This one is too similar to his Bat Burger uniform."

"It's a standard domino mask. We can't just decide his whole look for him."

"Hm," said Damian, pushing Tim's chair (and Tim with it) out of the way and pulling up the design program. "You should have asked me for my input hours ago; I barely have time to make something passable."

He opened a new file and began fresh.

"It was fine as it was," Tim grumbled.

"You aren't allowed to make costume design choices anymore."

"What?" Tim scoffed. "Since when?"

Damian, the brat, just pointed to the retired uniform rack, where Tim's Red Robin Prime uniform—as the most recently retired design—sat front and center.

"I believe that speaks for itself."

"First of all, I didn't design that, second of all, the cowl isn't that different from B's! It just doesn't have ears—"

"The ears are essential to pulling the look off, Timothy. If you don’t inherently understand that I don't think I can explain it to you, which is why I'm redesigning Cardinal's mask."

"What if he doesn't like it?"

"Then he can submit a formal complaint form."

"Which you'll no doubt ignore," Tim muttered.

"You haven't had any complaints since I redesigned your costume."

"That was you? I thought it was Alfred."

"I may have made some adjustments while Pennyworth wasn't looking."

Tim sincerely doubted there was even a slim chance Alfred hadn't noticed Damian make changes. He probably hadn't mentioned it because—

Well. The reasons why Alfred hadn't mentioned it were as obvious as they were numerous (Tim and Damian didn’t get along, Alfred was British and never just said things, the whole Red Robin thing was tumultuous from the start—)

"There." Damian gestured to the design on the screen. "What do you think?"

"I thought my opinion didn't matter?"

Damian just sat and waited.

Tim sighed and looked it over.

Begrudgingly, he had to admit it did look…cool. Different from the Bat Burger uniform, more in line with a Cardinal-inspired look, something unique while still being in sync with the rest of their uniforms…

Damian grinned. "You don't have to say it. I know it’s superior."

"Yeah, yeah, new and improved, just like it says on the box." Tim rotated the mask on the screen, looking at the changes to the fit and design.

"He'll need spirit gum to make this stick, though. You should put the neck cover back in the design."

"We can provide it to him if he doesn't have his own."

Unbelievable. Four years now he'd lived in Gotham and still Damian thought spirit gum was just something everyone carried around.

"I meant he probably isn't used to wearing it and might not want to. The pull-over mask avoids that problem—"

"But if he gets into a physical fight a pull-over mask is a liability, those come undone so easily and obstruct visibility—"

"They're more comfortable though—"

"It's best he gets used to it now before complacency sets in."

Tim sighed. "What about gloves?"

"No time for anything elaborate." Damian sent the design to the 3D printer. "Now, about our place on the mission—"

"I'm telling you, it’s fine—"

"You said your Red Robin uniform was fine, too, and look where that got you. Stabbed."

"Yeah, by you!"

It was official. Tim definitely missed being an only child.

A Fashionably Late 9:15ish

"Jesus, what are you wearing?"

“Hello to you, too, Red Hood,” said Danny, dropping down from the fire escape to where the rest of tonight's cohorts were all crouched on the roof, lifting the glass off a skylight. "I see you all got started without me."

Dick placed the glass down, shooting Danny a guilty smile. "Just the groundwork, Cardinal. Securing the way in—"

"Because you’re late," Robin cut in.

“Yeah, well, I had to walk an extra eight blocks I wasn’t expecting to walk because the Train train didn’t want to stop here.”

“The ghost train?” asked Jason. “Why wouldn’t it stop here?”

Danny shrugged. He'd been asking himself the same question for eight blocks.

“Bad vibes, I guess.”

Usually, the Train was willing to take requests. Danny had thought it would be satisfied with this particular trip—it wasn’t that far from the Gotham Cemetery, and The Train loved going there. But the closer it brought him to the North Gainsly Station, the slower it went, until finally it just. Stopped. It wouldn’t go any further.

So Danny resigned himself to walking. He'd been late to everything else today, what was one more thing?

Having had a long time to think about it during the eight-block walk, Danny wondered what the hell he was heading into that would scare something as wild and untameable as a ghost train.

He might have asked another ghost if that was normal for the Ghost Train, but no one else go off. Danny didn't see any ghosts on the way to ask, either.

Danny was starting to think the Train had been onto something, though; his skin had been crawling since he'd crossed over the boundaries that defined the Coventry, and it had gotten steadily worse with every step he'd taken toward the station.

Either Danny hadn’t noticed what it felt like the last time he'd been here, or something had shifted that ratcheted everything up in the inner triangle.

“You're just in time," said Dick, popping to his feet. "We were just about to go over the plan."

"Seriously, though,” said Signal, “What are you wearing? I thought you said you didn't want Penguin Goon to be your ghost outfit forever."

Danny was now one hundred percent sure Signal was Duke. He wasn’t even trying to hide it. Another mystery Danny wasn’t trying to solve, concluded.

What Danny was wearing, unfortunately, was most of the Iceberg Lounge bar back uniform.

He'd left the bow tie off and rolled up the sleeves, but it was still, undeniably. Well. Pingo-esque, as Milo would say.

"Maybe I already have a ghost outfit," Danny said. "You don't know."

After learning about the Ghost Bullets, Danny had briefly considered just going as Phantom. He might be safer physically that way—random summoning attempts aside.

But it also seemed like a bad idea to go to a ghost-slash-occult club as a ghost. Not to mention he’d probably have to explain it to the Bats, and frankly, he didn’t want to. Not yet. Maybe if things went okay tonight…well.

“But," he continued, "These are the only bullet-resistant clothes I have."

“Figured that’d be the case,” said Tim, dropping a duffel bag in front of Danny, "so we brought you some gear."

"Gear?"

“It’s really just basics,” Tim continued, crouching down and unzipping the bag, handing Danny things as he named them. “Just some nomex-reinforced armor to wear under your clothes, some shin guards, wrist braces, and a slash guard for your kidneys.”

“Um—” Danny tried, arms quickly filling up with more than he could hold.

“We also brought you some gloves, arm wraps, and arm guards,” said Robin.

“They’re finger-less,” Danny noted.

“So you can punch people and use touchscreens, obviously."

Danny looked down at the…gifts in his arms. It was all color coordinated—black and red. Which meant they'd been made for him, specifically.

“This is all…nice, but I don’t think I’m gonna need stab-proof gear.”

“Everyone thinks that until they get stabbed,” said Robin, twirling a knife in his hands before tucking it back into his boot.

“Okay, maybe a slash guard could be useful, but why do I need a utility belt?”

Tim frowned. "You need a belt to hold your re-breather, the Mezmur sampling devices, your first aid kit, the emergency beacon, a backup domino mask, smoke pellets, and lollipops."

He wondered if he should tell them that for various reasons, he didn't need half the arsenal they'd given him.

Probably not.

“Is it the color?” asked Tim, sensing Danny’s hesitation.

“Tt. He picked a red bird as his code name, of course it's not the color."

"I told you, it's too much red—”

“The color is fine,” Danny interrupted. “Even if it is…a lot of red.”

At least it would look nice with the black and white ensemble. Thematically consistent, anyway.

“I’m glad because if you didn’t like red, that would make this kind of awkward.”

With that cryptic statement, Tim whipped something out of his cape—

It was a domino mask, because of course it was. It was mostly red, though the area around the eyes was all black, and there were black and dark red accents to create a kind of stylized feather look.

There were longer pieces that went down the cheek over the cheekbones, made of a rigid but flexible material that Bat Burger domino masks could only dream of.

Also unlike the domino mask Danny wore at work, this one was attached to some kind of modified neck covering that looked like it was pulled over the head.

