Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In a way, it was almost funny. It certainly sounded like a joke—Batman, Bruce Wayne, and Red Hood walk into a bar. Only it wasn't a bar, it was the Iceberg Lounge, and Batman swooped down from the skylight rather than walking in.

If it were some kind of cosmic joke, Danny was waiting for the punch line, because it really wasn't very funny at all.

Danny, after all, had been trying to avoid Red Hood since he'd helped him three weeks ago; he'd been trying to avoid Bruce Wayne since he'd seen the man in Crime Alley nine weeks ago; and he'd been trying to avoid Batman since he'd come to Gotham. The fact that they were all three here, now, in front of him, wasn't something Danny was sure he deserved.

Nevertheless, the signs were clear: this was the last time Danny was gonna let himself get talked into doing a favor for someone. Especially one of the living.

Three Weeks Earlier

Wednesday, September 21st, 8 p.m.

'Get a knife'.

That had been the first advice Danny had been given upon his unceremonious arrival in Gotham. He hadn't heeded the advice; in his experience, his problems couldn't be stabbed.

He was kind of regretting his lack of follow-through now.

Standing about eight feet away from where he was seated on His Bench was a young woman, early twenties or so, red hair. She looked nervous. It was after dark in Gotham, after all.

Something told Danny that wasn't what had her anxiously shifting her feet.

She cleared her throat. "Excuse me. Are you, um. The Guy?"

"The guy?" He repeated.

Usually, people asking for 'a guy' in Gotham weren't looking for a teenage NASA enthusiast who maintained a casual relationship with being alive. In other words, he probably wasn't 'the guy' she was looking for.

He didn't want to find out what would happen when he wasn't. Unfortunately, he had a feeling he had little say in the matter.

Well. She wouldn't be able to hurt him too badly. Probably. But he liked this park; it would be a shame to have to abandon it because some drug dealer moved in and Danny didn't have a knife.

The Interloper seemed to steal her nerves, ignorant of Danny’s plight. "Yes, The Guy. He Who Speaks for the dead?"

Danny hid his surprise. Apparently, he was The Guy she was looking for.

But that raised other questions. Problems, really. This girl wasn't dead. Or overshadowed, or even Death-Touched. Why was she looking for Danny?

"Who's asking?"

"Me. I am, I mean. I'm…It's about my mother. She died."

Danny looked around her for any shades or ghosts or the like, just to be sure.

There was nothing. So either her Dead wanted nothing to do with her, or she was lying. Or mistaken.

"My condolences, but there’s nothing I can do about it."

"Please. I came all this way at night. In the rain."

He raised an eyebrow. It was barely raining. Just the same usual miserable Gotham drizzle. “And?”

She hunched her shoulders, eyes darting around. The unnatural green of the street lamp cast her skin in an unhealthy hue. "I just need to speak with her. One last time. If you are who they say you are, you're the only one who can help me."

"And who do 'they' say I am?"

"The Living Spirit who haunts Apparition Park, a Voice for the Dead when they've lost their own, a Bridge Between Life and Death."

Huh. That was new. Lots to unpack there. "Its name is Aparo Park, technically."

"And Crime Alley's name is Park Row, technically, but old things get new names all the time."

Danny crossed his arms. "Do I look like a 'living spirit' to you?"

"You do have an aura about you…"

Great. So he had an aura. Something else to worry about. At least it was something new; worrying about the same old things all the time got, well. Old, after a while.

But he wouldn't get to the bottom of this by playing dumb. Best get it over with.

"How did you even hear about me? You're much more alive than my usual clients."

"So it is you, then?" Her eyes shone with something bordering on hope as she stepped a few feet closer. "The Voice of the Dead?"

"I'm just a guy with a particular set of skills. Now. How did you hear about me?"

She gulped loudly.

Maybe he should reign in the creepy effects; Danny could see goosebumps on her skin. He didn't want to traumatize her, but if the living were talking about him, it could only mean bad things. Things he needed to know about.

He took a deep breath and visibly relaxed. "Listen. You got a name?"

"It's…Jess."

Probably a fake name. Whatever. "Okay, Jess. There's no such thing as Ghost Yelp. When the dead need me, they can find me, no recommendation needed. You don't seem to be a ghost, and if you could talk to ghosts yourself, you wouldn't need me. Which means something else is happening here that I'd like to know about."

She stared, frozen. Great, so much for reigning in the scary/creepy.

"I just need to know how you found me," he tried again.

After a bit, she gathered herself enough to answer. "I…dabble in the occult."

"I see. Let me guess: ouija board? Tarot? Crystals?”

She nodded.

“That's dangerous stuff, you know. You open a door, anything can walk through."

Not, strictly speaking, true for ouija. Not true at all for tarot. Crystals were generally nothing more than decoration, but then again, boxes could summon The Box Ghost. There was probably something out there that could be tempted by pretty rocks. Best to discourage all of it while he had her attention; the last thing occultists needed was positive reinforcement.

"I know what I'm doing," Jess huffed. "I don't even need to go to Anton’s."

Anton, Anton…didn’t ring a bell. Probably someone in the occult scene. Danny had never heard of him, so he probably wasn't a threat.

"If you know what you're doing, then why do you need me?"

"I asked the spirits for help after a rather…intense dream I had. The planchette led me here."

"Still doesn't tell me how you found me."

"Yes, it does." She pulled a planchette out of her pocket. Attached to it was a lime green sticky note with a location and a time written on it. It happened to be the current time and location. "I was told help would be here, and here you are, as was foretold."

Danny thought he knew what this was about now. Annoying, but manageable.

He relaxed his hold on the ectoplasm around him. The lights stopped flickering and the air released the staticky wrongness that the living found so off-putting.

"What do you want to talk to your mom about, then?"

"I need proof of death." She swallowed. "I need to ask her where and how she died. And…to give her closure, if possible."

Danny, heroically, managed not to roll his eyes. "How do you know she's dead if you don't have proof?"

"She hasn't been answering my phone calls. Her store has been closed for a week now, and her neighbor called to tell me she hasn't left her apartment in days. I went over there to see for myself, but she wasn't home, and everything was covered in dust—" Jess paused, voice going wobbly. "My mother doesn't let things get dusty."

He didn't bother asking Jess whether she'd gone to the Police; he knew exactly how useful they were when it came to things like this. When it came to most things, really. And if she had gone to the cops, she'd obviously found their help unsatisfactory to be desperate enough to look for Danny.

"And there's no other possible explanation you could think of for where she might be other than dead?"

Jess shook her head. "I know she's dead because I saw a vision of her death in my dreams. More than that, though, I just know."

"Uh Huh." Damn occult-dabblers. "So. Did your weird dream give you any ideas about where she died?"

"That's your job. Summon her ghost and ask."

If only it were that simple.

Best to nip that expectation in the bud. "It doesn't work that way. She might not have become a ghost."

Unless she'd died in Gotham, in which case she definitely was a ghost. And if she'd died elsewhere, he wouldn't do her the disservice of bringing her to Gotham. If she were even dead.

"I don't know how it works. I don't need to." She frowned, the first hints of suspicion coloring her expression. "You have a lot of doubt for a psychopomp."

"I'm not—" Danny cut himself off with a sigh. It was pointless to argue, and psychopomp was as good an explanation for what he was as any. Better than half-ghost, anyway, especially these days.

"Sure. Fine. I'm a psychopomp. The skepticism comes with the territory. Lots of people out there looking to have a laugh at us True Believers. Makes a guy a bit defensive."

Her suspicion cleared with understanding. Danny thanked his lucky stars that he'd paid enough attention to Sam's rants about occultism to get the language right.

"Of course." She stared at her hands, fumbling the planchette. A nervous tick. "I understand if you can't find her. If she's already passed beyond…but if you could just try…please. I don't have anyone else to ask. I can pay you if that's what it takes. I don't have much, but—"

"I don't want your money."

Danny didn't usually help living people. Well, more like he didn't normally have the opportunity to, these days. But he wasn't used to asking for payment for what he did, and he didn't intend to start now.

Especially if he were wrong about all this and her mom really was gone.

"Yeah, ok. Fine. I'll help you."

She breathed a deep sigh. Seeing her relief almost made the whole thing worth it.

"Anything you can tell me about your mother that would help locate her remains?" he prompted.

"The figure in my dream said you had to go to Gotham Cemetery at precisely 12:34 a.m. this Friday. But if it helps…" she held the planchette out to him. "This was my mother's. You can have it if…if you need it. As a focus."

Danny definitely didn't, but there was something she had that he wanted. He beckoned her over, waiting as she stumbled in her hurry. He took the planchette, peeled off the sticky note, and handed the planchette back. "This is all I need."

Jess nodded, stuffing the planchette back in her pocket quickly as though worried he might change his mind.

He tried not to let it bother him. "I'll see what I can find, proof or whatever."

"When will I hear from you again?"

"If I need to speak with you, I'll find you. And Jess?"

"Yes?"

"Don't come back here again."

With a dramatic flicker of the streetlight and lengthening of the shadows, he disappeared. He watched in satisfaction as Jess scurried off, not bothering to look behind her.

Guess she was smarter than she looked, after all.

"Alex," he said. The ghost faded into view, eyes glistening with excitement. "Follow her, please? Tell me where she goes."

Alex gave a thumbs up and faded away again.

With a sigh, Danny got to his feet. Someone was trying very hard to contact him in the least obtrusive but most annoying way possible. He had a good idea who it was, but these days it was better not to jump to conclusions.

“Maybe I should buy a knife, after all,” he mused, walking through the park with nothing but shadows and shades for company.

Wednesday, September 21st, 10 p.m.

Bruce alighted silently on the roof of the GCPD like a shadow in the night, Damian right behind him not a moment later.

The more things changed, the more they stayed the same.

Same Bat Signal, same roof, same Jim Gordon.

Same opening line. Which, incidentally, was silence.

Jim turned, looking as startled as he always did when he realized he wasn’t alone.

"Geez, Batman.” He chuckled. “You know, after all these years I'm starting to believe you like scaring me."

"If, after all these years, your situational awareness has not improved, that's hardly our fault," said Damian.

Jim only gave him an uneasy glance. His disapproval of Robins was something else that never changed.

"What do you have for us tonight?" Bruce prompted.

"Business as usual. Though I warn you, this is a weird one." He held out a thin Manila folder to Bruce, pulling it back a bit as Bruce reached for it. “Weirder than usual.”

Bruce held his gaze for a moment before he took the folder and opened it to the compiled information.

Damian came up next to him, reading the file over his shoulder, clicking his tongue at what he saw. "Did you write this out by hand, commissioner?"

Jim pinched the bridge of his nose. "Don't remind me. Our whole system has been down this week. Every time we try to input a new case, it glitches out and restarts. It's one damn thing after another. Montoya pulled out some word processors from storage, but I hated those things in the 80s and I hate 'em now. A pen never glitches out."

"They do run out of ink, though," Barbara grumbled over comms. "I can't believe their system is glitchy again. I just fixed it!"

Bruce, long since inured to the running commentary of others, ignored them all, scanning through the file.

"Petty theft, vandalism, home burglary…" Damian read aloud. "Hardly seems unusual.”

Didn’t seem like the sort of thing that warranted turning on the Bat Signal and getting Bruce involved, either.

"You wouldn't think so, which is why I didn't contact you sooner." Jim looked tired. More than usual.

Bruce felt something like an uneasy premonition crawl up his neck.

"What changed?"

"Well, we—or, I noticed that these small-time crimes were linked."

"How?" They'd both been doing this long enough for Jim to know what Bruce meant by it. How are they linked? How did you notice? How can I help?

"The perpetrators.”

“The perpetrators are all different,” Damian pointed out.

Another uneasy look from Jim. “Not the same perpetrators, true—they don't even know each other. Don’t live in the same neighborhood, aren’t the same age, gender, ethnicity, socioeconomic background, nothing. All are first-time offenders. None of them have a motive. Or a dog in the fight, so to speak."

Bruce flipped through the profiles in the folder. A graduate student who'd stolen a car for a joy ride. A 40-year-old mother of three who'd snatched three purses. A grandfather who'd painted obscenities on a storefront in broad daylight. (Phuck You Phantom. Poor spelling, or a clue?)

They'd all turned themselves in.

“Are they linked by their differences, then?” Damian continued. It was a good instinct, though not the correct deduction in this case. Bruce could tell that much, at least.

"Each of them has the same story,” said Jim. "They all say they don't know what came over them, they just felt compelled to do something…dangerous."

Bruce frowned. "Dangerous?"

"Their words, not mine. That's what tipped me off, though. They all used the same phrase: ‘I just wanted to live a little’."

"Are there only three so far?"

"No. Those are just three I interviewed today who tipped me off that something unusual was going on. I've been going through old cases, looking for similar motifs, but it's hard to separate normal people having a bad day who made a poor decision from…whatever this is."

Bruce scanned the dossier one more time, but he'd have to wait until later to do a more thorough evaluation of the evidence.

For now, better to focus on something he could only get from Jim: the gut instinct developed through years of being a detective.

"Any other similarities?"

"They each said as soon as they did it, the compulsion left them. They didn't remember anything else. Not even committing the crimes."

Bruce's frown deepened. Jim was right: This was strange. "Were they under the influence of any toxins? Hypnosis, perhaps? Nano-tech?"

"Checked for signs of all the usual suspects. All negative. The only notable symptoms—if you can call them that—are that after the fact, they all experienced some level of confusion, dizziness, nausea, and slightly lower body temperature than average. Not outside normal parameters, though."

Strange indeed.

Damian sniffed. "Sounds like carbon monoxide poisoning to me."

"Robin." Bruce cleared his throat.

"Oh, right. 'Don't jump to conclusions, only gather facts'," Damian recited in an accurate if not unflattering imitation of Bruce. Clearly, he’d been spending too much time with Jason.

"That will never not be weird," Jim grumbled. "Anyway…Honestly, I don't have any idea who could be behind this, or why they’re doing it, or even what they’re doing. No one's been hurt yet, nor has any property been majorly damaged, but you know how these things go. Starts small and innocuous, then next thing you know, whole city is mind-controlled in some…plot."

He waved his hand in a way that might have suggested the general state of Gotham.

Bruce knew that all too well. "We'll see what we can find."

Thursday, September 22nd, 4 p.m. (ish)

Tim stared at the graffiti, comparing it with the blurry photos he had on his phone of eight other matching pieces of graffiti across the city.

G̵̳̑o̴̞͊t̵̗͋h̴͍͐a̷̙͆m̸̢͋'̶̥̚ṣ̷̍ ̸͔̈́G̴͕͝h̸̳͛ơ̷͇s̶̼̋t̴̽ͅś̵̖ ̴͔̊A̵͕͒r̵̢͊e̵͍͆ ̶̝̈́W̸̡̊a̶͍̾ț̴̍c̵͙͊h̴͇̋i̷̬͗n̸̹̑g̴̡͆ ̷̳̒Y̸̹̐ȏ̴̫u̵͕̒

It was legible enough in person, despite what, to all appearances, looked like manually-generated zalgo text. Barely legible, yes, but just legible enough to be…legible.

God, Tim was tired.

On his phone, the photos looked bad. Worse than bad; they looked like drunk snapchats. Wayne Tech phones had the best camera on the market (he'd seen to it himself), and Tim had hands steady enough to be a surgeon, even on only five hours’ sleep. He wasn’t the problem, and neither was his phone.

Which raised the question: what was the problem?

Bruce had asked Tim to look into this, so he was, but still. 'Survey Gotham's graffiti' was kind of broad, as missions went. This level of "crime" was also kind of below their radar, usually. Sure, there’d been that one time when the Return of the Joker had been foretold with graffiti, but that was one time. Unless it was happening again, and Bruce simply hadn’t mentioned there being a larger picture. But surely there had to be one. Just because Tim didn't see why this was important didn't mean anything in this instance.

A small, ugly part of Tim wondered how important this ‘mission’ could actually be, insistent that if it were really that important, Bruce would have done it himself.

But Tim was Actively Choosing Not To Think That Way. It was important to Bruce that Tim do this mission, and that was a fact he could take to the bank.

Tim knew this because Bruce had made a special point to see that Tim was available and asked personally that he do it. He'd said ‘Tim, are you free this afternoon?’ to which Tim had said ‘You have access to my schedule whether I like it or not’, to which Bruce had, in turn, replied ‘You’re right, silly me, I needn’t have asked. You’re so on top of things, Tim, this is why you’re my favorite, and also why I can't trust anyone but you with this mission.’

…Alright, so he hadn’t said that last part. He’d raised a supercilious eyebrow at Tim’s snark, and then said he needed Tim to run a photographic survey of Gotham’s graffiti and find anything "suspicious", and since Tim was a Team Player™, that’s what he was doing.

It was a simple if tedious mission, which was why he'd asked Dick to come with him, but Dick had just texted: busy, sry (sad cowboy emoji). Bart was also busy, as were Connor, and Cass, and Steph, and Duke. Jason had been in a stabby mood lately and Damian was a Gremlin. Babs was a responsible adult with a job, but she technically was with him off and on through comms. Mostly off, but still. It was the thought that counted.

And that…was pretty much everyone Tim knew and wanted to spend time with.

So it was just Tim and his phone, wandering around Gotham taking pictures like a misguided wannabe influencer.

Tim probably should be annoyed with the whole thing—and would have been, normally—but it was kind of interesting. Some of the graffiti truly was art, no matter what the GCPD and landlords had to say about it. Sooner or later, though, the graffiti, good or bad, would be painted over. Impermanent as most things were, especially in Gotham. He just wished he'd brought his actual camera. A photograph of street art wasn’t really the same as looking at the art itself, but it was almost like archiving the experience…

On second thought, that was probably why Bruce had asked Tim to do this: a way to give Tim time to pursue his hobby under the guise of investigation. Why couldn’t Bruce just have said that? Tim supposed Bruce was trying, which was something, but still. Now Tim was out here with shitty phone pictures of what could have been great film photographs all because Bruce couldn't just say things like normal people did.

Though, to be fair, some of what he’d captured today were shitty phone pictures of shitty graffiti. Case in point: what he was not-so-affectionately calling the Gotham Ghost series. It definitely wasn't art. Though maybe that was the point? The repetition of ugliness?

No, that was giving the creator too much credit. There was no message. Whoever had traipsed all over Gotham writing the same message over and over about ghosts in zalgo text certainly didn't qualify as art in Tim's opinion.

There was something about it, though. Some…quality that drew him in.

Maybe because it didn't show up clearly on his phone. Or Babs' surveillance cameras (he'd asked, even though she said she was busy, and she'd graciously re-positioned several of her surveillance cameras to tell him that no, she didn't see any graffiti, but focusing the camera on the wall made the camera glitch out, and was this a practical joke? Because it wasn't funny. And then she'd hung up.).

There were lots of potential scientific explanations, of course. None that made sense for vandalizing dirty Gotham alleys, though. In any case, it was definitely suspicious, and that was what he was here to find.

"'Gotham's Ghosts Are Watching You'…what does that even mean?" He mused aloud. "And why nine?"

(He'd never really broken the habit of talking out loud to himself. Sometimes his own voice was the only one he'd hear for days at a time. It wasn’t like that now, of course, but sometimes when he found himself alone, it was easy to forget.)

He stared at the wall, contemplating whether to risk Jason laughing at him by asking about Crime Alley Artists ('you call those scribbles art, Timber?') or Damian's ire by asking his opinion as an artist ('you think I concern myself with such a lowly medium, Drake?').

Maybe Tim should have taken that online Banksy Masterclass, after all.

He was interrupted from his (admittedly) ineffectual musings by the sound of an empty can clattering against the asphalt.

Standing at the mouth of the alley was a kid, staring at Tim, frozen with an expression of surprise on his face. He shook his surprise, noticed what Tim was facing, glanced at the graffiti, looked back at Tim, narrowed his eyes, and turned around to keep on walking on.

Tim didn't have to be a genius to identify this behavior as Highly Suspicious. But, he was a genius, and the obvious conclusion was: That Guy Knew Something.

Tim didn't have any other leads. Rather disappointing after a long day's work. Or four hours' worth, at least. But now he had identified a Potential Person of Interest. Bingo. Time to do something more interesting than regret not taking that overpriced Street Art History Class and leaving his camera at home.

Anyway. Step one: chase down the POI.

"Excuse me."

The kid—who, now that Tim was closer, saw was Not A Kid, but closer to Tim's age and taller than him, too—turned to look at him.

"Uh, hi?"

Huh. Kinda cute. He reminded Tim of Kon a bit—

Right. Stay on task. Step two: Greet the POI. "Hi. Sorry to bother you, I've got kind of a weird question…"

The guy looked wary now. Great job, Timbo.

Step Three: disarm through dissembling. And/or straight-up lying.

"Nothing too weird! Sorry. Um. I work for my school's newspaper, and we're doing a piece on Gotham street art, and I've seen a few of these around." He gestured to the graffiti. "Do you know anything about it? Like what it means, or who put it up…?"

The guy narrowed his eyes. Blue eyes. Not quite Kryptonian blue, but still very bright. Coal black hair, lean muscular build like a swimmer, though trying to hide it with a baggy zip-up and layered t-shirts—

"What are you, a cop?"

Tim blinked. "…Do I look like—"

"No, but like, that's a very cop thing to ask."

Yeah, okay. So he had a point. "I just want to know about the street art."

The guy snorted. "'Street Art'? Those pathetic scribbles? Please. Don't try to Good Cop me, it won't work."

He was right, it wouldn't. Specifically, because Tim would need someone to play Bad Cop to his Good Cop to enact that strategy, and Tim was alone.

"First of all, I'm not old enough to be a cop—"

"You don't have to actually be a cop to be a cop, you know."

"What?"

The guy shook his head. "It's true. Did you know the police sometimes let minors get out of Juvie by making them try to trick people into breaking the law?"

"…what?"

"Yeah. They make them go to restaurants and order alcohol underage. Try to, anyway. If the server forgets to ask for an ID, well. There goes that restaurant's liquor license. Unless they pay the cops to forget about it, of course."

Tim had regrets. "Okay? Well, I'm not a cop, and this isn't a sting operation—"

"Exactly what a cop would say," the guy muttered.

He was dissembling, Tim realized. He’d done a pretty good job of it, too. It had taken Tim a good while to recognize he was being distracted.

So, odds were good that this guy definitely knew something.

Time for Step Four: get this Not Interrogation back on track. "Please. I just want to know about the street art. Do you know what it means?"

"Seems pretty obvious to me." He jerked his chin toward the graffiti. "Exactly what it says on the tin: ’Gotham's Ghosts are Watching you.”

Tim looked back at the graffiti, more to buy time than anything else. He knew what it looked like.

So, time for Step five: get the POI to expand and explain. Nothing got someone to talk like giving a confident and incorrect answer oneself.

"So it's a social commentary? Similar to ‘History has its eyes on you’?"

The guy rolled his eyes. Bingo.

"Ugh, of course you're a theater kid. But no. 'History has its eyes on you' is about the future looking back on us and judging us for, well, you know. This" —he gestured emphatically to the graffiti— "is more like, Vivaldi rolling in his grave because we put the Four Seasons to…I don't know. Something he'd find cringe. A video of a tortoise trying to cross the street, or something? Oh, that sounds amazing though, I'd watch that."

…Tim would also like to see that video. He could make it happen, if it didn't already exist, surely Damian knew where to find a friendly tortoise to borrow—

Oh. The guy was dissembling again. Dang. Either he was better than Tim thought, or Tim needed a nap. Or caffeine. Maybe all three.

Step six: bring the conversation back on topic.

"You seem to know a lot about art."

"Not really. But like I said: that isn't art."

"Then what is it?"

The guy quirked an eyebrow. "You really want to know?"

"I asked, didn't I?"

The guy sized him up and seemed to come to a decision.

"Well, this is just my amateur opinion, but I think it's a spectral lodestone to protect weak spirits and ward off greedy ones using a combination of blood sacrifice and ghost sigils. But who knows?"

Step seven: point out the obvious. "You're fucking with me."

"What? No. Perish the thought."

The guy grinned. His teeth were very white. And…sharp. A trick of the light?

"What's wrong with your teeth?"

The guy abruptly stopped smiling. Shit. Tim hadn't meant to say that.

"I mean, do you file them? That's kinda cool if you do. Hardcore." Why was Tim still talking?

The guy's gaze darted behind Tim briefly, as if looking for something.

Tim wondered if he found it.

"No, I do not file my teeth. They're a perfectly normal set of human teeth in a human mouth."

What a weird turn of phrase. "Are you…on something?"

"What, like drugs? No way. If only I had such a convenient excuse for the things I say. Maybe I should be medicated though."

"Um—"

"I'm seriously serious, though, about the Ghost Sigils. Like, dead serious."

"Really." Tim was kind of glad now that Dick had ditched him to go scope out drug dealers. He’d find this all way too funny.

"If you don’t believe me, come back here at night with a film camera and snap some shots. Then you'll see how much I'm not kidding."

Aaand he was fucking with Tim again. "Listen—"

"Anyway, I guess the art, if you must call it that, is saying that if you died and had to watch the shit that goes down in Gotham, you'd want to complain about it, so maybe we should live better. Or else."

Huh. That was almost a genuine answer. Time to push his luck while the guy was distracted.

"Right. So do you know who made it, then?"

The guy gave him the stink eye. "I'm not a narc."

Damn. Not falling for that, then.

A different tactic, perhaps? Operation: Pity Me?

"I'm just trying to do my job," Tim pleaded. "This is the first story they've let me pitch and run myself. If it's a dud they'll put me back on covering the debate team. Do you know how boring covering the debate team is?"

The guy squinted. He didn't look sympathetic; he looked suspicious.

"What school do you even go to?"

"Um…" time to think of a lie real quick. Tim knew schools, he wasn't a drop-out— "Gotham Academy."

Shit. Over 500 high schools in Gotham, and he picked the one that someone in Crime Alley who knew about street art would hate.

Somewhere, Tim’s brothers were laughing at him.

Surprisingly, though, the guy didn't sneer or roll his eyes as Tim expected. He looked pensive.

"Ah, the Rich Kid school? Now I understand." He nodded. "Look, they probably don't care what it really means as long as it seems intellectual and deep, okay?"

"But—"

"Just tell them it's about, I dunno. Lower class plight, cause we all feel like Ghosts To Be."

"I care what it really means," Tim said as sincerely as he could. It helped that he really did care.

"Do you? Then figure it out yourself. That's the point of art. Not that these scribbles are art.

"Anyway, I'm gonna be late for work, so good luck, I guess. Don't get stabbed, or you might become one of those ghosts with nothing to do but watch!"

He gave a jaunty wave just this side of sardonic and disappeared around the corner. Tim didn't even have the chance to get his name, let alone work out how to contact him again (through legal means or otherwise).

Step eight: back to the drawing board. Or maybe, if he got desperate, he'd come back here at night with his camera just to confirm he was an idiot.

Friday, September 23rd, 12:34 a.m. exactly

Somehow, Danny thought he should have expected this. Here he was at the cemetery, 12:34 a.m. on the dot, Friday, his suspicions proven true.

The satisfaction of being right didn't make it any less annoying. The rain didn’t help much, either.

"Clockwork. What a surprise."

"Hello, Danny." He smiled serenely. Clockwork was one of the few ghosts who called Danny by his actual name rather than Phantom. Or Welp. Or Baby Pops. Or Lil’ D.

Danny held up the green post-it note. "I suppose this is your idea of a joke?"

"I certainly thought it was funny."

Danny rewarded that by crumpling the note and throwing it at Clockwork's head. He avoided it deftly, catching it with one hand.

"Seriously, though, was all the cloak and daggers really necessary to meet up, or were you just bored?"

Clockwork hummed and floated over to a headstone, brushing it gently with his fingers as if to bless it. A thanks, perhaps, for letting them use the space as a meeting ground.

"Gotham is an unusual city. I try not to interfere here as much as possible—"

"Oh, is that what you call this? Not interfering?"

Clockwork's form shifted from child to old man in a way that felt distinctly pointed. "Better to avoid freezing time here if it can be avoided. Someone might notice."

He glanced meaningfully at the yellow signal lighting the sky, a sigil of protection for those in this city.

The living ones, at least.

"What's Batman gonna do about it?" Danny joked. "Still. A graveyard? Really? A bit on the nose, wouldn't you say?"

"Clichés exist for a reason, Danny. The barriers are thin in places like this. Easier to slip in and out without ruffling any feathers." His smile turned devious. "Besides, I hardly think you have room to complain, haunting the underpass of a bridge. It doesn't pay to throw stones in glass houses."

Danny shrugged. "What's the point of being half-dead if you can't lean into it on occasion?"

Clockwork bowed his head in acknowledgment. "I'm impressed with how adept you've become at finding liminal spaces."

"Not like it's hard in Gotham.” Understatement of the century, really; there were micro-fissures all over the place. In the parks, in the schools, in every dark, dirty, dangerous alley stained with a history of crime. Which was most of them.

“Danny—”

“Speaking of clichés, I’m not going to have an angry ghost showing up at my home yelling at me for using their grave for social hour, am I?”

“Don’t worry. This grave is empty.” Clockwork shifted into his kid form again. “I can’t make any promises beyond that, however.”

Great. Crypticisms, as usual. One of these days Danny would get used to that from Clockwork. Probably. Maybe.

"So. You're here, I'm here. What do you need from me?"

Clockwork bobbed in the air, silent except for the clock in his chest. "I came to make sure you're doing alright. The last time we talked, things were…dark."

Danny sighed. He was glad to see Clockwork; he'd missed the old ghost. He was kind of Danny's only friend from outside Gotham these days.

Danny knew this probably wasn't just a social call, though. Clockwork was too important to risk Gotham's snare just to say hello.

"You really came all the way out here just to see how I'm doing? Can't you just look and know?"

"Observation doesn't reveal everything."

Huh. He must have been worried. "Well. As you can see, I'm still kicking. Half-kicking. You get it. But unless you've discovered a way of getting me home that won't, and I quote 'break space-time and half of the Geneva Conventions', then I'm doing about the same as ever."

Clockwork nodded, but he didn't seem happy about it. Fortunately, he didn't dwell on it, either. "Your…side hustle is an interesting choice."

Danny huffed a laugh. "Pretty sure it only counts as a side hustle if you're getting paid. Which I'm not."

"Isn't heroism its own reward?"

"Helping shades cross over and putting up a couple barriers to keep out bullies isn't exactly heroic."

"That's not how the shades feel."

"Yeah, well." Danny trailed off, not having any particular destination in mind for that sentence. "It's not fighting Nocturn, but it's honest work."

"Nocturn helped me contact you, in fact."

Of course he did. "The dream that girl had? Is her mom even dead?"

"Not yet. She is in a coma, however, and could use a little living encouragement from her estranged daughter."

“Couldn’t keep your meddling to the dead, huh?” Figures. "Why'd you have to use her, anyway? You could have sent a blob ghost with a letter or something. Hell, you could have sent me a message in my own dreams. Unless Nocturn is still salty over the last time we chatted?"

"Two birds, one stone, Danny."

"You know I hate riddles."

Clockwork raised an eyebrow. "Why do you think I used a human to contact you?"

"I don't know, Clockwork. It's almost 1 am and I worked a double today. I'm not exactly at my best."

Clockwork's palpable disappointment with this statement would have been more painful if Danny weren’t so used to it by now.

"It was to prepare you. You need to accept that the dead aren't the only ones who can find you. If the living know how to look for you, you won't be able to escape as easily as you have in the past."

"Despite the recent uptick in competence from The Guys In White, they haven't been able to find me yet."

"Yet," Clockwork emphasized. "What will you do if a true master of the occult should appear?"

"Like who? The sad guy in the trench coat who keeps messing with my sigils? That rich kid with a camera?"

"Or someone like Freakshow."

Ah. So, maybe Clockwork had a point. "Well, I guess I'd deal with it like I deal with those idiots who keep trying to summon me to their creepy culty basement.”

“All you’re doing is ignoring them.”

Danny shrugged. “It’s worked so far. If someone more competent comes along…I’ll figure it out. Not much I can do about it before the fact."

"You can—"

"I'm not going to go out of my way to put myself on Batman's radar."

Clockwork nodded as if this were an expected response. "The rumors about his attitude towards metas are exaggerated, if that's your concern."

"Yeah, well. I'm not exactly a meta, am I?"

"You developed powers as a result of a traumatic event. Most people would have just died from what happened to you. Face it, Danny: you are, at the very least, meta-adjacent."

Danny was sick of this conversation; he'd had it so many times now. Never with Clockwork, but the people he used to chat about it with weren't here.

"Tell me, did you pick that girl to be your messenger because she looks like Jazz?"

Clockwork gave him a look that was closer to pity than Danny was comfortable with.

"I meant what I told you over the summer, Danny: You will have family again. You could have friends again, too, if you engaged with people."

Danny scuffed his shoe. He really didn't want to be having this conversation again, either. "People who get involved with me only get wrapped up in bad situations. I'm fine like this."

"Fine? Really, Danny." Clockwork shook his head. "Even if that were true, you can do better than fine."

Could he? Danny wasn’t so sure. “By my standards, this is better than fine.”

Clockwork shifted to his adult form, expression unreadable. “And yet you haven’t noticed.”

Danny waited for an elaboration, but as usual, Clockwork didn’t elaborate. That was something Danny had to ask for. “Notice what?”

“Your refusal to assume your other form is having effects.”

“Effects?”

“You could say drawing on your ghostly side while staying in your human form is causing some…bleed over.”

Danny winced. “That sounds bad.”

“It’s not bad. Or good. It’s simply…a result of your choices. I thought you were aware of it, but if you're not…” He trailed off, leaving Danny to fill in the blanks himself, as usual.

If you aren't aware, you should be.

Clockwork's gaze returned to the sky, lingering on the Bat Signal again for just a moment before refocusing on Danny. "I need to go. The barriers are strengthening again. Please think about what I said."

"I don’t know, Clockwork, you said a whole lot of stuff that amounts to nothing, in the end. Not sure it’s healthy to dwell on it."

Clockwork raised an eyebrow but didn't comment. "Good luck with the next part. You'll need it."

Good luck? What did that mean? "Clockwork, what—"

"Oh, and Danny? Happy birthday."

Then, like a sigh in the wind, he disappeared.

Great. "Lovely chatting with you, Clockwork. Fantastic information sharing as always."

Danny started his lonely trek back home. Or what counted as home these days.

He wasn’t alone for long, however. He rarely was in Gotham.

"Phantom."

"Hey, Alex."

"Someone's getting mugged on the corner of Mora and 8th."

"Bummer."

“That’s all you have to say about it?”

Alex was technically younger than Danny—thirteen or fourteen. But he had also technically been dead longer than Danny had been alive, even if one counted the 2 years Danny had maintained a casual relationship with the concept of living.

Alex's youth was one of the reasons Danny found it difficult to deal with him. He liked Alex, generally, but it was always uncomfortable to be reminded of the cruelty and prematurity with which lives were ended. He was just a kid and would be forever.

The other reason was the unsettling way Alex's Death Wound bled sluggishly—a jagged line across his neck, dripping red eternally. That, paired with his earnestness and the way he sought Danny out whenever there was a crime in Danny's general vicinity…it was all a bit much. But he tried his best to treat Alex like he wanted to be treated, which mostly turned out to be 'somewhat annoying younger sibling'.

"I told you, Alex. I'm not a hero."

Alex bobbed along in the air beside him. He'd once told Danny he'd been a ghost so long that walking felt unnatural now. Danny wondered if that would ever happen to him.

"You kind of are. A hero, I mean. Just ask any ghost in Gotham!"

Danny grumbled. He’d said enough times that he didn’t do what he did for hero-worship, so he doubted saying it again would have any effect, but it wasn’t something he could just leave uncontested.

“Really? Any ghost? Even the Henderson Brothers?”

Alex pursed his lips. “They’re gangsters. Their opinion on your heroism isn’t worth much.”

"Alright, how about this then: I'm not a vigilante."

"Sure, you just dress like one for work."

Danny turned up his coat collar. Fall in Gotham was settling in cold and damp. It had stopped raining for now, but it probably would start up again soon, if the thunder was to be believed. "I don't see you bothering any of the other Bat Burger employees."

"I would if I could.” Alex frowned in consideration. “And if they could do what you can do."

That, at least, Danny believed.

"But they can’t, you know—" Alex mimed a right cross and an uppercut. "Without risking death, anyway. Probably. But you can't die, and you can throw a punch! I’ve seen you with Angela, you know."

"Uh-huh, but that's something I'd like to keep a secret, and if I go making a spectacle of myself, it won't stay a secret."

“You don’t want anyone knowing you can box?”

“I don’t care if people know about the boxing, Alex.”

“Oh. So it’s being a boxing ghost that’s the problem?”

Danny almost smiled. I am the boxing ghost. Beware.

“I’m not exactly a ghost, you know. Much less a boxing ghost. Just a liminal guy who can box. When Angela asks, anyway.”

“Same difference.”

Boxing wasn’t his favorite way to fight if he were honest. His preferred way to fight was ‘not at all’. But life—or death—had different plans for him. So Did Angela. Angela liked to box. It almost made Danny miss the martial arts training he used to do with his mom. He’d never been very good at it, but it was something they could do together that wasn’t all about ghosts.

He’d quit training with her the moment he realized ghost strength was a thing; it was too dangerous for him to practice with a regular person, let alone his mom. Ghost hunter and scientist extraordinaire.

He’d rarely gotten to use it on ghosts, either; they didn’t follow the rules of gravity often enough for martial arts to be much use.

"You could do it invisibly?" Alex suggested. “If it needs to stay a secret, which it doesn’t…”

Danny sighed. Alex never gave up, Danny would give him that. "The mugging is probably over by now, anyway."

Alex flew directly in front of Danny, blocking his path forward.

"I know who did it though! We could track them down, make them give back what they stole. Maybe scare ‘em straight or something." He crossed his arms. “This isn’t the first time. These guys are getting bolder.”

Danny stepped around Alex and turned the corner, subtly looking left and right to be sure no one was around. Mora and 8th was on his way home, if he didn't walk through walls to get back to his apartment. Though given what Clockwork had said about using his powers in his human form…maybe better not to.

“Speaking of tracking people down, did you follow that girl from the park? Jess?”

Alex pouted. “Yes.”

“So you know where to find her?”

“Yeah.”

Danny waited.

“She’s on the other side of town, okay?” Translation: away from the muggers. “Whatever you need to tell her can wait, can’t it?”

“I’ll decide that. Where does she live?”

With a heavy sigh, Alex told him. “She lives next to that Hex shop in the Village.”

“Hokus & Pokus?”

“Yeah.”

Danny hated that place. Maybe it could wait until tomorrow…

Yes. It definitely could. Not that he wanted to go to an occult shop on his birthday. But it was technically already his birthday, so whether he went now or waited until daylight, he'd be going on his birthday either way.

What settled it was this: he didn’t want to go over there in the middle of the night; that’s when occult folk tended to be the most active. He’d mostly been able to avoid the cults and summonings in Gotham, except for the first one, but it never hurt to be too careful.

Occultists never tried anything when the sun was up.

“Yeah, ok, we’ll go tomorrow.”

Alex grinned, small and hopeful. “So you’ll stop the mugging?”

Danny glanced away, not wanting to see the exact moment that smile faded.

"Look, Alex. It's been a long day. I just don't have it in me to enact some extra-judicial justice on a bunch of muggers, ok? Besides, if said muggers live around here, they're probably in as bad a situation as the person they just mugged. People don't live in the Narrows because they have an abundance of choices."

“They don’t live here,” Alex mumbled. “Probably,” he added.

Better not to risk it, Danny decided. He’d take the train tonight. It was exhausting going intangible and invisible at the same time without fully transforming, anyway. And like Clockwork said, Danny rarely transformed these days if he could help it.

Alex followed him silently, pouting the whole way.

They arrived back at Danny's apartment building, no muggers in sight. Alex was technically also a resident of the building, but he came and went far more frequently than others. He said he liked to watch the streets and pretend he could do something about what he saw there.

Danny was 70% sure he said it as some kind of passive-aggressive guilt trip to encourage Danny to start fighting crime like some kind of Bat.

Now, he hovered on the threshold of Danny's door, as if unsure of his welcome.

Danny took pity on him. "I'm sorry, ok? I'd help if I could, but I just can't risk it."

Alex shrugged. "I'm sure the victims of Gotham would be very understanding of your position."

"The victims of Gotham have at least nine vigilantes looking out for them already. I'm sure my absence is neither noticed nor resented."

Alex shrugged again. Teenagers, honestly.

"Look, you’re welcome to come in and keep telling me about these muggers, and I can try to get their descriptions to someone who can do something about it—”

“You can do something about it,” Alex mumbled.

“But,” Danny continued, ignoring the commentary, “it’s late, and Angela's likely to pop in."

Alex grimaced. "I think I'll make myself scarce, then. I don't want Angela attempting to box me again."

"Leaving me alone with her tender instruction?"

"Better you than me. Bye, Phantom. I hope that next time, you'll step up to be the hero you were meant to be."

With that, he disappeared, making sure he got the last word in. Brat.

Danny tried not to let the guilt get to him. He didn’t help the living anymore; it never ended well. Besides, Gotham was a city with a higher per capita vigilante count than any other. The last thing he wanted to do was step on anyone’s toes. Or get stabbed. Or get discovered by the GIW. Or worse (and there were worse outcomes, Danny knew).

He told himself his reasons were good enough. Sometimes, he even believed it. Almost.

Friday, September 23rd, evening

Dick crouched on the corner of a roof just this side of dilapidated in the bad part of the good side of Bludhaven. Which was to say, the part of Bludhaven closest to Gotham. He could see it twinkling across the water from his perch, like a jewel box full of lies and promise.

But Gotham wasn’t his problem tonight. He’d chosen this particular roof not because he trusted it to hold him for long (he definitely did not trust it) but because of where it was and what he could see from it. Namely: it happened to overlook the defunct donut factory where one Blue Flu Gang was attempting to reinstate their place on the Gotham Scene, limited as it had been during their first rodeo.

Thunder rumbled in the distance. It would probably rain soon. He could feel the electricity in the atmosphere, smell the ozone on the cool breeze as it tousled his hair. Hopefully the weather would be good to him and hold off until he’d finished up what he came here to do; rain and rotting roofs rarely mixed well.

He shouldn't shatter those Blue Flu dreams all by his lonesome, he knew. Dick could do it—it would even be easy. But he was here for information. And to dish out a beatdown. But mostly information.

It was much harder to beat up a bunch of people all by himself and leave them in a state for extracting information than it would have been with even one extra pair of hands. One would think that in a city as rife with vigilantes as Gotham that Dick would have his pick of temporary partners for this shindig.

But Jason was busy (and had turned off his comms when Dick pestered him about how busy was he, really)((apparently, he was that busy, really)).

Team Batgirl was also busy, though Steph stayed on comms to give a running commentary about things that would have annoyed Jason if he hadn't rage-quit comms.

Duke was asleep, the lucky bat.

No way was Dick involving Damian, because this was a drug bust and it was a school night.

And Bruce…well. He'd probably be happy to work with Dick. Despite the progress they'd made, however, Dick just couldn't bring himself to invite Batman to Bludhaven. Maybe it was a point of pride, but this was his city. Barrier Island. Whatever.

There was Tim, of course. He was old enough to do a drug bust, right? Though Dick had kind of blown him off yesterday…but it wasn’t like he’d wanted to. Much as he'd like to, he couldn’t just swing over to Gotham when he was supposed to be working to spend time with Tim. Tim knew that, right? Maybe Dick should tell him just in case, and then make up for it by inviting him along to bust the Blue Flu Gang…

Yeah, Dick should call Tim. He'd probably like to work with Dick. They hadn't worked a case together since—

"Don't you dare," said Babs.

"What?"

"Involve Tim. Not tonight. He's asleep."

Dick would have asked how Babs was able to read his mind when she was all the way in Gotham and not looking at him, but he had much more important things to follow up on.

"Tim is asleep…on purpose?"

“He’s not any worse than the rest of us when it comes to sleeping.”

“Yeah, but Tim in bed before 8? You should check him for nanobots or something.”

Babs hummed, noncommittal. "Damian did say he was acting weird—"

"You mean other than sleeping on purpose?"

She clicked her tongue. Right, interruptions, big no-no.

"Sorry."

"Apparently," she continued, "he seemed upset about something. Came right in and went to sleep."

"If he's been asleep since this afternoon then surely he plans to wake up to go on patrol. Unless he's got a case of nanobots—"

"Nanobots or not, if you wake him up to go on a drug bust, I'll brick your phone."

"Rude."

"You know I'll do it."

She would.

If Tim really did have nanobots, Dick was gonna feel like, well. A dick.

"Besides," she continued, "your intel isn't good, anyway."

It was only a decade of professionalism that had him biting back a scoff. "You provided this intel, as I recall."

"I told you where the Blue Flu Gang is meeting these days. But they're not the ones behind your new drug. Which I would have told you to begin with, had you asked."

Dick grumbled. Another night wasted. "How do you know?"

"I hacked their phones and read their texts. Their taste in memes blows, by the way."

"Their phones aren’t encrypted?"

"They're smart enough to use end-to-end encryption, but not smart enough to recognize an unauthorized app update with a nice little back door, crafted by yours truly." He could hear the smile in her voice, curving the shape of her words into smug satisfaction.

Dick would probably always be a little bit in love with Barbara. It had faded into something manageable, something different from what it had been, but it was a part of him and likely always would be. He was so used to it by now that it hardly ever distracted him. Mostly.

"And no mentions of Mezmur amongst the not-so-dank memes?"

"Only that they want in and don't have a contact to introduce them. They're scrambling as much as you are, though much less effectively. Still, even a blind hog, and all that. I'll keep monitoring in case something turns up in their circles, but so far, no dice."

"Huh. Damn."

It wasn't that he'd doubted she was right, but he’d really been hoping these would be the guys. It fit their MO, and the symptoms of the drug were flu-like. He'd thought it could be a calling card.

But if Babs said it was wrong, usually it was better to trust her.

"Don't be too bummed. It's not all a loss. They're looking into bringing fentanyl back to Gotham since they can't get in on the Mezmur scene."

Dick whipped out his escrima, grin on his face. "Well. Looks like the Blue Flu Gang needs a potent reminder about why there's no fentanyl in Gotham. Do you think one kneecap will get the picture across, or should I go for the double whammy?"

"I think you should call B for backup."

Dick made a face. "Hard pass. It's just the Blue Flus. Easy peasy."

“All it takes is one lucky hit.”

“That’s why we wear kevlar.”

“Nightwing—”

“How many are we looking at?”

She sighed, but let the topic drop. Dick was as stubborn as Bruce about most things, after all. “There are five inside the factory now.”

“Only five guys? No problemo. I do prefer Bat Burger, though.”

She sighed again. “If you get shot, I’m telling Batman where you are.”

“If I get shot, I’ll let you.”

Still Friday, September 23rd, late

Danny walked through Gotham Village, marching down damp, dirty alleys to get the scent of off-brand incense out of his nose.

He really hated self-proclaimed occultists.

‘Jess’ had been suitably pleased to learn that her mother was not, in fact, dead. She was even more pleased to hear that her mother was merely in a coma at Gotham General, waiting to be called back to wakefulness. By none other than Jess herself, no less.

Everyone liked to feel special, after all. Most people didn't realize being 'special' often meant 'fate singles you out for a kick in the metaphorical and sometimes literal ass'.

“We shouldn’t have fought. It was stupid,” Jess (whose name was probably not really Jess) explained.

Danny didn’t want to ask, but growing up in the Midwest meant vague, leading statements were his weakness. “What did you fight over?”

“She wanted me to take over running her grocery store, and I wanted to turn it into a candle shop. I make candles,” she said, gesturing to the waxy sculptures around her. Which were candles, apparently.

Yeah. That was a stupid thing to fight over. Danny wondered how she'd react if he told her he used to fight with his parents over the sentience of ghosts and the ethics of experimentation on extra-dimensional life forms.

Probably not well.

“Maybe she’d let you open a, um, candle stand inside her store? As proof of concept?"

Jess’ eyes sparkled. “That is an excellent idea, Voice for the Dead.”

“Please don’t call me that.”

She nodded solemnly.

It was late now—later than Danny wanted to be out. He’d stopped by Jess’ place after work, even though it was out of his way, but he’d had to wait until she actually got home to talk to her. Alex wouldn’t tell him whether she was home or not, on account of being annoyed about the mugging thing.

So, Danny had waited three hours. And then Jess wanted to talk about candles, and the occult, and ghosts, and Gotham, and a whole variety of inane topics for much longer than Danny had wanted to talk about any of those things with anyone. Especially while cheap incense wafted through the air.

Some birthday. Happy sixteenth, Danny. Smell some patchouli.

When his subtle hints that he’d like to leave, please, failed to land, he finally just decided to come out and say it. “Welp, I’m glad I was able to help, but I'd better get going. Ghosts to talk to, spirits to appease, you know how it is.”

Her face paled. “Oh, I’m so sorry for keeping you! Here, take this." She shoved a red candle shaped like a duck into his hands. "If you burn it, it should ward off evil spirits. Not that you need it, but…it's the least I can do."

He took it reluctantly.

"It floats. On water."

"I guess I'll definitely be protected from evil spirits in the bathtub."

She gave him a shy smile. "If there's ever anything you need, and it's in my power to help, please don't hesitate to ask."

Danny definitely would hesitate to ask Jess for anything, but he just thanked her and left. This evening had dragged on enough as it was.

So, now Danny wandered the alleys, figuring exhaust and grease were a better alternative than the cloying incense that seemed to stick to his clothes even now. She must have used ritual incense. That stuff was rank and had staying power. Or maybe it was the candle she'd given him. He should probably just throw it away, but if he had to guess, she'd given him a candle that she'd intended to sell. Throwing it away felt ungrateful.

Maybe he could find a nice stoop to leave it on.

Unfortunately, the most direct route home took him right through Crime Alley. He could have just flown back, sure, but he was wary of using his powers so close to the Occult shops. He’d discovered it was easier to resist summons while in his human form, and since he once again found himself alone during the time cults were most active…well. Better to walk and risk a stabbing than fly and risk a summoning.

It was a bad time to be in Crime Alley alone, but as Alex had so helpfully reminded him yesterday, he couldn’t die, really. Not easily, anyway. He’d probably be fine.

Probably.

And hey, since he was here again, he could fix the graffiti that Rich Guy had prevented him from fixing. There wouldn't be any interruptions this time of night.

Look at him, finding a silver lining. Jazz would be so proud.

— — —

It didn't alarm Danny to hear gunshots these days; it wasn't exactly a foreign sound in Gotham, particularly the closer one got to Crime Alley. And in Crime Alley? Practically white noise.

Normally, he just changed his route and considered going intangible for the rest of his walk home. Even if these gunshots were closer than usual, it wasn’t Danny’s problem.

So, the sound of gunfire didn't alarm him when he heard it.

It did alarm him when a body fell from a fire escape and landed in front of him with a curse and a groan. It alarmed him even more when his Ghost Sense rattled in his chest. It didn't escape his throat, but it was definitely there.

Not a full ghost, then, but someone on the way to be, perhaps.

Well. Not on Danny's watch.

He rushed over to the figure, who hadn’t moved since falling into the pile of cardboard and shattered palettes. Never a good sign. Danny bent over to check vitals, look for broken bones, blood, the works.

That was when it clicked who, exactly, Danny was attempting to help.

Red Hood, because of course it was.

Well, Red Hood or not, he wasn't getting any closer to being okay. Danny could compartmentalize enough to postpone the freaking out for later.

"Hey, uh, Mr.Hood, sir?” he tried.

No response.

The sound of shouting and thudding boots echoed down from the rooftops. Danny figured there was a non-zero chance that they were after Red Hood. He didn’t want to risk being wrong.

So. Danny placed a hand on Red Hood’s arm and let invisibility wash over them both. Moments later, three men strapped with guns arrived at the top of the fire escape Red Hood had just fallen down.

They said something in a language Danny didn't recognize, then carried on. Probably-almost-definitely looking for Red Hood, then.

Danny waited a minute longer in case they returned; when they didn’t, he released the invisibility.

Now, to deal with the half-dead vigilante.

"Red Hood? You with me?"

Red Hood groaned.

"Oh, good. Still alive."

"Br…Batman?”

"Nope, not Batman, sorry. Too short for that.”

Red Hood wheezed. An aborted laugh, maybe.

“Do you remember what happened?” Danny prompted.

“Hng.” Hm. That sounded like a reluctant ‘no’ according to Danny’s Dictionary of the Hurt-But-Hiding-It-Badly, third edition.

“You fell big time, Humpty-Dumpty style."

Red Hood took a moment to process that, then twitched as if remembering something.

"Mrkovns," he rasped, "Behind me."

“Big scary guys with guns?”

“Yeah,” he hissed. “Now fuck off, or they'll shoot you too."

So. Red Hood had been shot.

Danny watched dispassionately as Red Hood attempted to push himself up to lean against the alley wall. He wasn’t doing a very good job of it. Eventually, he gave up and slumped back on the bed of cardboard.

“They’re gone, by the way," Danny informed him. "I hid you.”

Red Hood exhaled heavily, visibly relaxing. “Oh. Neato.”

Neato? Maybe Red Hood was concussed. He had fallen three stories, after all. And been shot somewhere.

“I'm here to help," Danny continued, in case it wasn’t clear. “You’re hurt pretty bad.”

He didn't say 'Bad enough to ping my ghost sense' because that was need-to-know information, and Red Hood didn’t need to know. If all went well, they’d part ways with Red Hood none the wiser about how close he’d come to death.

Red Hood thudded his head on the palettes, garbling something that sounded like 'no' or 'fuck off' or 'gee, thanks, random citizen, I appreciate the assist'.

Whatever he said, he stopped resisting when Danny put a firm hand on his chest and held him down. Danny shivered at the half-formed ghost sense rattling his core again. This guy is like you, it said. Different but the same.

So, huh. That was different. Something to compartmentalize and contemplate later.

"What the hell?" Red Hood whispered. Guess he felt it too.

"Don't worry about it.”

Danny carefully did not look over to the choir of shades and ghosts watching them, all radiating concern. Red Hood must have a secret heart of gold to have such a loyal coterie of spirits following him around.

A particularly brave shade floated over. Help him, they said. As much as shades said anything, anyway.

Danny would have said he was trying if Red Hood had still been unconscious. He never talked to the dead where the living could hear him, though. He just had to hope his intentions were obvious.

“So. Should I call a hospital or is that a no go?"

"No hospital," Red Hood slurred.

Danny could respect that. But he wasn't sure he could fix this himself. "Alright. No hospital. Is there anyone else I can call?"

"Too far away. Med kit in my belt."

Danny almost laughed. "I'm not exactly a surgeon, bud."

"Just take out the bullet fragments, Dick, Jesus. I'll be fine with some sleep."

"Hey, I'm trying to save your life, don't call me a dick."

"Just. Do. It."

That heart of gold must be buried very, very deep.

A surgeon, Danny was not, but he had ghost powers. He could take out a few bullets, probably. A little invisibility there, a little intangibility there, and bing bang boom. Should be easy enough. He'd stitched himself up enough times; it was probably the same as stitching up someone else, right?

…right?

"Fine. Hold still."

There was a lot of blood. As Danny pulled open Red Hood's jacket, he saw why. That was a stomach wound. He'd been shot in the stomach. It looked like someone had shot him repeatedly in the same place until it broke through the protective plating of his suit.

Damn. Someone really wanted Red Hood dead. They wanted it to be slow and painful, too.

No time to think about that.

"So how'd you end up like this? Someone finally make good on a promise to rip you a new asshole or something?"

Red Hood groaned. "Terrorists—gnn. Really don't like it when you interrupt their arms deal."

Danny tutted. "Terrorists these days. Don't know what's good for 'em."

While he talked, Danny phased his hand intangible and part of Red Hood’s stomach invisible, focusing only on organic matter. It wasn't too difficult; applying his powers to people had always been easier than applying them to objects.

Sure enough, there were the bullet fragments, shattered into an alarming number of small, twisted pieces.

"Did you at least give as good as you got?" Danny asked, reaching for the fragments.

"Fuck yeah." Red Hood took a sharp breath. "Didn't think you—Jesus fuck—approved."

"Eh, I mean, murder is bad, but you don't kill anymore, right?"

"You know I try not to. Fuck those guys, though."

Danny chuckled. This was kind of surreal. "Yeah, fuck those guys for sure. They're probably planning some biological warfare or something equally nefarious and diabolical."

Red Hood exhaled heavily through his nose. "They got away."

"You'll get 'em next time. Though if it's all the same to you, I'd prefer they don't die within city limits."

"Why?"

"Because ghosts, duh."

Red Hood didn't say anything to that. Had he passed out again? Danny hoped not. He needed to concentrate, and he couldn't worry about how Red Hood passing out with a maybe concussion was probably bad.

Also, Danny should take an actual medic class if he wanted to do this again. Which he didn’t, really.

Right, focus.

The way the ectoplasm in Red Hood reacted to Danny was unusual. Unlike what Danny had thought when he’d originally rushed over, this ecto-situation wasn’t a new one. Red Hood’s ectoplasm was too stable—too bonded—to be fresh.

It was also semi-feral, for lack of a better word. It prickled Danny's hands, testing his resolve. Calm down, he thought. I'm helping.

It didn't calm down, but it did stop resisting, suspicion slowly replaced by intrigue.

Bit by bit, Danny found and removed the shrapnel. The work was slow-going but promising, once the ectoplasm relaxed.

When Danny was satisfied that he’d found all the bullet fragments, he focused on the wound still sluggishly bleeding out.

"Wht're you doin'?" Red Hood groaned.

Ah. Not passed out then. Good. "I'm saving your life. Like you asked."

He stared at Danny for a long moment. Or at least, he turned his helmeted head towards Danny. It felt like he was staring. "You're not Dick."

"Nope. I'm just the asshole who decided to help you."

That won Danny a chuckle and a pained groan.

"No laughing for at least three weeks,” Danny instructed, rummaging through Red Hood’s belt until he found the aforementioned med kit. “You got shot in the stomach."

“I know. I was there.”

Danny smiled, threading a needle with suture silk. “Well. There’s no better ‘fuck you’ than surviving, right?”

“Damn straight.” He groaned again, a gush of blood bubbling out of his wound.

Shit. “Um, I don’t think there’re any painkillers in your kit.” Danny knew from experience how much stitches without anesthetic sucked.

“Dsn’t work ‘n me anyway,” said Red Hood. “Just get it over with.”

Danny was worried Red Hood was losing blood too quickly for stitches to matter. “You really need a hospital, dude. And a blood transfusion, probably.”

“‘M fine,” he said stubbornly. “Start sewing.”

“Bossy,” said Danny. “Please don’t punch me. This is probably going to hurt.”

"I won’t. Pit waters like you." Danny didn't know what pit waters were, but it was probably good practice to not be too invested in the logic of a man bleeding out in an alley.

Danny started sewing. It was different than sewing himself up because he wasn't in pain while he did it. He coated his hand in a thin layer of frost, hoping to numb the pain.

"Cold," Red Hood mumbled. Danny hoped it was just from the ecto-ice and not a sign of imminent corporeal shutdown.

That ghostly same but different rushed through Danny again, his ice thrumming with recognition. It gave him an idea. Clearly, Red Hood already had ectoplasm bonded to him (which was concerning but not something Danny had the luxury to think about right now). What was a little more? It wasn’t that different from what Danny did for the ghosts in the city.

Red Hood wasn’t a ghost (yet). But. If Red Hood were somewhat Ghost Adjacent, then Danny could help him.

This must be what Clockwork had been hinting at. Damn him and his cryptic comments.

"Ok. Stay…cool. I'm gonna try something."

He concentrated on pooling ectoplasm in his hands, willing it into Red Hood's wound. Heal fix cleanse, he thought at it. Thinking at his ectoplasm didn't always work for making ectoplasm do what he wanted, but half-dying hadn't exactly come with an instruction manual. Or half of one, even.

Fortunately, it seemed to work. Danny’s ectoplasm took on a warmer hue, seeping into Red Hood’s wound and stitching it back together. The ectoplasm in Red Hood’s system hungrily absorbed it.

The longer Danny held his hands there, though, the more injuries he noticed. Red Hood was a mess inside. His ectoplasmic culture was teeming with pain and toxicity. How was he still functioning? It hurt Danny just to imagine living with so much turmoil inside.

Someone had wanted to hurt Red Hood. Someone who knew he’d been fused with ectoplasm, probably. That was alarming on several different levels. Mostly because it meant someone in Gotham had the means and the motive to hurt ectoplasmic entities. The GIW? Independent Ghost Hunters? League of Assassins, maybe?

But Danny couldn’t focus on the 'who' or the 'why' right now; he had a problem before him, and this was a problem he could fix.

Draw out the hurt, he guided his ectoplasm. Heal cleanse fix.

Bit by bit, he drew the toxins out, just like the bullet fragments. It started to feel a bit less feverish, but it wasn't perfect; it would probably scar.

But at least Red Hood wouldn't die.

Hopefully, now his own ectoplasm could filter out the rest of the sludge, given that it wasn’t playing triage with its host's many, many grievous injuries.

"There. Almost as good as new. I wouldn't recommend doing anything too strenuous for like, a week, but I'm not your mom."

"Thank god for that," Red Hood mumbled, sitting up. He prodded at the healed wound and winced.

"Hey, don't do that. You might feel, uh, kind of…weird? For a couple days? Just until the ectoplasm integrates with your system. You're lucky I'm a universal donor."

It was supposed to be a joke, but no one was laughing.

Red Hood wasn't listening to him, anyway. "What the fuck," he whispered.

"You're also lucky that I’ve been hurt enough times to know basic first aid, or you wouldn't be here," Danny babbled on, nervous now that Red Hood was awake. "Or, you might, but this conversation would look very different. More of the 'welcome to undeath' and 'here's your welcome packet' variety."

Red Hood was staring at him again. "What are you?"

"Rude. I just saved your life."

"You summoned pit water into your hands and poured it inside me!"

Ah, that was anger. Great. "Would you rather I let you die? Maybe I should have if this is the thanks I get."

“What. Did. You. Do,” Red Hood grit out. He groped at the ground, looking for something—oh, his gun, Danny realized, as Red Hood’s gloved hand closed around said abandoned gun.

So. Maybe this wasn’t what Clockwork had meant and Danny had irrevocably fucked up this time. But he wasn't going to sit around and watch someone become a ghost when he could do something about it.

Red Hood wasn’t pointing the gun at him yet, but Danny wasn't sure how long that would last. He held up his hands, broadcasting how harmless he was, see? Totally not a threat.

"Look, you already had some ectoplasm. I just gave you a little more, ok?"

"Ectoplasm?"

"The green stuff." God, did Red Hood even realize he'd maybe died at some point in the past? If not, Danny didn't want to be the one to tell him.

"You were like, majorly fucked up, you know? Like, on a cellular level."

"Just a flesh wound."

Yep, he was gonna be just fine. "Great. A comedian."

Red Hood was poking at the wound again, despite Danny’s instructions to leave it alone. He was muttering things to himself. Something about Lazarus and pit water.

Taking pity on him, Danny added, "Look, my guy, I've got a similar situation to yours going on, just…more extreme. It's not a big deal. You don’t even have a ghost core."

"If you're like me, then it is a big deal," Red Hood mumbled.

Danny didn't have anything to say to that. Mostly because Red Hood had a point. And a gun. Several guns.

Danny was giving himself a birthday present of Not Dealing With That Today, Thanks.

But at least Red Hood seemed calmer. Or distracted, at least.

"Do you want to keep the bullets I fished out of you? You know, as a souvenir from almost dying again?"

The words were barely out of Danny's mouth before Red Hood was snatching the fragments from Danny's hand.

Hm. Maybe there was an opportunity here. "Would you like this duck candle, as well? It floats." He shook it gently in the air. Then, to really sell it, he added, "it'll make you feel better." 

"Do you just carry these things around with you?"

"Sometimes," Danny lied.

Helmets didn't emote very well, but if Danny had to assign an emotion to Red Hood's non-expression, he'd called it 'dubious'. "Am I supposed to bathe with it?"

"You're supposed to burn it. But bathing with it couldn't hurt. Probably." Danny hoped not. "It wards off evil spirits, allegedly."

"Fuck off, no it doesn't." Despite his words, though, he took the duck candle as well. Score one for Danny.

"Believe what you want. I'm gonna go. It's been a long night and this was exhausting. Don't die! Your ghost is one I definitely don't want to deal with, no offense."

Danny stood and tried to leave, but Red Hood grabbed him by the arm.

Awesome. Just, great. Exactly what he wanted.

"Who are you, kid?"

Well. Better a 'who' than a 'what'.

"Just a random, concerned citizen."

"Bullshit. You did something to me."

Danny leaned in close. "I saved your life and healed you. Now kindly let go, or I'll make you."

Surprisingly, he did.

Danny didn’t stick around to see if Red Hood changed his mind.

This had been, quite possibly, the worst birthday of his life. Existence. Whatever.

It was as Danny was falling asleep that he realized he’d never actually fixed the stupid graffiti.

He let out a long curse, just for the satisfaction of saying it, and made a mental note to return to it on his way to work in the morning.

He should go back and fix it tonight. He knew that. He was just…tired. He deserved a good night’s sleep after everything.

Yeah. It would be fine to leave it until tomorrow, probably.

Good riddance to this night.

Chapter Text

Friday, September 23rd. Sometime around Midnight.

"Bats."

Bruce didn't bother turning around. Even if the accent weren't a dead giveaway, there were very few people who could get on top of the Clocktower. Not without Bruce knowing about it, anyway.

"Constantine."

Constantine meandered his way over to Bruce’s perch, whistling as he peeked over the edge of the Clocktower’s edifice to the busy streets below. “That’s a long way down.”

“Hn.”

“Nice view you got from up here, though. You can see exactly where the bizzies light up the sky to call their favorite dog to heel. Sorry, favorite bat.” He cupped his hands over his mouth and breathed into them. Loudly. “Still. Bit cold to really enjoy any of it—Looks like rain, in fact. Though that’s always true in ol’ GC, near as dammit, innit.” He paused again. “What do you spend so much time on rooftops for, anyway? Surely it’s not all Byronic brooding—”

"What are you doing here, Constantine?"

"Can't a bloke just stop by for a chat with a fellow defender of Justice and all that rot?"

"Is that what this is."

“Could be."

Bruce might have believed it, were it not for the fact that Constantine avoided Bruce like he was being paid to do it.

Which raised the question: what was he really here for?

"Say,” Constantine continued, glancing about, “where’s your angry little bird?”

“You’re going to have to be more specific.”

“The one who stabs.”

Bruce allowed himself a small smile. “That doesn’t really narrow it down.”

"You know damn well exactly which one I'm talking about."

Bruce did, of course, know. Damian, as it so happened, was in the cave combing through files looking for discrepancies that might flag it as one linked to the larger case they were working on. That was what he was supposed to be doing, anyhow; it wouldn’t surprise Bruce to find the cave empty and Damian off on one of his ‘self-authorized’ missions.

Constantine didn’t need to know that, however. In fact, Bruce suspected Constantine picked this moment to approach because Bruce happened to be alone. “He’s not here.”

“Great, so you don’t mind if I—?” He pulled out a cigarette, but a stern look from Bruce was enough to convince him to put it away.

Despite what Constantine said, Bruce was not brooding, nor was he waiting for the Bat Signal to light up. He was sure it would, eventually—it always did. But for now, he was just watching. Looking for crime to stop, ostensibly. Mostly, though, being up high just helped him think. It was reassuring to watch the city carry on, despite everything.

He'd seen it grind to a halt more times than he cared to count, but it always got back up again.

Two days wasn’t overly long to not make any progress on a case. But it was frustrating—for such a series of small crimes, he knew there was something more to it. Just like Jim, he knew exactly how this city worked: the worse the plots, the more innocuously they began.

He felt no need to share any of this with Constantine. Clearly, the man was here for a reason, and it had something to do with Bruce; he wouldn't have shown up like this otherwise. He’d get around to explaining why, sooner or later.

Right about now, by the looks of it.

Constantine clicked his tongue and muttered something unsavory under his breath. "Look, no need to get a cob on, I know Gotham is your turf and you don't like interference, but I came as a professional courtesy to tell you I’m here. Looking into some…stuff."

"What kind of 'stuff' are you 'looking into'?"

"I'm not entirely sure. There’s some weird occult-y fuckery going down in Gotham—more than usual, mind—that pinged my bullshit radar.” Constantine shifted his feet, uneasy. Never a good sign. “My, ah, preliminary findings indicate that this isn’t a one-and-done sort of deal, so. Here I am. Talking to you.”

Translation: Constantine had been in Gotham chasing a problem for some undisclosed period of time, had subsequently discovered he couldn’t solve the problem, and—fearing Bruce would find out he was there anyway—had decided to come forward.

Well. It was irritating, but Bruce would just as soon not deal with John Constantine if he could avoid it.

"Anywho,” Constantine continued, “I came to tell you that you've got a bad sitch here. And before you ask me to sod off, you should know that you can't just punch this one into submission. I'd like to fix it properly. If you'll allow it."

Bruce narrowed his eyes. He knew where this was going. "You'll do it anyway even if I say no."

"Just so," Constantine said brightly. Or, well, as bright as he ever got. His smiles were always tinged with the kind of fatigue you couldn’t sleep off. Bruce knew the feeling all too well. "But I'd prefer to have your blessing."

Constantine must have been truly out of options if he were coming to Bruce.

He felt that prickle of foreboding—the one that dogged him and saved him in equal measure—settle in his gut.

"What's the problem?"

"Ghosts."

Bruce sighed. "Ghosts."

"Yeah. Not just any ghosts, either. Gotham's always been haunted as shit, but now you've got an incursion. You’re packed to the gills with ghosts."

He gestured broadly to Gotham below them. Whether there were ghosts there or Constantine was just being dramatic, Bruce couldn't say.

"How long has this been going on?"

"Like I said, Gotham's always been haunted—"

"I mean the ghost incursion."

Constantine scratched his nose. "Well. It's been steadily becoming a bigger problem for a few months, give or take."

"A few months."

"That's what I said."

"And you waited until now to tell me."

"Well, it's not your concern, usually, is it? Occult things, that is."

This was why Bruce preferred Zatanna. She had the courtesy to tell Bruce about things like this in a timely manner, even if it wasn’t one of his normal problems. She knew that whether it was something he could fix without help from the likes of herself—or Constantine, as it so happened—he’d want to know about it.

If nothing else, by the time they parted ways today, Constantine would understand that, too.

"Everything in Gotham is my concern."

"Right, yeah." Constantine sniffed. "I was monitoring the ghost situation, for the record. These things come and go, usually." He scrunched his nose. "Sometimes. But, see, with the ghosts here now…well. If I’m not mistaken, it seems like every death in the city is creating a ghost. Which isn’t normal. For the record.”

“Do you know why?”

“No.” It looked like it cost him a bit of pride to admit. “Ghosts need a pretty strong attachment to their life to stick around. Far as I can tell, though, as of a few months ago, even those who die peacefully and without regret in Gotham are still here.”

"And that's unusual."

"Extremely."

That matched what little Bruce knew about ghosts. “Are they doing anything?”

“Not yet. Which is why I wasn’t worried. One city making a lot of ghosts who won’t leave said city is definitely weird, but this lot aren’t particularly violent. They’re just here.”

“So why are you here, now?” On this roof, telling Bruce about ghosts, specifically.

Constantine fiddled with his coat sleeves. “Well. That’s the question, innit? I'm here now because it's not just a problem of too many ghosts anymore."

“Of course it isn’t.” Bruce could already feel a massive headache coming on.

“I was concerned about the ghost influx, of course, but I wasn’t worried until recently. When a new ghost arrived. In Gotham. But this one is unlike the others. It’s…hmm. Powerful?"

There was a lot to unpack there. "How powerful?"

"Powerful enough to have used at least one dangerous ghost artifact, if you know what I mean."

Constantine had to know that Bruce didn’t know what any of that meant. Was he going to make Bruce ask?

Probably. He was an asshole, after all. "Ghost artifact?"

"It’s like, a semi-sentient magic tool. From another dimension.”

“...another dimension?”

“C’mon, Bats, you can’t just keep repeating every last thing I said. That’s not how conversations work.”

Definitely an asshole. “You're not here for a good conversation, you're here because you need something. So stop beating around the bush and tell me. ”

Constantine grimaced. “Surely I’m not that transparent—”

“Constantine.”

“And really I was just priming you with the relevant background information—”

“John.”

Constantine hesitated. “You won’t like it.”

“I already don’t like it. Tell me. Now.”

“Okay, but remember this isn’t my fault and the important thing is that I’m telling you sooner rather than later.”

Bruce didn’t say anything to that. No use rewarding bad behavior.

“Right. Well. The situation as I understand it is: a powerful ghost artifact was discovered on the mortal plane recently and used at least once. Possibly more than once. Also, a ghost capable of using said artifact has come to Gotham and hasn’t left. There are echoes of the artifact in Gotham, and something weird is going on in this city that has something to do with ghosts. So, that about sums it up, yeah. That good enough for you?”

This time when he reached for a cigarette, Bruce didn’t stop him.

Taking a moment to center himself, Bruce asked, “Have you met this ghost?”

“Not exactly?” Constantine cursed, struggling with his Bic lighter atop the windy building. “I’ve been looking for ‘em, but…well. Haven’t had much luck.”

Bruce’s fingers itched for something to do. Facts to look up, at the very least. Maybe he should bring Duke in on this for a second opinion. Duke could see ghosts, right? Something to follow up on. “How do you know there’s a powerful ghost here if you haven’t met it?”

“The same way we'd know if the megalodon came back.”

Bruce didn’t want to think about what the ghost equivalent of fossil records and whale behavior might be, but he didn’t have a choice in the matter.

“So this powerful ghost is a predator for smaller ones.”

“Normally it would be, based on energy requirements alone, but this one is behaving more like a whale fall than a predator. Or maybe it’s more like a tree…metaphors aren’t really my thing.”

“Hn.”

“Ghosts are actually a lot like fish, though, in that fish don’t technically exist in cladistics and can’t be classified without including things that aren’t fish, but we all still know what a fish is—”

“Constantine.”

“Right, right, sorry.” He took a worryingly large drag on his cigarette. “Far as I can tell, our ghost seems to be non-violent, but maybe it’s just biding its time. But it’s shaping the way the other ghosts in the city act. They’re…organized in a way ghosts normally aren’t. Well, organized is the wrong word…orbiting? I don’t know how to describe it. Maybe it’s not even a ghost.”

Yes, that headache had definitely blossomed now. Time to compartmentalize. “If it’s not a ghost, what is it?”

“There are lots of occult beings that could disguise themselves as a ghost. A demon, an angel, maybe a vampire, an anthropomorphized being from a realm beyond description…”

Most of those were beyond Bruce’s usual retinue of villains. But, that was a thought. “What about a human?”

“A human?” Constantine considered that. “Yeah, I guess it could be. Especially if they had the gauntlet…interesting. Horrible thought, but possible.” He grinned. “See, this is why I like you Bats, always thinking outside the bun.”

“You don’t like me,” Bruce pointed out.

“Well, that’s not entirely—”

“Tell me more about the artifact.”

“Of course, my liege,” Constantine grumbled. “It has many names, but most call it the Reality Gauntlet. You gotta be a skilled occultist or a powerful ghost to use it at all. Gotta win its allegiance or be related to someone who has. And even if you can use it, it’s easy to make a mistake. A careless or poorly worded wish can wreak havoc on reality.”

“A wish?” Bruce kept his voice calm, but his stress levels were spiking. "Constantine. What does the artifact do?"

Constantine sighed. "Well, that's the thing. It can do anything. It alters reality, see. Rewrites it more like. If the one who changed reality didn’t want you to know they’d changed it, you would never realize."

This was why Bruce had no patience for magic. It didn’t play by the rules of logic. “Then how do you know it was used?”

“All magic, especially magic this powerful, has echoes. I may not be good for much, but I do know my shit when it comes to occult.”

“Do you know what was changed?”

“Not yet. I’m working on it.”

"And once you figure out what was changed, you can change it back."

Constantine ran a hand through his hair. "Ehh…probably? I hope so. If it were something big what were changed, it probably wouldn’t stay altered without continuous application of magic. I haven’t seen evidence of that.

“If it were something small, though, it might not need so much attention. Still doesn't mean we can or should leave it alone, though.”

"What would count as something small?"

"Something like…every death in Gotham making a ghost?"

“I don’t appreciate the implication that Gotham being over-full of ghosts is something small.”

“On a cosmic scale, it kind of is. Of course,” Constantine barreled ahead over Bruce’s protests, “small changes or not, we can’t just have anyone going around altering reality without so much as a by-your-leave. And if the alteration has anything to do with why there are so many ghosts in Gotham…well. You can see why I’m concerned.”

Yes, Bruce could see that. “How long has this ghost been in Gotham?”

“A month...or two, give or take.”

Bruce looked out over Gotham, considering the information he had. “And they haven’t done anything?”

“Nothing obvious. They’ve put up some sigils, walked around…”

“Walked around.”

“Aaaand we’re back to repeating phrases. Great.”

Bruce closed his eyes for just a moment. Patience, patience. “I meant has it done anything magical or reality-altering.”

“The ghost sigils are magic, technically, but other than that…no magic that I can sense.”

A cold breeze blew in, billowing Bruce’s cape, kissed with hints of petrichor and ozone. The sound of thunder rumbled in its wake.

“Look,” Constantine continued, “you have to understand: ghosts this powerful don’t just move around. They tend to stay close to their place of power.”

“You mean where they died.”

“Yeah. Where they became ghosts.”

“Deadman doesn’t stay in one place.”

“Deadman is different.”

“Did you consult him about this?”

“He categorically refuses to come to Gotham, so no, I haven’t. Yet.” Another long pull from his cigarette. “Depending on how things go…I may try to bring him in.”

Bruce wasn't sure what to hope for in that regard. If this were going to be the sort of problem that needed the JL Dark, he'd rather know now before things got out of hand.

Big problems often had small beginnings, after all. “What if Gotham is this new ghost’s place of power? Was it…made here?”

“No.”

Bruce frowned. “How can you be so certain of that and not of anything else?”

“We’d know if a ghost this powerful had been made here. It’d be like a nuclear bomb going off. The more powerful the ghost, the more powerful the…ghost radiation?”

First fish and gravity, now nuclear fission. Constantine was right: metaphors weren't his thing. “Do you actually need me for anything in this situation, or are you just here to tell me about it?”

He sincerely hoped Constantine could handle this on his own. Bruce had enough problems dealing with his own new case—

“Actually, yeah, I could use you. Most ghosts steer away from me, especially now that I’ve been poking about, but they might see you as a potential meat suit to possess.” Constantine sighed, shoulders drooping. “In all seriousness, though, it's just bloody impossible to get anything done here when the city is against you. And your city? She hates me. Almost as much as you.” He chuckled; a weak, dry sound. “But if I have you along for the ride, maybe Gotham will actually let me bloody well get something done here for once."

Bruce didn’t even know where to begin with that. This was why dealing with Constantine was difficult.

Finally, he settled on, "I don't hate you."

"But?"

"There is no but."

"Then you like me?"

"Let's not get carried away."

"I see.” Constantine nodded. “We shall have a summer wedding."

Constantine’s sense of humor was as grating as ever.

Bruce sighed. “This is going to be a pain, isn’t it?”

“Welcome to my world, Bats.” He lifted his hand to clap Bruce on the shoulder but seemed to think better of it.

“So we find the ghost and then what?”

“Ask what was changed, ask them to change it back, and ask them to leave. Not necessarily in that order.”

“Does asking usually work?”

“No. But it’s worth a shot when it comes to a ghost with the power to change reality.”

“Who might have the power to change reality,” Bruce corrected.

Constantine rolled his eyes. “Yeah, of course. Anyway, The Big New Ghost shouldn't be too hard to find. Most of the ghosts in Gotham are weak. The strength of our newcomer will make 'em stick out like a sore thumb. They couldn’t just walk amongst us, undetected. Even you could probably see this one."

“How long will this take?”

“Eh, couple days, maybe. Week, tops. Then you can get back to your stoic bat brooding, all on your lonesome. Plus your six children.”

Bruce sighed again. He really hated magic.

The Bat Signal lit the sky right as the first drops of the storm fell.