It was, unfortunately, very cool. He'd be bummed to give it back after tonight.

“Red Robin and I took some liberties with the design," Robin explained, "but at least it’s different from that inferior knock-off you wear at work. No one will recognize you.”

Danny reshuffled the gear in his arms. He didn’t say anything, because what was he supposed to say? 'A mask won’t protect my identity from ghosts'? 'Why did you make me all this stuff just for one night'? 'Neato'?

Well. Even if it wouldn't protect his identity (such that it needed to be protected), it would protect theirs. All it would take was someone with slightly better deductive reasoning than Sal seeing Danny with one of the Bats as a civilian and bam. Dots: connected.

And since there were, apparently, 'people' after him (whatever that meant)...

"Fine, I'll wear it. But someone has to tell me how to put all this on because this" —He held the bundle of stuff aloft— "is the opposite of intuitive."

Fifteen minutes later, Danny had on, well. Everything.

He had to admit, he did look like he belonged with them a bit more now than he had before.

There was one more advantage to having all this…stuff foisted on him: it made the next part significantly less awkward.

“I actually brought something for you guys, too,” he said.

Danny pulled a paper bag out of his pocket and started handing out the special gear he’d sacrificed sleep to make.

“Nothing too fancy, but they'll help once we’re inside.”

He’d actually worked hard on them, all things considered. He’d used his special sigil paint and everything. He’d even sealed them in a layer of ecto-frost. Not as obvious as a piece of his ice would be, but enough to give most ghosts pause.

“Are these Magic: The Gathering cards?” asked Probably Duke, holding his card up to the green light dimly lighting the roof.

“No, they're Mojo: The Congregation cards,” said Danny. “Got a fifteen-pack at Dollar Tree.”

They all looked at him with what Danny was pretty sure was judgment.

“What? I needed to use something as a base, and I’m pretty sure those have negative monetary value, so. No real loss writing on them.”

“Loss, you say,” Dick muttered.

Tim was inspecting the card with curiosity now, flipping it over as if trying to read it.

“This is different from the other sigils you've made,” he noted.

"You can tell?"

“These ones have circuit boards attached on the back.”

He held it up as if Danny hadn’t put it there himself.

“I didn’t know ghost sigils could work with circuit boards. I mean, I did try to make it one work with my camera but—anyway. The design of this one is different, so it must do something different.”

Danny was, undeniably, impressed. And maybe a little worried. Tim shouldn’t be able to read ghost sigils. Maybe he was just observant. Or, maybe, Danny would look back on this moment in the future and say ‘ah, I should have known.’

Whatever. More problems for future Danny to worry about. Tim looked more or less the same as ever. With his Red Robin gear, the shroud of death that lingered around him almost looked like a choice.

“The Mojo sigils won’t stop a ghost from Overshadowing you, exactly."

Danny had thought about making them a bunch of anti-overshadow sigils, but considering he wasn’t sure what the effect of Mezmur was, he decided his energy was better spent elsewhere. Besides, Danny himself was the best anti-overshadow deterrent, anyway, and he'd be with them the whole time.

“What do they do, then?” asked Robin, eyeing his card with suspicion.

“I call them In-Card-Pacitors,” he said with a flourish. No one laughed, but it wasn’t very funny, maybe, if you didn’t know what they could do.

He should probably explain.

“Because they're cards? And they incapacitate a ghost?"

“What does that mean?” asked Jason.

“Well. It takes a lot of concentration to overshadow someone, especially if they have a strong will. A ghost won’t bother if it’s too much work, but if they try anyway, well. They’re in for a shock.”

They all just stared at him blankly, clearly waiting for an elaboration.

Danny sighed. “If a ghost tries to overshadow you, the In-Card-Pacitor will discharge with ecto-electricity and break their focus.”

"So they're kind of a ghost stunner?" asked Duke.

"Exactly." Danny grinned. "An In-Card-Pacitor."

“Yeah, sorry chico, I’m not calling them in-card-pacitors, sorry,” said Jason.

"How do they work?" asked Tim.

Danny didn't really have time to get into the nitty-gritty deets of how ectoplasm and electricty interacted, but he figured they weren't going to rely on gear they didn't understand at least a little bit.

"Basically, the sigils store up ecto-static until it comes into contact with an active field of ectoplasm, which completes the circuit, and bam. Electo-discharge."

Dick twirled one of them over the back of his hand. "Shouldn’t it be a 'zap' instead of a 'bam'?"

Danny shook his head. "Trust me, it's a 'bam'."

"Can you demonstrate?" asked Robin.

"Not really?" Danny grimaced; this was the cards biggest weakness. "They only work once."

“What good does that do us?"

"That's why I gave you three each," said Danny. “But if you don’t want them—”

“Don’t be like that, Baby Bat,” said Dick, ruffling Robin’s (carefully arranged) hair. “All that matters for now is that they work. And they do work, don’t they?”

"Sure does," Danny confirmed. “Tested it myself.”

Painfully, he didn't say.

Robin picked up the cards between his fingers with a look that might not have been distaste but was probably closely related to it, reluctantly tucking them into one of his pouches.

“What will we do if the cards don’t work and one of us gets overshadowed?” asked Tim.

Danny pointed sternly. “No one is getting overshadowed tonight. It’s not allowed."

“It’s a fair question,” said Duke. “Do you have a backup plan?”

Danny gestured to the cards.

"Those are the backup plan. Your first line of defense against ghosts is me."

Dick grimaced, which did not fill Danny with the sort of optimism that operations of this nature required.

"So, about that…"

Really, Dick thought, the plan, such that it was, was simple. Elegant, even, if hastily thrown together.

He and Tim would enter first, shut down the security, look for mezmur, scope the layout, and report back.

Jason and Duke would follow, either to look for their own evidence if things went well on Dick and Tim's end, or for extraction if they didn't go well.

Dick had tried to think of everything; he'd brought back-up disguises in case they needed to sneak in as civilians. He'd brought every kind of evidence collection tool to contain a sample of mezmur. He'd brought radios in case Ghost Shenanigans messed with their tech, as well as the special rapidly deteriorating radiation-based distress beacon Bruce had specially designed for deep space missions. If it would work on Pluto, surely it would work for whatever situation ghosts could throw at them, at least to call for help.

He'd established check-in routines, a buddy system, clearly defined goals-and-roles, and even had the special ghost defense Danny had given them. A welcome if unexpected boon.

"Does anyone have any questions?" he asked, having given a more thorough than normal pre-mission presentation. Mostly for Danny's benefit.

Speaking of Danny.

“Yeah, I have a question," he said, "Why are Red Hood and Signal waiting until after you two have already gone inside?”

His expression was hard to read, but he looked…suspicious, maybe.

“We need Signal to watch where we go in case we lose comm connectivity once inside,” Dick explained.

“Oh, yeah. Ghost Sense, right?” Danny addressed this to Duke.

“Yeah, but how do you know it’s called that?”

“Ghost friend of mine is a big fan of yours. He’s been following you for…a while. He thought you’d be able to see ghosts, because of the name.”

“Well if literally anyone had told me ghosts are real before I named it, maybe I would have picked a different name,” Duke grumbled.

“While the primary objective here is evidence," Dick said, trying to get them back on track. “Our secondary objective is figuring out what, if anything, the larger goal is, and the scope of their operation. Ideally, we can get some information and come back better prepared, but also, if we can shut this whole thing down  tonight, I wouldn't hate that."

"Great," said Danny, "love having a plan. Just one more question: where do Robin and I come in?”

Dick smiled and braced himself.

“If we find Mezmur, you two will make your way inside to confirm what it is, as well as deal with any ghost problems we might encounter. Only if it’s safe. Until then, you’re on standby.”