“Aw, looks like your handlers are calling you to heel. Best let you get then, shall I?” Constantine shot him a shit-eating grin, but there wasn’t much energy behind it. Clearly, he was stressed about the situation, despite his cavalier attitude.

Bruce stood up and readied his grapple. “I’ll be in touch.”

“Not bloody likely. This is my operation. As such, I’ll find you when I need you. Probably tomorrow. Or later today, as it so happens.” He looked thoughtfully toward the sky. “Say, I don’t suppose I could get one of those to call you up, could I?”

Bruce didn’t dignify that with a response, grappling off into the pelting rain. A week with Constantine was a week he didn’t have, but he’d manage.

He always did.

Still Friday, September 23rd. Late.

Jason had learned the hard way that there were fewer hard truths in life than he’d like there to be, but he could say this about his own lived experience: he had never fallen.

Now, Jason may not have been an acrobat like Dick. He wasn’t as light on his feet as Tim, and he didn’t have assassin-training-since-birth like Damian. But he was sure-footed. Steady. If not of mind, then definitely of body. He didn’t trip, he didn’t stumble, and he didn’t fall.

Not after all his training, and definitely not on the rooftops of Crime Alley. Those were his roofs. He knew them like he knew how to disassemble and reassemble his M1911s. He could do it asleep (not that he ever slept deeply anymore). He could do it heavily drugged (not that drugs worked well on him these days). He could do it under fire, underground, and underwater (pointless as that would be).

Frames, slides, springs, magazines. Trigger, hammer, barrel, safety.

Ledge, fire escape, air duct, chimney. Pigeon hutch, loose tile, dead end, water tower.

And yet here he was. Falling. Almost as if in slow motion—just slow enough to review his intended trajectory and wonder why he wasn’t on it, where he’d gone wrong.

He hadn’t gone wrong, though, he was sure of it. He might be shot and bleeding, but it took more than that to slow him down. If someone had held a gun to his head and demanded an explanation, he wouldn’t have had one.

Jason never fell, after all.

His gut—punctured with bullets though it was—said that someone had reached out and grabbed him. Tripped him. But he’d had a pretty good view of the fire escape as he plunged past it on his unplanned Rendez-Vous with gravity: there was no one there.

He’d known that without looking of course—he would have seen them before they could have tripped him. But for a split second, he’d felt a cold, slimy hand on his ankle, pulling him down, dragging, green, green, green, just like the pit, just like crawling out of his own grave through grass and dirt and rotting wood—

He was able to angle his fall enough to land on the pile of stacked cardboard and wooden palettes instead of on the pavement. Or in the dumpster. Not a comfortable landing, but better than the alternatives.

Still. This was gonna suck.

Jason must have lost consciousness for a moment because next he knew, there was the cool comfort of trust and the warmth of safety. Trust and safety meant one thing, and sure enough, there was Bruce. Right next to him, asking him questions, assessing the damage—

But no, that wasn’t Bruce, it was Dick being a smartass about helping to hide his worry. Typical Dickie bird.

What was he even doing here? He was supposed to be in Bludhaven tonight doing something with the Blue Flu Gang. He’d asked for Jason’s help, but Jason had shut him out—

When Jason saw the glowing green light-water-death pooled in hands he didn’t recognize, the train arrived at the station: that wasn’t Dick; that wasn’t Bruce; that wasn’t anyone Jason knew.

But, they'd removed the bullet fragments from Jason’s stomach like he'd asked (it had felt weird, now that he thought about it). They'd given said fragments to Jason (offered freely). They hadn't called an ambulance (had asked if Jason wanted it and respected the negative answer).

They'd just…saved Jason’s life, given him a duck, and gone on their way, no questions asked. No questions answered, either.

Truth be told, Jason wasn’t sure why he let the kid go. He just felt like…he had to.

Maybe it was the duck.

As he lay there, staring up at the pollution-red sky, he reflected that this definitely wasn’t how he’d imagined this night going. Granted, it hadn’t started great. It had started with the discovery that a fuck-ton of Markovian terrorists were hiding out in The East End somewhere, bringing with them a fuck-ton of weapons, which they undoubtedly had every intention of selling to the highest bidder (or, more realistically: bidders) for a fuck-ton of money.

Not on Jason’s watch.

Finding them had almost been too easy. Maybe it made Jason too eager, made him believe the Markovians were simply getting sloppy and complacent. He quickly realized their cockiness was, perhaps, not so unearned, because when he’d stormed their warehouse, prepared to take them out before they could get their roots in deep, he’d been faced, quite literally, with a very unfortunate realization: somehow, Karma was back. Or someone pretending to be Karma, more likely.

Jason would have complained about blown-up people not staying dead like they used to, but since he’d also benefited from that rule, he didn't think he had a leg to stand on.

Whether it really was Karma or merely a Pretender to the Name, they certainly knew enough about Jason and his armor to do a worrying amount of damage.

Seven bullets to the stomach, encased in some kind of armor-piercing material. Jason-piercing, too.

So here he was, sitting on a pile of broken palettes, thinking about his choices for once in his goddamn life. He didn’t like to think about it most of the time. Most of the time, it made that violence that swam in his veins rear its ugly head, pushing him to think about everyone who’d wronged him, how unfair it all was, how none of what he’d suffered even mattered.

Tonight, the waters were quiet. It was just Jason and the feeling that he’d finally set down something heavy, something he’d carried for so long he’d forgotten what it felt like not to bear its weight.

He should probably make some kind of action plan. Go back to the warehouse, figure out where the Markovians had moved, assess who their most likely targets and/or clients were, investigate how the hell Karma was alive and well again.

But he could just…sit, for a moment. Take in the ambiance, such that it was.

It smelled bad. Enough that Jason could smell it through his mask. Rotting food and fried oil and gasoline and death.

It was quiet. Maybe it was too early for loud sounds, or maybe Crime Alley had decided to chill for once.

There was graffiti on the wall. Gotham's Ghosts Are Watching You. Creepy.

…This was boring. Mindfulness was overrated.

His head felt weird. His everything felt weird. Like there was too much space and silence and stillness inside him. The kid had said he’d feel weird, maybe, but still. Maybe he should call someone to come get him. Never before would he have even considered it, but tonight had already been…well. Weird.

But then again, if he called someone to come get him, there'd be questions. He didn't want to deal with that now. He had too many of his own questions.

He sensed someone approaching, tensing up until he realized who it was. Apparently, fate had decided Jason wasn't in charge of his life tonight.

"The hell are you doing here, Red?"

Tim looked down at him, literally and figuratively. "I'm doing recon, Hood. What are you doing?"

"Hangin' out," Jason lied. "Might take a nap, you should try it."

"No thank you.” Yeah, there was judgment in that tone. Definitely in the way he scanned Jason’s…hang-out spot. “I already took a nap today."

“Really? That’s your rebuttal?”

“I’ll have you know—” His gaze caught on Jason’s newest accessory. “Is that a duck?”

Jason looked at the candle. “Yeah. It floats and wards off evil spirits. Allegedly.”

“Why?”

“I don't know. Are you jealous of your brethren?”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re a Drake, he’s a duck, you're both Red.” Jason hummed. “Do you ward off evil spirits, too?”

“Are you on something?”

“Not even going to dignify that with a response,” Jason quipped, standing up with a groan. Getting shot and falling three stories really hadn't been on his agenda tonight.

Tim frowned at Jason, looked up, then down at the palettes with a Jason-shaped dent in them, visibly making rapid mental deductions on the situation.

Great. Just what Jason needed.

"Holy shit, did you fall?"

"No. I made a strategic descent."

"C’mon, that’s gotta be the weakest deflection I've ever heard—" Tim paused, gaze zeroing in on Jason's stomach. "Is that blood?"

"'S not mine," Jason lied. Again.

At least this lie was more believable. Thanks to the Generous Donation of the Walking Lazarus Pit Kid, Jason’s bullet wound was all but gone now. Other than a pale, jagged scar.

Jason was still half-contemplating how to get Lazarus Pit Kid’s Lazarus Water out of the wound, but it had healed what almost certainly had been a fatal wound. Jason was trying not to think about it too much, in all honesty.

Tim crossed his arms. "I thought you'd stopped killing people."

Well, hello, non sequitur. "What?"

"If that's not your blood—and you're not bleeding, so I'm inclined to believe you—then it's someone else's. You can't lose that much blood without dying."

Jason was intimately aware of that, thanks. "I didn’t kill anyone."

"Then why are you covered in blood?"

"Everyone at the wine and pottery class I attended earlier this evening contributed a bit of wine to my jacket to give it some character," he snarked.

Tim ignored him; his gaze swept over Jason in a clinical way that was 80% Bruce and 20% Alfred. Maybe the split was more 70/30, though, given that Bruce probably learned it from Alfred. "I don’t see a wound. Your Kevlar looks beat to hell, though."

"Yeah. Weird, huh? Anyway. What are you doing here, really? This isn’t Red Robin’s normal stomping grounds." Jason tilted his head, evaluating Tim more thoroughly than he had before. Two could play at the visual-analysis game, after all. "Is that your fancy-ass camera?"

Jason hadn’t seen that camera in months. It seemed like an unusual risk for Tim to bring it out on patrol.

"I told you, I'm doing recon work." Pointedly, he aimed the camera at the creepy graffiti and took a picture.

“On graffiti?”

“It’s part of an ongoing investigation.” Tim sniffed. “This is just one of many in this style around Gotham…I don’t suppose you recognize the tag?”

“Not really my thing.” Jason took another look at it, for good measure. He wondered what paint they’d used. It was kind of glowing. Had they dished out for phosphor paint? There was something familiar about it, but… “Nah, I don’t recognize it. Tell me it’s not from a new gang?”

“That remains to be seen, but I don’t believe so, no.”

Thank god. Jason had enough on his plate without worrying about having to curb stomp some new group trying to establish themselves in Crime Alley.

An awkward silence fell between them as they ran out of things to talk about. This was the first real conversation they’d had in…a long time. And it wasn’t even really a conversation. It was obvious that Tim hadn’t expected to run into Jason here; the way he fiddled with his camera spoke volumes.

A feeling closer to guilt than Jason cared to acknowledge burned in his chest. Was that really all they had to talk about with each other? Work? Then again, why would Tim want to talk to Jason at all about anything?

Maybe he should make his excuses and leave, let them both get on with their evenings and move past this unexpected crossing of paths.

Jason turned the duck over in his hands, smoothing the waxy sides between his fingers as he considered an exit strategy. His gloves caught on something on the bottom; he held it up to the dim light in the alley; there was some kind of seal melted into the bottom. Something to look into later, maybe? If Lazarus Kid was buying and/or selling these things, then Jason could find him.

He heard the distinctive click of a camera shutter.

“What the hell, Timber?”

“Sorry," he said, sounding anything but sorry. “The composition was too good to pass up. Very ‘Alas, Poor Yorick, I knew him well’ of you.”

“That’s not the fucking line. The fucking line is ‘Alas, poor Yorick, I knew him, Horatio.’ Don’t quote the Bard in front of me if you’re not gonna do it right.”

It seemed that Tim decided the appropriate response to this was to take another picture of Jason.

Jason took a moment to himself. A pause. normally he would have flown off the handle by now. At Tim, at the situation, at losing the Markovians.

He was definitely annoyed, but that was all he felt. That seething pit of rage and resentment that was always stirring below the surface was…still. Not calm, no. But…at peace.

The realization startled a relieved laugh out of him, which unfortunately jarred his wound and pulled an involuntary groan from him. He also lost his balance and had to hold onto the wall.

Tim, obviously, noticed. Tim noticed everything. “Shit, are you okay?”

Jason squeezed his eyes shut. “Yeah. No. I don’t know.” Other than the dizziness, he felt okay for the first time in a long time, which was weird enough to not be okay. “I think I’ve been drugged.”

“What?”

“No, you’re right, that doesn’t make sense. Drugs don’t work on me. Nanobots? Nah.”

“As nice as it is to hear you tell me I’m right…” Tim muttered under his breath. “Do you feel…bad?”

“Nah, I feel…good? Relaxed, I think. The green lights are pretty.” The green lights looked like Christmas. Or New Year’s. He hadn’t noticed them before, but now his head was swimming in green. Good green, not the bad kind.

“Hm. I think you have a concussion.”

Jason focused his attention back on Tim. “Oh, yeah, probably. The kid didn’t fix my head, just…everything else.”

“Kid?”

“Don’t worry about it.” Jason waved him off. Or tried to. The shifting of his weight made him lose balance again. Luckily, Tim was there to catch him.

“Jesus, you’re heavy,” he complained, setting Jason back down into the Jason-shaped dent in the palettes.

“I think I have a concussion.”

“Yes, we established that. Where is your bike?”

Jason scoffed. “I can’t ride with a concussion.”

“Not my point,” Tim muttered under his breath. He reached for his ear—no, his comm, Jason realized.

Jason whipped his hand out and grabbed Tim’s wrist. “You don’t need to call anyone. I’ll be fine in a minute.”

“I’m not gonna leave you alone concussed in an alley.”

“Then don’t.”

“Are you asking me to…stay?”

Jason shrugged. He didn’t know what he was asking.

Tim sighed and crouched down beside him. “Does your head hurt?”

“No.” In fact, it felt less achy than normal. Jason always had a low-grade headache, but now it was…gone.

“Did you just say you always have a low-grade headache?” Tim pressed.

Shit. Had he said that out loud?

“Yes, you said that out loud.”

Jason considered his options. “I have a safe house nearby. Walk me there?”

Tim shook his head and helped Jason to his feet. “Next time you go to a ‘wine and pottery class’, maybe try for less blood loss and traumatic brain injury.”

“But that’s the best part of wine and pottery class, Timbo.”

They sat in silence for less than ten seconds before Tim asked, “What’s the deal with the duck, anyway?”

“It’s a duck. What’s not clicking?”

“Why do you have it?”

Jason grinned. “Because someone out there in this godforsaken city still gives a duck, Timberly.”

Tim groaned. “How far away is this safe house, exactly?”

— — —

It was so late it was early by the time Tim was satisfied that Jason didn’t have a concussion and could be left to sleep without risk. Though he might have just gotten tired of the puns—he had stood up abruptly and said ‘I think you’ll live’ when Jason told him he wasn’t allowed to laugh for three weeks on ‘The Quack Doctor’s Orders’.

He placed the duck on his bedside table. He had half a mind to use it immediately, but it was his only clue to find Lazarus Pit Kid (Real Name TBD). Besides, he needed to test if it floated, and this safe house didn’t have a bathtub. He didn’t know how he’d figure out whether it warded against evil spirits—Jason wasn’t sure whether he even believed in evil spirits. Or good spirits.

Jason could respect the kid’s desire for anonymity. But this wasn’t something he could leave alone; somewhere out there was someone who had all the answers to what the hell was wrong with Jason. What had happened to him. Why he was like this when everyone else he knew who’d taken a dip in a Lazarus Pit wasn’t.

Jason had let go of finding those answers a long time ago, but now that he knew there was someone out there who could tell him…maybe his curiosity wasn’t as buried as he’d thought.

He would get his answers. Not tonight, probably—he had been shot (seven times) after all. He deserved to just…sleep. Weird that he wanted to, for once. But once he gathered himself and made sure he hadn’t been drugged or cursed or something, he’d be back on the trail.

Jason drifted off to the sound of rain pelting the window, sinking into the first dreamless sleep he could remember since…ever, maybe.

He had a feeling he would sleep well tonight.

Saturday, September 24th. Morning.

Danny leaned over his sink, getting a closer look at his teeth in the mirror. It wasn’t a very good mirror; it was scratched, dirty, and broken. Plus, too often the ectoplasm-rich air interfered with true reflections. But if he wasn’t mistaken…

“Hey, Milo?”

Milo popped his head up from the floor. “What’s up, kiddo?”

“Do my teeth look sharper to you?”

Milo squinted. “I dunno. Maybe?”

Danny turned back to his reflection. His canines definitely looked…toothier.

“Have you tried biting something?”

That was how this began. Waking up with a bleeding lip, presumably from biting it. With his too-sharp teeth.

Danny’d had a number of unpleasant wake-up calls in his life, but he was pretty sure ‘biting your lip so hard it wakes you up after a horrible night of bad sleep' took the cake for The Fucking Worst.

He decided his teeth didn’t look overly pointy. Not inhumanly, anyway, no matter what that Rich Kid had said in the alley.

Still. Human teeth didn’t spontaneously get sharper overnight. Probably. If only he could still ask Tucker’s parents…but, obviously, he couldn’t, and Batburger employment didn’t come with a dental plan.

Was this going to keep happening? Clockwork had said something about this, hadn’t he? 'Your ghostly traits are bleeding over into your human side, Danny, your connection to your humanity is fading, Danny, maybe Batman can help you, Danny, blah blah blah, et cetera'. Was this what he meant? Was Danny going to stop being a half-ghost and become a full-ghost?

But Danny’s ghost half didn’t have sharp teeth. Or hadn’t, at least, the last time he’d gone ghost. It couldn’t have changed that much in two months, could it?

He almost checked. Occultists never tried anything when the sun was up, except for when they did, and Danny didn’t have the time or energy to deal with ignoring a summons today.

He wouldn’t acknowledge the part of him that knew he just didn’t want to find out if he had changed. Danny had seen a version of himself with fangs, after all. His future self. Dan.

Danny had always assumed the reason Dan had fangs was as a result of Danny’s ghost half merging with Vlad’s ghost half (who definitely had fangs). But what if this was just what happened after being a half-ghost long enough? Vlad’s human side didn’t have fangs, though. So maybe this was just the universe throwing Danny yet another curve-ball.

“You can probably file them down if they get sharper," Milo offered. "I knew a guy who knew a guy who was friends with Killer Croc before the whole cannibalism thing, and he said Killer Croc used to file his teeth down. Before he decided to lean into it, anyway. Apparently, croc teeth grow back, go figure. Hey, do you think ghost teeth grow back?”

Danny didn’t want to file his teeth down. He didn’t want to think about whether they would continue getting sharper, or grow back, or never return to normal, either. Especially not before a double shift on a Saturday.

“I’m sure no one will notice. Not like I have a reason to smile, anyway.”

“Phantom, it’s too early to say something that sad.” Milo shook his head and sank through the floor back to his own apartment.

Danny decided Milo was right. It was too early to deal with this.

He exited the bathroom to find Angela in his kitchen, air-boxing the blob ghosts. “Angela. What are you doing here? Don’t you have your own apartment to haunt?”

“Morning, Phant-o!” She whipped her head towards him, braids flying wildly, beads glinting in the icy blue glow of Danny’s kitchen walls. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

“It looks like you’re harassing the blob ghosts. Again.”

She laughed, a deep, warm sound. Her teeth didn’t look sharp at all. Not a universal ghost thing, then.

“Nah, they like it. See?” She abruptly stopped boxing and the blob ghosts swarmed her, making little mewling sounds. They only went back to happy-blob sounds when she started boxing them again.

“Well. I stand corrected.”

Danny shuffled over to his fridge (which was really just a box of ecto-ice he’d made). He’d forgotten to go grocery shopping this week. Guess he was having cereal again.

“If you don’t like it, you could always box me instead,” she offered. “You know I’m always game for a match.”

“Too early for boxing. Besides, I have work. Double shift today.”

“Why bother? You know we can get you anything you need. Lord knows we all owe you.”

“Maybe I just like the uniform.”

"Don't let Alex hear you say that. You'll get his hopes up."

“You say that like his hopes ever go down.”

She laughed at him again and dodged a blob ghost hurtling towards her face. Maybe it hadn’t even been her idea to box them in the first place.

Danny pulled the milk out of the fridge and sniffed it. It smelled good enough. Probably. He’d been lactose intolerant before the portal accident, but now he had no problem with it. He had no problem eating a lot of things, in fact. Even spoiled food didn’t turn his stomach.

His iron stomach certainly made grocery shopping easier—when he remembered to do it anyway. He could buy food past the expiration date at the corner market for half-off. Then again, lots of people did that in Gotham, ghost-powered iron stomach or not. Not so much in this part of the city, however.

Danny wasn’t sure if it was the proximity to Somerset or just another quirk of Gotham, but for whatever reason, the Gotham Heights was not as crime-ridden as everything to the west on the North Island. All other things being equal, Danny wouldn’t have been able to afford to live here on a part-time fast-food salary. But the good thing about living in a building that only marginally existed by the living’s standards was that landlords couldn’t claim it, and therefore there was no one to pay rent to.

Silver linings and all that.

“By the way," said Angela, "some of the 3rd-floor crew mentioned that the Coventry barrier is getting weak.”

“Again? I triple-reinforced it last time.”

“Hey, I’m just passing along the message,” she said, grimacing at Danny’s breakfast choice. He didn’t know why; Boo Berry Cereal was everything a half-dead boy needed to get by.

“I guess I’ll swing by after work and add more sigils. Again.”

Add that to the other sigils he needed to reinforce, on top of swinging by the hospital if he had time, not to mention grocery shopping…

He’d thought he’d been busy back home with a ghost attack every day. If only he’d known back then how much busier life could get. He should have appreciated it more. He used to have time for things like concerts and video games. Now he barely had time for surviving, let alone anything fun.

His phone beeped at him, a ten minute warning. He'd spent too long looking at his stupid teeth. Now he’d have to hurry if he didn’t want to take the bus, which he didn’t. He supposed he could take the train, but with his luck, he’d be even later. The train liked him too much to let him get anywhere on time.

Looked like he was skipping the shower today. It was just as well; he’d just end up smelling like fried oil and synthetic bread by the end of his shift, anyway. He’d showered yesterday. It was fine. Nothing deodorant, ghost ice, and a few ghost sigils couldn’t fix.

“Oh yeah, I meant to tell you: those guys that were causing a scene at the park boundary the other day disappeared,” Angela said, bouncing light on her feet as she followed him around his apartment.

“Really? Huh.” One of the blob ghosts abandoned Angela to fly up next to him, grooming the frost from his hair. “Know what happened to them?”

“Nah. Maybe they got got for being such asshats, y’know? Or maybe they found something better to do with their time, who knows. Not my circus, not my monkeys.”

Unfortunately, it kind of was Danny’s circus and therefore, Danny’s monkeys. “If you hear anything about them, can you let me know? Just because they went quiet doesn’t mean they’re not a problem anymore.”

She gave him a little salute—as much as she could while wearing boxing gloves, anyway. “Roger that, Captain Phantom. Nah, that sounds weird. Coach Phantom? Ghostman? Ghost the Kid?”

Danny sighed, grabbing his uniform and double-checking he had the mask. The last time he’d forgotten it, his manager had given him a new one and taken the cost out of his pay.

“Feel free to go back to your own apartment at any time, Angela.”

“Why would I do that? All the boxing blobs are here.”

“You can take them with you. If you want.”

“Nah. It’s better here. You’ve got the coolest apartment in the building, y’know?”

Danny rolled his eyes. “Bye.”

“See ya, Phantom! Make sure you grab an umbrella from the concierge, today’s gonna be a wet one!”

“Aren’t they all?”

“And don’t forget about the Coventry barrier!”

“I won’t!”

“And if you want to box later—”

“Bye, Angela!” He almost phased through the door before he remembered Clockwork’s Not Warning, and his too-sharp teeth…

How long had it been since he’d walked through the door like a human?

Too long.

Danny didn’t slam the door behind him, but he did close it with more force than intended. He winced, watching the plaster crack.

Something else to fix later.

His phone beeped at him again. He was late.

Looked like he was running today.

Sunday, September 25th. After 5pm.

Knock, knock.

Duke startled awake to the sound of falling rain. He glanced at the clock on his desk; it was just after five. He must've dozed off after patrol.

He didn’t normally like to take afternoon naps like this. It messed with his whole schedule. Now he’d be up late, which meant waking up tired for school, which meant he’d be off on tomorrow’s patrol…

He should have taken advantage of being free during Gotham General’s visiting hours, but by the time he’d remembered, he was back at the manor, and he had some homework to finish up, and then it had started to rain, and he’d gotten drowsy…

Yeah, lame excuses.

It had been a long September after a long August, and the summer wasn’t hardly out the door with a wet autumn right behind.

Normally, he liked this time of year. Cooler temperatures, fewer tourists, settling into a rhythm at school. The ‘embers’ and ‘obers’, that’s what his mom called it.

This year, he felt sick with anticipation, like something horrible was on the brink.

Dick said he just felt that way because nothing bad had happened in a long time, by Gotham standards. Duke wasn’t so sure. The air felt wrong; it put him on edge.

Or maybe he just wasn’t used to the quiet of the manor, compared to the all-hours noises of the city. Something was always going on in the Narrows; not so much in Bristol. The only time you could find silence in the East End was when something bad was about to happen.

Knock, knock.

Right, the door. That must've been what woke him.

Duke shuffled over and answered, expecting to see Alfred, or maybe Tim.

Instead, it was Bruce.

“Oh, uh. Hey B?” said Duke, feeling wrong-footed somehow. “What’s up?”

Bruce gave him a small, rare smile. “I’m alright Duke, how are you?”

“I’m…good?” Duke frowned. “Am I in trouble?”

“Why would you think that?”

Duke noted that Bruce didn’t say ‘no’. “Well, it’s…rare for you to seek me out like this?”

Duke wished he could take back the words as soon as he said them, seeing Bruce’s eyes flash with something like regret.

Duke had hardly seen Bruce at all during the past week, in fact. It wasn’t that Duke blamed Bruce for being busy; it was just the consequence of Duke being a full-time student and daytime hero and Bruce being a full-time CEO, Justice League Member, Nighttime vigilante, and father of six.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce said, tone sincere. “You’re right, I’ve been busy, but that’s no excuse. You’re also not in trouble, but I did want to ask you about something.”

“Sure. Go ahead.”

“Do your abilities allow you to see ghosts?”

Duke frowned. Of all the things he might have expected Bruce to ask, that definitely hadn't been it. “Ghosts?”

“Yes. Ghosts.”

"Like…real ghosts? Not Ghost Sense ghosts?"

Bruce gave a slight head nod.

Duke was half-tempted to pinch himself. Was he still dreaming?

Bruce was watching him, patient, calm. Probably not a dream. Duke could never clearly see faces in dreams.

Better answer the question, then.

“I—well, ghosts aren’t real.”

Now Bruce was frowning. Great. “Ghosts are real, Duke.”

Duke pinched himself. Yeah, not a dream.

Bruce noted the action, because of course he did. “Pinching yourself is not a very reliable method for determining whether or not one is dreaming.”

“Sorry, but you just told me ghosts are real?”

“I thought you knew.” Bruce pursed his lips ever so slightly; this, as Duke understood, was what counted as a ‘surprised’ Bruce Wayne.

“Why would I know that?”

Bruce looked pained. “I suppose they're not something that comes up very often…”

Duke crossed his arms and leaned against the door frame. If this were a dream, it wouldn’t matter what he said. But if it were real, he wanted answers. “Okay, but you’re asking me about ghosts now, which means it’s relevant now.”

“I can’t fault your logic.”

“But you’re not going to tell me why you need to know if I can see ghosts, which are apparently real.”

“If I’d known what a shock this revelation would be to you, I wouldn’t have brought it up.”

By which he meant he probably thought Duke could see ghosts and thus knew they were real. Duke didn't know how to feel about that.

“I mean…I’ve never seen a ghost before…but that doesn’t mean I wouldn’t be able to?”

Bruce gestured for him to continue.

“I can see different wavelengths of light, but I have to absorb the light and redirect it…I mean, I call it ghost vision, but that’s more because it looks like ghosts than because it actually is ghosts.”

“But?”

“But, if ghosts are real and I knew what frequency they…exist? On? I could probably see an actual ghost?” Duke rubbed his neck. “B, what's this about?”

Bruce stared off into the middle distance, lips pinched as he conjured up what appeared to be an unpleasant topic. “Constantine told me Gotham is more haunted than usual. I wanted a second opinion before I did anything unnecessary, but if you haven't been looking then you probably haven't noticed them…well, I’ll keep what you said in mind. Thank you. Good night, Duke.”

“Wait, hold up, you can’t just say something like that and walk away!” Duke called after him, as Bruce Said That and walked away. “What do you mean it’s ‘more haunted than usual’?”

“That remains to be seen.”

Great. Just…great. Guess it was a good thing he’d taken that nap, after all. He probably wouldn’t be sleeping tonight.

Monday, September 26th

Tim hadn’t expected the first roll of film to turn out great.

To begin with, the film was expired. Expired film generally worked almost as well as not-expired film, but he was prepared to accept that the pictures might turn out badly as a result of the film being. Well. Less-than-fresh. Not that he was expecting the photos to reveal anything he hadn't seen with his own eyes. But on the off chance The Guy hadn't been fucking with him and this would reveal something, he still expected he might have to try a couple times to get high fidelity images of…whatever it was this was meant to reveal.

This particular film had been sitting in his closet in a box since he moved into the Manor. Well, technically, it had been sitting inside his camera, inside his camera bag, inside a box that he kept in a dark, forgettable corner of his closet.

In all fairness, it had been expired when he'd bought it—he’d selected expired film on purpose. He remembered picking it out at the specialty store, all the plans he'd made to experiment with the effects. He'd been so excited, so hopeful.

And then everything with his dad had gone wrong and he’d thrown himself into other things so he didn’t have to think about it. Then he'd kept himself busy and continued not thinking about it, shoving the box into a far corner of his closet where he couldn't see it by accident. Seeing the camera again would mean remembering why he'd put it away in the first place, and since he didn't want to think about any of that, he hadn’t gone looking for it. Until now.

He was glad the circumstances of this situation meant he didn’t have to ask himself whether or not he was ready. It needed to happen, so it was happening. He needed to do it, so he was.

The rest of the camera hadn’t needed much servicing, fortunately. It was in exactly the condition he’d left it in all those months ago: immaculate. Untouched.

Setting up the dark room had been easy enough. The cave had no natural light to worry about blocking out, and Bruce had everything one needed to process film and print the photos, because of course he did. He was Batman. In any case, Tim wasn’t complaining; having gone to the effort to take the damn photos, he just wanted them printed as quickly as possible to see whether it was worth his time to investigate this further.

Not that he had anything else to work on.

He selected the most promising negatives with the loupe he unearthed from the dreaded Closet Box, triple-checked the aperture and sharpness(just in case he’d forgotten how to do it), he turned on the safelight—the warm red making him think of Gotham’s night skies—and then he turned off the lights in his ad hoc dark room.

There was something he’d always relished about developing photos. The process was soothing, less meticulous than it looked. There was a sort of catharsis in working in the dark, taking the right steps in the right order before exposing the subject matter to the light, but not a moment too soon lest the light ruin the whole process. He'd forgotten how much he enjoyed it. He hadn't wanted to remember.

In a sense, it wasn’t so different from investigative work. Of course, finding criminals and dragging them into the light was rarely as straightforward as photography (not that photography was exactly straightforward), but Tim liked to believe the skills he’d honed working on photography had helped sharpen his mind towards detective work.

Or maybe he liked photography because he had a mind for detective work, who could say? Not Tim.

He set out the chemicals and equipment in front of him. Developer, Stopper, Fixer. He had the trays, he had the tongs, he had the timer.

First, the test print. Nothing but bricks in this one.

There was more tonal density in the image than he expected, but that was what test prints were for. Adjusting for unexpected outcomes without wasting time or resources. He made note of the best exposure, and then there was no more set-up or stalling.

Time for the real thing.

60 seconds in the Developer, spent hoping this didn’t prove to be an entirely pointless venture.

10 seconds in the Stopper. Not much time for most people to think about anything. Tim wasn’t most people. Ten seconds was Plenty of Time for self-doubt of every variety.

30 seconds in the Fixer. Long enough to reconsider his course and re-commit himself to it.

The first photo nearly took his breath away. Not that it was particularly stunning or anything—but that was his dad. On film, standing in front of the wall of graffiti.

60 seconds to think: the last time he’d used this camera, it had been with his dad. They’d taken pictures at Robinson Park together. It had been his dad’s way of saying he was okay with the Robin thing. ‘Robinson is a perfect portmanteau of Robin and Jackson! It’s perfect.’

10 seconds to stop the spiraling: that was his dad in the photo, but his dad hadn’t been in front of that wall. He knew that. He was a rational being, after all.

30 seconds to fix: it must be double exposure. First: he'd photographed his dad at the park, before he'd died, before Tim shoved the camera in a dark corner to forget about. Next: he'd brought the camera out and he’d rewound the film. Finally: he’d taken another picture—this time of the graffiti wall—and bam. An artificially superimposed image of his Dead Dad in front of the wall of ghost graffiti. An imperfect Portmanteau of his life Before and After.

The graffiti behind his dad (who hadn't really been there, he reminded himself) was illegible, blurred as if a crowd had walked in front of it. Long exposure to compensate for dim light. His dad looked happy. He looked excited. He looked proud.

Tim clipped the photo up on the line and moved on to the next picture, all thoughts of writing this off as a failed experiment shoved aside.

The next photo was Red Hood, covered in blood, contemplating that stupid duck candle. Tim was still waiting for answers about the duck, but it was low-priority. He’d intended the photo to serve as future blackmail, but there was nothing damning about it. It was a nice photo. Unexpectedly whimsical. The graffiti was just visible in the background, but it was out of focus; the graffiti hadn't been the point. Still, it shone like a neon sign, casting Jason and the Blood on his shirt in a greenish light—

Wait. Green?

60 seconds to think: the film was black and white. Why was there green? Were the chemicals expired, too? Some kind of cross-contamination?

10 seconds to stop: there wasn’t an obvious answer to why. Maybe it would only be this photograph.

30 seconds to fix: he’d have to develop the other negatives to see what happened. Tim noted that he’d taken this photo in the same spot where he’d run into the guy who’d told him taking film photos would give him answers. Perhaps important, perhaps not.

Tim clipped up the Red Hood photo and carried on.

Half an hour later, Tim had washed and laid out the last of his photos to dry without examining them too closely; he hadn't needed to. There was some green in all of them, but otherwise, they looked normal enough.

In some ways, it was disappointing. Not surprising, but still. He'd hoped he might see something.

Well. At least now he had some photos of the graffiti. He could tell Bruce he'd investigated the graffiti and found nothing.

He'd wait until morning before throwing in the towel, though. There were always things natural light revealed that the warm-red of the safety light concealed, but he had a feeling this would turn out exactly as he expected: lo-fi black and white photos of graffiti. With a hint of green. Weird, but not alarming.

— — —

When Tim looked at the developed photos in full light the next day, he nearly dropped them.

They looked nothing like the negatives he'd selected yesterday. They didn't look like the pictures he'd hung up to dry, either.

Had he gotten the exposure wrong? Was it a focusing issue? A sharpness issue? The chemicals?

No, that couldn’t be it. The pictures were clear—sharp, even, the values crisp—they were decent photos, if he were honest.

It was the subject matter that was the problem. That same over-saturated green from Jason’s photo covered every single image, despite almost everything else being black, white, and gray. 'Almost' was the key word, but that 'almost' was bearing a lot of weight because what wasn't black, white, gray, or green was the graffiti. Well, the graffiti and the cracked lines that branched out from said graffiti like spiderwebs, disappearing off the edges of the image. Lines that hadn't shown up in the negatives. Lines that had appeared sometime between Tim leaving the photos to dry and returning to look at them.

The lines all seemed to glow, each one a different shade of toxic phosphorescence—blues, reds, yellows, pinks, violets, oranges, and, of course, greens. None of which had been visible to the naked eye.

It looked dangerous. It was beautiful.

He considered that maybe the lines were a result of the film being expired. But it looked too deliberate for that to be true, and the pattern repeated in the same way across the photos. There was variation, of course, but not the kind that could be chalked up to the random fidelity failures of expired film.

The strange light wasn’t the most inexplicable thing the photos captured, however. That distinction belonged to what Tim had first thought to be people. That had confused him at first: there hadn't been anyone else present at any of the graffiti sites when he’d taken the photos. But the longer he’d stared at the apparent people, the more off they looked. People weren’t semi-transparent. People didn’t glow. People didn’t hover off the ground, or line up facing an empty wall. They didn’t claw at graffiti with wide eyes like dark, hungry hollows.

The worst thing about the photos was not the inexplicable lines of light or the off-putting not-people. The worst thing was the familiar figure hovering in the foreground of every photo, wispy and transparent but recognizable.

It looked like his father. Which was impossible.

But the father figure was standing like he was posing for the photo intentionally. Double exposure could explain one photograph, but nearly all of them?

He'd have to take more photos to see if he could repeat the results, but even so, wasn't this what he'd been looking for? The Guy had said taking photos would reveal the truth—

Actually, scratch that. What he'd said was that photos would reveal that he hadn't been lying. He'd said it was a spectral lodestone, whatever that was. Something about spirits and warding and blood sacrifice and sigils…

Tim hadn't taken it seriously because it sounded like a lie. But here it was. The proof.

Tim didn't believe in Ghosts. Ghosts weren’t real—

But what else could he be looking at?

A practical joke said the more logical part of his mind. A trick of the light said the hopeful part.

The part that put on a domino mask every night and solved crimes said, go ask The Guy. He knows something.

Well. Tim could do that. Assuming he could find him again.

…preferably not at night though.

September 28th. Night.

Bruce knew they probably weren't simply walking in circles around Gotham, stopping at random intervals, then shuffling along. But it certainly felt like they were walking in circles around Gotham, stopping at random intervals, then shuffling along.

Days of searching and they'd found nothing but dead ends. Pun not intended.

If there were a plan here, Constantine hadn't shared it with Bruce. They didn't seem to be doing much of anything as they walked. At most, Constantine would poke about, consult some notes, and shake his head. When Bruce asked if he could do anything to help, all Constantine would say was that Bruce was doing something, that he had a 'soothing presence' on Gotham, and that he was 'a big help, truly'.

But they still hadn't found the ghost Constantine was looking for, and if his increasingly haggard expression were any indication, they weren't any closer to finding it than they had been at the start, either.

Their "definitely not random, I promise, Bats" path had taken them to Gotham University, down to the Southwestern Ferry Dock, then over to City Hall, back up to the Natural History Museum, back down to GCPD Headquarters, all the way up to the North Island train yards, along the tracks to the old Gotham metro, then all the way back across the East End to Gotham Heights (which Constantine refused to enter on principle alone), with a pit stop at the Gotham Public Library, only to end up back on GU's campus.

They’d done this route three times, with little variation. Bruce had drawn their path on a map, to see if it made any kind of recognizable shape, but it hadn't. Not that he could see, anyhow.

Constantine had told him why there were visiting these particular locations, in all fairness. The answer left much to be desired, however, since the answer had been that these locations were the most 'haunted' and 'spicy', whatever that meant. Further explanation was convoluted and boiled down to 'following echoes to find where the sound came from'. Bruce was fairly certain that had been another bad metaphor, though.

"Gotham has a lot of noise, Bats, both occult and mundane," Constantine had explained. "It's no walk in the park to parse through what's important and what's not." Then he'd gone on about The Veil, and how in Gotham it was perforated like a colander, if a colander could go both ways and sometimes you had to play whack-a-mole with it. "Imagine there's so much pasta in the colander that it has effectively become water-tight, Bats. That's what we're dealing with, here."

It had almost been a relief when Constantine declared they were doing something different today. He'd taken them to a rundown high school in the Narrows, circled it three times, before moving on with a ‘not today’. He'd then taken them on a ferry ride 'to get some perspective'. It was when Constantine asked how Gotham General felt about Batman wandering the halls that Bruce began to suspect that maybe Constantine was making this up as he went along.

He'd almost quit their joint venture altogether when Constantine had taken them to Gotham Cemetery, stopping at the empty grave right next to Catherine Todd’s. A grave Bruce still visited on occasion, empty though it was. He wondered what it said about him that it was easier to apologize to an empty grave than to the one who needed to hear it. Being sorry wasn’t enough; neither was saying it. He’d learned his lesson a long time ago: empty or not, a headstone couldn’t absolve you.

Fortunately, Constantine had looked at the grave, said, "Ooh no, not messing with that," and that had been the end of it.

Bruce certainly hadn’t traipsed all over Gotham following John Constantine on a circuitous route only he understood, chain smoking and muttering things under his breath, to arrive back where they’d started without making a comment about it. "I thought you said this would be easy."

"Yeah, well, that was before I realized your stupid city had taken a shine to our ghost and would actively hide said ghost from us."

"You know how I feel about you personifying Gotham." Bruce had been subjected to days of it by now and made his opinions on the matter known every time.

Constantine, as always, waved him off.

"What are you looking at now?" It looked like zalgo text graffiti. Bruce knew it probably wasn't, since Constantine was looking at it so intently, but if he didn’t ask, Constantine wouldn’t tell him. Something else he'd learned during their unfortunate joint venture.

"Ghost sigils," said Constantine as if commenting on the weather.

"You say that like it means something."

"I thought it was pretty self-explanatory. Sigils are various magical symbols, and these are the ones that have to do with ghosts.”

“What do they do?” he grit out, hoping he wasn't about to get another kitchen utensil metaphor.

“Well, it varies, but generally humans can use them to summon and contain ghosts, and ghosts use them to do magic. Well. Ghost magic."

Normally, Bruce would have stayed silent as a means to extract more information, but Constantine was so thoroughly distracted by the…ghost sigils…that he probably wouldn't notice the silence Bruce was generously leaving for Constantine to fill.

"What is ghost magic?" he asked, already regretting the question. "And don't tell me 'it's the magic ghosts do'."

Constantine took his time answering, scraping at the ghost sigils with his finger and sticking it in his mouth. It would have been more off-putting if Bruce hadn't seen him do the same thing every day for the past week. "Hm. Spicy. But ghost magic…well, to begin with, it comes from somewhere else entirely than normal magic. Different dimension.”

“Would this dimension happen to be the same dimension where the Reality Gauntlet comes from?”

Constantine grinned. “Look at you, picking up on stuff. We’ll make an Occultist of you yet.”

“Not likely.”

“Don’t knock it 'til you try it. Anywho,” he continued, “the dimension ghost magic originates from is called the Infinite Realms. Or the Ghost Zone, depending on who you ask.” He poked at the Zalgo Text again and hummed thoughtfully.

"And the ghost sigils?” Bruce prompted. “What do they do?"

"They aren't as powerful in this realm, as I understand, but a ghost with a deft enough mastery can do a lot with them. So can a human."

Now Constantine was taking a rubbing of the sigils. Bruce wouldn’t have thought one could take rubbings of graffiti, but somehow it was working.

That headache was becoming a permanent fixture behind his right eye.

"Were these sigils written by a human or a ghost?" Bruce was still hoping that a human was behind this, somehow. That would at least justify his own involvement. As much as it could be justified.

At this, Constantine looked at him. "You know, funny thing. I can't tell. Normally it's obvious, right, because even humans with true sight can't see ghost sigils very well, but they are more powerful when written by humans."

"So?"

He gestured to the graffiti. "These are written too neatly to be made by human hands, but they're too powerful to be written by a ghost." He tilted his head. “It also looks like these are fading a bit. They’re not as anchored as they were last week.”

“You saw them last week?”

“Yeah. I've seen them every week since they started popping up. The sigils’ve been maintained pretty consistently since August. They’ve gotten more complex with time, but never really with much variation. This is the first notable change I’ve seen."

"What do they say?"

“Gotham’s Ghosts Are—”

“I meant the sigils.”

Constantine gave him a bland look.

Bruce prayed for patience. “They must do something.”

“Ooh. Right. Well, they do a few things, but mostly they delineate territory." He pointed to the graffiti. "They also seem to indicate some sort of restriction, as well as distributing energy from the ley lines in Gotham. This is an old type of magic."

"What restrictions does it impose?"

Constantine squinted. "Let’s see…'Those who intend…harm? To the residents of…the park? Do Not Pass Go.’"

“Does it really say ‘Do Not Pass Go’?”

“Would I lie to you, Bats?”

Bruce didn’t dignify that with an answer.

“Okay, fair, but I’m not lying.” Constantine gestured to the sigils. “That’s what it says, cross my heart.”

“You said this was old magic.”

“The magic is old, yeah.”

It was only because the game had been banned by Alfred at family game night that Bruce recognized the reference. “‘Do Not Pass Go’. That’s a monopoly reference.”

“Really? Hm. Never really went in for Monopoly, much. Not good with money, fake or real. Now if Monopoly had casinos or bars—”

“Constantine. Focus.”

“Yeah, yeah, quit your nagging. It’s hard to focus with all these blobs floating around.”

“Blobs?”

“Blob ghosts.”

“There are ghosts here? I thought you said they avoid you.”

“There are blob ghosts here. They’re not like the kind of ghost you’re imagining. They’re like those fish that clean tanks, d’you know what I mean? With the whiskers?”

Bruce nodded. “Plecostomus.”

“Why do you just know that? Actually, nevermind, don’t care. Blob ghosts hang out anywhere ghosts have been. For the residue. Anyway, going back to your question…” He tapped his chin. “The magic itself is an old structure, but the application could be new. Guess our ghost is a monopoly fan."

Another useless fact. “So, what is the ghost sigil equivalent of monopoly jail?”

"Well, it's hard to say. They've done something clever with the destination rune." He pointed to a symbol that looked like three lines and an upside-down carrot to Bruce.

Bruce took a deep breath, in and out, and thought of vengeance. "Can you make an educated guess?"

"It looks like it sends hostile ghosts to Arkham Island if they try to cross this threshold."

"Hn."

"Yeah, that's what I thought you'd say."

“How does it send them to Arkham Island?”

“What d’you mean?” Constantine pulled out a cigarette and lit it. Bruce had come to understand that it was a waste of energy trying to stop him.

Bruce would have taken another deep breath to find patience, but alas, the smoke. “I mean does it teleport them? Open a portal? Force them to walk there?”

“That I’m not sure about. One of these sigils says something about getting lost, maybe a maze? It’s unclear. I’m going to have to study this, maybe consult some…specialists?”

Bruce didn’t like the sound of that. “Who are these specialists?”

“My exes, mostly.”

“You’ve dated a ghost?”

“Well, yeah, a couple. To be fair, though, most of the ghosts I’ve dated weren’t ghosts when we were together.”

Bruce decided he was happier not knowing. “Are we done here for the night?”

“Yeah, yeah, ‘course. I’ll be in the House of Mysteries if you need me.”

“Unlikely.”

“Never say never, Bats. That’s asking for trouble.”

“Trouble finds me whether I ask for it or not. You did, after all.”

“When you’re right, you’re right.” Constantine extinguished his cigarette and stuck the stub back in the carton. “Well, on that note. Ciao.”

Chapter Text

Thursday, September 29, afternoon

As a general rule, Jason tried not to do things that made him feel stupid.

Standing in front of a stranger’s door, duck candle in hand, he was finding that rule hard to follow.

He’d known from the get-go that this was a bad idea, and that was the problem, really. Usually when Jason got involved in a bad idea, it wasn’t obvious until he was in the thick of it how bad of an idea it actually was.

But tracking down a candle maker in the vain hope she might know something about Lazarus Kid was a big ask re: positive outcomes.

He’d expected obstacles. He’d expected dead ends. He’d expected he might need to go to a library, at least. Ask around, do something a little bit shady, maybe.

He hadn’t expected it to be this easy.

When he’d peeled off the seal melted into the bottom of the duck, he thought he might find something esoteric. But no, the seal was just a regular foil product label covered with some kind of meaningless symbolic wax design which bore the name: Jessica’s Magic Candles.

He hadn’t even needed to hack Bruce’s fancy servers to “borrow” his advanced search engine. Jessica’s Magic Candles came up in a regular, non-batcomputer-powered search engine.

Jessica’s Magic Candles was an online independent candle shop from right at home in Gotham.

The security was a joke. The site didn’t get much traffic, according to Jason’s rudimentary digging around in the server which hosted it—an effort that proved to be unnecessary, since it was hosted on the free version of one of those ‘make your own online store’ platforms and had a website visitor tracker widget.

It would have been laughably easy to reverse engineer where Jessica of Jessica’s Magic Candles lived if he’d wanted to. Fortunately, he didn’t have to; she'd listed the address right there on her website. Jessica of Jessica’s Magic Candles, apparently, only did in-person sales. Which defeated the point of having an online store, really.

Apparently, she ‘didn’t trust any mail carrier’ to ‘follow an appropriate route’ that wouldn’t ‘cross over ley lines’ and ‘ruin the magic of the candles’. Every candle purchase came with a map charting out the best path from her store to wherever you needed to go, crafted by Jessica herself.

All information which had been provided on the ‘About Me’ page.

Jason had nearly thrown in the towel when he saw where the shop was—right in the middle of Gotham Village, surrounded by occult shops. He hated occult shops; they made him feel weird and vaguely harassed.

But if Lazarus Kid had come here to buy a candle, Jason couldn’t let his personal distaste for the situation stop him from investigating.

So, here he was, hat in hand. Or duck, as it so happened.

He knocked.

A young woman with red hair opened the door. She was pale—almost unnaturally so—but cheerful. She was also only wearing an old silk robe and rabbit slippers. “Oh. You’re not the Thai food guy.”

“Nope,” he agreed.

“Well then. Who are you? Oh! Are you here for a tarot reading?”

Jason struggled to keep the disgust off his face. He’d known about the tarot—it had been mentioned on her website. He had hoped it wouldn’t come up.

“Also nope. I’m here looking for Jessica? Who makes candles?”

The TV was on in the living room, playing an old telenovela. María la del Barrio, by the looks of it. The smell of potpourri and patchouli wafted through the cracked door into the hallway, encouraged by the fall breeze billowing in through the open windows. Mail was piling up on the coffee table, precariously close to twenty or so burning candles. Who kept their windows open while burning candles?

It was quickly becoming apparent that this wasn’t exactly a place of business. This was her home.

Well. This was awkward. Most people didn’t like it when Red Hood showed up knocking at their door, unannounced.

Actually, Red Hood didn’t normally knock. Good thing he’d come as plain old Jason Todd. Hopefully, she’d talk to him.

She narrowed her eyes. Maybe not. “Why are you looking for a Jessica who makes candles?”

He held up the duck. "I want to know about these."

At this, her eyes lit up. “Oh, thank God! For a second there, I thought you were a process server.” She leaned in close and lowered her voice. “Between you and me, it’s not exactly legal to operate a business out of your home.”

Jason bit back many of the unkind things he could have said about that. He was here to make a good impression, after all. Good enough to get information, anyway.

“That’s a very popular candle,” she continued, oblivious to the fact that had he been here to serve her papers, he had more than everything he’d need to identify her. “I’m fresh out of ducks, I’m afraid, but I have some nice flower candles, and I have some hand-shaped candles, oh! I have a few skull-shaped ones, too! It’s almost that time of year. Do you celebrate el día de los muertos?”

He glared at her. She’d butchered the pronunciation. “Are you profiling me?”

“...no?” She swallowed and glanced down at his chest. “But you're wearing a Mexico national futbol league shirt, so I just thought—”

"What? That I must be from there?" He didn’t even look that Mexican. Whatever. Dick had bought all of “Team Bat” various national soccer jerseys to ‘connect to their heritage’. Jason was only wearing his now because he’d run out of clean laundry.

Soccer made him think of his dad. They used to watch the matches together, back before Jason realized his dad was a piece of shit.

Not something he wanted to think about now.

Calavera meant standing in the kitchen with his mom—Catherine, his real mom in all the ways that mattered. It meant the sweetness and celebration of life, an offering. Sugar, not wax. They weren’t meant to banish spirits, either.

He clenched and unclenched his fist. “I’m not here to talk about me.”

“Right.” She smiled, unphased. “You’re here to buy candles. Though usually, I ask my customers to pre-pay online—I make most of them to order, you see, though I am thinking of opening a candle stand inside my mother’s grocery store—”

“I’m not here to buy candles, either,” Jason interrupted before she got too far into her spiel. “I’m looking for someone who bought candles from you. You are Jessica, aren’t you?”

She hesitated before nodding. “Is that the candle they bought?”

“Yes.” Obviously, he didn’t say. He didn’t much care for Jessica.

“Well, like I said, it’s a very popular candle, I can’t remember everyone who’s bought one—”

“You’d remember this one. About yay high—” he held a hand up to his ear “ —black hair, blue eyes, kind of…unusual.” Her eyes went wide. Bingo. “See? You know who I’m talking about.”

“You’re searching for The Voice of the Dead?”

Jason had a feeling Lazarus Kid did not refer to himself that way. It wasn’t a name, but at least it was something. “I don’t know that name, but—”

“I’m sorry, I can’t help you.” She stood up straight, warm eyes gone cold as steel. “I won’t betray his trust.”

So she had some fire in her. Hooray. “Look, I’m not asking you to betray him or whatever. I need his help.” He took a deep breath. “It’s a matter of life and death.”

That was probably pushing it too far, but he wasn’t above lying to get the information he needed. Besides, it was kind of a matter of life and death. His life, after his death.

“You do have a certain aura about you…”

Of all the bullshit. “I’m sure I do.”

She considered. “I’m not unsympathetic to your situation—many of us need his help. Unfortunately, I couldn’t tell you where to find him even if I wanted to. I only found him through a dream…”

Jason took a moment to himself to count to ten. Twice. “Does the, ah, Voice of the Dead come here often to buy duck candles?”

“Oh, I wish! He’s never bought a candle from me. That was a gift.” She pointed to the candle Jason was holding.

So he’d lied about that. Jason wasn’t sure what he’d expected. “I see.”

“He gave it to you?”

“He said my need was greater.”

She smiled. “Such a kind psychopomp. So thoughtful.”

Psychopomp? “I owe him my life,” he said, mostly just to say something. To keep her talking.

“You haven’t used it yet, I’ve noticed.”

“I’m saving it for a special occasion.”

“If you’re being plagued by evil spirits, you might not get the chance to wait.”

Jason felt his blood pressure rising. He felt itchy and wrong-footed and a little bit sick to his stomach.

One thing was abundantly clear: he shouldn't have come here. “Is there really nothing you can tell me about him?”

“The duck?”

He clenched and unclenched his jaw. “The Voice of the Dead.”

“Well,” she paused, lips pursed, “there’s nothing I can tell you, but perhaps the cards could—”

“The cards?”

“Tarot. I mentioned I do readings, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did.” Hard pass. He was starting to feel warm. Too warm. Feverish, that was the word.

He stuck the duck back in his pocket. He’d have to find some other lead. This had been a worse idea than he’d thought. “Look, this was a mistake, so I think I’ll just go—”

“There are no mistakes, only happy accidents.” She folded her arms. “You’re already here. Why not do a reading? You don’t even need to come inside.”

"Well unless your cards can tell me exactly where to find him, my answer is—"

A gust of wind blew through her apartment, scattering all her tchotchkes and trinkets and extinguishing the candles. The cool air hit him like light after a dark night.

A fluttering at his feet drew his attention. There was a card there, larger than a playing card, the back design depicting a eight pointed star surrounded by ten moons in various phases.

He picked it up. It depicted an old man sitting on a throne. IV: The Emperor.

Ugh. Tarot. It should’ve just stayed a card game.

He handed it back.

She took it, expression thoughtful. "Interesting. I do believe this is a sign—"

He couldn’t stop the laugh that bubbled up. "Of what? That opening your windows while it's raining is a bad idea?"

She either ignored his snark or didn't hear it. "Do emperors mean anything to you?"

"Not really. Imperialism can kiss my—"

"As you may know, each card has many meanings,” she persisted. “The Emperor represents fatherhood, logic, and dependability. When reversed it means lack of discipline, a domineering attitude—"

Jason didn't like where this was going. "Jessica. If you can't help me find the kid, then we're done here."

Still, she pressed on. Jason’s head was starting to hurt. "The common interpretations mean less than what it means to you. You asked where the Voice of the Dead is, and the spirits answered you—"

"It wasn't spirits, it was literally the wind—"

"What does The Emperor make you think of?"

"Penguins! I don’t know!"

She smiled, triumphant. "Well. There you go. We have Penguins at the zoo. You should start your search there."

Jason rolled his eyes. "Whatever."

He stuffed his hands in his pockets, fingers brushing the duck. Coming here had definitely been a waste of time. “Well. I got places to be, things to do, so. Bye. See you never.”

"It's an open offer!” she called after him. “A friend of the Voice of the Dead is a friend of mine!”

Back to the drawing board. Like hell was he coming back here again.

Showed him for believing an occultist who sold ‘magic candles’ might have answers.

The duck probably didn’t even float.

Thursday, September 29th, same time, on the other side of town

Danny could not fucking believe this.

Waiting in front of the stupid Ghost Sigils was that stupid Rich Guy. This time with a camera around his neck, a manila folder under his arm, and an impatient look on his face.

Had he been waiting there every day for Danny to come back? Unbelievable. This wasn’t even the same graffiti spot they’d met at before.

Which meant he might very well know about the other locations, too. Fuck.

Danny could admit he might have made a mistake, telling someone about one of the few ways to reliably capture pictures of ghosts without ecto-tech and then inviting them to try it. But he hadn’t mentioned that one needed to use expired film. What were the chances Rich Guy had done that? Slim to none.

Then again, his presence here and that manila folder spoke volumes.

Dealing with the Death-Touched was always complicated. That wasn’t something he’d realized until he’d left Amity Park. Death didn’t touch people in Amity Park. Not in the same way. Maybe because the door was always open, so to speak, it didn’t feel the need to linger—at least, the door had been open, once. A practical revolving door.

Death lingered in Gotham. Over some people more than others. Too many people with too many close calls, brushes with the limits of their own mortality.

This guy must be some kind of extreme sports aficionado or something. He wore death like a cape. Maybe that’s what drew him back here; people like him could sense it, sometimes. The rifts. If he spent enough time here, he might even start seeing ghosts.

That was the last thing Danny needed. Now, how to convince this guy that the graffiti was totally boring, really, so Danny could get back to his business of making this area safe again. For the dead, at least.

Scare tactics? No, that wouldn’t work. Straight-up lies? Better, but not a perfect solution. Figure out what he wanted and give it to him? Eh, pass.

“Oh, you’re here!” said one of Rich Guy’s Maybe Dad Ghost. “Please don’t run away again, Tim’s been waiting for you. Just answer some of his questions and he’ll move on. Please.”

“Oh, he’ll move on? Like you haven’t?” Danny mumbled.

Danny would have liked to have told Maybe Dad Ghost that none of this was any of the Living’s Business. What he should do was leave without talking to the guy at all.

But Danny couldn’t risk the chance that this guy might be stubborn enough to return every day until he got some kind of answer. If not for Rich Guy’s sake, then for the sake of the ghosts who followed him.

Well. He could wing it. Worst case scenario, Danny would just pull a fast one and leave.

Danny took a deep breath and stepped around the corner. “Do you make it a habit to hang out in alleys, or are you trying to get robbed?”

Rich Guy turned his head sharply at Danny’s voice. "It’s you! I knew it. You are visiting these graffiti sites."

Danny held his hands up in surrender. “Guilty as charged.”

“I’ve been hoping you’d come back.”

Time to play dumb. Always an easy role to play. "Me?"

Maybe Dad Ghost gave Danny the stink eye. “Oh, c’mon on, now, don’t be like that, Phantom!”

How Danny wished the Ghosts didn’t all know his name.

“What do you want with me?” Danny pressed. Reluctantly.

Rich Guy quirked an eyebrow. “Well, I did as you suggested and took pictures of the graffiti with a film camera at night—”

“Hold up, I didn’t tell you to do any of that—well, okay, I sort of did, but I wouldn’t have if I thought you’d actually do it.”

There. Danny could be honest when he tried.

Rich Guy didn’t even look phased at being interrupted. “That sounds like a You problem, and now you have to deal with the consequences.”

“Oh boy, consequences. My favorite.”

Rich Guy ignored Danny’s snark, pulling out his manila folder and opening it. Inside were several actually quite decent photos of the ghost sigils. All nine of them.

And a whole bunch of ghosts clawing at them, trying to find a way through Danny’s barrier.

And Rich Guy’s Maybe Dad Ghost.

Well. So much for trying to convince Rich Guy that the graffiti was boring.

"So, how do you want to explain this?”

Danny smiled before he remembered that Rich Guy had taken issue with his teeth. “Um. It’s a joke?”

“Try again.”

“You messed up the aperture and got lens flare from a passing car.”

Rich Guy gave Danny a stink eye as potent as his Maybe Dad Ghost. Definitely related. “Better, but still not true.”

“Actually, if it’s all the same to you, I don’t really want to explain it.”

“Are you worried I won’t believe you?”

In fact, Danny would have preferred Rich Guy didn’t believe him. That would make all this much easier.

God dammit. He really hadn’t thought this through. Showed him for being flippant. But who even used film cameras anymore? Rich kids, apparently. Figures.

And now the guy was there, with proof that something fucky was going on with the graffiti…Danny could try to overshadow him, maybe. But then he’d have to go ghost, and Rich Guy would definitely see that, and then if Danny got summoned it’d be a whole thing…

Also, his Maybe Dad Ghost probably would take issue with Danny overshadowing his Probably Son. Dammit.

The worst part was that now that he was here and knew Danny made regular appearances at several different graffiti spots, he’d be harder to convince of anything. Danny needed to renew the ghost sigils, though, or this area would get swarmed with poltergeists. Again.

Dammit. Think, Danny…

“Just tell me what I’ve captured here,” Rich Guy pressed again.

Buy time. That was the move. “Why do you want to know? I don’t believe this is about your newspaper article.”

“I just need to know. You can’t see something like this and not wonder…I’m not sleeping at night, man. I’m freaked out.”

Maybe Dad Ghost nodded vigorously. “It’s true, he’s not sleeping well.”

“I really don’t think the truth will improve your sleeping habits.” What kind of person saw photos like that and decided to go investigate further?

“At this point, nothing could make it worse. If it bothers me, well. It’s my fault for asking what’s in the photos.”

Danny could throw him a bone, he supposed. A little hint of the truth to satisfy him…

Yes. This was obviously the correct choice. “Dude, what do you think is in the photos? The graffiti says ‘Gotham’s Ghosts are Watching You’.”

The guy narrowed his eyes. “Are you telling me a ghost made this graffiti?”

That hadn't been Danny’s point at all, actually, but sure. That would work. “Seems pretty obvious.”

“Hm. You can tell me the truth, you know—”

“I just did!”

“I mean I know you put up the graffiti. I’m not going to turn you in or anything, I just want to know why.”

“Do you think I’m stupid?” Danny scoffed.

Ironic, that the people Danny wanted to pay attention to him couldn’t and the one he wanted to leave him alone was chasing him like a dog with a bone.

“I don’t think you’re stupid. I think you’re hiding something.”

“And you have a right to know?” He felt his eyes burn. Angry eyes. Not good. Showing angry eyes to the curious Rich Guy with a camera was never a good move.

Danny closed his eyes and took a deep breath. This sucked. Why did everyone have to be an obstacle to him trying to make things better?

"I could understand if you were some occult enthusiast," Danny grit out, "but you're just some guy."

Some Death-Touched, obsessive guy. But just a guy all the same.

"I could be an occult enthusiast. You don't know anything about me."

“And I don’t want to.” Danny took another deep breath. “I don’t need to. I know your type. First, you wanted to know what it is, and I told you. Now you want to know who put up the graffiti, and why. And then you want to know more, and more, and more. You don’t need to know, you want to know. You happened to catch a glimpse of something, and now you feel entitled to the whole story. Well, news flash: sometimes you don’t get the whole story and you have to learn to live with it.”

Rich Guy closed the manila folder, eyeing Danny warily. "…I know someone in these pictures. Someone who…someone I lost."

Danny turned to Almost Definitely Dad Ghost. "Is that right."

Maybe Dad Ghost didn’t even look sorry. “I didn’t know I’d show up in the pictures. Tim hasn't taken his camera out in ages. It was…fun to pretend. If you’re mad, be mad at yourself.”

As if ‘Mad at Himself’ wasn’t a constant companion.

"Just tell me…is it really him?” asked Rich Guy. Tim. “Is…he suffering?"

Danny sighed. "I know I am."

Tim’s eyes got all sharp and focused. Great. Danny and his big mouth for the win.

"Are you in trouble? Is someone making you do all this?”

“Not technically.”

“If you need help, there are people who can help you."

"No, there really aren't." Yikes, that came out bitter. "Look, my guy, you don’t know what you're risking every time you come to these sites. It's dangerous."

Rich Guy(Tim) jutted out his chin. "I can handle myself."

Danny looked past him to Maybe Dad Ghost. "You're not the one in danger from what lurks here."

"I can handle myself too," said Maybe Dad Ghost.

“You mean ghosts,” said Tim. “So he is in danger.”

Danny pinched his nose. "The things you don’t understand could fill a library."

"That's what libraries are for. But if my ignorance offends you, feel free to educate me." He was grinning now. Smart alec.

“Hard pass.” Danny decided he was done with this conversation. He never should have started it.

He turned to walk away, but Rich Guy followed him. “Just tell me: will the other ghosts hurt him?”

“No.”

“Then why is he in danger? What are they doing?”

“What does it look like? They’re trying to get out.”

Shit. Danny shouldn’t have said that.

“Out? Out of what?” He paused. “The graffiti…it traps them?”

“Yep! You figured it out, good job cracking the case,” Danny snarked.

“But there are ghosts all over the city.”

“Yeah. I guess it doesn’t work very well or something, I dunno,” Danny lied, heading for the mouth of the alley.

The ghosts around the graffiti were starting to take notice of their little spat. They usually fled when Danny showed up, but they’d started creeping back in over the course of the conversation Danny should have avoided. Maybe they thought they’d have an advantage since he was distracted. Maybe they just wanted to feed on the negativity.

Danny wasn’t looking forward to coming back later to fix the perimeter here. The ghosts always got agitated when he changed the routine. It made them nervous.

He didn’t like it either. Waiting would weaken the other sigils, but he didn’t have a choice.

Unfortunately, Maybe Dad Ghost was blocking the way. “I won’t let you leave. Not until you answer his questions.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he growled.

He didn’t like using Ghost Speak. It left a bad taste in his mouth, literally. Sometimes he couldn’t help it, though. More and more, these days. “You think you can stop me?”

“I think I could slow you down. Enough that Tim will notice something weird is going on. If you think he’s interested now, you haven’t seen anything.”

The ghosts were creeping closer, drawn in by the turmoil.

Actually. That was a thought.

“How are you making those sounds with your mouth?” asked Rich Guy. Tim.

“Don’t worry about it.” Danny wasn’t much of a gambler, but in this case, the cards were stacked in his favor. “Ok. Tell you what: if you can do one thing for me, I’ll tell you everything.”

Understandably, the reaction this elicited was suspicion. “Just one thing?”

“Well, I guess it’s technically two…” Danny waved it off. “Walk over to the wall and touch the graffiti.”

Rich Guy (Tim) looked uncertain. Maybe Dad Ghost looked straight-up alarmed. “That’s it?”

“You say you can handle whatever dangers this place poses, so prove it.”

“And if I prove it, you’ll tell me everything?”

Danny grinned. It wasn’t nice. “I swear, scout’s honor.” Never mind that Danny had never actually gotten any boy scout badges. “If you don’t think you can handle it though…”

“What if I fail?”

“Then I expect to never see you at these sites ever again.”

“I mean, you can’t really keep me away. It’s a free country.”

“For you, maybe,” Danny grumbled. “But you’re not the one I was talking to.” Danny glared pointedly at Dad Ghost.

Tim followed Danny’s gaze, but he obviously saw nothing.

Dad Ghost looked increasingly distressed. Danny almost felt bad. “Phantom, don’t do this.”

“I just want it stated, for the record, that I warned you of the dangers,” Danny pressed ahead, “so if this goes badly, it’s not my fault.”

Tim looked around. “Who are you talking to?”

“Anyone who needs to hear it,” Danny answered honestly.

“If he’s successful, I want to talk to him,” said Dad Ghost, resigned. “That’s my wager.”

Danny shrugged. That was fine by him. He didn’t think Rich Guy would pass the test. And if he did…well. He’d probably wish he hadn’t.

If Danny were a betting man, he’d give Tim three seconds before he got overshadowed.

Tim was starting to look apprehensive now. “This isn’t going to kill me, is it?”

Danny rolled his eyes. “No, it isn’t going to kill you. Might not feel super good, but you’ll live. I can guarantee that, at least.”

Tim, apparently, didn’t need any more prompting. He nodded, and marched over to the wall, touching the graffiti. “There, I did it—” he began, before passing out immediately when three ghosts tried to overshadow him and his Dad (Ghost) pushed them out.

Well, he punched them out, more like.

Danny felt a little bad when he heard Tim’s ribs crunch as he fell to the ground.

The graffiti lit up in bright colors as three ghosts got a one-way trip to Arkham Island. Well, until they found their way through the leyline maze, anyway.

Danny approached the unconscious Tim, making sure he wasn’t hurt too badly. There was no blood. Guy knew how to fall, apparently.

“Huh,” said Danny. “Didn’t expect that.”

“And what, exactly, did you expect?” Dad Ghost growled.

“I thought he’d get overshadowed, the lucky ghost would try to walk away with a new meat suit, and then I’d stop them. If anything, this is your fault,” he said, gesturing to the unconscious Tim.

“Is he hurt badly?”

“Nah. Just a bit bruised. Still, I’ve never seen anyone pass out from getting overshadowed.”

“He’s dead on his feet! Nothing keeping him awake but spite and caffeine fumes!” said Dad Ghost. “Of course he passed out.”

“Hm. Maybe it’s a good thing, then.”

Dad Ghost cursed under his breath. “Was all this entirely necessary, Phantom?”

“Was it entirely necessary for you to literally stand in my way and prevent me from leaving?”

“He just wanted some answers!”

“It’s none of his business.”

“You owe it to him. If you hadn’t shown him the door, he wouldn’t have walked through.”

Danny doubted that. This guy was the kind of stubborn that didn’t need encouragement.

“Well. In any case, maybe now he’ll see how dangerous it can be.”

Dad Ghost didn’t look pleased by this assessment. “This won’t deter him.”

“The bruised ribs might.” Danny hoisted Rich Guy up on his shoulder. He was heavier than he looked. “I know you can’t stop him from coming, but you should keep away, at the very least.”

“I’m not going to abandon my boy.”

Definitely his dad, then. “I know it’s hard to let go of your life, but those feelings will twist you into something you don’t want to be.”

“I thought this graffiti was to protect us.”

“You don’t live in the Park, so it won’t help you much. It will make you stronger if you keep coming here. And whatever feelings you're feeling will latch on, and before you know it: you’re a poltergeist.” Danny crouched and jumped up onto the fire escape. It was difficult to do while hauling an unexpectedly muscular, unconscious body around, but he could manage. Hooray ghost strength.

“I won’t become a poltergeist,” Ghost Dad insisted. Stubbornly.

Danny ignored that. “And if something bad happened to Tim? And all you could do was watch or become some twisted version of yourself to try to help him? What do you think you would pick?”

“Then what should I do?” he asked miserably. “I can’t help but to want to watch. If I could just speak to him, warn him—”

“Don’t. Don’t wish for that.” Danny reached the top of the fire escape and looked for a good hiding spot—there, that pigeon hutch should do nicely. He shuffled over and deposited “Tim” there, pulling a sticky pad out of his backpack and scribbling a note. And a protection sigil. It should do until he woke up.

“It’s a natural thing to wish for,” Dad Ghost rasped.

“I know.” Danny hesitated before sticking it to his forehead. The sigil would work best there, and Rich Guy—sorry, Tim—would definitely see it there. “That’s what makes it dangerous.”

“But—”

“Did you already forget what just happened? He wouldn’t be unconscious if you’d let me do things my way. Your good intentions can still hurt people.”

He stood up. “I better not see you around here again. I can’t really stop him. But you, I could stop.”

“You’d ward against me? Specifically?”

“You’ve been annoying enough to deserve it.”

Unexpectedly, he laughed at that. “I guess I deserve that.”

Danny sighed. “You were right that I shouldn’t have told him how to take the pictures. Most people hear the truth and think it’s a lie.”

“Tim isn’t most people.”

He could say that again. “If he takes more photos, try not to get in them.”

“Why not?”

“Do you think it’s been good for him? Seeing his dead dad in all his pictures?”

“You really don’t hold back, do you?”

“Someone’s gotta tell you the truth.” Danny hopped down the fire escape. He still had graffiti to fix.

“Phantom?”

“What?”

“You’ll watch out for him, right? Until he wakes up? Take responsibility?”

Danny sighed. “Sure. What’s one more thing?”

Thursday, September 29th, early evening

Tim blinked his eyes open, wincing as he took a deep breath. Yep, those were some bruised ribs, just great. He was on a roof…somewhere. Had he lost consciousness? It all came rushing back. The conversation that had been going well until it stopped going well. The bet. The feeling of cold and a pain in his side and The Guy’s alarmed face as Tim got up close and personal with the ground—

What was stuck to his face?

He peeled it off. It was a sticky note.

Dear Rich Guy(Tim),

Sorry about the ribs. And the minor overshadow trick. You are like, dead on your feet, apparently? I guess all that willpower is being used to keep you awake. Anyway. You didn’t lose technically, but you didn’t win either, so don’t come back here, m'kay? Also, take a nap.

It was unsigned, unless the weird scribble on the back of the note that made Tim’s head hurt to look at was supposed to be a name. It didn’t matter; Tim knew exactly who’d written it. That sardonic tone was practically a calling card.

Tim stood up with a groan and walked over to the edge of the roof. It looked like he was right above the graffiti, which looked fresh and newly repainted.

So, one point to Tim for guessing who was behind it. One point to The Guy for…somehow knocking Tim out without touching him?

Tim had the distinct feeling someone was watching him, but he didn’t see anyone around. Then again, given what he’d captured on his camera, just because he couldn’t see anyone didn’t mean someone wasn’t there. Or something.

None of his stuff had been taken, at least. The bruised ribs were a bummer. He’d have to hide that from Bruce and Alfred, lest they bench him.

But. It wasn’t all a wash; Tim hadn’t expected Mr. Snarky to be any more forthcoming this time than he had been last time, but Tim didn’t make bets he couldn’t win.

He’d come prepared and worn both a body cam and a hidden mic. Their whole conversation had been recorded, as well as anything that was said after Tim passed out. Hopefully. Even if it were corrupted, there’d have to be at least one frame he could use. Something he could put through the Batcomputer facial recognition program, at least.

And once Tim knew who he was working with (or against, as it might turn out), he could plan around it.

Tim pulled out his phone and dialed a familiar number. It rang twice before the call connected.

“What? I’m working,” Babs said, the sound of a keyboard filtering through the call.

“Hey, Babs, yeah I’m good, thanks for asking—”

“Don’t get cute with me. What is it? Another one of your dumb camera pranks?”

“First of all, that wasn’t a prank, it was a genuine question, second of all—Well. I was hoping you could do me a favor.”

“What kind of favor?” she asked with undue suspicion.

“I’ve got some video footage I’d like you to look at for me and clean up—I have a feeling it’s going to be at least somewhat corrupted and you’re the only tech genius I know who I’m willing to trust with supernatural secrets.”

“Supernatural secrets?” The keyboard clacking stopped. “I’m listening.”

Tim grinned. Bingo. “Well, it begins with graffiti…”

Monday, October 3rd, 7:03 a.m.

Duke liked to think it was pretty hard to get the jump on him. He’d lived in Gotham all his life, been through some objectively awful shit that would make anyone hyper-aware of their surroundings, and he could sometimes see the future. Plus there was the whole “Cursed Wheel” Batman training.

But lots of rules, it seemed, did not apply to Jason Todd. Maybe it was because he had died. Maybe he was just damn quiet.

Maybe it was something else altogether. Like Duke being distracted by what Izzy had told him, asked him to do…

Anyway, Duke would deny it if asked, but he may or may not have jumped out of his skin when, from the depths of a dark alley on his way to school from his uncle’s place, one Jason Todd called out, “Hey.”

“Jesus, Jay. Warn a guy?”

“Nah. It’s good for you.”

It most certainly was not. From what Duke understood of Jason’s personality, however, this was probably his way of showing his affection or something. Duke and Jason didn’t spend much time together, admittedly. The Signal and Red Hood didn’t really mesh, symbolically, and Jason avoided Wayne Manor most of the time.

But, here they were. Together. Because Jason had sought him out.

“So, are you here to scare me for the health benefits, or do you need something?”

“Can’t I just stop by to say hey?”

“You can. But you don’t. Especially not at this time of day.”

Jason grinned, eyes pure mischief. “Maybe I’m turning over a new leaf.”

“Yeah, and maybe I’m King Arthur,” he mumbled. “So? What’s dragged you out of bed at this ungodly hour? Other than scaring the shit out of me.”

Jason stuffed his hands into his pockets and fell into step next to Duke. “Your…Ghost Vision. Does it let you actually see ghosts? Assuming they were real.”

“Uh, pardon my French, but what the fuck kind of question is that?”

“A normal, hypothetical question. C’mon, Narrows, keep up.”

“You’re asking me if I could see something that’s invisible if it happened to exist.”

“Exactly.”

Duke narrowed his eyes. “What if I told you ghosts are real?”

“I didn’t ask if they were real, I asked whether you could see them.” Jason paused. “If they were real, of course.”

So maybe not everyone knew about ghosts, then. Was it supposed to be a secret?

Actually, that was a thought. “Did Bruce put you up to this? Is this some kind of hazing thing?”

Jason placed a broad hand on Duke’s shoulder. “Duke, if I were hazing you, you’d know. Also, if Bruce asked me to ask you about ghosts, do you think for one second I would do it?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

Jason pulled his hand back. “I definitely would not. And you can quote me on that.”

“Then what is this about?”

“It was just a question, sheesh. Can’t blame a guy for trying to get to know you better.”

“There are better ways to get to know me than accosting me from a dark alley and asking me about ghosts.”

“Hm. Fair.” Jason stuffed his hands back in his jacket pockets. He seemed to be fumbling with something in there. A gun? A phone? A—

“So I hear you write poetry. What do you like to write about?”

Duke tried (and failed) not to cringe. “Uh, who told you that?”

“Does it matter?” Jason gestured to himself. “I may not look it, but I love literature. C’mon, I won’t laugh.”

“No comment.”

Jason sighed. “Fine, fine. I’ll get those secrets out of you someday.”

“Like hell you will.”

“I can take us there if that’s what it takes,” Jason joked. At least, Duke thought it was a joke. “So, how’s school? How’s your girlfriend? You have a girlfriend, right?”

Jason walked him all the way to his school, chatting all the way. It was honestly the most Jason had ever talked to him.

Before he left, he asked one final question. “By the way, how busy are you these days?”

“Busier than a one-armed paper hanger.”

“...what?”

“Something my mom used to say. Why?”

Jason shrugged. “I’m working on something. A case. Thought you might want to help out with it. If you had the time.”

“Does it involve ghosts?”

“Why would you ask that?”

For all the Jason and Bruce didn’t get along, their avoidance tactics were exactly the same. “It was the first thing you asked me about, dude.”

Jason gave him a Look, capital L. “It might have something to do with ghosts. TBD, honestly.”

Someday, he’d get to the bottom of the ghost thing. “Well, I’ve kind of got something personal I’m working on right now.”

“...is it poetry.”

“It’s not poetry. It’s something with Izzy.” Duke scuffed his shoe. “It’s. Well, her brother. Her family doesn’t know where he went and…well, you get it. They're worried. So. I’m helping them look.”

“Shit.” Jason’s gaze went hard and distant. Duke appreciated that he didn’t ask if they’d gone to the Police; he knew as well as anyone exactly how much the GCPD cared about missing persons cases from the Narrows. “Anything I can do to help?”

His tone was as dark as his expression. But: Duke considered it. Jason might actually be able to help. He had connections, probably. Then again, Duke didn’t want to imagine that Hector could be found with the kind of connections Jason had. Maybe if Duke got really desperate, he’d ask for Jason’s help, but…

“Nah, I got it handled. He probably just got wrapped up in a job or something. It happens. Thanks though.”

“If you’re sure…” Jason looked like he wanted to say something else, but thought better of it. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

Duke wasn’t entirely sure that was true. Jason came and went as he pleased, never staying in the same place twice.

He supposed it was the thought that counted, though.

“Yeah, sure.”

Jason smiled. “Don’t be a stranger, yeah? We delinquents have to stick together.”

“Your favorite book is Pride and Prejudice. You’re not a delinquent.”

“Elizabeth Bennet is the most punk heroine in all regency literature and I’ll not hear a word against her.”