Danny shifted his weight back, expression uncertain.

“So…we’re just gonna sit here on the roof?”

“If I deem it safe and/or necessary, Robin will escort you to where you’re needed,” Dick replied, carefully avoiding saying ‘Yes, you will stay on the roof’. “We need to get an idea of the interior of the club, see what we’re working with, before bringing you in—”

"You're going into the Ghost Club without your ghost specialist, aka me, is what you’re doing." Danny’s mouth pinched up unhappily. “How will you even know ‘ghost things’ are happening if I’m not there?”

"You'll be listening in on the comms," Dick explained.

"And if ghosts mess with your equipment, like they've done before?"

He gestured to Danny's new (reluctantly accepted) belt.

"Well, then we'll have to switch to the back-up radio, like I said. You have one in one of those pouches."

If Dick knew Tim, then he'd have included all the standard survival equipment.

"They're short-range compared to digital, but it works to over a mile, so if our normal comm-line gets interrupted, we can still stay in contact."

The radio comms were, admittedly, less secure, but if security was the price of connection, it was a worthwhile trade.

Jason leaned back and crossed his arms, conspicuously silent. When Dick had explained the plan to him earlier, he'd just laughed and said 'Good luck selling that'.

Despite Jason's skepticism, considering how quickly thrown together this plan was, Dick thought that he’d worked it out pretty well. A plan that made sure no one felt left out while also minimizing risk—

“This is a terrible plan,” said Danny.

"I concur," said Damian. "We should all go together. Going separately is pointless."

Dick, fortunately, had a lot of practice not allowing situations to escalate; it was how he knew to stay calm and collected, no matter what was happening.

"It's not pointless. This isn’t a situation where we can case the joint and prepare beforehand, so we need to go in groups to see how dangerous it is—"

"Let me save you the trouble," Danny interrupted. "It's incredibly dangerous in there. Or did you forget that this is where all the worst ghosts in Gotham are located and who locked them up here?”

Dick, in fact, had not forgotten. It had, in fact, been an major factor in developing this plan.

“All the more reason for you to stay up here as long as possible.”

“I can’t keep you safe from them if I’m up here!” Danny ran his hands through his hair, gripped at the roots. “If anything happens to you, that’s on me.”

“No, actually, if anything happens to you, it's on me.” Dick placed a hand on Danny’s shoulder. “You’re a minor and a civilian. It’s not your job to keep us safe.”

A tendon jutted out in his jaw, Danny’s cheeks flushed with frustration. “It’s cute that you think I qualify as a civilian.”

"I'm not doubting your expertise,” Dick said, squeezing Danny’s shoulder once and letting go. “But this isn't just a ghost club, it's a drug den run by terrorists selling dangerous weapons and waging chemical warfare on civilians. Do you understand why I don't want you just walking in there?"

Danny crossed his arms, scowling off into the middle distance.

"I'm also not saying you can't come," Dick continued evenly. He knew he couldn't stop Danny even if he wanted to, anyway. "I'm asking you to wait. To let us evaluate the scene first, alright?”

"But they already know you’re coming,” Danny countered.

“They know someone is coming, but not specifically who, or when, which is why we’re going today instead of doing a few days of recon. This is as close to the element of surprise as we can have.”

Danny looked skeptically between them. He clearly wasn’t happy, but Dick didn’t make plans to make people happy. He made plans to keep people safe.

Something like resignation settled across Danny’s face. Dick would take it as a win, though it didn't feel like much of one.

“I really don’t like this.”

“Welcome to the club,” said Damian dryly, tugging on his gloves. “Best you get used to it."

“Hey, don’t be like that. Plans usually go to shit pretty quickly anyway,” Jason threw in, “so no matter how much you dislike this, soon there’ll be a new, worse plan in play.”

Dick sighed heavily.

“This is a recon mission,” he reminded them. "Preferably, in and out without anyone knowing we were ever here. We all know what brought us here. I’m trusting you all to be smart and keep each other safe.”

He looked mostly at Damian as he said this; he knew Damian was almost as unhappy about this mission as Danny, but hopefully he would follow directions.

“One last thing,” said Dick. “I need the invitation Jessica gave you.”

Dick almost thought Danny wasn’t going to cooperate, but he did (reluctantly) hand it over.

“Please don’t die,” he said, holding onto the invitation for just a second before letting it go. “The last thing I need is Batman thinking I’m a bad influence on his kids.”

Jason laughed, delighted. “Oh, chico, you have no idea.”

“No one falls on my watch,” said Dick, "and no one is dying tonight."

“Of course not,” said Danny, tone only a little bit patronizing. “But if you do—”

“We won’t—”

“I will say ‘I told you so’. But we can still hang out postmortem.”

Dick sighed again. “You'll be listening in through the comm the whole time. If something goes wrong, you’ll know immediately.”

Thunder boomed overhead as the skies opened up in a downpour, immediately drenching all of them.

Danny gestured broadly, summoning an umbrella made of ice.

“Oh, I don’t think I’ll need to wait long.”

The thing Jason had learned about superpowers, way back when he still believed in things like ‘Robin has magic’ and ‘Batman always makes it in time’ was this: most people, once they had them, didn't bother to train any other skills. Not even basic combat. It was why anyone trained by Bruce could stand up with and against the best of them.

Jason didn’t like admitting it, but Bruce’s methods—when it came to fighting metas and the like—weren't totally useless. They just didn't accomplish anything in the long run re: stopping crime.

So while Jason took Danny’s concerns seriously, he didn't think it was arrogant to say they could handle whatever Karma threw at them. It wouldn't be the first time any of them had faced far more powerful opponents; that was what they trained for.

If nothing else, Jason hoped Danny would see that they could handle themselves. He shouldn't have to do this at all—Jason would be much happier if Danny were somewhere that wasn’t the roof of a drug den filled with terrorists who had magic ghost bullets—but if Danny was right that he didn't have a choice, then at least he wouldn't have to do it alone anymore.

Jason was still working out how to bring all this up with him in a way that wouldn't sound patronizing, but before he could even start, the comms beeped.

“We’re in," said Dick. "What exactly are we looking for?”

“I don’t know. Usually, when I’m looking for ghost shit, I just wander around until I find something weird, but this club is supposed to be for the living and the dead, so. Make of that what you will.”

Danny paced back and forth across the roof, wandering over to the skylight and looking down before returning to the edge to look down on the street. "I mean, maybe if I were there, I could look, but I’m not, so. Use your detective skills or something.”

So. Danny was definitely still more than a little miffed, then.

“We’ll do some recon, then," said Dick. "Check back in ten.”

The line beeped as he muted them.

“‘Use your detective skills or something’?” Jason quoted.

“If they want my help finding ghost shit, I need to be there,” Danny explained, unapologetic.

“Listen," Jason began, "I know this doesn’t mean much coming from me, but don’t be too mad at Dickie, yeah?”

“I’m not mad,” Danny grumbled, definitely sounding mad.

He wandered back over to the edge of the roof and leaned against the ledge, holding his ice umbrella overhead as he looked down on the street below. The reflected lights on the wet cement almost seemed to glow from up here.

Jason always thought Gotham looked best at night, in the rain. Harder to see the grime.

"Penny for your thoughts?" asked Jason.

He'd told Dick this plan would be unpopular—not that Dick needed to be told. He'd known Danny would be annoyed.

What Jason hadn’t expected was the worry.

"I'm not used to being the one left behind."

Jason chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment. Maybe he could ease into the whole Inspirational Conversation Thing.

"Yeah. Sucks, doesn't it?"

Danny shot Jason an unimpressed look.

Yeah. Not his best work.