Duke laughed. “Whatever you say, man. Catch you later.”

Jason raised a hand and slinked off, disappearing the way he came down a dark alley.

Maybe Duke should have agreed to help him with whatever it was…then again, there were at least five other vigilantes he could ask for help, if he needed it. Six if one counted Bruce, which Jason probably didn’t, but still. Asking Duke was probably just a clumsy way to say they were still cool, despite Duke living at the manor five days out of seven. Duke was still learning how to decipher all the things Jason did and didn’t say.

All the things every bat did and didn’t say, really.

If Duke wasn’t wrong, Jason seemed nervous about something, as much as Jason ever seemed nervous about anything.

Duke hoped he was wrong. Something that made Jason Todd nervous was bad news for everyone.

Wednesday, October 5th, evening

Damian sat in front of the computer in the cave and worked on the case files as diligently as he could. Which wasn’t very diligently, if he were honest, but that had more to do with the work than his diligence.

No matter what Drake said, he wasn’t sulking. And he wasn't doing Father's grunt work, either, thank you kindly, Todd. Even if it seemed like Father had left Damian with the pointless and mind-numbing work of making connections between the victims of a sudden and brief desire to engage in petty crime for no apparent reason while father himself gallivanted all over Gotham with the Hellblazer, the fact was that Damian was choosing to do the casework because this was his case. His and father's, but effectively a solo mission now that father was otherwise occupied.

Damian had completed countless solo missions. None of them had been quite as boring as this.

Father insisted it was important; he had assured Damian it was good practice. But Damian couldn’t shake the impression that this was as meaningless as it was dull.

He was starting to suspect that this was some kind of test. A trial to see if Damian would give up, or see it through to the end. It had been some time since father had conducted an exam in this fashion, but one could never afford to get too complacent.

So Damian would see it through to the end because the only thing worse than tedium was failure. But he wouldn’t have minded if there were suddenly some pressing emergency that required his immediate attention. Nothing deadly, of course, but dangerous enough to really put his mind into gear.

“So I was right,” came Drake’s voice from the back of the cave, “the footage was corrupted. How badly? Really? Not even one frame? Damn. Okay.”

Damian hadn’ been aware he wasn’t alone down here.

He turned his chair towards the lab Drake tended to haunt these days. Drake emerged, talking animatedly on the phone.

It wasn’t the emergency Damian had been hoping for. It was only marginally more interesting than what Damian had been doing, but he was desperate enough to take the distraction for the reprieve it offered.

“What about the audio?” Drake continued.

Damian wondered who he was talking to.

“What do you mean, ‘for a given definition of salvageable’? Huh. How generous?”

Drake winced and pulled the phone away from his ear as a screeching like metal grinding on metal filtered through the speaker.

“Holy shit, warn me next time! Yeah, it’s bad. Ha, ha, very funny. A conversation? With who? Well obviously it’s not a one-sided conversation—” Tim grimaced. “No, I don’t know, exactly. I have an idea, but…” he sighed. “I’m pretty sure I lost a bet. Yeah. Uhuh. Thanks, Babs.” He hung up.

“So much for that lead,” he muttered to himself.

"Is that the sound of you struggling I hear?" Damian asked, flipping through the box to the next victim-and/or-criminal's dossier.

It was satisfying, watching Drake startle. “Damian. I didn’t realize you were still down here. It’s been hours.”

He was, unfortunately, right. “As you can see, I am still here. And you owe at least fifty dollars to the swear jar.”

Drake opened his mouth to make some inane retort, probably, but then he paused. “Is B around?”

“No.” Damian turned back to the computer, for all the good that it did. It was in exactly the state he’d left it in. “He’s off running around with the Hellblazer.”

“Hellbla—you mean Constantine? Why?”

“I may be the blood son, but father is just as reticent with sharing his plans with me as he is with anyone.”

“Huh. Sucks doesn’t it? Getting stuck with busywork while Bruce does his own thing.”

“Busywork?” Damian scoffed. Of all the preposterous— "Why would he do that to me?"

"Because you keep running off to do your own ‘solo work’."

Damian bristled. "At least I'm doing actual casework. You're just taking pictures, last I heard."

"Oh, is that right? And here I was thinking of asking you to look through them to see what you thought, but if you think they're so unimportant—"

Damian would rather be doing literally anything else, even if it meant working with Drake. "If you're so incompetent that you require my input—"

"I don't. Have fun reading about" —he squinted at the screen— "what’s wrong with the computer?"

Damian looked at it distastefully. “I was attempting to use an algorithm to detect anomalies in the cases Gordon gave us, but it appears whatever malfunction has afflicted the GCPD server is contagious, because every few cases I enter, the computer freezes.”

“That shouldn’t happen.”

“I know.”

“So why is it?”

He didn’t know, but no way was he admitting that. “I asked Oracle to fix it. And she did. But then it happened again—”

“And you didn’t want to risk her wrath by asking her to fix it. Again?” Drake guessed.

If he happened to be correct, it was only because Father had trained him.

Damian sniffed. “Turning it off and turning it back on again works as a temporary fix, but it resets to algorithm software, too.”

Drake was grinning. “How many times have you had to start over?”

“It hardly matters. I’ve tried it with a variety of different cases, but it’s all the same.”

“And this happens with every case you input?”

“Not every case file, no.”

Drake tilted his head. “What is it you’re working on, exactly?”

“I fail to see how it’s any of your—”

“Humor me and I’ll fix the computer.”

Damian considered. Drake was rather handy at technological things. He probably could fix it just as well as Oracle. “Gordon gave us a case somewhat outside our purview. A series of petty crimes, committed by people who have no real reason to.”

“What makes them a series?”

“They all said the same thing about their impromptu crimes: that they wanted to do something dangerous and ‘live a little’. They experienced various mild physical symptoms akin to carbon monoxide poisoning, but none of them had elevated CO levels in their blood. They didn’t have any known toxins, either, nor did they seem to be suffering from hypnosis—”

“Nanobots?”

“Negative. Unfortunately, not every police officer is as competent as Gordon, and thus not every possible case was marked for possible…strangeness. So father and I have been going through cases of petty crime from the past couple of months, looking for any other similarities. Looking for possible motives, who could be behind it, when it might have begun…” It sounded demoralizing to even voice it aloud.

It was a stupid case and everyone knew it.

Drake wandered over to the table Damian had dragged next to the computer to hold all the files, eyeing them speculatively. “So you’re going through all of these by hand?”

“Like I said, the GCPD computers have been down, so they’ve been reduced to writing their dossiers out by hand. Gordon has passed them over to us.”

And now Damian was reduced to the same humiliating tedium.

Drake had a thinking face on. Damian was loath to admit it was a promising prospect. “And you say the same thing happens whenever you try to enter a case into the batcomputer.”

“Not every case,” Damian said. Again. “Just some of them.”

“Well, there’s your answer there.” Drake nodded. As if that decided it.

Damian didn’t want to ask, but if Drake did have some insight that would prevent him from having to go through all these files by himself… “what answer?”

“The answer to figuring out which cases are related and which ones aren’t.”

At Damian’s blank expression, Drake sighed and continued, “you said it yourself: whatever is making the GCPD computers shut down is probably doing it to the batcomputer. What do you bet that whatever weird thing is linking these cases is the cause?”

Damian narrowed his eyes. “How does that help me, if it’s true?”

“If you take note of which cases freeze the computer, and you can figure out which cases are related and which aren’t. Easy peasy.”

“It would be easier to analyze them if I weren’t wasting time figuring out which cases are relevant to begin with…”

“Exactly. Then you can get around to figuring what might be causing the computer problems—”

“And from there I can figure out what’s making people commit petty crimes for no reason,” Damian concluded.

“All in time for Sunday dinner.”

“That seems like an irresponsible abuse of the computer. But,” Damian blazed ahead, “Your idea isn’t entirely without merit.”

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

Damian sneered. “Don’t get used to it. If we are to solve this by Sunday, I won’t have your sentimentalism getting in the way.”

Drake crossed his arms. “We?”

“This is your plan. And you said you’d fix the computer. If this works as intended, you’ll need to stick close to fix it every time these blasted files crash the system.”

Drake looked doubtful. “I said I’d fix it once. I’m kind of busy—”

“With your photography? From the sound of it, you’ve hit a dead end.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“I know enough.” Damian held out his hand. “I would, of course, be willing to offer my expertise in evaluating your lesser art form.”

“Even I wouldn’t call this art, but feel free to take a look,” Drake said darkly. He tossed a manila folder down in front of Damian as he started the reboot process for the batcomputer.

Damian opened the file. Inside were photographs of strange glowing words and transparent figures. “What am I looking at?”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out.” Drake paused his typing, expression pained. “A…somewhat unreliable source told me they’re ghosts.”

“The one you lost a bet to?”

“So you heard that,” Drake mumbled. “What do you think they are?”

Damian considered the strange, blurry, translucent figures. “They look like people. Sick, deranged people. What’s this one doing in the forefront? Is it posing?”

“He is posing, yes. I think,” he replied with unexpected heat. “Anyway, Ghosts are people. Maybe. If they even exist.”

“Of course ghosts exist, Drake, were you born yesterday?”

Drake squinted at him. “You believe in ghosts?”

“I know of their existence. My uncle we don’t talk about is a ghost.”

“...uncle?”

Damian glanced about. He knew there was no one down here who could hear him, but years of vigilance wouldn’t abandon him now. “Uncle Dusan,” he said quietly.

“Who’s Dusan?”

“Exactly.” It was good to know Drake could be discreet when it really mattered.

Damian flipped through the photos. There was an eerie quality to them. The whole tableau almost looked familiar, but Damian was confident that he hadn’t ever seen anything quite like it before.

Gotham’s Ghosts Are Watching You. Damian shivered.

Drake raised an eyebrow at him, but said nothing.

“Just a draft. Let’s start from the top with these files.”

Friday, October 7th. Late.

Jason searched for the Lazarus Kid for two weeks by himself before he recruited help. After the candle lead fell through, he’d thought he might have a bit more luck just asking around where the homeless kids hung out in Crime Alley, but none of them had seen anyone matching Danny’s description. None of the ones who would talk to him had, anyway.

Jason didn’t know that Lazarus Kid was homeless, necessarily. But he probably didn’t have anyone looking after him if he was wandering around Crime Alley in the middle of the night (which he must have been, to have come across Jason). Not to mention some of the worrying things he’d said about knowing first aid from having to do it on himself (which Jason had been too distracted by the what-the-fuckery of the situation to process until it was too late to ask for more information).

Unfortunately, his mask footage was completely corrupted, so he couldn’t even use a still image from that to run through facial recognition scans.

He would have resorted to simply picking a corner and waiting there until Lazarus Kid stumbled across him again, but waiting wasn’t an option.

He’d lived with it so long, Jason almost didn’t notice when it started to creep back in. The headaches, the resentment, the anger. When he woke from the first nightmare he’d had in a couple of weeks, he knew waiting wasn’t a luxury he could afford.

Whatever Lazarus Kid had fixed, it was broken again.

Jason had actually tried burning the candle, since Lazarus Kid said it would make him feel better. But after carrying it around with him for two weeks, he felt something he was refusing to acknowledge as guilt, watching the wick blacken and the wax begin to melt. So he’d blown it out and moved ‘burning the candle that allegedly wards against evil spirits’ down the list of “things to try”.

He almost wished he’d bought the hand-shaped candles from Jessica, but now that he knew Lazarus Kid didn’t actually buy candles from her, he had a sneaking suspicion that the candles maybe didn’t banish evil spirits, after all. Not that evil spirits were what was wrong with Jason. Probably.

The duck did float, at least. He checked in the sink.

It hurt his pride to ask for help, but he decided to think of it as a Fuck You to the Pit Waters seeping in to poison his well of rationality. The waters probably wanted him to be angry. Jason wanted to sleep well again.

Spite was a powerful motivator.

He probably could have picked someone less likely to ask questions than Dick, but Jason had been fairly sure that Dick would agree to help him without giving him too much shit about it.

He hadn't accounted for the mother-henning, though. Or how annoying the many, many questions would be.

"Run it by me one more time."

"He poured pit waters into my body and healed me!" Jason explained. Again.

Dick folded himself up on Jason’s couch, head hanging off the end with his feet propped up on the back. Jason would have stopped him if it weren’t already a shit couch.

"And you let him do this?"

Jason paced back and forth in the too-small living room. "First of all, I was delirious from being shot and falling three stories, second of all, I thought he was you."

“Don’t think I’m not going to lecture you later about the whole getting shot seven times thing,” he said, wagging his finger. “I’m compartmentalizing that for now, but you’re in for the talking-to of the century.”

“You say that like I just let it happen.”

Dick gave him a Look and ignored him. Asshole. "Why’d you think he was me?"

"I don't know, Dickiebird, because he was a sarcastic little shit with black hair and blue eyes trying to save my life and, I reiterate, I was delirious from being half-dead." Jason paced over to the sink and started scrubbing dishes. He was still trying not to think about almost dying. Again. The stupid pit waters pounced on those feelings like lampreys on a bloody wound.

Dick, well used to these moods by now, let him have his moment to collect himself. It was still a surprise when he came up next to Jason, towel in one hand and the other open to take the clean dish.

"It's too bad the footage from your mask is so corrupted."

Jason sighed and handed over a dish. "Doesn’t matter. If I can find him again, I’ll know it’s him."

"How?"

"Saw his face."

"You were delirious, though," Dick pointed out. Unhelpfully.

Jason scrubbed at a plate baked with cheese. Normally he’d let it soak, but he needed to do something that wasn’t punching or shooting or self-recrimination. "I would know him if I saw him. When he touched me, it was like…I recognized him."

"Because he looks like me."

"No. It was like…looking in a mirror."

“So…he looks like you?”

"No! It was…" Jason didn't want to say it, but it was a foregone conclusion the moment he involved Dick. "The pit waters recognized him. They felt calm around him. Relieved."

"Ok…that's, uh. Something. It's good?"

Yes. "We'll see. I'm still worried he did something weird to me. What if I'm like a thrall now?"

"Like a vampire thrall?” Dick leaned back. “Did he bite you?"

“Christ on a waffle, of course he didn’t fucking bite me.”

“Hey, I had to ask.”

“You really didn’t.”

Dick hummed, taking his time putting the dishes away. They were chipped and cheap, but he still treated them like they were Alfred’s fine china.

"If you're so sure you can find him, what do you need me for?"

"I don't have time to track him down and figure out when and where the Markovian arms deal is taking place. And whether Karma is involved."

"Hang on, Karma? I thought he was dead."

"You know, people used to say that about me, too."

"Yeah, smartass, because you were." He pursed his lips, frown thoughtful. "Maybe you should tell Duke."

Jason leaned against the counter. "I don't want to get him worked up if it's a false flag. Besides, he's got something else going on right now.”

Dick raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "So you have talked to him about this."

"Just the basics."

He maintained the unimpressed stare until Jason cracked.

"I told him I might need his help with something if he had time, and he said he had a personal investigation taking priority. Something about Izzy's brother."

"He didn't tell me about it…" Dick always claimed he didn’t pout, but here he was. Pouting.

"Did you ask?"

Dick didn't answer. Guilty, then.

"Don't take it personally, Dickiebird. He probably just wants to make sure it doesn't get back to B."

"Why does everyone think I tell Bruce everything? I was the OG Robin! Half the ‘tell me everything’ protocols exist because of me!”

“Kids these days,” Jason said, shaking his head.

“You say that like you aren’t a kid.”

“I’m almost twenty.”

“Still a teen.” Dick sighed. "I still think you should loop him in."

"Bruce or Duke?"

"Both. Either. But I meant Duke. You said this kid mentioned ghosts, right? That's right up Duke's alley."

“Nah, he can’t actually see ghosts. Probably.”

“How do you know?”

“Well, I asked him, and he wouldn’t answer.” He pulled the plug on the sink, watching the soapy water drain. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter whether he can see ghosts or not, because ghosts might not even be relevant to this case. Also, Duke’s busy, so even if it does involve ghosts and he can see them, it doesn’t matter.”

“Jay—if it does involve ghosts—”

"The kid was a sarcastic little shit, so who knows if he was even being serious about the ghost thing. And I'm not telling Bruce because he'll get all mopey about me getting shot, even though I'm fine."

"If anyone is allowed to get 'mopey' about his family being shot, it's B.” Dick hummed. “Do you have the bullet fragments Lazarus Kid pulled out of your stomach?”

Jason narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“So we can figure out what they’re made of.”

Jason had, in fact, already tried, to no avail. “I don’t have time to go to the cave and get them analyzed, and neither do you.”

“Why not ask Tim? He’s not working any cases right now.”

“Not true. He told me he was doing recon the other night.”

“His photography project?” Dick frowned. “I thought he was finally making time for himself.”

“Seriously? You thought Tim, ‘Workaholic Is My Middle Name, Drake-Wayne was making time for himself?”

Dick shook his head. “A big brother can dream.”

“Keep dreaming, then, Big Bird.”

He held out his hand. “Give them to me. I’ll take them to the cave. I need to go over there, anyway.”

Jason doubted that was true, but if there were something special about the bullets, it would be better to know sooner rather than later. And if he didn’t have to sneak in and out of the cave, fine by him.

“Okay. Fine. But don’t tell Tim where you got them.”

Dick rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Mum’s the word.”

Jason slouched off to his bedroom, moving the detritus in the drawer by his bed around until he found the baggy with the bullet fragments.

The duck, perched on top of the bedside table, watched him. The melted wax gave it a permanently nervous expression, eyes teary.

“Don’t give me that look,” he grumbled at it.

From the living room, he heard Dick’s phone go off in typical Dick fashion: the worst combination of sounds known to man. “Hello, Grayson speaking. Another one? What’s her condition? I see. Yeah. I’m on my way.” He hung up, expression grim.

Jason tossed him the bullet baggy, which Dick caught, naturally. “What was that about?”

"They found another Mezmur victim. She’s stable, but they don’t know for how long. I need to try to ask her some questions.”

Jason, admittedly, had only half paid attention to the things Dick said about his Mezmur case. Mostly, he didn’t talk about it. “What’s wrong with her?”

“The same thing that’s wrong with all of them. They can't stop crying, they think they've died, they miss their ‘old lives’, they want more Mezmur. Typical drug withdrawl stuff."

Jason didn’t like the sound of any of that. "Old lives?"

"The past lives they hallucinate having had while on the drug." Dick sighed. "At least, that’s what we think it does. We can't even get a sample of it to test, and most of the users with bad side effects are too inconsolable to talk to."

“Damn.”

“That about sums it up, yeah.” Dick ran a hand through his hair, setting the curls off into chaos. "Anyway. After we find Lazarus Kid, I could really use some help."

Jason nodded. "If I hear anything about it, I'll let you know."

“In the meantime, I can look through the missing person's database to see if a kid who looks like…well. One of us is in there…how tall is he?"

That was a good question. "Taller than Replacement, shorter than Duke. But he looks like he's been out there a while, so don't stick to strict height guidelines."

Dick gave him a salute, but he had one more thing to say before he left, apparently. "I'm glad you're okay, Littlewing. I wanna find this kid and thank him, too."

"Yeah, yeah."

"Good luck with the Markovians. Don't get shot again!" He slammed the door behind him before Jason could say anything about that.

Typical Dick Move.

Weirdly enough, Jason did feel a little bit better, though. Weird.

Saturday, October 8th

“Master Richard, what a surprise.”

Dick tried not to wince. He’d meant to get out of here before anyone got home, but clearly he’d stayed longer than he’d meant to. Time was a funny thing in the Batcave, how it slipped away and stood still at once.

He turned around with his most innocent smile in place. “Heeey, Alfred. How’s it hanging?”

“Well, I’d say, were it not for the fact someone was sneaking in and out of the cave while I was gone in order to, say, avoid me.”

Dick did wince this time. “I’m not avoiding you, specifically, Alfred—” shit, that implied he was avoiding someone, which although true, was not something he wanted to discuss with Alfred, or anyone “—or anyone, in general! I just. Had only this moment to stop by, so busy these days, you know how it is.”

Alfred hummed, clearly unconvinced. “Your business is your own, Master Richard. But, as I am already here, do you require any assistance?”

“Um, well.” Dick scratched his head. “Is there a reason the Batcomputer is all…messed up?”

“I believe that is something you will have to take up with Master Damian and Master Timothy. They were doing some kind of…experimentation.”

That didn’t sound good. “They were working together? On the Batcomputer?”

“I was as surprised as anyone. Delighted as I am that they found something to work on together, I do wish it hadn’t been so…destructive.” Alfred adjusted his vest, a tell he allowed to show how discomfited he truly was. “What was it you were wanting to use the computer for?”

“I’m looking for someone. A missing person, maybe. He didn’t show up in the Bludhaven PD records, so I hoped I might find something with a more, uh, robust facial recognition program.”

“Is it someone related to your drug case?”

Dick smiled, touched. “Aw, you know about my drug case?”

“Never forget, I know everything.”

His eyes twinkled as they always did when he mentioned how he knew everything. It wasn’t exactly a joke—he truly did seem to know most things. But it was the closest Alfred came to joking that wasn’t dry wit and sarcasm.

Who was Dick kidding? He couldn’t lie to that face. “Well, this one’s not related to the Mezmur case. I don’t even have a good photo of him. All I have is this police sketch.” A police sketch Dick had, maybe, somewhat abused his role as a police officer to have made for him.

Alfred held out his hand for it, and Dick only thought about resisting for a moment. But, like Alfred said, he knew everything already. And even if he didn’t, this was probably something he was going to find out about.

He looked at the image and raised an eyebrow. “Master Richard. Who is this?”

Dick averted his gaze. There was nothing quite as powerful as Alfred’s disapproving eyebrows. “I don’t know his name…”

“Why are you looking for him?”

Dick said a mental apology to Jason. “I’m not. Jason is.”

“Then why does this person look like Master Jason?” Alfred frowned at the image. “And like yourself. And…Master Bruce?”

Dick threw his hands in the air. “That’s what Jason said he looked like! I don’t know. Black hair, blue eyes, taller side of average. Snarky. Caring.”

Alfred hummed. “Has Master Jason seen this sketch to verify its…accuracy?”

“Not yet.” Dick crossed his arms. Time for a graceful change of topic. “So anyway. When do you think the computer will be back online?”

Alfred didn’t sigh—that wasn’t something he ever did—but he did make a sound that a lesser man might have let turn into a sigh. “Well. I suppose Masters Timothy and Damian did not realize Master Bruce set up a security feature that puts the computer into safe mode if it reboots too many times in a given time frame. It’s a feature that’s supposed to stop—” here Alfred paused, as if willing himself to continue “…nanobots, but that hasn’t been an issue since the first and only time it was an issue.”

“You can’t let your vigilance waver when it comes to nanobots, Alfred. You pick up one phone without checking, and next thing you know you’ve built a rocketship for an evil robot hell-bent on the destruction of the earth.”

“Too right.” Alfred gave a small smile. “In any case, Masters Timothy and Damian rebooted the computer enough times in a short enough period that the Nanobot Protocol was triggered, and here we are. The whole system is going through a safe-mode scan to look for any corrupt files, and as you can imagine, the system is as extensive as it is thorough. Suffice to say, it may be quite some time before the computer is fully operational.”

“Well. That’s inconvenient.”

“Indeed. Fortunate that Mistress Barbara’s system is separate so we aren’t left completely hanging.”

“I said I was sorry!” a voice that sounded like Tim’s called from the back of the cave.

“Oh, Tim’s here?” Exit strategy, acquired. Dick needed to talk to him anyway.

“I believe he is attempting to speed the process up before Master Bruce discovers it.” Alfred handed the sketch back to Dick. “Is there anything else you require?”

“Nah. Though I might stock up on birdarangs while I’m here.”

Alfred gave him a knowing smile. “Very well. I wish you and Master Jason luck on…whatever it is you’re working on. If you care to stay for dinner, we’re having chicken piccata tonight.”

“Tempting, but I’ve got another Mezmur lead to chase down tonight.”

Alfred didn’t seem surprised. After all, he knew, if not everything, then most things.

Dick wandered over to Tim’s corner of the cave, which looked significantly more chaotic than the last time he’d seen it. “What on earth happened here?”

Tim was standing in front of an honest-to-god bulletin board, complete with red string. “Hey, Dick.”

“I thought you were fixing the computer.”

“I’ve done what I can for it. It should be up and running again by tonight.” He narrowed his eyes. “Maybe.”

“Do I even want to know?”

“No. Probably not. Plausible deniability. What do you want?”

Dick reached into his pocket and pulled out an evidence bag. “Any chance you can analyze these?”

That, apparently, was interesting enough to pull Tim’s attention away from his conspiracy board. He took the bag, jangling the contents. “Are these what I think they are?”

“Well, if you’re thinking they’re new bullets the Markovians are about to start selling like hot cakes, then yes.”

“New bullets?” Tim walked them over to a petri dish and dumped the contents out, using some metal tweezers to stir them around. “These look like they were shot at someone. Or something.”

“Yep. Sure do.”

“There are a ton of fragments here. How many bullets is this from?”

“Um…seven?” Shit. He’d forgotten that lying to Tim was almost as difficult as lying to Alfred.

Tim squinted at the fragments, picking one up and holding it up to the light. “Did you dig them out of a corpse?”

“I didn’t.”

“You’re being super sketch right now,” he said, dropping the bullet back into the dish. “Like, 10/10 you’re definitely up to something.”

Dick gestured to the conspiracy board. “And you’re not?”

Tim crossed his arms. “What’s special about these bullets?”

“They can pierce kevlar, if shot accurately. And liquid armor.” And Jason, but Dick was going to keep that a secret for now, as per Jason’s request.

“Hm. That’s not good news.”

“Whatever it is, we can work around it, once we know what they’re made of. They haven’t started selling them. Yet. Jason’ll find them before they make it to market, I’m sure.” Dick knocked on the table, the only wooden thing in the room. “Anyway, I can see you’re busy with whatever…that is, but if you have a moment to figure out what’s in these things, I’d appreciate it. We all would.”

Tim got a thoughtful look on his face, but whatever he was thinking, he didn’t share. “Well, as soon as the computer is back online, it shouldn’t take too long.”

“How did you keep that fact that it crashed from Bruce?”

“It only crashed just last night. Everything was working fine, but then Gremlin wanted to try some experimental coding to get around the file corruption and—anyway, long story short, Bruce has been running around doing something with Constantine, so he hasn’t noticed.”

“You know he reads all the Batcomputer logs in his free time.”

Tim waved him off. “What free time?”

“Yeah, ok. Fair point.”

Dick wandered over to the conspiracy board, which was mostly incomprehensible to him, but one photo, in particular, did catch his eye. “Holy shit, is this Jay?”

Tim laughed. “Yeah. Nice, isn’t it?”

It was nice. More than that, it was endearing. Not a word Dick often associated with Red Hood.

“What’s with the duck?”

“I don’t know. It floats? He was kind of concussed.”

“The duck?”

“No, Jason.”

Ah. This must’ve been from when he’d fallen. Dick snapped a picture. It was too cute to be blackmail, but that in itself was reason enough to make sure he had a copy around. Just in case Jason got stabby again and destroyed any physical reminders of his softer side. He'd seemed better lately, but Dick knew better than he cared too how fleeting a good mood could be.

He cast one last look at the board. It was a map of Gotham with nine locations marked off, the lines connecting between them in every way they could be.

Yeah, he didn't want to know. “Well, good luck with…whatever this is.”

“I don’t need luck. I need answers.”

“You and me both,” he muttered. "You and me both."

Wednesday October 12th

“If no one has any further questions, you’re dismissed.”

Danny slowly lowered his hand, a sinking suspicion settling in his gut. This was the third class today where this had happened.

His teachers had stopped calling on him out of the blue sometime after the second week of school, but he didn’t think any of them were negligent or malicious enough to flat-out ignore him. That didn’t change the fact that in every class where he’d raised his hand today, they had either flat-out ignored him or, worse, hadn’t seen him at all.

He was too tired to panic. But this was…probably not good.

He approached his teacher’s desk. “Um, excuse me. Sr. Gutiérrez?”

Sr. Gutiérrez startled. “Oh, Danny! I didn’t see you there.”

Yes. That was the problem. “I had a question about the assignment…I don’t have anyone at home to practice Spanish with, so I wasn’t sure what to do about the interview portion…”

Technically, that wasn’t true. Danny knew about thirty ghosts at least who’d be more than happy to practice with him. Who did, pretty regularly, when they weren’t arguing with each other over which of their soccer teams and curse words were better, anyway.

The problem was that he couldn’t very well record any of them on his phone. Not without making the kind of technological upgrade he was uncomfortable with putting into existence. He’d already fucked up by telling Rich Guy (Tim) how to take pictures of ghosts. The last thing he needed was a way to reliably record them on a phone that could, ostensibly, upload said recordings to the internet where they could be found.

Where he could be found.

“You don’t have any Spanish speakers at home? I thought—well, it doesn’t matter what I thought.” Sr.Gutiérrez scratched his chin. “Surely there’s someone in your building you can ask? Or in your neighborhood?”

“I work after school and on the weekends, and everyone I could ask is either asleep or busy.”

Sr.Gutiérrez’s eyes drifted to the clock. “Hm…”

The bell rang, signaling the end of class and the end of Sr.Gutiérrez being responsible for Danny and his problems.

“You have until the end of the month to complete the assignment. I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”

As soon as he turned away, it was like Danny ceased to exist again.

With a sigh, Danny grabbed his backpack and shuffled off to his next class. Maybe he could convince someone at the corner store to help him. The ladies there were always eager to tell him he needed to eat more, the least they could do was help him pass Spanish by answering some questions.

If there was one thing that hadn’t changed since he’d come to Gotham, it was this: school was boring and his teachers didn’t care about him any more than they were paid to. At Byron High, that wasn’t much. It was generally not very well funded and was on the verge of shut-down due to said lack of funding. A bad choice for someone who hoped to have a future with NASA, but the perfect place to enroll himself where no one would ask too many questions.

Only one of those things was a pressing problem. Danny had long ago accepted that the stars were just…out of reach, and likely always would be.

Beyond the practicality of this school being too underfunded to notice or care that they had a new student enroll out of nowhere, part of the reason he’d picked Byron High was that there was a large rift inside it that attracted ghosts, to the point where even the most skeptical amongst the living thought Byron High was haunted. Which it was. But not in the way the living thought.

First of all, there were the blobs. They really liked the school, for some reason. Blobs didn’t need a rift to survive, but Danny supposed that given their origins, it made sense that there would be a lot of blob ghosts in a high school. Generally, it was good to have blobs around. They kept the ectoplasm clean. But they liked to swarm around Danny, making it difficult to see the board and not get distracted.

At least no one else could see how ridiculous he looked. He felt like one of those whale sharks with the suckerfish attached. It wasn’t that he wanted to make human friends—he’d never been good at that, even before his portal accident. Now, it was all but a foregone conclusion that talking to the creepy new kid who stared at things that weren’t there would be deemed social suicide.

He used to think being ignored was better than getting bullied. Now, he wasn’t so sure.

Then, there were the shades.

Danny hadn’t met many shades before coming to Gotham. In Amity, you either died or became a full-on ghost. Other than Danny, who’d fucked up the laws of two different dimensions.

In Gotham, shades were everywhere.

The problem with shades was they weren’t supposed to stick around. They were ghosts with only one thing left to do, and sometimes that one thing was realize they had died. Plenty of shades in Gotham didn’t seem to have a purpose, though. They’d done their one thing, but they were still around.

These were the shades who sought Danny the most, uncaring about his human needs and schedule. But, as with all ghosts, they’d somehow gotten the word about where to find Danny, and so now they came to his school.

The shades mostly didn’t talk. They just watched him. They waited. They needed one thing from him, and they wouldn’t leave until they got it.

They wanted out.

When enough gathered, he’d hide in the janitor’s closet until the school closed. Once it got dark, he opened one of the liminal seams in the empty hallways and held it open as long as he could, shuffling the dead shades who’d gotten stuck in Gotham through to a better place. Well, better for them, anyway. Some of them whispered thanks, not in words so much as feelings.

When he couldn’t hold it open anymore, he told the others to come back in a few days.

They usually did. They had nothing better to do, after all.

There were a few normal ghosts, as well. More solid than shades, though none were as strong as the ghosts in Amity Park. Some of them wanted to go to school, finish the education they hadn’t been able to in life. Some of them just found High School entertaining. Some of them were only there because Danny was, for better or for worse.

There was one ghost in particular, though, that always gutted him to see. Probably because she wasn’t actually a ghost. She was something else altogether. Almost liminal, but not quite.

She was new to being whatever she was.

That wasn’t what made it hard to see her. Danny hadn’t known her well, but he recognized her; she’d been in his Spanish class.

“Phantom.”

“Hi, Emily.”

“You don’t have to keep talking to me like this.”

“I don’t mind. Not like anyone else is talking to me.”

That was usually the extent of their conversations. She never stuck around for long. Not anywhere she could be seen, anyway. It probably wasn’t conscious. She usually only showed up when Danny stayed late. He wasn’t sure whether that was a conscious choice or an effect of how she’d come to be whatever she was.

Emily wasn’t dead; Emily was alive at Gotham General. Sometimes, she was even awake. But Emily wasn’t with herself; she couldn’t find her way back. It wasn’t like with Jess’s mom, who was waiting to be called back. Emily’s family went to see her every day; Danny visited her when he could.

Emily had stayed late after school, late last month. Or so the rumors went. When she didn’t come home, she was found in the school courtyard, unconscious. The prevailing theory was that she’d slipped on the stairs and fallen through the window; the window was shattered, after all. Emily was happy and ambitious, and the way she was found, it was clear she hadn’t jumped.

Danny saw the way she glared at that window, on the rare occasions she appeared in the courtyard. He had a feeling she hadn’t slipped at all. Someone had done this to her, but she wouldn’t talk about it. Couldn’t.

The window was still shattered. Every attempt to fix it was met with bad luck. The school had boarded it up with wood for now, but it sat as an ugly reminder that something horrible had happened there. A scar on a school already riddled with poor funding and bad rumors.

The doctors said Emily should be making a full recovery. They didn’t understand why she wasn’t.

The problem was, she was stuck. Here at the school. Pretty shit thing to happen to anyone, dead or otherwise.

Danny was trying to fix it, but this wasn’t really his specialty. And every time he tried to tell her that she wasn’t really dead…

Well. Usually, it made her disappear again. So, he didn’t mention it.

“If…if I told you something…would you be able to help me?”

Danny’s interest was piqued. She didn’t normally ask him to do anything. Normally she just wanted to talk. Wanted proof of her own existence.

Danny could understand that.

“If it’s something I can do, yes. If not…well, I would try, anyway.” He didn’t press for more answers; spirits operated on their own timeframe and didn’t care for pushiness. Not that he was in a rush; school was already over, and he still had to hide until the custodians locked the building.

Emily flickered in and out of clarity like an old T.V. “It’s—I don’t want to talk about it today. But if I saw something…could I come find you? Would you help me?”

“I won’t kill anyone,” he warned.

“I wouldn’t ask that of you.”

Danny nodded. “Then yes, I would help you, Emily. Whatever you need, if it’s in my power…”

“You’re a good guy, Danny. I’m sorry I didn’t see you until I died.”

“I’m sorry, too. But you know you aren’t actually—” he paused. “It might not be too late.”

He didn’t know that, of course. He didn’t know how long a spirit could ‘live’ outside the body before they became separate things entirely. Their conversations got longer and longer each time they talked. He wasn’t sure that was a good thing.

So. He wouldn’t give her false hope. But he wouldn’t give up on her, either.

Emily faded, as new ghosts often did. One moment there, and gone the next, only to reappear in a few days as if no time had passed.

Danny stood. It was 8 pm and the doors were locked. Time to help some ghosts.

He’d go visit Emily at the hospital later. If he could. But the sigils needed strengthening. Again. At this rate, Danny didn't know what he was gonna do; he was running out of ideas for how to strengthen them.

Well. He'd figure it out. He had no choice.

Thursday, October 13, late

Jason released the magazine from his pistol and checked the count. Only thirteen rounds left. He must have used more the other night than he’d thought.

He’d recently switched from rubber bullets to plastic bullets, but he still felt like it wasn’t quite right. Maybe he should go the paintballs filled with teargas route? A tranq gun with a slow release? He didn’t want people thinking he’d gone soft, but he didn’t want to kill anyone who didn’t deserve it, either.

And that was the thing, wasn’t it? What Lazarus Kid had said had gotten to him. The audio from their little impromptu meeting was still mostly salvageable. He’d said he didn’t want Jason to kill anyone in the city ‘because ghosts’.

“Please, man, I don’t know nothing about Mezmur, I swear!”

Jason turned his attention back to the upside-down goon he’d trussed up for information. He’d been swinging on that lightpost for a while now.

“Who said I give a shit about Mezmur?”

“I-isn’t that what this is about? You don’t want anyone infringing on your territory?”

“If I wanted to know about Mezmur, I wouldn’t ask you.” Jason was pretty sure that was the new drug Dick was trying to track down. It wasn’t much of a surprise that a Deacons goon didn’t know anything about it. Jason didn’t really expect him to know about the Markovians or Karma 2.0, either. But he might know someone who knew someone.

“Please, just don’t shoot me, man, I have a family—”

Jason slid the magazine back inside the handle, relishing in the satisfying click as it locked into place. “They’d be better off without a piece of shit like you plaguing their doorstep. Now, I know it’s hard for you to think clearly on even the best of days, but if you recall, I asked you about the Markovians.”

“Markovians?”

“Don’t play coy with me.” Jason tapped the goon’s cheek with the frame of his pistol. “If I know they’re back in town, you know they’re back in town.”

A bead of sweat rolled into his eye. “We don’t fuck with the Markovians—”

“But you know people who do, people who know things. Just give me something I can work with. A name, a location, a time.”

“A-and you’ll let me go?”

“Happily.”

He swung in the air, once, twice, before cracking. “There’s someone w-who runs with The Dockyard Dogs. Used to be with the Kadym mob before the Cat sent ‘em running.”

Jason didn’t like the sound of that. He’d just as soon not get involved with the Kadym mob, adjacent or otherwise. For one, they had close ties with the League of Assassins, and Jason had enough to worry about where anyone Lazarus-aligned was involved.

But, it might explain some of the unusual bullets they’d used on him.

“Okay, that’s a name. Now give me a location and a time, and we can both go our separate ways.”

“C’mon, man, you promised—”

“That I’d let you go if you gave me a name, a location, and a time.”

The guy said something unsavory about Jason’s mother under his breath. It was true, of course, but it was the principle of the thing. Jason fired a shot that skimmed the asshole’s leg. It had definitely hurt. It might even scar. Hopefully it would help him remember to hold his tongue when speaking ill of mothers. Even if said mothers were responsible for the death of their own son, quite literally.

The waters seethed hungrily under his skin, enjoying it, daring him to go farther. He ignored it, best he could. Thinking of the duck helped.

“C’mon buddy. A time and a location. I know you got something for me.”

“I-I don’t know anything definite! B-but there’s something going on at Penguin’s place tomorrow night.”

That gave him pause. The first thing he thought of was the stupid tarot card. Thiswas the second time in a week penguins had come up. But it couldn’t be…

No. It was coincidence. He needed to focus on the goon in front of him. “Penguin’s place, huh. The Iceberg Lounge? Or one of his less public ventures?”

“I’m not sure, but probably the Lounge. Word on the street is to steer clear, that’s all I know!”

Well, it was better than nothing.

“Thanks, sport. You’ve been a real pal.” Jason cut the rope, sending the nameless goon clattering to the ground. He groaned once and didn’t move. Still breathing, though. Condolences to his family.

True to his word, Dick had looked up anyone matching Lazarus Kid’s appearance in the missing persons database, but he hadn’t found anyone that came close enough to call it a match. Jason could only spend so long trawling the north island for someone with black hair, blue eyes, and an unhealthy amount of sass before giving it up as a waste of time. Sometimes he’d get some wild idea to check a certain alley or part of town, but even when he followed that intuition (that he was refusing to attribute to the tamed but still seething pit waters), more often than not there was nothing there. Except for shitty graffiti.

Still, he got these feelings around Crime Alley and the Narrows often enough that he felt it was a good place to focus his attention.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t spend all his time and effort looking for one kid. He had more pressing issues, like keeping Markovian weapons out of Gotham.

Which was why he’d recruited Dick in the first place, but Dick was also busy more often than not. He could have asked Tim, sure, but then he’d have to tell Tim that he’d been shot, and about the whole thing, and…he’d resort to that if he got desperate, but for now, he’d leave it. He’d already involved Tim enough by agreeing to let him analyze the bullet fragments. If he weren’t so distracted by his photography project, Tim probably would have already figured out that the bullet fragments were covered in Jason’s blood.

Ah, well. Small mercies.

That was future Jason’s problem. Current Jason’s problem was hunting down The Dockyard Dogs and figuring out which of Penguin’s properties were gonna get hit tomorrow. The Dockyard Dogs hated Jason less than they hated Penguin, so maybe they’d even talk without much rough treatment. Especially if Jason hinted that someone was infringing on their territory. And if they didn’t want to talk, well. Jason could be very convincing.

Twenty hours was less time than he’d like to prepare, but he’d done more with less.

He walked along the streets of that area that was technically in the Narrows, but was de facto part of Crime Alley, crunching leaves as he went. He could go for a late snack, but the only thing open around here this time of night was Batburger. Their fries were supposed to be good, but…

Nah. Hard pass. The last thing that godforsaken franchise needed was an official endorsement from Red Hood.

Chapter Text

Thursday, October 13, afternoon

“C’mon, Tamara. Please?”

“No.”

“Pretty please?”

“No.”

“Pretty please with a—”

“For the last time, Sal, no. I got shit to do tomorrow.”

Sal sighed, shoulders drooping. “Please, Tam. I’m begging. My ma’s laid up, and Tonya can’t watch her.”

“Sorry,” Tamara said, sounding as contrite as one could without actually being sorry, “I gotta go to my sister’s parent-teacher conference tomorrow on account of my dad is definitely not gonna be sober enough to wing it.”

Danny wiped down the tables out in the restaurant, only half-listening. He liked his co-workers well enough, but they weren’t exactly close enough for him to enter a conversation uninvited. Tamara and Sal had worked together since The Narrows Bat Burger opened a year ago. Danny had only arrived two months ago.

And besides all that, he didn’t fix other people’s problems anymore. He had enough problems of his own. The Red Hood Thing had been a one-time thing. As had the Jess thing. And the Bruce Wayne thing…

Look. It was a habit, a reflex. He could break it. He was getting better already, see? Starting with ignoring Sal and whatever problem he had.

“Surely your mom can deal with one night on her own,” Tamara offered, refilling the straw dispenser dispassionately.

Sal shook his head. “Doc just changed her meds and said she needs to be watched.”

“Can’t any of your co-workers who actually work there cover you?”

“None of them are taking my calls! Besides, I’m pretty sure I only got assigned to the Friday shift in the first place because no one else could work. I can’t back out now after saying I could do it.”

“You should have checked before taking the shift, Sal! It’s not my or anyone else’s job to help you fix your fuck-up.”

“Look, don’t tell anyone this, but there’s been some…staffing issues lately. People quitting on short notice, that sort of thing. It’s how I got hired to begin with. This was s’posed to be my chance to prove myself, to make full-time staff, maybe!”

She stuffed the napkin dispenser with far more anger than it probably deserved. Or could handle. “You shouldn’t be trying to make full staff, you should be looking for an exit strategy!”

“The only exit strategy I’m looking for is how to get my ma out of medical debt, Tam.”

Tamara sighed. “I told you that job was bad news and you ignored me.”

“I know, I know. But the pay—”

“Is too good to turn down, yeah.” She pressed her lips together. “If you end up at Blackgate, stumbling down the path to henching and goonery, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“You can say whatever smug holier-than-thou shit you want to me if you cover my shift.”

Tamara smiled sweetly. "Respectfully, eat shit. I’m not walking home from the Diamond District at ass o’clock in the morning for some slightly better than average tips."

The door chimed as a customer entered, effectively putting the conversation on hold.

Danny glanced out the windows. It was already starting to get dark. He was working another double tonight—the early evening and the late shift. Danny didn’t usually work the late shift, but he’d been spending more money than he could really afford to spend on stupid paint to mix with ectoplasm to reinforce the stupid sigils.

Milo had offered on several occasions to steal it for him, but Danny didn’t want to resort to that unless he got desperate. He wasn’t desperate. Yet. He’d just made some adjustments yesterday that would hopefully keep him from having to go back every day. Check and mate, sad trenchcoat man.

Danny didn’t really like working at Bat Burger at night—he felt on display with the bright glass windows shining out into the darkness, projecting to all of the criminal element that they were there. It wasn’t too bad earlier in the evening, but as the night got on and fewer things were open, the city shifted and the tension rose.

Logically, Danny knew he was mostly safe inside. But Bats weren’t the only thing waiting in the shadows. The desperate, the dangerous. Not that those two were mutually exclusive.

This Bat Burger hadn’t been robbed yet while Danny had been there, but as he understood it was probably only a matter of time. The ringing of the door chime was a welcome as much as a warning.

Sometimes ghosts would wander in as well, just to stare at the menu. Or to stare at Danny. They didn’t trigger the door chime unless they wanted to. He’d only once mistaken one for an actual customer, which made Sal and Tamara laugh at him and ask if he was getting enough sleep, respectively.

The answer was no, of course, but he was getting more sleep than he used to.

Danny expected his co-workers to pick up right where they left off once the customer left, as they often did.

But he'd only been half-listening, so he only half-expected the turn the conversation took.

“Say, Dan. Danno. Danny boy," said Sal, looping Danny into the conversation for the first time.

Danny liked Sal enough. He took care of his sick mom and only made Danny take out the trash most of the time.

Unfortunately, Sal had a calculating look on his face as he leaned far-too-casually against the counter. In Danny’s experience, that meant nothing good for him.

"What's up, Sal?"

"You wouldn’t happen to have some free time tomorrow night, would you?”

“Absolutely not,” Tamara interrupted. “Danny, ignore him.”

Sal pointed sternly at Tamara. “You stay out of this. Danny, I need a favor. It’d be nothing big for you, but it’d mean the world to me.”

Danny sighed. “What kind of favor?”

“I just need someone to cover my shift at my other job,” he said. “Normally, I wouldn’t bother you over it, but no one else is available. I’m desperate.”

"What he means is no one else is a big enough sucker to bother asking," Tamara threw in, unstacking the trays and fixing the liners.

Sal rolled his eyes. "I don't think you're a sucker, D. I did try asking other people, as you well know, Tamara."

Sucker, Tamara mouthed.

“What’s your other job?” Danny asked, already regretting this.

“It pays real good,” Sal promised.

“What is it?”

“Nothing illegal.” Sal held up his hands innocently, which did very little to assuage Danny. “I work as a barback at the Iceberg Lounge.”

“The Iceberg Lounge? As in Penguin’s Iceberg Lounge?”

“Is there any other?”

Danny went back to wiping down the tables. “I don’t know, Sal. Isn’t the Penguin kind of, um. Dangerous?”

“He cleaned up his act—”

“So he claims,” Tamara interjected.

“—and even if he still has some of his old connections, everything at the Iceberg Lounge is above board,” Sal finished, ignoring her. "Besides, it's not like you'll have to talk to him or nothing."

Danny could use the money, truly. Winter would be in Gotham before long, and though the cold didn’t bother Danny, his shoes weren’t waterproof. Nor were any of his clothes, for that matter. Plus it would be nice to have a little bit saved up so he didn’t have to take every extra shift and still barely scrape by…

But even so, there were all kinds of reasons to say no.

“I’m not exactly Iceberg Lounge material,” he said, re-focusing on the tables in front of him. He’d never understand how people got so much ketchup everywhere. Did they do it on purpose? He didn’t think the Nasty Burger ever had this much ketchup on the tables. If only he could ask Val.

“It’s not a face position,” Sal assured. “You don’t even have to wear the ridiculous server costume.”

"You think a ridiculous costume would be my hesitation? We work at Bat Burger, my guy."

"Yeah, but these uniforms are cool.” He gestured to himself and Tamara, who only shook her head. “Who wouldn't want to be Red Robin or Batgirl and get paid to do it?"

Danny raised an eyebrow, though the effect was no doubt ruined by his mask. “But there is a uniform at the Iceberg Lounge?”

Sal waved him off. “Yeah, but it's basically just a butler outfit. You can borrow mine, we’re about the same size. Betcha they won’t even notice we’re not the same guy."

Tamara laughed. "Just because you're both Bat Burger Robins—”

“I’m Red Robin, technically,” Sal cut in.

“—does not mean you're the same, Sal."

They really weren’t. Danny wasn’t exactly tall, but he was certainly much taller than Sal.

"Hey, that's cold! I thought Batgirl was supposed to be nice."

"Batgirl is honest, and sometimes the truth hurts," Tamara said with a shit-eating grin.

They bantered on in their usual fashion, leaving Danny to fade into the background again. He wasn't sure if it were a ghost thing or a Sal-and-Tamara thing, the way it was easy to ignore him. He didn't spend enough time with other living people to have a useful point of comparison. And given everything else that’d been happening to him lately…

But Sal, at least, would remember Danny sooner or later. He wanted something from Danny, after all.

"So, what do you say, Danno? Robin Número Dos? My very best friend in the whole world, especially if you do this favor for me?"

"Um—"

The door rang as another group of customers stumbled in, buying Danny some time to formulate a response.

The biggest reason he shouldn’t cover Sal at the Iceberg Lounge was that Danny was fairly sure you needed to be a legal adult to work at a club. No one in Gotham City particularly cared about that sort of thing, but no matter how old he claimed to be, Danny definitely did not look like a legal adult.

The last thing he needed was unwanted attention for trying to work at a notorious crime lord’s bar underage. He’d gone to a lot of trouble to get off the GIW’s radar. It would be stupid to do anything that might get him back on their radar.

But. Sal did sound desperate, and Danny needed the money. The GIW wouldn’t be looking for ghosts at the Iceberg Lounge. Far as he could tell, they weren’t even aware of the ghost situation in Gotham.

“Are you sure they won’t have a problem with me just filling in for you? Is that even legal?”

Sal looked baffled. “I don’t know. Does it matter? You’ll be pretending to be me, anyway. They’ll never find out. ‘Sides, the bartenders are too busy to notice or care. They don't have time to pay attention to who they're yelling at to be their gofer. I don't think Melanie even knows my name."

He sighed dreamily, earning him a disgusted glare from Tamara.

"What does a barback even do?"

“It’s not that different from here.”

Danny stared at him, waiting for the punchline.

“Hey, don’t give me that look! Customer service is customer service. You won’t even have to make the drinks! Sure, you might need to slice lemons, or refill ice, or restock supplies, clean up, maybe pour a glass of wine, but Penguin only hires the best mixologists for his club, and everyone knows that. They wouldn't let a rookie make the drinks even if you wanted to.”

Danny, as matter of fact, did not want to. This wasn’t his problem to solve and it was a terrible idea, but he already knew what he was going to say.

Dammit. So much for breaking habits.

“Fine. I’ll do it.”

“Oh, thank you! I knew I could count on you! Robins forever, right?” Sal cheered, then paused. “You are 18, right?”

“That’s what my ID says.” His very fake, definitely not street legal ID.

Sal shrugged. “Good enough for me.”

Of course it was. “What time is your shift?”

“Nine to close."

"And when's closing time?"

"Whenever the bartender lets you leave.”Sal grimaced. “It's usually before three am."

At least Danny didn't have school the day after.

"I told you to ignore him," said Tamara.

"Hey, don’t listen to her!” He clapped Danny on the shoulder. “The tips are good, the music is cool, and I will owe you a million favors. With interest. And who knows what useful tips you might learn on the job? What networking connections you might make?" He released Danny, pointing a stern finger at him. "Just try not to do anything that makes me look bad, yeah? You'll be operating under my employee ID after all."

Yep. This was definitely a terrible idea.

Tamara loomed over Sal—she was the tallest Bat Burger employee by far. "Better knock on wood nothing happens to him, Sal, or I'll be after blood, understand?"

“Nothing bad’s ever happened while I’ve been there. Other than getting yelled at, but that’s customer service the world around. Danno here’s gonna be just fine.”

A terrible, terrible idea.

Thursday, October 13th, Evening

“So there’s good news and bad news.”

Bruce didn’t startle, but it was a near thing. This must be how Jim felt every time Bruce landed silently on the roof of the GCPD. At least Jim knew when to expect Bruce. Sometimes.

Constantine would just appear whenever and wherever it suited him. On the Clocktower, in the cave, one memorable occasion inside the Batmobile while Bruce was driving…

The fact that Bruce was getting used to it meant they were spending too much time together, clearly.

“Constantine. I thought we were done for the evening.” Bruce glanced over to the cowl, sitting on his desk. He’d meant to go back out tonight, take Damian with him perhaps. He considered putting Damian on desk duty to give him time to reflect on crashing the computer, but putting Damian on desk duty was what had crashed the computer in the first place.

“We were done, but I went back to double-check something,” Constantine continued. “The Ghost sigils have gotten weaker again.”

Bruce picked up an Allen wrench while he processed what Constantine had said. None of the other five Allen wrench sets he’d used so far contained a wrench that fit the socket, but Bruce was nothing but persistent.

He was running out of Allen wrench sets to check, though. Maybe a keystone screwdriver would work? “So is that the bad news?”

“Hm? Oh, no. The bad news is that our ghostie has, uh, upped the ante on telling me to go away.” Constantine chuckled. ”I’m actually kind of impressed.”

The mental alarm system Bruce had honed through years of raising numerous children was going off. “What happened.”

“Well. He left me a note.”

“A note?” Bruce put down his screwdriver. “He?”

“Oh, yeah, our ghost is a boy. Congrats.”

Bruce glanced at the clock. Too early for alcohol. “And how do you know this note was meant for you?”

Constantine sniffed. “Well, it was addressed to ‘the sad man in the trenchcoat’. I’d hate to think there’s some other sad occultist out there, nicking my style.”

Bruce returned to his tinkering. “And what did the note say?”

“Eh, well…” Constantine coughed. “It said ‘you fucked around, time to find out.’ Incidentally, I can’t go back to the city for about 48 hours.”

Bruce put the screwdriver down again. “Explain.”

“Well, I told you ghost sigils are basically ghost magic—”

“You said it only affected ghosts!”

“Did I say that? I don't think I said that. It affects anyone or anything what can read it, which is mostly ghosts, but I’ve been studying up on them, y’know, to read them better, right? And I told you he’s really good at the sigils, didn’t I? So anyway—have you seen The Ring?”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “The movie? I haven’t seen it, but I’m familiar.”

“Mostly it’s total hogwash, but the whole voluntary aspect of doing a thing gets you cursed, and you have to do something else to un-curse yourself? It’s kind of like that. Much less extreme version of it.”

“He cursed you? I thought he left you a note.”

“Yeah, a note that cursed me. He wrote it on the wall. Incorporated it into the sigils, actually.” He tapped his chin. “Maybe once all this is said and done, he’ll teach me how he did it. It’s really quite clever.”

Bruce took a deep breath. Maybe it wasn’t too early for alcohol, after all. “What does this curse do?”

“Like I said, it told me to leave Gotham and stay out for 48 hours. In so many words.”

This really messed with Bruce’s plans to get this situation resolved as quickly as possible. “So you can’t go back into the city for 48 hours because a ghost told you to go away and you agree with him.”

“It sounds stupid when you put it like that.”

“It is stupid. I thought you were an expert. Can’t you undo it?”

“This is unlike anything I’ve ever had to deal with before! Usually, it’s exorcizing demons and purifying tainted ground, not whatever this nonsense is!”

Bruce stared at the desk and counted the lines in the wood pattern. “Did you at least learn anything useful about our ghost?”

“Sure, I learned the ghost isn’t actually a demon pretending to be a ghost, nor is it an angel slumming it down on the mortal plane for kicks, and it’s definitely not any of my numerous exes who’ve come back to haunt me on more than one occasion, here for a laugh.”

“You said there was good news.”

“Did I say that? I lied. There is no good news.”

“So that’s it, then? You don’t have any other ideas?”

He hummed. “I suppose I could summon a different ghost, bind them to my will, and force them to bring our ghost to us—”

“That seems like a bad idea.”

“It is. Bad ideas are all I’ve got left, unfortunately.” Constantine sighed. “What’ve you been tinkering away with over there, anyway?”

“A better idea.” Bruce slid the item he’d been tinkering with over to Constantine.

Constantine said nothing for a long moment. “Is that a god-damned boomerang?”

“It’s a device that can track a specific ghost if given the right input.” Bruce paused. “And it happens to be shaped like a boomerang.”

Constantine stared at him like he’d lost his mind. “You’ve lost your mind. You can’t track ghosts with tech, boomerang-shaped or otherwise.”

“This is special tech made specifically to do just that.”

“Where did you get it?” Constantine asked suspiciously. “I know you didn’t make it.”

“The company is called Fenton Works, run by Dr. Madelyn Fenton and Dr. Jack Fenton. Scientists and engineers who are the head of their field in ectology.”

Constantine groaned. “Not ectologists. They’re just occultists who think the magic they’re doing is science!”

“At this point, I don’t care what it’s called as long as it works.”

“Does it work, though?”

“Most of their gear for defending against ghosts works, according to the forums on the deep web, so I have reason to believe this will, too.”

“The deep web,” Constantine parroted rudely. “Because that’s so reliable.”

“Do you know the Fentons?” Bruce was surprised. He’d had to do quite a bit of digging to find them. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to bury any mention of them. It probably would have been an easier task if Damian and Tim hadn’t crashed the computer, but even so, it was telling that he’d spent almost a week on it.

Usually when someone tried that hard to hide something, it meant government involvement. Cover-ups. In Bruce’s experience, no one tried that hard to hide a lie unless it wasn’t a lie at all or it contained enough truth to be a threat. It lent credibility to the whole Fenton Works enterprise.

Constantine sneered and pushed the boomerang back over to Bruce like it was a dead rat. “I’ve done my utmost to know as little as possible about ectologists, generally and specifically. Fenton, though…that does ring a bell.”

Bruce hummed. Something to follow up on later. “They’re supposedly experts in their field.”

“Well hooray for them, they’re the very best junk scientists around!”

He turned the boomerang over carefully, examining it. The metal was strange, unlike anything he was used to. So was the tech itself. Bruce decided to give up on the tinkering as a bad job. Whatever screws had been used to fasten the device together, he didn’t have the right tools to unfasten them. He’d have to custom-build one.

“Their science may be…questionable, but their engineering is sound.” For now, the inner workings of the boomerang would have to remain a mystery. “As far as I can tell, anyway.”

“Just because they can make it work doesn’t mean they understand it,” Constantine mumbled. “How does it work, then?”

“The instructions say it needs to be calibrated to an ‘ecto-signature’. I figured you might know something about that.”

Constantine squinted at him. “Are you asking me for help?”

“That depends: Do you or don’t you know what an ecto-signature is?”

“I’ve never heard it called that, but yeah. I can guess.” He eyed the boomerang speculatively. “Do you really think a piece of tech can pick up on a ghost signature? Usually ghosts make technology go haywire.” He tapped his chin. “How do the instructions say to input the ‘ecto-signature’?”

“You put it in scan mode in an area ‘afflicted by the ghost’. Once the scan is complete and the signature is locked in, supposedly all you need to do is throw it.”

Constantine pinched the bridge of his nose. “In that case, there’s no way that thing will work.”

“Nothing you’ve done has worked, either.”

“Yeah, rub it in, why don’t you.” Constantine sighed. “It would be difficult to get a pure scan without any of the other ghost echoes getting in the way. So maybe it will track a ghost, but we don’t need just any old ghost. Assuming that thing even works.”

“And you don’t have any ideas on how to get an isolated sample of our ghost’s ecto-signature?”

“Is that really what we’re calling it? Ecto -signature?”

“That’s the scientifically accepted word for it, as I understand.”

Constantine leaned against the desk. “I sincerely doubt there are enough ectologists for peer review to be meaningful.”

“What do you call it, then, oh mighty occultist?”

“An essence, or an aura, or an…echo—” he paused. “An echo. Huh. Well, I’ll be damned.”

“Did you think of something?” Bruce was afraid to get his hopes up.

“The early bird gets the worm, but the second mouse gets the cheese!” He snapped his fingers. “I take it all back!”

He sprung to his feet, pacing around the cave. “The curse! He cursed me using his own energy! Which is to say, a pure source of his essence—sorry, ecto-signature—and we can attune the boomerang to it. All because he cursed me! Hoisted by his own petard! ha!”

He turned and grabbed Bruce by the shoulders, grin wide on his face.

“And! He doesn't know about you and your involvement. He's been warding against me and my magic because he can, but you use tech, you magnificent mundane bastard!”

Bruce decided to allow it. “Why does that matter?”

“Because he’ll never see it coming. He’s expecting an occultist, not a…you. This is excellent. Finally, I get to be on the winning side of a Batman Gambit!”

Bruce sighed. “As long as you're happy.”

“Happy? I'm fucking ecstatic.” Constantine frowned, stepping away. “Though this does mean you’ll have to hunt him down without me, since I’m shadow-banned from Gotham.” He resumed his pacing. “I do have some tools I can lend you. You won’t be able to capture him, but if you can get close enough to tag him, I’ll be able to find him later. I’ll need to borrow the tools, though. Call in a favor…I was saving that favor…” he trailed off.

48 hours without Constantine, a chance to use new tech that might work, and a potential end in sight to this case? There was good news, after all. “If we find the ghost we’re looking for, will it be worth it?”

“Definitely.”

“Then what are we waiting for?”

Constantine sighed. “Well. Tomorrow, unfortunately. I’ll need to get the tools—and we need to be certain everything is ready to go. The signature is already deteriorating, even as we speak.”

“You better get on it, then.”

“You’re the last person I want to hear that from. Tomorrow, Bats.” With a wave and a whiff of smoke, he disappeared.

Bruce took a moment to himself to enjoy the silence. One moment, that was all he needed. One more day and all this would be over. Or at least they would be farther ahead than where they were now.

He took his moment and stood up, grabbing the cowl and putting it back on.

Just because ghosts decided to make Gotham their home didn’t mean the criminal element had taken a break. If anything, it had gotten worse.

Time to give them a reminder: ghosts weren’t the only thing lurking in the shadows.

October 14th, early morning

"No, Phantom, for the last time, you twirl it three times over the back of your hand, then you freehand the pour, drizzle it over the sugar and ice, spank the mint, and bam! Mojito."

"Milo, I don't care about the showmanship, I care about making the drink taste good."

Milo poked him in the chest. "You're working at the Iceberg Lounge. Showmanship is part of the recipe."

"It won't be a very good show if I drop the bottle and glass gets in the drink, will it?"

"As if I'd let you drop the bottle."

Danny didn’t know whether to be grateful or nervous that Milo insisted on coming with him to ‘supervise his first foray into Gotham’s underworld’. Milo was a complicated friend to have. As a ghost, he was a little unstable; always on the edge of going too far. He was fiercely protective, and that was his greatest weakness.

He was the one who'd found Danny wandering the streets all those months ago. He was the one who’d directed him to a better place to live, given him an idea of what was happening with the ghosts in Gotham. What was going on with the living, too.

Most of what Danny knew about surviving in Gotham, he'd learned from Milo.

Now, he was teaching Danny how to bartend, at Danny’s request. A bit too enthusiastically, really. But Danny hadn’t seen Milo this happy since, well. Ever.

Danny knew Milo had worked at a club in Gotham before he'd died, but he wouldn't talk about his former life beyond that. Danny probably shouldn't have asked for the bartending crash course, but he didn't want to go in completely unprepared, either.Especially because Danny was using Sal's employee ID to get in, and thus anything he did, good or bad, would reflect on Sal.

But if Milo had a reason for being, it was definitely mixed drinks. It would be good for him, probably, to get this out of his system. Milo was one of those ghosts that just couldn’t find the will to move on and didn’t want to go to the Ghost Zone. So, things like this were the most Danny could do for him. Ancients knew Danny owed him.

“When I asked for a crash course, I just wanted the basics! I probably won’t even be making drinks, Milo. I’m supposed to be a barback.”

“You’re supposed to be someone who’s been working there for three months already and could, if asked, make a mixed drink. Are you gonna get got by Pingo ‘cuz someone wants a mojito and you don’t know how to make one?”

He was unusually intense about this. He’d mentioned the risk of dying for messing up an order at least three times now. Danny hoped it was just Milo’s tendency towards hyperbole and nothing more serious.

“I think I’ve mastered the mojito.” Danny rolled his shoulders. They'd spent 45 minutes on the mojito alone. "Teach me a different drink at least."

"Fine. No one ever orders these 'cause they're over-hyped and overpriced, but here's how to make a martini."

Danny bit back the many things he could say to that, like ‘all alcohol is over-hyped and overpriced’ or ‘are you sure you should be saying that as a former bartender’.

He looked at the glass bottles that held nothing but water, labeled with sharpie to serve as the ‘training alcohol’. “Let's see. A martini is Vermouth and…Vodka?”

Milo winced. “Gin, Phantom. Vermouth and Gin. It’s the most famous gin drink there is…”

“You just said it was over-hyped and overpriced!”

“Everything at The Iceberg Lounge is over-hyped and overpriced.” He shook his head. “Let’s try something a little easier. Long Island Iced Tea.”

“Why is that easier?”

“Because people don’t order it for the taste, Phantom, they order it to get hammered and forget. If you fuck it up, they won’t care as long as they’re wasted enough not to remember.”

“That’s kind of sad.”

“Get used to it.”

Danny took a deep breath. If nothing else, he was sure he neither had nor wanted a future in bartending. “So what’s in this one, then?”

Milo grinned. “Everything, basically. Pass me the big glass, we’re gonna need it.”

Danny was already regretting this favor. At least Milo was having fun.

Friday, October 14th, early afternoon

Bruce was already regretting this.

As much as he wanted to tell himself there was no other way, that wasn’t, strictly speaking, true. This was a choice he was making. A necessary choice and a well-reasoned one, but a choice nonetheless.

His first choice had been Duke. Duke had insisted—several times now—that he couldn’t see ghosts. Bruce was working on determining whether that was strictly true or a matter of training, but it was a moot point at the moment anyway, since Duke didn't want to participate in this particular mission. Apparently, he was “busy” tonight with “a personal case”.

As such, there was only one other person Bruce trusted with this. He didn’t want to involve him in this business with Constantine, but if the Ghost Situation were as dire as Constantine claimed, it was probably only a matter of when, not if.

Still, the regret lingered.

Dick, unaware of these feelings, juggled the boomerang in his hands, tossing it up and catching it. His expression was curious but guarded. "So. What's this?"

Bruce pressed his lips together. "It's a tool to locate a potential hostile we believe is hiding in Gotham."

“We?”

Bruce mentally prepared himself. “Constantine and I.”

Dick looked worried. Rightfully so. “You and Constantine agree on something?”

“I was surprised, too.”

"Ok…so why are you giving it to me?"

Bruce folded his hands together. He didn't like handing this responsibility over to someone else, but there was no other way. He and Damian had discovered last night that there was a Two-Face caper going down at the Iceberg Lounge. Tonight.

Bruce could take him down as Batman, of course. He'd done it countless times.

But Bruce, the more fool he, hadn't given up on Harvey. Harvey wouldn't respond to Batman—Batman only brought out Two-Face. Bruce Wayne, however, might reach him. It was a risk he was willing to take, especially because whatever Two-Face had planned was likely still in the works if he were going to Penguin.

Going out last night without Constantine had only served to remind Bruce that he couldn’t neglect his other rogues when someone dangled a shiny new problem in front of him. Bruce couldn’t do anything about the ghost without Constantine, anyway. Harvey Dent was a more immediate problem and was something Bruce could do something about.

Now, to explain that to Dick.

"I need to be at the Iceberg Lounge tonight as Bruce Wayne, but I also need to use that—" he nodded to the boomerang "—to locate someone of interest for Constantine."

Dick raised an eyebrow. "You agreeing with Constantine was one thing, but you're working with Constantine? Willingly?"

"It was either that or let him run roughshod all over the city. This was preferable, believe me."

“Why does it have to be tonight?”

Bruce hated that he now knew enough about the specifics of ‘Ghost Magic’ to explain this. “We won’t know whether the device works until we try it, and the source we used to calibrate the device has limited viability.”

As always, Dick took it all in stride. This was why Bruce could count on Dick; he was utterly unflappable. "Alright. So who are we looking for, exactly?"

"I don't have a reliable physical description, but that device should lead you there." Assuming it worked.

He could tell Dick's suspicion was piqued now by the way he carefully put the boomerang back on the table. "B, tell it to me straight: is this gonna lead me to a demon?"

"Not a demon." Bruce hesitated. "But maybe a ghost."

“A ghost?” Dick scoffed. “Ghosts aren’t real.”

“Yes, they are.” Bruce drummed his fingers on his arm. He was going to have to hold some kind of meeting about this at some point. Duke was new; it was understandable that he didn’t know about ghosts, but Dick not knowing underscored a deeper issue. “I’m surprised this is such a revelation to everyone. The existence of ghosts is included as a footnote in mission number 732.28.”

“Oh really? And what does this footnote say?”

“That ghosts are real, but generally a threat best left to the likes of Constantine and JL dark.”

This did not elicit the reaction Bruce hoped for; Dick simply rolled his eyes. “You can’t just casually bring up a footnote from a case ten years ago and expect everyone to have read them! Besides, that's a JL case, those are so boring. They’re all the same.” Dick made a face. “‘Flash rushed in without a plan, Green Lantern saved him but got caught up protecting him, Superman tried to sacrifice himself to save them both, and Wonder Woman was perfect’, ad nauseam."

Bruce crossed his arms. They weren’t all like that. Even if a lot of them were, admittedly, like that. “Haven't you encountered ghosts in your own work?”

“No! I was today years old when I found out ghosts exist!” Dick crossed his arms, mirroring Bruce. “Why are you asking me, specifically, to use the Ghost Tracking Device to track down a Ghost, because ghosts are, apparently, real?”

"This tool reacts physically in unpredictable ways, and you're the most agile in the family.”

“I see you trying to butter me up, B, and it won’t work!” He pointed incredulously. "I've got my own case, you know. Two of them, even. Both much more important than a ghost hunt."

Bruce considered that. He didn’t want to pull Dick away from his own cases if there were something time-sensitive at play.

They didn’t normally talk about work unless they needed something specific from each other. Bruce was always interested in what his children were doing, but when they met outside of their uniforms, the rule was ‘no cape talk’.

In this case, it was curiosity and necessity that drove him to ask, “What are you working on?”

Dick sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He looked tired. "I'm looking for the dealers of a new drug that hit the streets recently."

"A new drug?” It showed how distracted Bruce had been with Constantine that he hadn’t heard about it. That same unease and self-recrimination made itself known. This was his city; he ought to know these things. “What's it called?"

"Mezmur."

"Is it addictive?"

Dick grimaced. "Hard to say."

"Are people dying?"

"Not yet." Dick sighed again, sitting down on the computer console. He wasn’t supposed to sit there, but years of telling him not to hadn’t deterred him. Bruce had long given up on breaking that bad habit.

"We haven’t been able to obtain a sample to test,” Dick explained, “but based on the people we’ve found suffering the side effects, it seems like it can be addictive, possibly deadly.”

“What does it do?”

“As far as we can tell? It’s something like a cross between psilocybin and cocaine, and about as addictive as nicotine. And the more you use it, the harder it is to stop."

A drug that functioned as a stimulant and a depressant? Unusual. Dangerous. “Those effects don’t usually go hand in hand.”

“Yeah, it’s a real doozy. It’ll make you see lives you never lived. No one seems to be selling it, but it’s making the rounds, anyway.”

That did sound serious, but if no one was dying, it could wait. "All I need is one night of your time."

“And it definitely has to be tonight?”

“Yes. The ecto-signature we’re tracking is one we can’t guarantee access to after tonight.”

“Ecto-signature? What’s an ecto-signature?”

“It’s the specific frequency each ghost gives out. It has something to do with the energy they’re made of.”

“And what is this energy they’re made of?”

“Ectoplasm.”

“Like in Ghostbusters?” Dick snorted. “This just gets weirder and weirder. Why are you using tech to track him instead of Constantine’s bullshit, anyway?”

Bruce smirked. “Constantine’s bullshit didn’t work. This is the next best thing.”

Dick still looked unconvinced. Bruce had only one card left to play. He didn't want to play it, but… "You can complete the mission as Batman."

As predicted, that made Dick hesitate. "I thought I was banned until the next calendar year for ‘unnecessary and excessive back-flips’."

"If you do this mission, consider yourself unbanned."

Dick was wavering. Time to sell it. Unfortunate but unavoidable.

"You can even drive the Batmobile."

"Oh, playing dirty, B?” He grinned wide. “Fine. But I want Damian with me. He’s been mopey lately."

"Acceptable."

"Damn, you really want this, huh?"

"Yes."

Dick tilted his head. "Well. It’ll be a neat story if nothing else.”

He picked up the boomerang again (that Bruce, even mentally, refused to call by its official name) and examined it, turning it over and running his fingers along the metallic seams.

“What do we know about this ghost, anyway?” he asked, miming throwing the boomerang.

“We know he’s powerful. And we know he might have the power to change reality.”

“‘He’? Oh, I see, so he’s a boy ghost! That makes all the difference when it comes to reality-changing ghosts, really!” Dick ran a hand through his hair, eyes wide. He didn’t look nervous, though. He never did. If anything, he looked excited.

"What happens if I find him?"

Bruce pulled two tools Constantine had given him out of his pocket. He pushed the first one over. "If you can get this on him, all the better, but if you can't—” he pushed the second one towards Dick “—mark the path he takes with this."

"Salt and chalk? These are the weapons you're giving me to fight this powerful, potentially dangerous ghost?"

“They’re not weapons, they’re tools.” That was what Constantine had said, anyway. "He really has been nonviolent so far, just tricky, but if he does discover you and become aggressive, the salt should stun him so you escape. It should help Constantine find him later, too, so do try to tag him with the salt if you find him."

“How will I know I’ve found him?”

“The boomerang follows the target like a magnet. So if it hits—”

“Then that’s our guy.” Dick nodded. "What does the chalk do?"

"You've read the myth of Theseus in the Labyrinth, yes?"

Dick hummed. "The one who used a magic string to mark his way? What’s that got to do with chalk?"

"The chalk is made from Theseus' bones. Allegedly. You can’t get lost if you mark the way with it, and it can't be erased by magic or mundane means.”

"No way."

"That's what Constantine said."

"He's a conman."

"A magic conman."

"So this is magic chalk?"

"Maybe.” Bruce smiled. “Use it wisely."

Dick tossed the Boomerang again and caught it deftly. “So how does this thing work, then?”

Bruce looked over to the final “gift” Constantine had left him with. A small, corked glass vial filled with a swirling opalescent gas. Attached with twine was a note in Constantine’s unexpectedly tidy cursive that said DO NOT EAT. His idea of a joke, no doubt.

“You turn it on and put it into scan mode, making sure this—” He indicated the gas “ —is close by. Once it confirms the target is locked, you throw the boomerang.”

“Really? That’s it?”

“That’s it,” Bruce confirmed.

“What if it doesn’t work?”

Bruce didn’t even want to think about it, but of course he was already thinking about the next steps in the (somewhat likely) event the untested, unusual tech didn’t work. “If it doesn’t work, then it doesn’t work.”

Dick gave him a calculating look. He looked like something was on the tip of his tongue, but whatever it was, he kept it to himself.

"Alright. Well. Good luck with Harvey, then. I'm on a ghost hunt, I guess."

"Wait until dusk. Constantine said—"

"Yeah, yeah, the vibes have to be right, got it." He gave a little salute.

“Dick, please don’t be flippant about this. This may well be our one shot to find this ghost.” What he didn’t say was and I’m counting on you to see it through.

Based on the look Dick gave him, he heard it, anyway.

“Me? Flippant?” Dick smiled. “It’s like you don’t even know me, B.”

Then he did a standing backflip and sat back down on the console like nothing had happened.

Bruce was definitely regretting this.

Friday, October 14th, 4:24 p.m.

Jason’s phone vibrated, waking him with a groan and a curse. He probably should get up. He hadn't slept well. Again. More nightmares.

He hadn't realized how bad his sleep was until he got good sleep that was then taken away.

Lazarus Kid, Markovians. Chase two rabbits, catch neither.

His phone vibrated again. The shitty cracked screen read: DICKIEBIRD.

This had better be good.

Well. Looked like, annoying as it had been initially, involving Dick had finally paid off. Maybe. Assuming the ‘ghost tracking device’ worked. And that it could track anything with an ecto-signature. And that Lazarus Kid had an ‘ecto-signature’—

Too much to think about. That was future Jason’s problem.

Current Jason’s problem was confirming where the Markovians were meeting tonight. The Dockyard Dogs had been unusually helpful. They didn't want anyone selling arms in Gotham except themselves. They’d reiterated the rumor that everyone was avoiding Penguin-aligned locations, and they also told him they didn’t know anything about Mezmur.

Jason was glad that was Dick’s case and not his. No one seemed to know anything about it except its existence. Then again, Jason was gonna owe Dick a favor after they found the kid, and in all likelihood, it was gonna be ‘help me track down the ones selling Mezmur’.

Sorry, future Jason.

Current Jason had one more contact to shake down. He had a good feeling about this one.

Jason’s phone dinged one more time. He opened it and groaned.

Dick:p.s. why didn't you introduce me to the duck??? 🥺🥺🥺

Dick: Dickiebird sent a photo

Looked like Tim had developed the photos. Jason couldn’t even be mad. It was a nice photo.

"You see that, ducky? Photogenic as hell."

The duck said nothing, of course, floating in the bowl of water Jason had set out on his bedside table. It was just an experiment, to see what happened. It hadn't sunk.

He took a photo and sent it to Dick.

Jason:consider yourself introduced.

Dick: !! it floats?!?

Dick: aw you made it an enclosure!! Hoe cute! How enriching!

Jason:are you calling Dr. Quack a whore?

Dick:🙄 *how

Dick: wait you named him??? Dr.Quack??

Jason: Dr. Yorick Quack, the Lucky

Dick: AND AN EPITAPH
 

Jason smiled. If nothing else, the duck was an excellent conversation starter.

Friday, October 14th, 8:45 p.m.

With his luck, Danny felt like he probably should have known right from the outset that the night would go badly.

Despite Sal's assurances that there was nothing to worry about, his follow-up statement that Danny would be fairly compensated “especially if anything bad happened” left him wondering why he'd agreed to do this.

In Gotham, 'something bad' could mean anything from a robbery to biological warfare, any of which meant either the police showed up, one of the Bats showed up, or (Ancients forbid), both.

Also, the risk of death, discovery, and/or grievous injury. None of which Danny was a fan of.

Not to mention he couldn't help but feel he was dressed up like one of Penguin’s goons. He certainly looked like some kind of henchman, if a bit upscale. It had been hard enough to get used to dressing like Robin. Now he looked like one of the Bats’ punching bags.

Sal had promised that in all the time he’d worked there (three months), nothing ‘bad’ had ever happened. “Barbacks aren’t expected to like, pull out guns and start shooting or anything,” Sal had explained. “But if, God forbid, someone does start shooting, the uniform is bulletproof! Or bullet resistant, anyway.”

Danny wondered what ‘bullet-resistant’ meant, but if it came down to bullets being shot, he’d probably just find a nice, hidden corner and ghost the fuck out of there.

Danny didn’t want to think about what would happen if he got busted. Police questioning would lead to his photo being taken which meant his information, falsified or not, being put in a government database—no thank you. Danny was good out here.

So. He didn't think about it.

When he got to the Iceberg Lounge, the bartender he was supposed to meet (who was supposed to let him in) was who Sal had described as a short latine woman named Melanie.

Instead, there was a tall black dude. He seemed nice enough. He said his name was Duke, and did Danny know how to open the backdoor so they could clock in?

Danny, in fact, did not. He didn't know whether this Duke even worked at the Iceberg Lounge. Duke certainly didn't recognize Danny as Not An Employee.

But then Duke continued, "Melanie was supposed to let me in, but she must be late. I'm new here."

And, well. That was good enough for Danny. He didn't have a normal way to get in, but a normal person he was not.

"No worries. I can get us in."

Phasing part of a door intangible had become second nature to him by now, after all.