"I know what it's like," Jason tried again, "to be used to calling the shots for yourself, and then someone else comes along and starts telling you what to do."

"Honestly, I don't mind someone else making the decisions for once," Danny admitted. "But I'm not useful up here. I mean, why lend me all this stuff if I'm just gonna sit on the roof?"

"Well, probably because Dick knows you're not gonna stay on the roof. Or, Tim and Robin know, I guess. The gear was their idea."

It was a good one, too. Jason had thought (too late) about bringing some of his extra stuff for Danny, but it wouldn't have fit him.

Tim, with his freakishly good eye for knowing someone's measurements just by looking at them, had tailor-made armor for Danny.

And Danny thought they were just lending it to him.

Now was probably not the time to correct that misconception; Danny looked about three seconds away from going off and doing his own thing.

"Did you all know that this was gonna be the plan?" he asked warily.

"No, this is Dick's op, so he came up with it all." Jason carefully didn't answer the question; he'd known before Danny, but only by a little bit.

“This whole situation is like, a nightmare specifically concocted just for Dick.”

Danny turned back to the street. “How so?”

Jason leaned back against the ledge next to Danny and thought about how to explain it. 

The umbrella got slightly larger, enough to cover both of them.

“We don’t normally all work together like this, with all of us on the same case. Usually, it’s only for something big and time-sensitive, like an Arkham breakout. And Dick…Dick wants to protect everyone.

“That includes Tim, and Robin, and Signal, and me, and you." Jason counted off on his fingers. "Annoying, I know. But it's how you know he cares. If it were just the two of you, I'm sure you'd be down there already. But he knows he can't actually cover everyone. His arms aren't long enough."

Danny snorted, which was what Jason had been aiming for.

“That’s a lot for one person to put on themselves.”

“That’s Dickie for you.”

Jason knocked his shoulder against Danny’s.

“Don’t tell him I told you any this, he’ll be unbearably smug about it for like, a week.”

“Yeah, fine, I won’t tell him you think he’s the best big brother ever.”

“I’m serious, he’ll cry.” Jason leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Dick's an ugly crier, you don't want to see it, trust me."

Danny smiled a bit, so Jason figured he was mostly over it.

"Don't waste all your energy worrying," Jason concluded. "They'll both be fine. They have your Ghost Zapper things."

"In-Card-Pacitors."

Jason shook his head. "We'll workshop it."

"Shut up, it's a perfect name."

He didn't really feel like the conversation was over, but he wasn't sure what else to say.

Another check-in came and went, and still he wasn't sure.

“Listen,” Jason began, trying to get the conversation back on track, “if this plan goes off the rails, don’t be a hero, okay? Save yourself.”

“Was that a train pun?” Danny smiled. “Don’t worry. It’s been a while since I had heroic delusions.”

“I just meant—”

He was interrupted by Duke saying the last thing he wanted to hear.

“Uh-oh.”

Jason closed his eyes. “What?”

“They both just…disappeared.”

Damian tensed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I was watching their light trails and they disappeared!”

“What about their trackers?” asked Jason.

Duke pulled up his wrist computer and shook his head.

“I’ll try to raise them on comms,” said Damian, scanning through channels and checking for connectivity.

“Any luck?” asked Danny, though the grim set to his mouth said he already knew the answer.

Damian said nothing, which was as good as a no.

He pulled out the radio comm and started rattling off codes. No reply came back.

"So much for the back-up plan."

“We planned for this,” Jason reminded them. “If we lose track of them and can’t communicate, we follow.”

“Great—” said Danny, but Jason held up a hand.

“Signal and I will follow. You two stay up here, stick to the plan. If we’re not back in fifteen and comms are still out, get back-up.”

Stephanie might complain about being pulled away from their mission, but she'd always come help if asked. She was dependable like that.

Jason pulled his helmet on. “I’m not Nightwing, so I won’t give you a pep talk.”

“Didn’t want one,” said Danny.

“I don’t need one,” said Damian.

Jason spared a moment to question whether leaving these two alone together was a good idea, but there was no time.

“Just…don't be idiots and stay out of sight.”

"Ten bucks they leave the roof as soon as we're inside," Duke muttered to him when Jason joined him by the skylight.

"Have some faith, Narrows," Jason replied, pulling his grapple from his belt. "I give them ten minutes."

Just before, inside the North Gainsly Train Station

“Wing, Red, it’s been ten minutes,” said Duke over comms. “Do you copy? No ghost problems?”

“No problems,” Dick confirmed.

“No solutions, either,” said Tim.

Their normal comm system was still working for now, which was the good news. It meant they weren’t cut off from backup. Not yet, anyway.

They’d already been through both terminals of the station, in the back halls, in the ticket booth. It wasn’t a very big train station, even though it served two lines and was meant to serve three.

They’d found nothing.

Tim wasn’t quite ready to give up yet—not when they’d just begun—but Danny hadn’t been wrong. How are you going to know ghost stuff is happening if I’m not there?

On one hand, Tim understood Dick's position. It was probably not a good idea to bring an unknown element into a club run by terrorists. Possibly ghost terrorists. Damian had made several comments over the past week or so, however, that led Tim to think that Danny could, possibly, hold his own.

But that didn't make it smart to bring him. It didn't make it smart to leave him in reserve, either.

“The only thing we haven’t looked at yet is the construction site."

"What's back there?" asked Jason.

Tim sighed as his wrist computer started glitching; looked like he’d downloaded the train station schematics from the city planning server for nothing.

"According to the most recent blueprints, there's supposed to be a hallway leading to staircase for a third train line that was never completed."

He turned the wrist computer off. He'd memorized the schematics anyway, and the intermittent glitching was starting to give him a headache.

"There's a bunch of hanging tarps in the way, so I can't confirm or deny it."

"There are also about five guys taking a break in front of the tarp," said Dick. "Hi-vis hats and vests. Construction guys, maybe."

“I don't think so,” said Duke. “I was watching the station for most of the afternoon. I didn’t see any construction workers coming or going.”

"There aren't any recent building permits for this area either," said Damian.

"Look at you guys do your detective thing," Danny teased. "I told you that would work."

Dick tapped his arm and pointed to the sign directly above the start of the supposed construction which was, notably, hidden behind tarps, wet floor signs, and caution tape.

The sign was a faded shade of what might have been green, once; written across it were the words coming soon: The Trigate Bridge Line! It was so old that the ‘gate’ part of Trigate had peeled off, leaving only the impression of the letters.

Oh. That was probably what Dick was pointing out. Tri Bridge. Three bridges.

“Update,” he said into the comm, “the entrance to the club is almost definitely behind the construction workers.”

Now, how to get past the goons.

“We could start a fire to get the sprinklers to go off,” he muttered.

“You really think GCDoT did the necessary upkeep on the fire system?” said Danny, voice crackly on the line.

Tim could hear the grin in Danny’s voice. Could picture how he looked, wearing a mask Tim had designed (though Damian had helped…), his teeth were back to that sharp look Tim thought he’d seen that first day they’d met. Could he control how sharp his teeth were? If so, that was fascinating. Something to ask him about later, maybe it was a subconscious thing after all and making him self conscious about it was probably not chill—

The loud screech of a train coming to a stop interrupted his thought process.

Right. Mission. Focus.

“We have an invitation,” Dick pointed out. “If they aren’t really construction workers, they probably work for Anton’s.”

Damian clicked his tongue.

“Tt. I thought this was a stealth mission. You can't go announcing yourselves and expect it to stay a secret.”

“I think the fire idea is great, Red,” said Jason.

“You could just set off the sprinklers without setting a fire,” Duke pointed out. “I mean I’m all for going big, but like Robin said. Stealth mission.”

They had a point. Tim had blown up enough things in his career. No need to add a train station to his list of accidental casualties.

“Fine. Subtly it is.”

The Sprinkler Plan worked, unbelievably. The Constructions Workers Who Probably Weren’t Construction Workers scattered, driven by the instinct of ‘Oh shit that's water inside the building’ and ‘goddamn someone turn off the fire alarm before the cops show up’.

With them gone, Dick and Tim were able to slip past the tarps easily, just as the alarms shut off. It had been less than thirty seconds, and unless the fire department lived inside the station, that meant someone else had shut it off.

Check One for Rogue Interference. Villains hated safety regulations.

Tim observed the so-called construction site; plastic tarps and caution tape hung down in ribbons, a facsimile of a construction site for the casual observer. Except, of course, there was no actual construction.

Check Two for Rogue Interference.

"Well, shall we?" asked Dick, gesturing down the hallway.

"After you."

As they rounded the corner, Tim felt like he had taken a step back in time.

Based on the vague explanation Danny had given them, as far as “the Living” guests of Anton’s were concerned, this was a themed speak-easy underground club. Tim supposed this was all part of the setup. A beautiful foyer stood before them, decorated in the elaborate style of Art Nouveau (thank You Janet Drake for the extensive education in interior design movements). There were various seating areas scattered around—a velvet green chaise, a mint and mahogany kissing chair, a rattan chair shaped like a peacock and stacked high with silk pillows, a card table with a glass highball and a stack of cards. The low lighting and lingering scent of cigarettes almost created an intimate atmosphere, like a party had just left the room.

All Tim could say was someone had gone to a lot of effort to make the front believable. In his experience, the thorough villains were the most dangerous.

The Piece de Resistance that all the other furniture was staged around, however, was not the lamps, or the chairs, or the tables, or even the parquet flooring far too fancy for a dilapidated train station.

It was a painted green bookcase that was distinctly gothic in style, shelves filled top to bottom with books, illuminated by a dim yellow light that should have been warm and wasn't.

Tim and Dick exchanged a brief glance and approached it silently.

"Jessica did say the entrance was behind a bookcase, but this is a little...obvious, no?"

Tim felt like he should be annoyed that the solution was that simple, but there it was: written across the top in looping, green cursive was the statement: This free little library is sponsored by Radiant Anton’s Seance.

“Hiding in plain sight,” Tim mused. “Like a ghost.”

Dick stroked his chin thoughtfully. “So one of these books probably makes the bookcase swing open, huh.”

“That’s usually the way these things go," Tim agreed. "Question is, which book?”

He scanned the bookshelf, running through the various sensors. There was clearly some mechanic aspect to it, but his lenses kept glitching out. Not unlike every time he’d looked at Danny’s ghost graffiti. He regretted, again, that he still hadn't found a way to make their tech (or any tech) work with ghost stuff.

But. If he had any doubts that this was somehow ghost-aligned, they were summarily dismissed.

He switched his focus to the books themselves. There wasn’t much to say about them; leather-bound, uniform size, no titles, only authors. None of which Tim recognized—not as authors, anyway. There were familiar names—Kane, obviously. Dawson. Anders. Conroy. There was even a Drake. And a Brown—Steph would probably feel smug about that.

There were also symbols stamped into the spines that looked, distinctly, occult. In that they didn’t look like anything Tim could describe.

He was getting what some people might call ‘a bad feeling’.

“So is it just me, or do these maybe look a little cursed?” asked Dick.

Tim shrugged. “I’m not one to speculate. If only we had someone here who knew something about the occult.”

“So you also think my plan was a bad idea,” Dick mumbled. “We could try describing the books to him?”

“Yeah, that’ll keep him on the roof. ‘Hey, Cardinal, we found some books that may or may not be cursed, what do you think we should do? Burn them?;”

Dick cocked his hip, evaluating the bookcase like it was an obstacle course, not a piece of furniture. Maybe those things were the same to Dick, though.

“Well," he said cheerfully, "I guess there’s really only one thing to do, here.”

That thing, apparently, was to pick up a book.

Or he tried to, at least.

His hand passed through the bookcase.

And the rest of him followed.

“Shit! Nightwing?!”

Tim reached for him, hoping to grab him, but unlike Dick, the bookcase was solid for Tim.

“What the fuck?” he said, with feeling.

He tried the comm next. “Nightwing, do you come in?”

Static.

“Hood, Signal? Robin? Cardinal? Does anybody copy?”

Nothing. So awesome.

When the radio comm didn’t connect him either, Tim quickly weighed his options: did he walk away from the brother-eating bookcase and attempt to contact someone on the roof (assuming nothing had happened to them up there), or did he work on finding a way inside the brother-eating bookcase to save said eaten brother?

On one hand, if Team Still On The Roof didn’t hear from either him or Dick in the next five minutes, Jason and Duke would come to investigate. On the other hand, if something happened to Dick because Tim spent precious time debating what to do, everyone would blame him for the Unfortunate Whatever Happened to Everyone’s Big Brother.

So, obviously, he should go after Dick. He just had to figure out how.

Okay. Cool cool cool. So, this club was at least marginally one with a normie front, right? So what would a normal person think if they saw this and didn’t know ghosts existed and were currently doing whatever the fuck they wanted in Gotham?

…it was hard to think like a normal person, Tim decided.

Change in plans then; what would a Tim who didn’t know about ghosts think? Shouldn’t be too hard. Tim had been that version of himself like, a month ago. He’d think: trick door. He’d think: hologram. He’d think: RFID scanner. Alien tech. Ghosts were kind of like aliens, right?

Not the time, Tim.

Right. The point was, if a normal person came to Anton’s, thinking it was an exclusive club, they’d have to have been given something to explain the Ghost Bullshit/Magic as something palatable.

So. What did Dick have that Tim didn't? Other than nice hair and legendary acrobatic skills and several people who wanted to date him? Then again, maybe it was something Tim had that Dick didn’t that was preventing Tim from passing through the bookcase. Was he prepared to start shedding layers in a desperate bid to—

The invitation. Of course. Unfortunately, Tim wasn’t getting one of those easily.

Something else they should have asked Danny, probably. But speaking of Danny. Pretty much every ghost sigil he’d ever introduced them to was activated through touch. Even the magic zap card.

One of these books had to have something useful written in them, or stored inside them.

He reached for the least-cursed-looking one. He expected his hand to pass through as well, so he figured it didn’t matter much. But his hand made contact.

When he tried to pull it out, it just leaned back, as if on a hinge.

Tim was being stupid. Just because Dick fell through the bookcase didn’t mean there wasn’t still a book (or books?) that opened the damn thing.

He scanned over the names on the books again. There had to be something he was missing here. Kane. Brown. Arkham. Drake. All Old Gotham names. There was even a Wayne. A few repeats, too. So what was he missing?

He looked back down the hallway. This was hidden behind a fake construction site. He'd taken it for a nothing more than a facade, but if whoever set this up were as meticulous as this whole staged area indicated, no detail would be a throwaway. So, a clue, maybe. What had constructions zones? Architecture. Were these books building names, maybe? All these names were definitely on several buildings in Gotham.

And bridges.

Well, that was about as helpful as it wasn’t. They were all bridge names. So what made one of these bridges more special than the others?

It shouldn’t be this hard. This riddle was for normies. He needed to think…less.

The suit on the street where the three bridges meet. That was the clue to finding this place. Three bridges.

He tried the three bridges that connected to The Coventry, but that didn’t work.

Fine.

If Tim could only pick three bridges in Gotham—no, if an average person had to pick three bridges in Gotham, which would they pick?

Oh. The only three bridges that left the city. So, the Kane Bridge, the Brown Bridge, and the Trigate Bridge. Kane and Brown were easy enough to find, but there weren’t any books with the word Trigate on them.