Unfortunately, Melanie wasn't waiting for them in the employee dressing room, nor was she setting things up at the bar. Nor were any of the other bartenders, for that matter. The only person who seemed to know anything was a floor manager who came by to tell them to 'go ahead and get things started' and then hurried off to complete her own task list.

Danny and Duke had been working together for about fifteen minutes of awkward co-deferment when it became clear that neither of them, in fact, had any idea what to do.

Which would have been bad, had Milo not made his presence known in the least convenient way possible (popping his head through the top of the bar) and offered the unexpected reprieve of instructions.

“Go get ice, Phantom. It’s in that room next to the kitchen you passed on the way in,” he said, “and have your buddy Duke start juicing oranges.”

He was muttering about ‘unprofessionalism’ as he assigned them tasks via Danny the whole time, but Danny made a point to ignore anything ghosts didn’t say to him directly when he was around humans who couldn’t see ghosts.

Within the first half hour, they had everything set up, but still no bartenders. It was at this point that a different manager came by and told them that all the bartenders scheduled to work had quit, and no one else had been available to cover for them, so Duke and Danny (or Sal, as they called him), were on their own.

“Don’t worry, we have the upper balcony booked for a private party, so it should be less crowded than usual,” is what she told them. Notably, she didn’t stick around to tell them anything helpful, such as “you can just go home” or “I accept your resignation” or “you’re on candid camera!”.

"Don't worry, my ass,” Duke grumbled.

"No kidding. Who'd've thunk all three bartenders would quit on the same night and no one else could fill in on short notice?"

"You thought it could happen," Milo pointed out. "Hence the frantic training."

"It is weird though," Duke continued, unaware of the ghostly sidebar. "This job pays pretty well. It even has dental benefits. Why would they all quit?"

He gave Danny a meaningful glance at this. Danny didn’t know what Duke was hinting at, but the size of the favor Sal owed him just increased by a factor of five. At least.

"Maybe they all got taken hostage or finally got accepted to the Goonion or something, who knows."

Duke frowned, but didn't comment on the joke. Which said more about the state of affairs in Gotham than Danny's sense of humor.

"Um. I don't suppose you know how to bartend?"

"The basics," Danny hedged, which was pushing it. "I don't know any of the signature drinks here, though."

"Hopefully no one will order any?" Duke didn’t sound like he believed it himself.

"The Iceberg Lounge is known for having the top mixologists in the country. People come here specifically for the signature drinks."

"Your time to shine, kiddo," said Milo. "This is what you trained for!"

Danny, pointedly, ignored him. He was far too excited about this.

Duke coughed and glanced around. "The seals are kind of neat," he said. "I'm sure at least some people come for the novelty of the whole thing."

"You can see seals at the zoo without any risk of being shot," Danny pointed out. Then he reconsidered; this was Gotham, after all. "Well, less risk of being shot.”

“The uniforms are bullet-resistant, whatever that means. Do you know what that means?”

Danny shook his head.

So. This was less than ideal. Danny didn't want to find out how forgiving the Penguin was if neither of his barbacks could make a drink.

"I have an idea. Cover me for five minutes so I can make a call?"

Duke nodded, giving him a weak smile. "Sure. Just don’t peace out on me, okay?"

Danny nodded and ducked back into the employee break room. Fortunately, it was empty.

"Milo," he whispered, "Little help?"

Milo appeared, a shit-eating grin on his face. "What can I do you for, Phantom?"

"I need a crash course in the Iceberg Lounge drinks."

Milo blinked at him and laughed. "I can't just tell you. There's an art to it."

“Then what was all that practicing for last night?"

“That was for making regular drinks!” He shook his head. “My advice? You grab your friend and bail.”

“And end up on Penguin’s shit list? No thank you.”

“As if I’d let him hurt you,” Milo growled.

Danny bit his lip. “What if I let you overshadow me?”

Milo looked both eager and reluctant. "I don't like being in control of others like that, but to have a body again…" he whistled.

"I don't think you could stay long, since I'm. You know."

"An ectoplasmic enigma unto yourself?"

"Not how I'd say it, but sure."

Milo considered. “I don’t suppose you’d let me overshadow your friend instead, huh?”

“Duke? No. Absolutely not. No overshadowing people who can’t consent to it.”

"That's not what I heard happened in Old Gotham last week," Milo said with a meaningful eyebrow raise.

Danny rolled his eyes. "That was different. I wouldn't have let it go on for long. Some people just need an object lesson in danger before they understand it."

“Yeah, fine. It probably wouldn’t work, anyway, overshadowing your buddy out there,” Milo said, waving him off. “Can’t hate a guy for asking, though, right?”

There were several things Danny wanted to say to that. Like ‘why wouldn’t it work’ and ‘yes, I can be mad at you for asking’. But he’d keep it to himself until later; he needed this favor, or who knew what might happen to Sal. Or to Danny, for that matter.

"I'll tell you how to make the simple drinks, but if someone orders something more complicated, I'll take over,” Milo decided. “With your blessing, of course."

"You have it. I don't want to die for real today. Definitely not because I can’t make a ‘Frost on the Beach’." Such a terrible name for a drink. Danny couldn’t think of anything less appealing than a beach in winter.

"Hey, don't knock it ‘til you try it. This job is to die for. It is weird, though,” he continued. “Normally they'd have a manager step in to bartend if they didn't have any bartenders come in. Something weird is going on. Keep your head on a swivel, kid."

Great. More good news. “Just help us get through this night.”

“Hey, we got this, no problem. They didn’t call me the best for nothing.”

“The best what?”

Milo grinned, but didn’t answer. “Hurry up. You left your buddy hanging out there.”

This was probably a bad idea. But bad ideas were all Danny had left. “Let’s go.”

Same day, around 10 pm

“I told you this was a foolish idea,” said Damian, grappling next to Dick, just a half step behind.

“You said ghosts were dumb, not chasing them.”

“I know you understood what I meant by that.”

Dick veered right as the Boomerang took a sudden turn. It seemed to know exactly where it was going, even if Dick didn’t.

“Don’t tell me you aren’t enjoying this fun throwback to the good ol’ days when I was Batman and you were my Robin!”

Damian sighed. “You mean when we thought father was dead? Those ‘good ol’ days’?”

Dick flipped as the boomerang took another abrupt turn. He heard Damian sigh and fire off his grapple behind Dike.

“That part wasn’t fun at the time,” Dick admitted, “but now that we know he wasn’t actually dead, we can look back on it fondly.”

“Really.”

“I can—oop!” Oh, boy. Yet another twist. “Besides, it’s been a while since you and I got to go out, just the two of us!”

Admittedly, this is not how Dick would have preferred to have spent it, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

He didn't even get to use the Batmobile since it couldn't follow the boomerang's erratic movements. Hopefully, Bruce would let him cash in on that part of the deal later. He had said Dick could use it. It was his fault he hadn’t specified when.

“I don’t think this is tracking a ghost,” Damian declared, “but wherever this thing is taking us, I hope we are allowed to engage it in combat.”

“Right with you there, Robin. I am right with you there.”

11 p.m.

Duke, admittedly, had not had many jobs in his life. Between all the various shit that had gone down when he was younger through to becoming The Signal, he hadn’t really had much in the way of time or opportunity.

Even so, he probably should have known this was not going to be a normal job when it had been as easy to get said job as it had been.

The interviewer, who had introduced herself as Melanie: Mixologist and the Entire HR Department of the Iceberg Lounge, had been a bit too casual about it. She’d asked him if he could lift fifty pounds (he could), whether loud sounds made him jumpy (they didn’t), and whether he had the legal documentation to support that he was a legal adult (which he did, even though he wasn’t, but she hadn’t asked that, so he didn’t tell her).

Then, she’d given him back his doctored resume he’d gone to the trouble of putting in a plastic sleeve (she didn’t even look at it), handed over an information packet on hazard pay, Bats Protocol, Cop Protocol, Rogues Protocol (“Read that carefully,” she’d said, “there’s different protocol depending on which Bat and which Rogue.”), and told him to fill out a next-of-kin card “in case something happened to him on the job.”

“It’s not life insurance or anything, but Pingo’ll make sure your family is taken care of if you die.”

None of it really made him feel like he was making good choices. The pay was good, though. Too good. He could see the temptation for anyone desperate for cash. They even had dental.

She’d told him where to find a uniform, and he’d answered her question about when he was available with “immediately”, to which she said “Fan-fucking-tastic” and told him he was scheduled to work the very next day.

And then he’d shown up here, only to find out she’d quit.

Not so fan-fucking-tastic at all, really.

Duke could admit he was prone to bouts of rash behavior. Looking before he leaped, not always thinking through the consequences, acting first and asking questions later. He’d thought he’d managed to avoid that tendency this time; he was here because he’d done his research.

The last place Hector had been seen was the Iceberg Lounge, where he was working as a bartender. Only on Tuesday nights—a slow night, from what Duke understood—but getting The Iceberg Lounge on your resume was a huge boon for anyone who wanted a future in mixology. Everyone knew Penguin only hired the best.

Further investigation into the Iceberg Lounge had revealed that Hector wasn’t the only one who’d gone missing. The Iceberg Lounge was, in fact, having “staffing issues” at the moment. That was all Duke could get the employees to tell him as the Signal. But his snooping had revealed that the Iceberg Lounge was massively understaffed, and people were nervous. Servers leaving the club in pairs, everyone looking over their shoulder, afraid to quit but worried about staying, too.

Perhaps Duke should have done more research. Maybe he should have looked into whether the other clubs in Gotham were also facing a staffing crisis. He could have found out who, exactly, was missing other than Hector. But all he knew was that the more time passed without finding Hector, the less likely it was they would find him.

So, he’d figured if people wouldn’t talk to the Signal, maybe they’d talk to Duke Thomas.

He hadn’t expected it to be so easy to get hired. He’d thought it would take a week at least, give him time to do some of that other research, maybe get some backup. But he’d been hired immediately, and now he understood why.

Something was going down tonight, and everybody knew except for him and, apparently, Sal.

Sal was weird. Duke liked him, but there was something off about him. Looking at his face, it was like Duke couldn’t quite focus. It reminded him of something he couldn’t quite place. Or someone, maybe.

Duke watched Sal return from wherever he’d gone looking determined but anxious. "Ok. We should be fine. Leave it to me."

"If you say so," Duke said uneasily. Weirder and weirder.

“I can tell you how to make the basic drinks, but if someone orders one of the Iceberg Lounge specialties, I'll handle it.”

“What, did you download the information into your brain like the Matrix or something?” Duke joked.

Sal laughed nervously. “C’mon, let a guy keep his secrets.”

Sal was practically made of secrets, far as Duke could tell.

Lots of people in Gotham had secrets. It was normal. But what wasn’t normal was that Sal went to the break room for five minutes without any knowledge of bartending, and returned with enough to get the both of them through the night. Which he definitely was, no doubt about it.

Duke had discreetly texted Barbara and asked if there were any long-range comms present at the Iceberg Lounge besides his own, and she’d confirmed there weren’t any, and then asked why his comm signal was at the Iceberg Lounge. She’d then remotely turned it on and started listening in on his disastrous evening, laughing at him and saying it was what he deserved for jumping in with a half-baked plan.

He’d been desperate enough to ask her to look up mixed drink recipes, but she told him she was too busy to coach him through making a Mai Thai. Which was fair, he supposed. He wasn’t supposed to be doing this, and officially he wasn’t, so asking for help was probably cheating or something.

So far, Sal had been able to handle every drink that had come their way, including coaching Duke through making the basic ones. It was strange, though, the way he’d pause before every step as if listening to instructions.

The detective in him wanted to dig at that. To figure out the why and the how.

The part of him that was only here to figure out what happened to Hector and the others who'd disappeared told him that he needed to put his personal curiosity aside; he had a reason for being here, and if he chased two leads, he’d lose them both.

But. There was always the chance the two things were related. He could multi-task—a few probing questions and he’d know whether to drop it. “So how long have you worked here, anyway?”

“Uh, about three months or so. This is the first time they’ve let me work a weekend shift, though.” Sal smiled sheepishly and rubbed his neck. “I was hoping to prove myself, but not…like this.”

“Trial by fire?”

“More like trial by ice, am I right?”

Duke laughed. Sal was funny, but definitely weird.

“You said they just hired you right?” Sal continued. “Either lucky you got put on a weekend shift or unlucky, depending on your perspective.”

“Luck had nothing to do with it. Clearly, they’re desperate.”

Sal grimaced. “Yeah.”

It was coming up on eleven o’clock, and the club was busy as ever, despite the promises it wouldn’t be. The aforementioned bachelor party had taken over the upper balcony, and they kept ordering rounds of something called the Permafrost Paloma. An Iceberg Lounge special.

Duke had been nervous when the first order came through, but like everything else, Sal had handled it. He’d been shaking the whole time he made the first one, but Duke figured it was probably nerves. The bachelor party didn’t send it back, and in fact, kept ordering more, so it must’ve been good enough.

They’d ordered so many that even Duke knew how to make it now.

“The good news is, I expect they’re so hammered they won’t notice how good it is or isn’t,” said Sal, eyeing the blue drinks with a healthy amount of suspicion.

“They'll probably regret it tomorrow,” said Duke. “Their insides are gonna be permanently blue.”

“I mean, that’s what you get for having a bachelor party at the Iceberg Lounge.”

"Ten bucks says they're not even from here. Bet you they took the ferry from Metropolis. Probably think they're doing something really risqué."

"They're gonna end their night in a hospital if they don't slow down. We can cut them off, right? That's a thing bartenders do?"

"Uh…I think so?" Would Penguin let them, was the question.

Right on cue, the Man of Honor came stumbling back to the bar. “Another round of Perrmafr’st P’lo-ma'z, please,” he slurred.

“Hey, buddy, maybe you should do a round of water instead?” Sal offered. “We even have sparkling.”

“Sparkling water sucks,” Man of Honor slurred. “This is just like you, Ph’n’t’m, always trying to—hic—ruin our fun.” He pointed at Sal, gaze sharp despite everything else. “It’s your fault m’girlfriend’s stuck on Arkham Island, y’know. Killjoy.”

Sal had gotten very still over the course of Man of Honor’s little diatribe. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Man of Honor laughed. “Course you don’t! But you’re in fer a—a reckoning. My bounds are broken.”

“Bounds?” Duke asked. Sal shot him a warning look that Duke didn’t know how to interpret.

“Lookit you, a regular Milo Gilzean, bastard, bartender, and backstabber, all.”

“Excuse me?”

“He deserved what he got, you know. You’ll get what you d’serve, too.” Man of Honor leaned in. “Do you know what? No one misses him now that he’s run off to play nice with the losers at the Park. No one will miss you either.”

Sal’s eyes narrowed. “I think you’ve had enough to drink, sir.”

Man of Honor smiled, too wide. There was something unnatural about it. Duke felt a chill run up his spine that had nothing to do with the iceberg in the middle of the club.

“I’ll stop when I’ve had enough, Phantom.” He grabbed a bottle of vodka from behind the bar and took a swig, eyes glinting darkly. He then either said something in a language Duke didn’t recognize or tried to stop himself from sicking up on the floor.

The glass in Sal’s hand shattered.

He looked down at his hands, as if shocked that they were bleeding. He didn’t seem to know what to do.

Duke, for the first time tonight, did. He pressed a button under the bar, signaling security to come escort the drunken customer elsewhere. Looked like reading that information packet had been useful after all.

“A reckoning is coming!” said the Man of Honor as the guards led him back to his party. “Then you’ll be sorry for siding with them!”

“So that was weird,” Duke said. Sal was still frozen, watching the Man of Honor with a dark expression.

“Yeah. Weird.”

The bright lights in the club cast Sal’s eyes in a strange color. For a second, they looked like they were glowing.

A new ticket popped up on the screen. Someone wanted tequila shots. At least it was easy. “I’ll take care of this. You go take care of your hands.”

Sal looked back at his hands as if remembering anew that they were bleeding. “Oh. Right. That’s probably a food and health safety hazard. You can get in a lot of trouble for that sort of thing. I’ll clean up the glass, too—”

“Sal. I got it." He placed a hand on Sal's shoulder. "Take care of yourself first, man.”

Sal looked at Duke, eyes wide with surprise. For the first time, Duke noticed they were blue. A walking Bruce Wayne adoption case. Not that they’d ever meet. Which was too bad; Sal looked like he needed some help. There was no way he was old enough to be here. Neither was Duke, technically, but Duke’s case was different. Duke was here investigating. Sal was probably here because he was desperate. Why else would he work for Penguin?

“O-oh. Okay. Thanks, Duke.”

“Don’t mention it.” He gave Sal one more pat to the shoulder before sending him off to the break room. He kind of reminded Duke of Tim; slow to take care of himself, unused to being cared for. He didn't look like Tim, though, despite the black hair and blue eyes. He looked like...someone else. It was on the tip of his tongue—

Ah, well. Not important.

Duke shivered. The Iceberg Lounge was aptly named—it was cold in here.

— — —

The balcony bachelor party got rowdier and rowdier as the night went on; their behavior was almost alarming; they were loud enough that Duke could hear them over the jazz ensemble. They were acting like they hadn't partied in decades. One of them even yelled “I haven’t felt this good since 1989!” despite not looking a day over thirty.

Sal was giving them weird looks, too, but whatever he thought, he kept it to himself.

If Duke were here for normal reasons, he’d be willing to be considerate of other people’s feelings and secrecy, he wouldn’t have said anything.

But Duke was a detective, and his Bullshit Meter was going off the charts. Something was up here, and he was gonna dig until he uncovered it. "So. Do you know Milo Gilzean?"

Sal jumped, shooting Duke a startled glance. "What?"

"That asshole mentioned him. Said you work like him."

“He said I was a bastard and a bartender like Milo Gilzean. And a backstabber,” he added darkly. "Why do you ask?"

"You seemed kind of, um. Upset?" Duke tried. “I mean you shattered a glass and everything.”

“That was an accident.”

Duke hummed. Sal was dissembling. “You're kind of a shit liar, no offense."

"No offense, but I don’t think you know me well enough to make that assessment.”

“Okay, but you definitely know Milo Gilzean. You know what happened to him, at least.”

Sal shrugged. “I never met him personally. He’s pretty well known in the club scene, though; heard some stories through the grapevine, but you gotta take those with a grain of salt."

"Oh?" Duke asked, trying for casual. "What sort of stories you hear?"

Sal shrugged again. He was staring at his hands, covered in bandages. "Just that he disappeared under mysterious circumstances not too long ago. He quit without saying goodbye to anyone, is what they say. No body's been found, though, dead or otherwise, so who knows.”

"I see." Duke sliced some lemons very neatly. “It’s kind of strange how bartenders from this place keep disappearing.”

“”Keep disappearing’?” Sal echoed. “What do you mean?”

This was it. The opening Duke had been looking for. “I’m looking for someone. Someone who used to work here until recently. He disappeared, just like Milo, without a word. No one who works here will talk to an outsider—I tried. But I hoped if I got a job here, scoped out the scene a bit…” he trailed off.

Sal carefully skewered a garnish and set it aside. “Someone you know who worked here just…disappeared? And you thought the best solution was to get a job at the same place they worked and see if anyone knew what happened and would tell you about it instead of doing the sensible thing and keeping quiet?”

“It sounds stupid when you put it like that.”

“It kinda is stupid,” Sal said, grabbing an olive that tried to roll off the cutting board. “My advice? Walk away.”

Duke looked at him sharply. “So you do know something.”

“Not really. Nothing other than it’s not weird how people who work for the Penguin get got, I guess,” Sal snarked.

“‘Get got’?”

“Yeah. You know. Like, receive a formal invitation to not walk the land of the living anymore.”

Duke froze. “Do you know something I don’t about this place?”

“I mean, not officially,” Sal rushed to say. He looked nervous.

“But unofficially?” Duke pressed. “Look, anything you can tell me will help.”

Sal scoffed. “I doubt that. Maybe your friend just did the sensible thing like every other bartender and quit. Honestly, I’d quit too if I could. But…”

“The pay is too good?”

“Something like that. But if you’re here, then you must understand what it’s like to not be able to just—” he paused. “Oh shit.”

“What?”

Sal just shook his head.

Duke didn’t have to wonder long, because right then Bruce Wayne sat down at the bar.

Oh shit, indeed.

11:45 pm

“Normally, the best thing about boomerangs is that you don’t have to chase them.”

“I don’t know, Robin,” said Dick, “I think the best thing about them is their name.”

“This infernal device shouldn’t be called a boomerang. It doesn’t come back to you. It’s not a weapon or a toy. You barely had to throw it before it took off flying.”

“Aw, are you not having fun?”

“I’m not,” said Tim. He now fully understood the ‘no chatting on comms’ rule. Sitting in a chair listening to it while being stuck at a computer was a lot less fun. Especially while being forced to relive one of his least favorite memories, aka ‘Dick is Batman and chooses Damian as his Robin’. All that after having a goddamn boomerang thrown at him, which triggered his other least favorite memory.

“Don’t be sore, Red. It’s bad for your ribs,” Dick teased.

“My ribs are only sore because Robin threw the boomerang right at me!” If only Dick could see Tim’s face right now, he’d know Tim was not in the mood to be teased.

“That’s not true. Robin threw the boomerang, then it swerved at you because it locked onto something, and it hit your already bruised ribs that you were hiding from Alfred.”

Tim sighed. “I would have been fine—”

Alfred cleared his throat. “You are lucky I allowed you to man the computer instead of insisting on bed rest. Especially given your…recent history with it.”

Tim sighed again. “Yes, Alfred. Thank you for allowing me to sit here and observe the buck wild trajectory of a stupidly-named tracking device.”

“It’s not even a tracking device. We have no way to follow it remotely and thus are reduced to following it physically,” Damian complained again.

“Sorry. Best I could do on short notice was slap a bat-tracker on it and hope it won’t fall off.”

“Any idea where it’s taking us yet, by any chance?” Dick asked.

“South.”

“Helpful as always, Drake,” Damian groused.

“Hey. Names.”

Damian didn’t apologize, but he didn’t make that stupid tutting noise, either.

“Wherever it’s taking you, I hope you get there soon.”

Damian sniffed. “Indeed.”

“Anyone want to take bets?” asked Dick. “Ten bucks we run into Spoiler and Batgirl.”

“Unlikely. They’re in Bludhaven tonight, covering for Nightwing.”

“I still think you should’ve let Batgirl wear your suit, D,” said Tim. “Would’ve been funny.”

“She’s five inches shorter than me.”

“You’re five inches shorter than B and you're still wearing his suit.”

“Excuse you, I am only four inches shorter—”

“Aw, did you finally get your growth spurt?”

“Like you’re one to talk—”

“Actually—”

“If you two are quite finished,” interrupted Alfred, “I believe I may know where your boomerang is headed. I do hope you remembered to switch out of your summer suits.”

“Oh, I see,” said Dick with a dry chuckle, “This is either gonna be hilarious or terrible.”

11:50 pm

Danny missed the days when all he had to do was fight ghosts and try not to fail high school or get captured by his parents.

He’d been thrown when that guest had shown up and recognized him. As Phantom, not Danny. He didn’t look overshadowed, was the thing. Danny couldn’t tell. Of course, the signs were more obvious now that Danny knew to look for him—the Ghost Speak always gave it away—but it shouldn't have been possible.

Danny couldn’t prevent ghosts from overshadowing people in Gotham. Or anywhere, for that matter. He knew it happened. But knowing that superheroes often visited the city, meta or otherwise, he’d set up certain fail safes to make sure no one would stay overshadowed for long. If a ghost overshadowed someone and crossed a ley line, they got yeeted to Arkham. That was the rule. No one liked it, but Danny didn’t want to deal with ghosts using heroes as a vessel.

In short, that ghost shouldn’t be here. Not inside a human vessel, anyway. The Iceberg Lounge was surrounded by ley lines.

Another problem for him to fix. He just couldn’t catch a break. Not to mention all that nonsense about ‘a reckoning’. Maybe he was just drunk for the first time since he’d died though. Maybe he was just rubbing it in that he’d somehow overcome Danny’s sigils.

With Danny’s luck, it was probably not that, but some other much worse thing.

Speaking of much worse things.

“Hi,” said Bruce Wayne, shooting them both a disarming smile.

Neither Danny nor Duke said anything for a long moment.

Duke rebooted first, clearing his throat. “Um, hi, B—Mr.Wayne.”

“Please, it’s Bruce. Only people who want something from me call me Mr.Wayne.”

“I mean, we kind of want something from you. Your drink order and your money,” Danny’s mouth said before Danny’s brain could decide it was a bad idea, “assuming you’re a paying customer.”

Duke choked back a laugh while Bruce Fucking Wayne stared at Danny in something approaching awe tinged with intrigue.

“You’re refreshingly honest. I am, in fact, a paying customer. I’m here meeting a friend. Well, maybe several friends if the evening pans out in my favor.” He added a saucy eyebrow wiggle, scanning the club in an almost lazy way.

He was nothing like the Bruce Wayne Danny had met in Crime Alley all those weeks ago. But Danny was trying very hard not to think of that night right now in the vain hope that Bruce Wayne wouldn’t remember having met Danny before.

“Say, you look familiar. Have we met before?”

Damn, so he did remember. Maybe. It had been dark that night, and it wasn’t exactly bright in the Iceberg Lounge…

“I can’t say we have,” Danny said, trying to play it cool. “I’d remember meeting Bruce Wayne."

"Are you sure? I never forget a face." His gaze was sharp now. Looking for deception, recognition maybe.

Danny gave him a bland smile. "I get that all the time. I just have one of those faces, you know?”

Duke frowned at him. “You know what? You do. I swear, you look just like a friend of mine.”

“Weird.” Danny shrugged. “So, Bruce, paying customer. Would you like a drink while you wait for your friend and/or friends?”

Bruce Wayne shook off whatever mood had taken him, leaning casually against the bar.

“I’ll have a martini. Stirred, not shaken.” He winked. Danny wondered whether he was mistaken about the famous James Bond drink, or if the joke was that he didn’t want the drink the same way James Bond liked it.

Either way, Danny didn't want to make a martini, shaken or stirred. Milo had never actually gotten around to teaching him how to do it, too focused on making sure Danny could coat a glass in vermouth without wasting any. And now he'd disappeared somewhere, unable to coach Danny in the ways of Bartending and Bastardry.

“Are you sure that’s what you want? I hear it’s one of those drinks people order when they’re trying to impress someone. You don’t strike me as the type who cares about that.”

“Don’t I?” he smiled. “What do I strike you as?”

Danny had no idea. Fortunately, he didn’t have to try to answer a question he’d set himself up for because several things happened in succession.

Milo arrived next to Danny. "Get ready kid. Shit's about to hit the fan."

Danny desperately wanted to ask what that meant. He didn't have to, because Two-Face walked in, flipping his coin, goons right behind him.

"Penguin!" He yelled. "Time's up! You've stalled long enough!"

Silence fell over the lounge. Even the jazz band stopped playing.

“Hi, Harvey,” said Bruce Wayne, effectively shattering the silence, because of course he did.

Two Face turned to look at Bruce, his face a cross between surprise and disappointment and disgust and concern. Two emotions per half-face.

“Sorry, Brucie, I don’t have time to deal with you today. Or do I?" He tilted his head. "No, no, my plans come first. Karma, you sonova bitch, you better be here! You've got my shit and I've got your money! Assuming Penguin plays nice.”

Duke inhaled sharply and froze. Danny supposed it was kind of startling.

There was a lot to unpack there, but it didn’t end there, because of course it didn’t.

“Yeah, I’d like to talk to Karma too, actually,” said Red Hood, walking in from the back room and dragging an unconscious guard behind him. “His Markovian buddies weren’t feeling too chatty tonight. I mean, just when you think a guy is dead, twice over, he's alive again and dealing arms in your city."

Two Face pointed a gun at Red Hood. “You! If you messed up my arms deal, I swear—”

“You’ll what? Flip a coin about it?”

“Unfortunately for you,” Two Face snarled, “I’m not feeling very conflicted about how to deal with you.”

The tension in the Iceberg Lounge was palpable. Danny glanced around, looking for an exit strategy. He supposed sinking through the floor was always an option…maybe he should take Duke and Bruce Wayne with him? They didn't seem like the type to hate metas, especially not when the alternative was death and/or grievous injury.

Then again, the more living people who knew about him, the worse things would be for him. There was already Jess, and Red Hood, and probably that Rich Guy with the camera…not to mention whatever weirdness was happening with his teeth and general visibility…

So. No ghost powers. Fine. He could do this as Just Danny: Normal Boy.

He saw the band subtly packing up their instruments and leaving as quietly as they could through a hidden door by the stage that seemed designed for just that purpose. Danny could probably get over there easily enough. He just needed an opening…

Yeah, not likely. Red Hood and Two Face were too close and too focused on that part of the club, respectively.

At least Red Hood was distracted and thus hadn’t noticed Danny. Unfortunately, the way in which he was distracted meant there was a non-zero chance he might need Danny’s help again.

Danny was mentally calculating the best way to get Duke and Bruce Wayne to follow him through a hastily chartered course through the lounge when something came flying through the skylight, shattering it and homing in on Danny to strike him in the head, because that was what his life was, apparently.

And then Batman followed shortly after, dropping down into the Iceberg Lounge in a dark billow of cape and shadow, because of course he did.

Batman’s arrival broke the tension, at least, though not necessarily for the better. Gunshots were going off, people were screaming, glass was shattering, and oh yes, the thing that had hit Danny in the head? It was a boomerang. The Booo-merang if he weren’t mistaken, but he didn’t have time to process the implications of that at the moment.

In a way, it was almost funny. It certainly sounded like a joke—Batman, Bruce Wayne, and Red Hood walk into a bar. Only it wasn't a bar, it was the Iceberg Lounge, and Batman swooped down from the skylight rather than walking in.

If it were some kind of cosmic joke, Danny was waiting for the punchline, because it really wasn't very funny at all.

Danny, after all, had been trying to avoid Red Hood since he'd helped him three weeks ago; he'd been trying to avoid Bruce Wayne since he'd seen the man in Crime Alley nine weeks ago; and he'd been trying to avoid Batman since he'd come to Gotham.

The fact that they were all three here, now, in front of him, wasn't something Danny was sure he deserved.

He also wasn't sure if it was better or worse for him that they were all three here now, distracting each other. Hopefully. At least Bruce Wayne and Batman didn't know that Danny was avoiding them. Actually, given his behavior, Bruce Wayne maybe had his suspicions. Red Hood definitely knew Danny was avoiding him—according to Danny’s extensive undead gossip network, Red Hood had been looking for him.

…okay. So. At least Batman was still in the dark. Unless he'd bought the Booo-merang specifically to find Danny, in which case he was only in the dark in the most literal sense and did, in fact, know who and what Danny was and had thus sought out the means to find him.

Fiddlesticks.

11:53 p.m.

Damian watched Richard drop down into what was an already chaotic scene.

Todd was there. Father was there. Thomas was there, for some reason. As well as Two-Face, Penguin (presumably), and Karma (allegedly).

Well, he’d say this about the mission: ghosts or not, it wasn’t boring. It certainly was more interesting than going through the petty crimes cases Gordon had given them that had, somehow, become Damian’s solo case.

Unfortunately, Richard had told him to wait on the roof. “It’s not safe down there,” he’d said, “and you’re a minor.”

“I will be fine—”

“That’s an order. If anyone tries to run—baddies, I mean—stop ‘em.”

“Baddies, Richard? Really?”

Richard had just given him a salute and dropped down through the shattered skylight.

So. There Damian sat. But the situation was rapidly evolving. There didn’t appear to be any ghosts, and Damian had lost sight of the stupidly named tracking device. Surely there was some tactical advantage he could provide here? Other than waiting to catch escaping rogues.

He tapped his comm. “Oracle. I assume you are aware that Duke Thomas is at the Iceberg Lounge?”

“Assume I know everything, Robin.”

That was categorically untrue, but it was close enough to being true that it might as well be. Gordon had always impressed Damian; she had a formidable intellect.

“If you knew how many of our paths would be crossing tonight, you could have said something.”

“I admit I was unaware of Red Hood's plans, and I was apprised of your location in real-time by Red Robin. Despite my name, I can’t predict the future. What do you need?”

To the point, as always. “There is a considerable amount of chaos below. It would be foolish not to take advantage.”

“Batman told you to wait on the roof.”

“Batman told me to stay where it was safe,” he countered. “I won’t join the fight.”

Gordon hummed. “This would be a good opportunity to get into Penguin’s servers…do you have a hacking fob?”

“I have three.”

“Excellent. Follow my instructions carefully, Robin. To your left, there’s an air shaft…”

Sometime after midnight

Danny and Duke were crouched down below the bar, though not as low as they probably should have been, given the givens. Gunfire, terrorists, general mayhem, et cetera.

But they both wanted to watch, apparently.

It wasn’t every day one got caught in the middle of a three-way stand-off between Batman, Red Hood, and Two Face. Four-way, if you counted the Markovians and Karma, whoever that was. He had emerged from…somewhere, holding a gun to Penguin’s head. He could have been anyone, with a fully-masked helmet like that.

Danny had a bad feeling they might soon discover just how ‘bullet resistant’ these uniforms were. But to be fair, Danny only half understood what was happening. There was a lot of fighting and yelling, and frankly, it was none of Danny’s business. Unless someone died and he had to shepherd the newly made ghost onto some kind of bridge of sanity…but Danny was hopeful that no one would die here tonight. He’d never seen a ghost get made and this wasn’t the place he wanted that to change.

Bruce Wayne had found his way behind the bar when Two-Face had thrown him there, saying he didn't want to see an 'ugly reminder of yesteryear'. Danny didn’t think that was fair; Bruce Wayne was definitively not ugly, according to every magazine ever.

He, in all his billionaire glory, was also crouched down below the bar, head bleeding from cut glass. Hopefully, he wouldn't need stitches. Head wounds tended to bleed a lot, even if they weren’t so serious. They also bled a lot when they were serious, though, so really the amount of blood wasn’t a very helpful indication of how serious a head wound was, in Danny’s experience.

"They can glue wounds like that back together these days, Mr.Wayne," Danny told him. "It probably won't even scar if you keep it out of the sun, and that’s pretty easy to do in Gotham."

Bruce Wayne frowned at him. "I told you to call me Bruce."

Danny ignored that. It was weird to call adults by their first name, and he certainly didn’t intend to get used to it where Bruce Wayne was concerned. "Even if it does scar, some people are into that." He touched the bleeding cut on his own eyebrow. "At least, I hope so."

Bruce Wayne's eyes darted up to the wound and back again.

Please don't ask how I got it, Danny thought. He really didn't want to discuss what the Booo-merang was, what it was doing in Gotham. Or answer why it had homed in on him.

"We match," Bruce said with a disarming smile.

Danny frowned. Maybe Mr. Wayne had a concussion.

"Duck," said Duke, grabbing Danny and pulling him down moments before a knife went flying where Danny's head had been.

"Oh. Thanks. Wouldn't want another facial scar. One is cool, but more than that and people start to wonder what you do with your evenings."

"What do you do with your evenings?" Duke asked.

"Not fucking this, usually. God, I hope we don't die. Can you imagine this get-up being your ghost outfit forever? It screams 'I died as a Penguin Goon'. Hard pass."

Duke grimaced. "We're not goons. We're employees."

"Tell that to the Goonion. I think this more than qualifies us for a month of free membership, no dues," Danny said darkly. "Anyway, thanks for saving me from an eternity of bad fashion."

"Don't mention it," said Duke. "Really."

It was at this moment that one of the Markovians got the bright idea to start using some of the copious weapons they’d brought to sell. Unfortunately, the weapon he chose was a rocket launcher. Even more unfortunate, his aim was shit, and since Batman was generally standing in the direction of the bar, Danny, Duke, and Bruce Wayne were about to die.

Well. Not if Danny had anything to say about it. Not dying was more important than keeping his secret.

It was easy, in the arctic-themed Iceberg Lounge, to throw up a dome of ice thick enough to protect them from an RPG. He expected to still feel the strain of maintaining the dome, of course, when it was inevitably hit by a rocket and the subsequent explosion, but he felt nothing but a mostly-manageable shock-vibration. Maybe his shoulder was sprained. But on the plus side, it was easier than ever to use his ice. Strange.

Eh. He could figure it out later. He was alive.

And so were Duke and Bruce, who were now staring at him with matching shocked expressions.

"You're a meta?" Duke whispered, eyes blown wide.

"Shout it out where Batman and everyone can hear, why don't you," Danny grumbled. Not that Batman could hear through the ice. Probably.

Duke frowned. "Those rumors are blown way out of proportion. Batman doesn't mind metas, he just doesn't want anyone who doesn't understand Gotham interfering here without him knowing about it."

Danny felt that was the wrong thing to focus on at the moment, but he didn’t exactly have the bandwidth to argue the point at the moment.

“How do you know that?”

Duke’s eyes darted to the side. “I have a friend who’s a meta.”

“Oh really? And did Batman pay them a personal visit to just tell them he doesn’t mind them being in Gotham? Or maybe he just sent a care package. ‘Congrats on the powers! Condolences for the trauma that caused them! Please don’t interfere! Signed, Batman’.”

Duke coughed. “No. That’s not what happened.”

"Great. Well, tell your friend to tell Batman I have no intention of interfering." Except when it came to ghosts, but that wasn't really anything Batman cared about. Probably. The booo-merang loomed large in the pile of things Danny wasn’t thinking about right now.

“Look, I’d be thrilled if Batman doesn’t actually care about metas in Gotham, because there definitely are a lot here, if Gotham has a statistical representation of humanity. But I really don’t want to find out the hard way that he does actually care, because I have nowhere else to go.”

More like he couldn’t leave, but he wasn’t explaining that to two people he barely knew.

Bruce Wayne made his presence known again at that moment. "Why does everyone think Batman has a problem with metas? Batman works with the Signal. A known Meta."

"Beats me," said Danny, trying and failing to ignore the fact that he was casually talking to Bruce Wayne inside an Ice Dome that he, Danny, had made.

"He won't mind you being here," Bruce Wayne insisted. "I've met him before. I can even introduce you—"

"Hard pass," Danny interrupted. "Never meet your heroes."

"You don't want to meet Batman?" asked Duke.

"Are you kidding me? Of course I want to meet Batman. But not like this."

"How would you prefer to meet him?"

Why was Bruce Wayne smiling like that?

"I don't know, I never really thought about it," Danny lied. "It's not like I'm doing anything to attract his attention. Other than this." He gestured to the ice.

Not strictly true at the moment, but true enough, generally speaking.

Duke coughed again.

“Hey, are you okay? You didn’t like…inhale glass or anything?”

“I’m fine,” said Duke, sounding teary. "You are working for one of his rogues, though."

"So are you," Danny pointed out. "If Batman took personal umbrage with everyone who's worked for a rogue, he'd be after half the city."

"I'm sure he'd only want to help you,” Bruce Wayne insisted, rudely reminding Danny once again that he continued to exist inside the ice-dome Danny had made. “Metas disappear all the time, you know."

"I know," Danny said darkly.

"If you're not comfortable with Batman, he could put you in contact with someone else who could help you," Duke offered.

“What is this, the Meta-Human Helpline? The Icedome of Emotional Honesty? I’ve managed fine on my own so far, and I will continue to be fine.”

“Everyone thinks that until it isn’t fine.”

Danny ran a hand through his hair. There was glass in it. Ah, well. The cuts would heal quickly enough. No way was Sal getting this suit back, though.

He wiped his bleeding hand on the dark pants. It looked greener than normal. Concerning. Or, it should be. He wasn’t too worried…

Ah. He had a concussion.

Duke and Bruce Wayne were staring at him. Had they asked something?

“Sorry,” he said, just in case. “I’m not my best right now.”

“Yeah, no shit,” said Duke. “You’re majorly bleeding. For the second time tonight.”

“Better out than in, right?”

Bruce Wayne made a distressed noise. Ah, blood was probably a bit triggering to him, huh? “Sorry for bleeding everywhere, Mr.Wayne. I’ll get it cleaned up so you don’t have to look at it.” He started freezing it into chunks. He’d need to do that, anyway. No evidence left behind.

Bruce Wayne sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I have raised seven and a half children, I can handle a little blood.”

Danny shrugged, shoving the bloody ice chunks in his pocket. "If you say so."