But, there were three books with just GATE on the spine. GATE, the letters missing from the sign pointing to this train line that wasn't.

Everything was a clue.

Tim was definitely getting a bad feeling. He knew exactly who liked to leave clues like this.

With a mechanical click and whir, the bookcase lifted up into the ceiling, revealing a set of stairs spiraling down. Kind of like Tim's hopes. Ha.

Bruce was right. Magic was shit, but logic? Never failed you.

Tim hesitated just a moment longer—should he leave a note of some kind? A message to the others when they inevitably came looking? A will, maybe?

This was a stupid idea, but Tim didn’t have time for a better one.

More importantly, Dick needed him. Tim might not be Robin anymore, and Dick might not be Batman, but he’d always have his six.

With a deep breath, Tim walked under the bookcase and down the stairs.

He'd say this, at least: this was a far more effective way to keep someone out of a club than bouncers.

10:17 pm Eastern Standard Time, the roof of The North Gainsly Train Station

Damian was trying not to be resentful of his assigned role in this mission, but it did not escape his notice that this was the second time he'd been left on the roof. Granted, the circumstances were different. That didn't mollify the sting of betrayal grating against his chest.

Had he done something wrong? Was this, in itself, another test? Had he lost Richard’s trust somewhere? Or, was it that they trusted Damian to handle Phantom and any threats that might come for him, all by himself?

"Something about this isn’t right," said Phantom, breaking the silence.

Before everyone had left them here in what was, strategically the most useless place to be, Phantom had paced around the roof like a caged tiger.

Now, he stood utterly still, eyes narrowed at some far off point. Damian wasn’t sure whether Phantom had simply resigned himself to their fate, or if he were staring at something in particular.

Damian was debating whether or not to ask. On one hand, it was, in part, Phantom’s fault they'd been left here. If only Phantom had demonstrated some of his skills, perhaps neither of them would be in this position. Stuck on the roof.

On the other hand, Damian was bored.

"What, being left up here?" Damian scoffed. "Imagine how I feel."

“That's not what I meant." Phantom gestured around. "There aren’t any ghosts around. Not even blob ghosts."

"And that's unusual?"

"You could say that."

Damian glanced back at the skylight where the others had disappeared.

"And ghosts not being around, that's bad?"

"About as bad as when all the animals go silent in the woods."

Dread was not a feeling Damian was accustomed to feeling. Dread was not useful. Dread led to mistakes, to miscalculations.

He didn’t think it would be a miscalculation to admit that this revelation was less than encouraging.

As Drake Sr had promised, Damian had remembered more. It was a strange way to remember things—sometimes it almost happened without his realizing it, and other times it would strike him like an arrow in a target.

It had happened more and more in the days since his last encounter with Phantom. Some of the memories he could place—if not in time, then in location.

For example, he had a rather vivid memory of threatening father with revealing his secret identity if Timothy stayed as Robin. That was, from the stories Damian had heard, something Drake Sr had done.

According to Richard, Timothy’s father had walked back his threats shortly before his death, but it was a strange and uncomfortable feeling to remember the fear, the resentment, the envy, the jealousy, the longing—all as if it were his own, identifying with it, but it wasn’t his. He didn’t want it to be.

He had plenty of his own feelings of inadequacy to battle, but it didn’t feel the same.

Other memories that came were more difficult to place; he remembered being in Crime Alley. He saw his father there, dressed down in civilian clothes. He saw Phantom there, too, as well as two individuals Damian did not recognize, but who felt familiar. He felt the threat that Phantom posed, though he just stood there, hair flipping back and forth between black and white, eyes glowing darkly. There it was again, the fear, and resentment, and envy, his and not his. Different from Drake Sr. Different from Damian.

Snippets of conversations between them, Phantom doesn’t know everything and Phantom doesn’t respect us and Phantom will see before this is over, everything we could have offered him—

Phantom, standing over Timothy’s unconscious body, gaze cast down and shoulders tense. “Was all this entirely necessary, Phantom?”

Damian narrowed his eyes as he looked back to the tracker on his wrist computer, still blank.

"Should we comm the others?"

"What would be the point? Their trackers already disappeared off the map. We can't reach them."

"How do you know that?" Damian asked, suspicion dialed in. They hadn't put a wrist computer on his gauntlets, given that tech didn't seem to agree with him.

"You stopped tracking them five minutes ago."

So he'd been watching Damian, then. Interesting.

"You're more observant than you look."

Phantom shrugged, not taking the bait. "At least we know they're together."

Damian narrowed his eyes.

“If you wanted Nightwing to include you in the plan, you should have informed him of all you can do.”

Phantom cocked his head at Damian as if studying him. “What do you mean?”

“You’re more than capable of defending yourself. At least as much as any of the Titans. Unlike what the others assume, you wouldn’t be a liability.”

“Um, thanks? I think?” he ran a hand through his hair, still mostly dry despite the rain thanks to his ice umbrella. “Though I wonder what you know about it.”

This, too, was a test. It was disarmingly nonchalant, but Damian knew when he was being evaluated.

He was always being evaluated, after all.

Phantom was more careful with his searching than most would probably give him credit for. It wasn’t devious, exactly, but there was a calculation to it that Damian wasn’t sure whether to be wary of or appreciate.

Whatever the case, it was a game Damian could play at, too.

“Why do the ghosts call you Phantom?”

“You’d have to ask them,” came the response.

"So you acknowledge it, then." Damian ground his teeth together, jaw aching. A poor habit to have, but better than losing his temper. “That you are Phantom, despite trying to cast doubt.”

“It’s complicated—”

Damian didn’t want to hear it.

“Why do you pretend to not be Phantom when you are?"

Phantom’s shoulders tensed ever so slightly. He glanced over at Damian. His expression was unreadable now that he had a mask on. Damian almost found himself regretting it.

"You don't even know what you’re asking me to admit."

“There’s nothing to admit to, except a name. A name that was given to me as a contact to ask for help. That wasn’t wrong, was it?”

"Ask me again when you've remembered everything."

Damian decided he’d had enough of this.

“Well, maybe I don’t need to wait to remember anything. You have, begrudgingly, been helpful. To my entire family. I doubt there’s anything hidden in ghost memories that can change my own experience.”

Phantom huffed a laugh. “Well, shucks, Robin. I don’t know what to say to that. Can I see your sword?"

"…excuse me?"

"Your sword.” Phantom gestured. “Unless it's a magic sword, I'm gonna guess it can’t touch ghosts."

"It's not magic."

“Wanna change that?” Phantom held out his hand. "Because I can change that. Temporarily, at least. You don’t even need to let go of it, I just need to see the blade."

Damian considered. “If you damage it, you will regret it.”

“I’m sure.” Phantom held out his hand and wiggled his fingers.

Damian unsheathed his sword and presented it. "Most people don't like that I use swords."

"That's bullshit, they're just jealous,” Phantom mumbled, running a finger along the flat part of the blade. “Swords are awesome."

"They're lethal."

“So’s spaghetti if you try hard enough.”

Damian didn’t know what to say to that. Spaghetti had never been a method anyone in the League used, but maybe that was a good thing.

"There," said Phantom, gesturing to the sword. "Now it's a ghost sword."

Damian examined the blade; it had swirls of frost on it like Damascus steel.

Maybe Damian could forgive all the attempted gaslighting for this. "How long will it last?"

"Until I get distracted or you want it gone."

As if Damian would ever say ‘I no longer require my sword to be a ghost sword’.

“Well, now that that’s taken care of.”

Phantom slapped his hands on his thighs and stood up, making his way toward the open skylight, clearly intent on leaving.

“What do you think you’re doing?” asked Damian.

“What does it look like?” Phantom asked, gesturing lazily. “We’re going to Anton’s.”

Damian clenched and unclenched his hands. “We were told to stay here.”

“Technically, the last thing we were told to do was stay out of sight," said Phantom, "which I could accomplish by making us invisible. But also, I never agreed to stay on the roof, so. How you like them apples?”

Damian carefully ran the conversation through his mind.

Phantom was right. He’d never said he’d do as was asked. He’d complained about it, he’d said it was a bad idea, but he hadn’t ever intimated he’d agreed to it.

Damian wasn’t sure how to feel about that.

“I did agree, though.”

“You agreed to stay with me,” Phantom returned. “And if I decide to go into the Ghost Club, well. You’ll just have to follow me, won’t you? To ‘protect’ me?”

He actually did the ‘air quotations’. Unbelievable.

“You and I both know you don’t need my protection.”

Phantom shrugged. “I’m not looking to make a vigilante debut here or anything. We go to where they disappeared off the map, see what's up, and re-evaluate from there. All while invisible."

It wasn’t the worst plan Damian had ever heard.

"You can make both of us invisible?"

"As long as I have a hand on you."

Phantom must’ve seen his resolve wavering because he pressed his advantage.

“Look, Robin, the way I see it, things are definitely gonna go bad in there. And when that happens, would you rather be scrambling around looking for a way in or already at the door?"

Damian joined him at the edge of the skylight.

“If we get in trouble for this, I’m blaming you, Phantom.”

“I’d expect nothing less.”

Well. Maybe Damian should call him Cardinal. For the night, at least.

It was easy to forget that Jason was, technically, a crime lord. It wasn’t usually something Duke was grateful for when he was reminded, but in this case, he was pretty sure grateful was the way to feel.

Not entirely sure, though.

"Shit, I know those guys," Jason said, watching the goons wring water out of their hi-vis vests.

"You do?"

"They used to work for me. Well, they worked for Scarecrow, then Black Mask, then me, then Scarecrow again."

"So, confirmed goons, then?"

"Fickle goons," Jason confirmed.

Duke hummed. "Thought Crane was locked up still?"

"He was last I checked."

"So what are his goons doing here?"

"Like I said, they're fickle."

Well. That was probably the most information they could get from observation alone. At least they weren't Joker goons.

"How do you want to do this, then? Knock 'em out? Start a fire?"

Jason tilted his head. "As much as 'start a fire' sounds like a fun idea, if it ain't broke, don't fix it."

In other words, they set off the sprinklers again. No less effective the second time than the first, it seemed.

Which brought them here: the most ominous bookcase Duke had ever seen. Which wasn’t saying a lot; ‘ominous’ was not a word Duke associated with bookcases.

This one was giving him second thoughts.

Maybe it was that everything looked greener in here, filtered through age-stained fluorescent lights. Maybe it was the smell of stale boiled hot dogs and fear that permeated every subway station in Gotham. Maybe it was just the way everything in him screamed ‘turn back now’ —but that was a voice he’d learned to ignore years ago.

This was definitely the spot, but still, he had to ask:

“Are we sure this is where they disappeared?”

“Though it pains me to say it, it’s a bookcase that basically says ‘I’m the Most Evil Thing in this Evil Lair straight out of Evil Architect's Digest’,” said Jason, “what further proof do you need?”

Duke sighed. "But, obviously, Dick and Tim got past the bookcase. Evil or not."

"Well, they're not here, are they?"

Jason rolled his shoulders back, agitation rolling off him in waves.

Duke wondered what had set him of. Jason had seemed fine on the roof. Then again, Danny was on the roof. Probably not unrelated.

"This was not part of the plan."

"Time to make a new one, then."

"Yup. Comms working?"

"Of course they aren't, that would be too convenient."

Duke wasn't sure why he'd asked. "And the radio?"

Jason pulled it out and ran through the channels. "Jammed."

Duke was starting to think that Danny had been right about splitting up being a bad idea.

They brainstormed a few New and Improved Plans, which ultimately were just the old plan, but a little to the left.

Dick had said if things went South, it was up to Jason and Duke to run extraction. Of course, the whole Duke and Jason part of the plan had sort of hinged on Duke and Jason knowing how to actually get in to the club.

“I guess we could always just blow it up.”

“Blowing up a bookcase full of cursed books seem like a good idea to you, Narrows?”

"We don't know they're cursed, technically. This could all be a part of the theme, you know? Occult Speakeasy?"

Jason gestured emphatically to the occult symbols carved on the spines of the books. "Ghosts are literally running this place just to peddle their ghost drugs."

“Well, when you put it that way…”

Duke placed his hand on the wall next to the bookcase, looking beyond the wall to see what he could see.

He wasn’t expecting much; with the veneer of ‘ghost bullshit’ smeared over everything, his abilities weren’t as useful as they usually were. Sometimes having a tactile focus helped, sometimes not.

He still had the Cursed Wheel training, of course—still the most important tool in his belt—but it never hurt to look through walls when you could see through walls and your tech wasn't working.

All that to say he was surprised that his abilities weren’t failing him here.

“There’s a tunnel leading to some stairs right behind the bookcase. I could probably get us through with. You know.”

He tugged on the shadows a little bit, just to drive home the point, in case it wasn’t obvious.

Jason obviously picked up on it, though. He crossed his arms and tilted his head in a way that most people would read as judgemental. Duke knew better; it was just Jason’s way of evaluating.

“Shadow travel? Are you sure? I know it’s not your favorite.”

“I know it’s not your favorite, either,” Duke countered. Which was an understatement; Jason had only shadow traveled with Duke once before, and the only thing he’d said about it was ‘Next time, I’m walking.’

Duke wasn’t sure what about the experience had been so objectionable, but it was one of those things Jason wouldn’t talk about.

Between touching a bunch of clearly cursed books and shadow traveling, Duke wondered which Jason would deem worse.

“It’s not far,” Duke hedged. “Just the other side of the wall. A second or two max.”

Jason took a deep breath, setting his shoulders back. “Just a few seconds?”

“Yeah, man.” He placed a hand on his shoulder. Jason tensed beneath him, as if preparing for a blow. "We could still blow the whole thing up if you'd rather, you know."

Jason laughed, the sound a bit strangled. “Nah. This is still kind of a stealth mission. Let Cardinal and Robin blow shit up if this goes bad for us, too."

"Alright. Whenever you're ready."

Jason nodded. "No use waiting. Let’s go, Narrows.”

Duke stretched his hands out and his consciousness beyond, feeling for the lightless corners, the pools of darkness around them. He imagined pulling it around him like a magician’s cloak—now you see him, now you don’t—easier to establish it first for just himself, then pull everyone else along for the ride. Find the passage under the stage door of reality, step right through, under the bookcase and out on the other side, Duke could almost hear the music, Jazz and laughter, ebullient and smokey, he just had to step right through and Jason too—

Something ripped at him, pulling and tugging, like the shadows were fighting back.

With a shudder like a door slamming in his face, Duke swayed and nearly fell over; Jason caught him.

“Shit, are you okay?”

Duke blinked back the blurriness in his eyes. That hadn’t happened to him since…ever.

He held his breath and counted to ten, waiting for the vertigo to pass over him.

“Yeah, so, I don’t think that’s gonna work.”

He patted Jason’s hand to make him let go.

“What happened?”

How to put this delicately? “I don’t think the bookcase likes you, dude.”

“What?”

“Everything was fine until I tried to pull you through.” Duke shrugged. “Sorry.”

“Oh, that’s fucking nice, fuck you, too, Anton’s,” Jason spat, flipping off the floor. “So I gotta find my own way in, I guess.”

“We could go together—”

“Nah, this is like, a Greek myth or some shit. A test.”

Duke wasn’t sure what that meant—or, rather, he wasn’t sure he believed it. But shadow travel with co-pilot wasn’t happening tonight, at least not here.

“You go on ahead,” said Jason, rolling his head and cracking his neck. “I’ll figure it out.”

“Uh, no?” Duke gestured to the bookcase. “I’m not gonna leave you here until I know you have a way in.”

“Well, I did have a thought…”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out—

“Are those your stupid ducks?”

“Show some fucking respect, they’re my emotional support ducks,” Jason snapped. “Anyway, so, I figure, this is a ghost club, yeah? And Constantine said some shit about Yorick being cursed and Ice Duckie—name pending—being some kind of protection or like, treat? For ghosts? Anyway, so I figure—”

“An insane sentence, but continue.”

“So I figure,” Jason pressed on, ignoring Duke, “I could threaten and bargain my way through. Good duck, bad duck style."

Duke was actually speechless.

“You’re gonna threaten a bookcase with ducks?”

“A cursed bookcase with magic ducks, yeah." Jason tossed the ice duck up in the air and caught it. "I’ve been spending a lot of time with Danny lately, and the way he talks about ghost magic, I get the impression that the first rule of ghost magic is having fun and the second is believing in yourself.”

“Who even are you right now?” Duke asked, finding his words.

He could just tell Jason was smirking under that smug helmet as he approached the bookcase, ducks in hand.

“Okay, listen up you mother fucker, I’m sure you know what these are—” here, he held up the ducks “ —and you better fucking believe I know how they work.”

A patented lie, clearly.

“This is embarrassing,” Duke muttered. “I’m embarrassed for you. I’m embarrassed to know you.”

“Shut up, Signal, you’re ruining the magic. Anyway, you have until the count of three to open up, and then it’s duck season and you’re a bag of frozen peas left out by the pond.”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

Duke was beginning to wish he’d left before having to witness this. If it worked, he’d dye one of his locs pink.

On the other hand, in the likely case that it didn’t work, he’d have blackmail fuel against Jason for the rest of his—

The bookcase shuddered and swung open, revealing the tunnel Duke had seen beyond.

Jason turned around, gesturing as if to say, you see?

“Ducks,” he said, sticking them back in his jacket, “they can do anything.”

He threw Duke a peace sign and walked through, the door? Bookcase? Slamming shut behind him.

Duke was speechless again. Looked like he needed to find some pink dye.

“Asshole could have held the door for me,” Duke grumbled, drawing the shadows around himself again.

He wasn’t ever gonna tell anyone about this.

Danny would sooner repeat 11th grade than admit it, but he was starting to miss when his problems just showed up to punch him/take his pelt/manipulate him into joining the dark side.

He shivered as his feet touched the ground inside the station; he honestly felt a little ill. It was like trying to read in the car, or the feeling right before getting sucked inside a thermos. Bad, and not good, and just all around not a fun time.

All this sneaking around was exhausting. Almost as tiring as trying to keep Robin invisible; it was like trying to hold onto a wet bar of soap—Danny’s energy kept sliding off him like eggs off a Teflon pan.

But getting past the bouncers depended on staying invisible, so Danny made it happen. It probably helped that they set the sprinklers off again, just to make sure they were distracted. Hopefully the good goons of Gotham would learn the importance of having an up-to-date fire system in place, if nothing else.

Still. Danny was relieved when they finally breezed through the hanging tarps into the hallway and he could drop the whole invisibility act.

Unfortunately, things didn't improve there.

About thirty shades looked up when Danny and Robin walked in, like they'd been having a private party and Danny and Robin were gatecrashing.

They weren't normal shades, though. Danny almost would have thought they were poltergeists if they weren't so...faded.

Robin leaned over to Danny. "We're not alone, are we?"

"You can see them?" Danny whispered back.

"Obviously I can see them," he hissed.

So, that was great. Robin could see ghosts now.

The only good news was that they quickly lost interest in Danny and Robin, which was not the norm, in Danny's experience.

They seemed to be going through the motions of someone who used to know what it was to live, but had forgotten. They sat down, they walked around, they stood in groups like they were having a conversation, but none of them were speaking.

Robin pulled Danny aside, leading him to an irradiated green bookcase. It made Danny feel ill just looking at it.

"What's wrong with them?" Robin asked quietly.

"Well, you're looking at what happens to a poltergeist that's lost their gumption, so to speak."

Robin wrinkled his nose. "Gumption?"

"Whatever or whoever they were feeding on, they lost it." Danny gestured vaguely. "The only thing keeping them here is something else's memory. This room's, if I had to guess."

Robin scanned the room, lips pressed firmly together.

"I know this place."

Great. Even more good news.

"Please tell me it's because the North Gainsly Station has always looked like this and you come here every Saturday to volunteer."

Robin scowled at him. "This is the Conroy Bridge Bridge Club VIP Lounge," he Robin, dashing Danny's hopes on the rocks.

"Why have you been in the Ghost Mob's VIP Lounge?"

Even Danny hadn't been in there. Well, for obvious reasons, but still.

"I haven't. But...I remember it."

Right. His ghostly hitchhikers.

"Look, Robin—"

He didn't get to finish the thought. The sound of a plastic tarp being pushed aside and angry voices carried down the hallway.

Danny grabbed Robin by the arm and pulled them away from the bookcase, dropping them into invisibility again.

A man Danny was sure he'd never seen before but recognized anyway walked into the room, five dripping goons behind him.

Instantly, all the shades perked up.

"Well, this certainly does move our timeline up by quite a bit. You're sure it's just the four of them? No one else?" he said into a cell phone.

Danny wasn't sure how he managed to use it, considering the helmet covered his head entirely.

"Disappointing. Very well, tell the ungrateful whelp I'm on my way now and to keep them where they are. Yes, especially him. What do you mean you've lost sight of Red Robin? You assured me you had every inch covered—very well, I suppose you're right. Or at the very least, you better hope you are."

He hung up and stared at his phone, sighing deeply.

He reached his hand into his jacket pocket and handed out several white cards. "Make yourselves useful and find some suits for our...esteemed guests to entertain. Your foolishness could have cost us greatly."

The goons each took a handful of cards—invitation, Danny recognized. The same that Jess had given them.

How many bad things could a person feel at once? Because Danny was pretty sure he was running the gamut here.

"These ones are kind of burnt out though, boss," said one of the goons, glancing over at the shades.

"Then make some new ones, fuck, do I have to tell you how to do everything?"

"That'll take some time," said what was, apparently, the head goon. "You said this place was unstable, and could blow at any second, so we just thought—"

"I don't pay you to think," the man spat. "I pay you to keep out unwanted guests."

"I thought you wanted the Bats to come though—"

"Not all at once!" the man took a deep breath. He had a slight accent, but not one Danny could place. "I have some damage control to attend to. You have half an hour. Go."

The goons scrambled, squelching back the way they came.

The man cast a lazy gaze over the chairs in his apparent solitude. Danny wondered what he was seeing, if anything.

"Shame about the furniture, really," he mumbled. He took a step towards the bookcase, apparently intending to walk through it, but paused.

He turned his black helmeted head sharply, right to where Danny and Robin were standing invisibly. He stared for a long moment; Danny didn't even dare to breathe.

Danny felt Robin tense beneath him.

After a long moment, the Karma turned away.

With a thoughtful hum, he walked on, right through the bookcase.

Like a ghost.

"Well, fuck," Danny said with feeling, dropping their invisibility.

"You're right, Cardinal," said Robin, straightening his cape. "We've got to get through that bookcase."