“I thought you liked Batman,” Bruce Wayne continued. “That’s what you told me before. That was you, wasn’t it? In the alley?”

Shit. So he did remember. What was the move, here? Gaslight? That seemed kind of mean. Surely Bruce Wayne wouldn’t try to hunt him down? Why would he?

“Yeah, I like Batman.” Danny could admit that much. “I mean, who doesn’t?”

“A lot of people. Most people in this club, I’ll bet,” said Duke with a smile, for some reason. “Signal is way cooler.”

Bruce Wayne looked amused, at least. “Signal is cooler.”

So, ten bucks the meta Duke happened to know was Signal. That was neat. Also, if Danny didn’t know better, Duke and Bruce were already acquainted. It was probably something he could look up later if he cared to. He was much more interested in getting out of here unassailed by vigilantes and/or villains.

“Yeah, yeah, all the Bats are super cool, we’re all impressed,” Danny agreed.

“Great! So you’ll meet him?”

Danny looked at Bruce Wayne, the bleeding forehead cut. “Why is this so important to you?”

“You saved my life. I want to pay it forward.”

Danny rolled his eyes. “The biggest favor you can do me is to forget all about this.” He winced as something else struck the ice dome. “I don’t need any recognition, least of all from Batman.”

“I’m sure as one hero to another—”

“I’m not a hero,” Danny interrupted. “People like me don’t get to be heroes.”

Bruce Wayne looked super bummed about that. Guess he wasn’t having a great night, either. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing you need to worry about.”

Duke seemed like he wanted to say something, but thought better of it.

“If it’s all the same to you, you’re wrong,” Bruce Wayne said softly. “You saved us all tonight. Thank you.”

Danny shrugged, wincing as he jarred his shoulder again. That would probably take a couple days to heal. Wonderful. “You could easily claim I was just saving myself, and you happened to be next to me.”

“But that’s not why you did it.” He didn’t phrase it as a question, his gaze oddly sharp.

Danny didn’t have anything to say to that, so he didn’t.

The sound of gunshots had died down enough that Danny felt safe letting his ice dissipate. He’d take terrorists over whatever was happening in the ice dome.

Fortunately, it looked like the action was over. Most of the Markovians as well as Two-Face's goons were tied up. Unfortunately, Two-Face himself was nowhere to be seen, nor was the masked man identified as Karma. Penguin was also curiously scarce.

Red Hood and Batman looked to be arguing, but that was par for the course from what Danny had heard.

There was also the boomerang. And it definitely was The Booo-merang. He really couldn't ignore it anymore. What the hell was it doing here? And what did Batman have to do with it? Surely he wasn't actually looking for Danny…were his parents here? Danny couldn’t think of a single reason why Batman would call his parents—

Ah, unless he knew about the ghosts. How? According to literally everyone, Batman couldn’t see ghosts. Had an occultist told him?

Danny couldn't rule it out. But he could rule out the chance that Batman would use the Booo-merang to find Danny. Again.

He scooped it up discreetly and made it invisible.

"Well, this has been real fun guys, but I'm gonna bounce."

"You should wait until the police arrive and secure the location," said Bruce. “You need medical attention.”

Danny snorted. "Between you and me, Mr.Wayne, I'm not exactly old enough to be here legally, and I'd rather not stick around to find out how lenient the GCPD is feeling today. Also, all cops are bastards."

Duke laughed again. "Man, there's a group of people I'm dying to introduce you to."

"Hey, careful, where I come from, we call that tempting fate." Danny shot finger guns at Duke. "Stay frosty."

He popped up over what was left of the smoldering, glass-covered bar top and quickly headed for the stage, eyes on that secret door. If Danny could just skirt Red Hood's periphery while he was distracted, he'd be golden.

Unfortunately, fate was not on his side. Red Hood sat up and shivered like someone had walked over his grave, turning with unerring accuracy to stare at Danny.

"You!" He said, pointing.

"Me?" Maybe he wouldn't remember.

“What are you doing here?”

“I was just leaving actually.”

Danny couldn’t see Red Hood’s face, but Danny got the distinct impression Red Hood was giving Danny some kind of incredulous stare.

But there was still hope he didn’t recognize Danny from—

"Where the hell have you been for the past three weeks?"

Damn. So much for that.

"Uh…I've been at Nunya."

"Nunya?"

"Nunya business. Bye!"

In for a penny, in for a pound. Danny figured his status as a powered individual was already blown, so he threw up a peace sign, went invisible, and tiptoed away.

This night had been terrible. Hopefully he still got paid, though.

The last thing he heard before leaving was Red Hood hiss, "bitchwaffle."

Well. Danny would give him points for creativity.

Nevertheless, the signs were clear: this was the last time Danny was gonna let himself get talked into doing a favor for someone.

a small comic I made of the final scene since this chapter ended on kind of a sad note

Chapter Text

Monday, August 15, evening

Bruce had heard them coming, of course: three would-be muggers walking down the alley with confidence in their step and malice in their wake.

He was ignoring them for the time being, believing they might take a look at him and decide it wasn’t worth it. He'd intentionally dressed as somebody not worth roughing up for money or fun. He wasn’t here to stick out tonight.

He also wasn’t here to get mugged. Dressed the part or not, the Bat was never far; living under his skin, waiting to emerge when called upon to do so.

He never came here dressed as the Bat anymore. Not on this night.

Normally, people left him alone. Tonight, the criminal element wanted to relive the history it had never fully put to rest.

It scratched at him like a wounded animal, the obvious parallels. An alley, the muggers, Bruce.

But this wasn’t the same—he knew that on an intellectual level. Anniversary or not, this was a night like any other in Crime Alley. Vulnerable people were a target, and crouched down as he was, all alone, Bruce certainly looked like a target.

But he wasn’t one, not anymore.

Even so, rational thought only got you so far. Fear was an animal you could tame but never domesticate.

He placed the two roses down on the ground in the familiar, haunted alley. He’d already left two rocks at the grave, earlier today. Alfred had been there. But this, he insisted on doing alone. After all these years, he could still almost see the blood and pearls, his parents, sometimes even himself, depending on how dissociated he was feeling.

No chance of dissociation tonight. The muggers were coming closer—close enough to hear them cackling to each other as they eyed their target, not bothering to hide their intentions.

The only question was: what was Bruce going to do about it? There was always the chance that they wouldn't recognize him, but what if they did? Bruce Wayne couldn't be seen beating up three would-be muggers with ease. He supposed he could fake being a less skilled fighter. That could work. Annoying, but he could manage any injuries he got from the ruse well enough.

He was still formulating an action plan to deal with his would-be muggers when a new player dropped down from the fire escape, positioning himself between Bruce and the men. Someone Bruce hadn't heard.

Someone he hadn't accounted for.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” the newcomer told them, threat clear in his voice. “Leave.”

And the men—paused.

Maybe it was psychological. The kid—and clearly he was young, Bruce could hear it—held himself with confidence. Like he could back up his words.

What he said though…you're not supposed to be here. What did that mean?

He was thin, on the taller side of average height. The three he faced were twice his size, but you wouldn't know it based on the way they reacted to him.

His size and age were wrong, and besides that Bruce knew it just couldn't be, but for a second he thought he looked like—

No. Impossible. Shut it down before the thought could form. He couldn’t grieve two losses tonight.

"Outta the way, punk," said the biggest one, all bluster and sneers, recovering first from whatever authority in the kid’s voice had stopped him before.

"I suggest you move on," the kid countered. "There's nothing here for you."

"Oh yeah?" said the one on the kid's left. "You think you know what does and doesn't concern us?"

"In this case? Yeah." He folded his arms. "Keep walking."

"And what's a little shit like you gonna do about it if we don't?"

Bruce couldn’t see the kid's face, but he could hear the smile in his voice. "I'd be happy to show you, but I'd rather it not come to that."

The trouble with the fight or flight response was that fight was very much an option, one that individuals in Gotham chose more often than not. This time, it came in the form of a right hook from the one who'd spoken last.

Bruce probably should intervene, but the kid was handling himself well, moving too quickly for there to be an opening to assist.

He dodged the punch with a step back, putting himself out of reach from further attacks. One hand on the guy's wrist, another on his shoulder and he twirled him around and threw him at his friend, sending them both crashing to the ground in a heap.

"That's the best you got?" The kid taunted. "You go to the trouble to come here and this is all you can do? How embarrassing for you."

The one left standing looked between the kid and his fallen friends, hands squeezed into fists.

The kid tilted his head, completely unfazed.

"What about you? Do you still remember what pain feels like? Or do you need a lesson, too?”

Apparently not, it seemed. He grabbed his friends and pulled them to their feet. "Whatever. This isn’t over."

"I'm pretty sure it is. Get lost."

The three didn’t quite scurry off, but they did the closest thing to scurrying three large men could manage while hanging onto whatever false ideals of dignity they had about themselves.

Good. Now it was time for Bruce to figure out his own response.

"That was either very stupid or very brave."

The kid turned slightly towards him. His face was cast in shadow, but there was enough ambient light to make out the basic expression.

Sheepish. How unexpected.

"I think it was probably both," he admitted. "Worth it, though. It's rude to interrupt a mourner."

Bruce, for his part, was momentarily stunned. How had he known? Had he recognized Bruce? "Mourner?"

The kid shrugged. "I guess you could have been tying your shoelaces, but it didn't seem likely. Still wouldn't mean you deserved to get jumped by those assholes."

"Did you know them?"

The kid shrugged again. A nervous tick? "Not personally. Been dealing with people like them all night, though."

"All night?"

This just got stranger and stranger.

"Don't worry about it. Sorry those three got so close. They slipped by while I was busy with something else. I hope it's not always like this here…" he trailed off, brow furrowed.

Well. This wasn’t good. A new vigilante? No, he wasn’t wearing a mask or anything. Still, better to nip this in the bud while he could. "You shouldn't go looking for fights, young man. This is a dangerous part of Gotham."

"I didn't go looking; I was minding my own business when—well, you don't wanna know. It’s a long story." He shook his head. "Don't worry, this is just a one-time thing. The city's been weird tonight."

"How so?"

The kid looked away. "It's grieving."

Before Bruce could ask what that meant, the kid continued, "Anyway, don't sweat it. Those guys weren't really a threat to me. Helping you was the decent thing to do. It's what Batman would have done. If he'd been here, anyway."

Bruce’s battered heart constricted in his chest. "Batman doesn't come to Crime Alley anymore."

The kid gave him an odd look. "Okay? Red Hood, then. Though, if they worked together here, Crime Alley might be better off."

Bruce allowed himself a smile he hoped came across as wry, not bitter.

"They don't exactly see eye to eye."

"Yeah, that's what I hear, but Red Hood still wears a bat across his chest, right?"

Bruce swallowed thickly, thinking about all the pain it had taken to get to that point. How it wasn’t a declaration of forgiveness or belonging, but a reminder. A welcome twist of the well-earned knife.

The kid was watching him expectantly. Better give an answer. "He does now, as I understand."

"So it can't be that bad,” he said with a decisive nod. “No one can stay mad at Batman forever, anyway. He’s the coolest. Definitely my favorite member of the JL."

Bruce huffed a laugh. "You'd be surprised."

The kid squinted. "Are you mad at Batman?"

Bruce considered that. Was he mad at Batman? What would that even mean? "You know, no one has ever asked me that before."

The kid, obviously unaware of who he was talking to, interpreted Bruce’s non-answer like anyone would. "I'm sure he's upset a lot of people— you can't do what he does without pissing some people off. Obviously, he isn't perfect, but he tries. That's more than you can say for a lot of people. Honestly, it just makes me like him better. He’s relatable."

“Relatable, huh.” This was definitely the most surreal conversation Bruce had ever had about Batman. "Sometimes trying isn't enough."

"I mean, sure, but it’s a good start. Trying doesn't mean you'll succeed every time, but you still gotta try, right? Despite everything?"

"Is that why you're out here? Trying?"

He sniffed. "I think you'll find I'm actually doing, not just trying."

"You shouldn't have to."

"Obviously. Normally, I wouldn’t have. And that's the point, isn't it? I didn't have to; I chose to. It would have been much easier to keep on walking." He crossed his arms across his stomach. Defensive. “Lucky for you, I was in a helping mood tonight.”

Bruce, not for the first time, felt out of his element.

The kid took pity on him. "Look. Do you want me to go find those guys and get them to beat you up after all? Would that make you feel better?"

Another laugh was pulled from Bruce’s chest. "No."

"Then what are you complaining about?"

"You know, I'm not sure." Bruce felt as lost as the kid looked. "What I meant to say was: Thank you. First, you save me, then you cheer me up on one of my least favorite days of the year…" he sighed. "You were right. I was…mourning. I lost people here. It was a long time ago, but I can't forget."

Bruce saw the moment the kid clocked who, exactly, Bruce was.

He had the grace not to say anything about it, though. He just fiddled with the cuffs of his coat. Summer was only half over, but the nights were already tipping towards the cooler side of comfortable.

"Right. Um, you're welcome? I'll, um, leave you to it. Sorry you were interrupted."

"I was nearly finished, anyway."

The kid tilted his head, gaze focused somewhere just behind Bruce. "Are you sure? It's okay if you're not ready to let it go."

"I'm not sure," Bruce answered honestly.

The kid scuffed his shoe. "Well. That's okay, too. Maybe it's not ready to let you go, either."

Bruce looked him over. He couldn’t have been older than sixteen or seventeen. He didn’t sound like a teenager, though. He sounded older than he should be, spoke as if he understood. "You've lost someone, too, haven't you?"

"More like they lost me," he replied, almost reflexively.

Now Bruce was alarmed.

The kid seemed to pick up on Bruce’s mood, rushing to add, "It's not what it sounds like. They’re still alive.”

"Did something happen to them?"

"You could say that," he muttered, more to himself than Bruce, it seemed.

“Anyway,” he continued, “No one else should bother you here tonight if I have anything to say about it.” He paused. “And I do.”

“If you need help, I could—”

“I appreciate it, but you really couldn’t.”

With that, he pulled on his hood and—

Disappeared?

It couldn't be, he thought. No; he knew.

And yet, and yet.

He shivered as he turned down the alley, a cool breeze like loving hands ruffling his hair.

This anniversary had always haunted him, but tonight, perhaps, it was a bit more literal. He always insisted on doing this ritual alone, despite the bat beneath his skin and the ghosts he carried with him.

Rational thought could only take you so far, after all, and this had never been a night for strong rationality.

Saturday, October 15th, sometime after midnight

Bruce brushed the glass and ash off his shoulders, surveying the damage to the Iceberg Lounge. Most of the carnage had been focused on the bar and Iceberg itself, but it appeared that the casualties were restricted to the interior design; as far as Bruce could tell, no one had been hurt, which had less to do with miracles and more to do with the fact that the Iceberg Lounge was designed for just such an occasion. Penguin spared no expense in providing boltholes for patrons and employees alike to accommodate the high possibility of a firefight. A fact which was as chilling as it was practical.

This was a familiar scene, except for all the ways it wasn’t. This hadn’t been an attack on Penguin’s money, nor had it been an attempt on his life. It was an attack on Penguin’s Pride and Ego. His public image, which he cared about as much as if not more than money. Much harder to destroy, but far more devastating.

If Bruce knew anything, it was that the mayhem wasn’t over, merely paused.

He glanced down at his feet; more glass and ash. When the kid left, the ice hadn’t melted; it sublimated. Disappeared. Like it had never been there to begin with—much like the kid himself. But Bruce knew better. This time he had proof.

He hadn’t recognized the kid immediately. He hadn’t hadn't thought there was anything or anyone to find, and as such hadn't been looking. The kid's obvious reluctance to be recognized was ultimately what had tipped Bruce off. He had a reflexive need to uncover secrets, and the kid had been made of them.

It was dark in the club, but it had been dark in the alley, too. So it wasn’t a physical reminder as much as the things the kid had started to say, the tone of his voice, his general attitude. When it clicked, it was obvious. Bruce had met him once before. A meeting he still thought of. A meeting he’d half-convinced himself he’d imagined.

But then, there he was again.

The kid’s secrecy was a practiced habit; he'd watched Bruce (careful, fearful), a hyper-vigilance that was all too familiar to someone in Bruce's line of work. He’d run from Bruce in the alley (though it hadn’t seemed like it at the time), and he’d run from Bruce again tonight. From Batman, Red Hood, from the police.

Bruce knew what a guilty conscience looked like, and it wasn't this. Even so. People like me don’t get to be heroes. What did that mean?

Now, in his palm, he held a clue. A single sliver of ice, unmelting. In the middle, a drop of blood, preserved. Proof. It was real, he was there.

Bruce had no right to it. He had no way to access it, either. This ice didn’t melt.

The truth wouldn’t slip through Bruce’s fingers again like so much air. If nothing else, he was walking away, this time, with a fact he could keep in his pocket: the kid was a meta. That explained about as much as it didn’t.

He wrapped the frozen, bloody shard in a handkerchief and stuffed it in his pocket alongside the facts. As with any puzzle, he’d gather the facts, bit by bit, organizing and piecing it all together until he had the full picture.

He was still figuring out what the puzzle was, but now he had a corner piece. He’d look at the other collected information later; for now, he had more pressing issues. More data to collect.

Jason and Dick seemed to be arguing over something across the charred, bullet-ridden foyer. He couldn’t hear them from where he stood, but there was a pile of unconscious Markovians between them.

Bruce could guess, but he didn’t have to. He touched the comm in his ear, catching the end of the conversation.

“ —just need you to hand over the goddamn terrorists so I can go after him!”

“You can’t just dump the terrorists on me and run off into the night! I'm here for a specific reason and I need to get back to it—”

“Just take care of it,” Jason growled, turning and leaving.

Duke coughed. “I need to, uh, leave, too,” he said, eyeing the back door as he inched towards it. “I don’t want the police to know I was here.”

“Maybe you should have thought of that before you decided to get a job at the Iceberg Lounge,” Bruce replied, a touch too cool; he hadn’t meant to say it like that. He took a deep breath and tried again. “If you tell them you were here as a busser, you should be in the clear, legally speaking.”

“Are you sure I can’t just leave? I really don’t want to go down to the GCPD for an interview.”

“Would you rather they find out from the other witnesses that you were here and ran?”

"You let Sal go!"

So the kid's name was Sal. Maybe. "Unlike you, I don't have any ties to 'Sal'."

"All the more reason you should let me go," Duke reasoned. "It reflects poorly on you."

Bruce raised an eyebrow. "I am giving you the benefit of the doubt that you have a good reason for being here, which I look forward to hearing about in detail once we leave."

"Okay, but someone should really go chase after him. Sal, I mean." Duke wrinkled his nose. "I did put a tracker on him, but I'd rather not have to rely on that."

Despite the situation, Bruce was proud. "Hn. That’s two trackers, then. In case he discovers yours and removes it.”

"Maybe yours is the one he'll discover and remove, ever think of that?" Duke crossed his arms. "Or maybe he'll discover both of them, which is why someone should follow him physically, just in case. Aren't you all about redundancy?"

“Well, if he discovers both of them, there is, in fact, a third tracker on the boomerang,” came Tim’s voice over the comms. “Assuming this mystery person you’ve double-tagged took the boomerang. A pretty sound deduction, I'd say, cause the boomerang is on the move along with two other tracking signals, but all of you are still at the Iceberg Lounge. Also, hi B, welcome to the madness.”

Bruce saw Dick do a double-take, scanning the lounge. “Shit, he took the boomerang? Why?”

“Well, it did hit him in the head,” Duke offered, crouching down next to the garbage and collecting glass. Bruce was curious what the story was there. “He probably didn’t want to leave any evidence behind. He was pretty adamant about that.”

The ice in Bruce’s pocket burned. But, better Bruce than the Police. He didn’t know if ‘Sal’ would agree—he seemed as adamant about avoiding Batman as the authorities—but Bruce could make sure it didn’t fall into the wrong hands. Not worse than his own, anyway.

“The boomerang hit him in the head?” he asked. He wasn’t sure how he’d missed that; it must have happened while he was preoccupied with Harvey. What could it mean? More pieces to the puzzle.

“Who gives a shit about a boomerang?” Jason said, voice sharp over the comms. “Just tell me where he’s headed!”

Tim clicked his tongue. “He’s moving pretty fast. So unless you can run like, 30 miles per hour, you won’t catch up with him.”

“Thirty miles per hour?”

“Yep. If I didn’t know better I’d say he’s on the train, but there isn’t a subway stop close to where you are.” The sound of a keyboard clacking, then— “There is one train still running at this hour, so if we ignore the whole ‘how did he get on the train’ thing, then he’s headed ‘North’. Ish. I’ll keep you updated if I figure it out, but this is worse than tracking the boomerang.”

Jason cursed again, though most of it was covered by the distinct sound of rushing air and a grapple firing.

“I believe Red Hood now owes at least $50 to the swear jar,” Damian said, dropping down next to Dick.

Dick sighed. “What are you doing here Robin? I told you to wait on the roof.”

Damian held up one of Barbara’s hacking fobs. “I just got everything off Penguin’s server before it wiped itself to prevent Police interference. Well,” he added, “Most of it. The process was already initiated when I arrived.” He sniffed. “You’re welcome.”

“Well done Robin. That’s two computers you’ve been involved with shutting down in as many weeks,” said Tim.

“You helped with at least one of those, imposter.”

“Please, tell me how I could in any way be responsible for helping Penguin wipe his server from here. I’ll wait.”

Bruce wondered when he’d lost control of this situation. Maybe he’d never been in control to begin with.

“Everyone, look alive,” came Barbara’s instruction. “Here comes my dad.”

Sure enough, Jim and two beat cops ambled through the front doors. Jim, impossibly, looked even more tired than the last time Bruce had seen him. The officers weren't any Bruce recognized, but they had that same look cops always had on their faces when they arrived at a scene to find several vigilantes already there. Relief tampered with embarrassment.

Bruce pulled out his phone and texted batcave, 1 hour to the chat. That should be enough time to extricate themselves from police questioning and get back to Bristol.

He put on the Brucie Wayne ‘Help I’ve lived through another harrowing event’ Face. It helped that his head did hurt quite a bit; a nice skull-shaped bottle of tequila had fallen on him when Harvey decided to launch him at the bar.

“Good evening commissioner, officers.”

“Is it a good evening?” Jim asked. He looked around the club at the flaming bar, the overturned tables, and the bullet casings littering the floor. “I have a feeling they won’t be opening up again any time soon. Anyway. If the two of you could come with me for questioning, giving a witness statement—”

"Hold on, Gordon," one of the officers butt in, "can't you see? Mr.Wayne here needs medical attention. We wouldn’t want his face getting scarred, you know. Even if some people are into that sort of thing."

Bruce bit back a sigh. "Thank you, but that's really not necessary—"

"Oh, but it is. I insist. We can't besmirch the good name of our boys in blue by letting you walk away from this bruised and bleeding, can we?"

"A bit late for that," Duke mumbled.

Bruce didn't bother holding back the sigh this time, shooting off one more text. Correction: two hours.

"Phantom, on your feet."

Danny looked up.

"Milo, there you are. Where were you?"

"Taking care of some stuff, I'll explain later. The rest can wait; we gotta go."

Milo glowed softly in the dim light, staring down at Danny, who sat crouched next to an air vent. Danny hadn't picked the spot so much as it had been picked for him when he just couldn't run anymore. So the roof of a laundromat that was several blocks closer to the Iceberg Lounge than he liked it was.

He knew his disappearing act wouldn’t put off any pursuers for long, but he was too tired to maintain invisibility. His head hurt. His hands hurt. Everything felt fuzzy and bad. He just needed to catch his breath and he’d be okay.

He’d almost forgotten what it was like, fleeing a scene.

"Just give me a minute, Milo."

Milo wrinkled his nose, dissatisfied. "You can have thirty seconds. Use them to check yourself."

"For what?"

"What do you think? Trackers."

Danny frowned. "Why would I have trackers on me?"

"That place was crawling with Bats. They let you go too easily. So I reiterate: check yourself."

With a sigh that was only a little bit forced, he did. Sure enough, there was a tracker stuck under the collar of his shirt, as well as one attached to his belt loop. And one attached to the boomerang.

"Seriously? Overkill, much?" Danny grumbled. How had they even gotten those on him? "Well, I’ll just go chuck these in the river—"

"You could, but then they'll know you found them and they'll move on to the next strategy."

Danny stared at the bat-shaped trackers in his hand. "The next strategy?"

Milo grabbed him by the arm. "C'mon, time’s up. Let's walk and talk. Red Hood is probably already on his way."

He phased them both through the roof then down through the building. Danny was grateful; he was too tired to do it himself, too tired to come up with an escape plan, too tired for everything.

He was not, however, too tired to notice that Milo had phased them through the ground and wasn’t stopping their downward descent.

"If you wanted to bury me, Milo, please wait until I’m actually, fully dead."

Milo rolled his eyes. "We're going to the train. It's about to pass under us."

"You can't know that, the train goes where it wants." Danny frowned. “And it rarely comes down this far south, anyway.”

"Not The Train train. The normal train." Sure enough, Danny heard the screech of metal wheels on metal tracks that needed replacing fifteen years ago. If he squinted he could just see the light at the end of the tunnel, literally. It was getting brighter, as they tended to do.

He sure was glad Milo was in charge of their intangibility.

"I didn’t know the trains ran at this hour," he said faintly.

"Last one for the night. Which means no one can follow you. Easily,” he added. “Close your eyes."

Danny did, not particularly keen on watching the train get closer. He’d been a half-ghost for two years now, but that didn’t stop the base instinct of ‘oh shit here comes a train’ from kicking in.

When he opened his eyes, he was seated in a mostly empty subway car, save for two old men and a girl with blue hair and a severe undercut.

None of them noticed his sudden and unexpected arrival in their car where no one had any right to appear.

Milo released him and their shared intangibility.

Danny pulled out his phone and held it to his ear. He was bruised and bleeding and was dressed like a Penguin Goon. The last thing he needed was people thinking he was talking to himself.

"So we're on the train," he told Milo. "Now what?"

"Now we plan." Milo crossed his arms and stared out the window. "You've been hunted before, but not by a bat."

Danny swallowed. “Hunted?”

“They’re gonna come after you.” Milo shook his head. "You just had to go and make yourself interesting."

"Red Hood technically has already been looking for me, probably, and he hasn’t found me yet—"

"Red Hood's been distracted with terrorists, clearly. Now that he’s seen you at a scene with said terrorists, he’s gonna redouble his efforts to find you. This time, with help."

“But I don’t know anything about that!” Danny hissed. “I don’t even know why he’s been looking for me.”

“Well, I’m sure you’re gonna find out soon.”

Danny looked at the trackers again, unease building. “How do you know all this?”

Milo shrugged. “Before you showed up, there wasn’t a whole lot to do as a newly dead ghost. Everyone follows the Bats around for at least a little bit. They’re an interesting group of living people to watch, I’ll tell you that. You pick up a few things, like how they always find the people they're looking for, and how they do it. Case in point: bat trackers.” He gestured to the bat-shaped, blinking devices, no larger than Danny’s pinky nail.

Danny definitely wouldn’t have noticed them if Milo hadn’t pointed them out. It was possible that eventually Ghost Stuff would interfere with their function, but who knew how long it might take? How much they might have learned in the meantime…

"I'm fucked, aren't I?"

"They will find you. It's just a matter of when." Milo paused. "Maybe you should let them."

"Why would I do that?"

“Why don’t you want them to?” Milo countered.

Danny leaned back against the seat to think of an answer, wincing as he jarred his head wound. From the booo-merang, which was here in Gotham for some reason. It was stuffed into the back of his pants under his vest, digging into his back, so he wouldn’t have to look at it.

If some people had all the luck in the world, Danny would like to contact them and ask for a small sliver of his share back, please.

“Hey, dude, are you okay?”

Danny nearly jumped at the voice. He turned to see who had addressed him. The blue-haired girl. Was talking to him. She’d noticed him. Huh. That was neat.

Ah, she was staring at him, too, brow furrowed. She’d asked him something, hadn’t she? He should probably respond.

“What?”

“Your head is kind of bleeding,” she said. “Majorly.”

“Yeah, that happens sometimes.”

Oh no, now she looked alarmed. “You should go to the hospital.”

“Hospitals and I don’t really get along,” Danny said mournfully. “They're too expensive, they ask so many questions, the wait times are terrible—”

“You should at least go see The Doc.”

Danny was getting annoyed now. “Like I said, Doctors and I—”

“Not just any doctor. The Doc.” She cast her gaze over his outfit. Oh, wonderful, she probably thought he was a Penguin Goon. “She doesn’t ask questions if you’re worried about it getting back to your…employer. She doesn’t answer them, either. For cops or Bats.”

Well, that was interesting.

“She also doesn’t charge,” Blue Haired Girl added.

The train was slowing as it came to a stop. Blue-Haired Girl was standing up but also digging something out of her bag. Imagine, being able to multitask so flawlessly. While balancing on a moving train, no less.

“Here,” she said, holding out a business card. “The main clinic is usually pretty busy this time of night, but if you go to the address on the back, Doc Thompkins will get you fixed right up. Head wounds can be nasty—you’re too young to suffer from CTE or the like.”

Danny took the card. “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” She gave him a wink and a thumbs up and was out the door and onto the platform before the announcement had even finished the name of the station.

He flipped the card over; an address was handwritten there. It looked like it was somewhere in Crime Alley. Inconvenient. He’d have to either walk or change train lines or hope Milo felt like carrying him.

The doors shut and the train was off again. He could wait until the morning to decide about the doc, just in case it healed on its own…

Milo poked his shoulder. The sore one. Probably on purpose. "I can tell you’re thinking stupid thoughts.”

“I’m thinking thoughts of self-preservation, actually.”

Milo raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “C'mere, lemme see your head."

Danny sighed and pushed back his hair.

Milo whistled. “Ouch.”

"It'll heal on its own."

"I'm more worried about your brain. You got clocked pretty hard there." Milo hummed. "You should go see the doc." He poked Danny in the shoulder again. He definitely knew what he was doing. "You gotta start thinking like someone who doesn't have an undead backup plan if you don't wanna use it."

Danny sighed. His head hurt. He didn’t feel good. He felt lethargic and sluggish and just. Bad. He wished Jazz were here. He wished for a lot of things.

But he’d already learned the hard way how dangerous wishing could be.

“This doctor…she really doesn’t ask questions?”

“Only the ones pertinent to medical care. She helps anyone who needs help—rogues and capes, meta and mundane alike. Hell, I’m sure she’d learn ghost medicine if she knew about it. She’s just that special. Everyone respects her.”

Well. When put like that…

Danny groaned. “I guess we’ll be taking The Train tonight, after all.”

"Aw, don’t be like that. It'll be fun. The Train likes you."

"A little too much," Danny said darkly.

“There, there. We’d’ve had to have gone, anyway. I’ve got a plan for them there bat trackers and it involves our favorite little engine who could.”

Danny leaned his head against the window. It was probably covered in germs but he was tired and the cool glass felt nice. “Oh yeah?”

“Oh yeah. See, it’s only a matter of time before the Bats catch you, that’s a given—”

“So you’ve said.”

“—but that doesn’t mean you can’t play a little prank on them. It’ll probably only slow them down for the evening, but still. Take what you can get.” Milo paused, probably just for dramatic effect. Everyone in Gotham seemed to have a thing for drama. “See, they don't know you know about the trackers. So how do you feel about a little demonstration of how you feel about those little fuckers being put on your person without your permission?

Despite it all, Danny felt himself smile. The first genuine one this evening. “I’m listening.”

Jason jumped on his bike, keys already in hand. He’d parked it a few blocks west of the lounge, preferring to keep it hidden and maintain the element of surprise. A choice he was still annoyed with himself for; he hadn't planned on needing to pursue anyone, but he’d lost valuable time grappling back to the bike.

But. If he hurried, he could make it to whichever stop Lazarus Kid got off at, meet him at the exit—

Ask his damn questions.

“Any updates, Red? Can you tell which train line he got on?”

“It looks like the Orange Line, but I still have no idea how he could have gotten on it between two stops.”

“Orange Line?”

Tim sighed. “The Stevensburg Line, Northbound.”

“So that’s definitely where the trackers are headed?” he asked, revving his engine. If his intuition were right, Lazarus Kid wouldn’t get off until he reached the North Island, which left three possible stops he could use. Unless he changed lines at Mortimer, or the Exchange, or Ashing…

“Oracle, can you keep an eye on the security cameras on the Stevensburg Line stops, focusing on the stops with multiple lines?” Jason asked. “I wanna make sure I don’t miss him because he did something clever.”

“I can, but we have a problem,” Babs chimed in. “Our Person of Interest seems to be wearing some kind of video scrambling tech. I couldn’t get a clear image of him all night long.”

“Hold on, video scrambling?” Tim asked. “Are you sure it’s tech?”

“I know you told me all about your ghost theory, Red Robin, but I’m unconvinced—”

“I don’t care if he’s wearing tech scrambling gear or if Santa Claus himself is hacking the cameras,” Jason cut in, “if cameras scramble where he is, then scrambled cameras are a pretty clear indication that he’s there.”

He peeled out of the alley, dodging traffic left and right. “If any cameras get fucky, tell me where, and I’ll go there.”

“That’s not a bad idea, actually,” Tim said.

“Yeah, yeah, mark it down in your diary,” Jason grumbled. “Saturday, October 15: Red Hood had a good idea for once.”

Neither Babs nor Tim said anything to that because they were smart.

“Why do you care about this so much? It’s not like you to be so, uh, passionate.”

“I have questions. He has answers.”

“Are you sure?” Babs chimed in. “He's just a barback, far as I can tell, who happened to get caught up in a Penguin scheme.”

“I’m sure,” Jason growled, cutting through a side street. The Burnley tunnel would be hell to get through on a Friday night. Better to circle around Robinson Park and take the Reeves Bridge.

“Where are you headed, anyway? Other than ‘generally North’?” Tim asked.

“I’m going where I’d go if I had a head injury and I didn’t want anyone asking any questions about where I’d gotten it.”

“Ah. Leslie?”

Jason grinned. “Bingo.”

Danny knocked on the window at the address on the back of the business card. A middle-aged woman was writing at her desk, despite the late hour. Dr. Leslie Thompson, presumably. She didn’t look surprised to be disturbed.

Until she saw him, at least.

"Oh, hello. I don’t believe we met. Are you new? Usually he tells me these things beforehand…"

Danny wondered what that meant. He decided it wasn’t his problem. "Um, someone told me you're a doctor? That you don't ask questions or share information, even with the Bats?"

Her expression changed once again. "Well, I do have to report gunshot wounds, but otherwise yes, doctor-patient confidentiality applies."

"Even for metas?"

"Especially for metas." She gave him a warm smile and held out her hand. "Call me Leslie.”

He shook her hand but didn’t offer his own name. It didn’t seem to bother her.

“Why don't you come inside so I can help you?"

Dr Leslie "Call Me Leslie" Thompkins was exactly as Milo had describe: careful and clinical in her examination, asking only pertinent questions like ‘are you always this cold’ and ‘how many fingers am I holding up’ and ‘do you remember what year it is’.

She moved slowly and intentionally, always projecting her actions, never blocking his escape routes to the window or the door. She didn’t ask for his name or age or anything, which was always nice.

She did ask him what his favorite color was—for the bandages. To which he’d answered ‘Red, or purple if you don’t have that’.

She asked whether he’d been in contact with any metal “because tetanus is a killer, young man”.

When he told her he hadn’t, she’d seemed satisfied enough. She’d examined his shoulder and frowned at it like she could shame it back into place. But after asking him to roll it a few times and poking it thoughtfully, she declared it ‘fine, as long as he didn’t do any acrobatics or other ill-advised gymnastic feats for the next few weeks’, whatever that meant.

She’d then moved on to what she had called the ‘Big One’ —the cut on his forehead.

After spraying it with an antiseptic that smelled vaguely of honey and putting some butterfly bandages on it, she declared it handled. “No stitches this time, but it’ll probably scar.”

“Eh, that’s okay. Some people shave their eyebrows to look like this on purpose.”

She focused on his hands, cleaning the cuts and attaching the bandages much more neatly than he’d managed to at the Iceberg Lounge. “Do they really?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Some people at my school are doing it.” Shit, he probably shouldn't have told her that, now she’d know he was a high schooler—

But, she didn’t ask. She did run a few tests that were more familiar than Danny liked to acknowledge. She hummed at the results, but her expression was difficult to read.

"Um. So. Do I have a concussion?"

"I won’t really know unless we do a CAT scan, but you don't seem to have a concussion, no."

"Just a subconcussive blow, then.” He breathed a sigh of relief. “Okay. Cool. Good. I live to see another day with most of my brain cells intact.”

She looked like she was fighting a smile. Danny was definitely winning this medical exam.

"I'd say you should ice it, but I don’t know if that would work for you." She nodded to his hands, where tendrils of frost were spreading from his fingers across the med-bed.

He hadn’t meant to do that. Probably not good. So much for winning. "I heal pretty fast," he said, pulling his hands into his lap.

"Then you probably need to eat more tonight. Metas with a healing factor usually do." She went to a drawer and pulled out two wrapped energy bars. “Chocolate or Peanut Butter?”

He eyed the bars warily. “I have food at home.”

“Okay, but this is a high-calorie bar. The expensive kind. It’ll help. They’re dense as hell, but the flavor is ok.” She paused. “I like the chocolate ones.”

Danny decided she probably wouldn’t be able to poison him even if she wanted to. He had a ghost-powered iron stomach, after all. “Okay. Chocolate, then.”

She looked satisfied with that, tossing him the bar, which he totally caught without fumbling it. She went to a different drawer and pulled out a foil-wrapped packet. "Here's some extra-strength ibuprofen, too. It does incite drowsiness, so take it before you go to sleep."

"Painkillers don't really work on me."

"This one will,” she said with confidence. “It’s meta tested, mother approved.”

Danny snorted. “You’re okay, for a doctor.”

“Thank you. You should be fine in the morning, but if not, you know where to find me."

Well. That went better than he’d dared to hope. "Am I allowed to sleep, then?"

"Yes. You look like you need it."

Danny shrugged and hopped off the table. "Thanks. I didn't want to come."

"I'm glad you did anyway. Though I am curious…who told you about this location?"

Shit. "It's, uh, common knowledge?"

"The main clinic is. This one I only keep open for certain night visitors." She raised a meaningful eyebrow.

The Bats. Of course. Everything in this damn city was connected to them. Of course they’d make use of a doctor who didn’t ask questions and didn’t talk to cops. And of course there’d be a separate clinic for them, and Danny had stumbled upon it.

Showed him for trusting strangers with blue hair. “A, um, little bird told me?”

She pursed her lips. “And yet you don’t want me to tell any of them about you, do you?”

“Not one of those birds, I meant, like, a normal bird.”

“Really. You can talk to birds?”

Danny shrugged again. He probably shouldn’t shrug so much; Angela told him it made him look guilty. “It’s a long story. I doubt you’d believe it.”

“I’ve seen a lot in my time. But,” she held up a hand, “I won’t press. And I won’t tell anyone you came here. Protection Laws or not, I know it takes a lot of trust for a meta to expose themselves.”

“Or desperation,” he muttered darkly.

She looked thoughtful but didn’t comment on his remark. What a cool doctor.

“Come back anytime you need medical attention.” She paused, then added. “Please try not to need medical attention.”

“I’m trying not to, believe me,” he promised. He heard the sound of a motorcycle that sounded just a bit too familiar. Several Bats drove motorcycles. Better not risk it.

Time to bounce. “Please remember to respect my HIPAA rights!” he called out to her.

With a jaunty wave, he left the way he came—through the window.

He’d made it through most of the evening, but he wasn’t home yet.

The worst thing about being stuck on comms while everyone else was out was the waiting. Two parts boredom, three parts worrying, and five parts the frustration of wanting to do something but not being able to do anything but watch.

To say the night had gone poorly would be an understatement to the point of dishonesty.

It hadn’t ended with deaths or major injuries, so it was easy to gloss over, but the fact of the matter was that most of Tim's family had been stuck in an unexpected Rogues crossfire. Bruce and Duke hadn’t even been wearing their suits.

He’d only been able to watch through Dick’s mask camera as someone launched a rocket at his dad and brother. The video had glitched out, and for a second Tim had feared the worst—

But it was fine, all because of luck. Because someone happened to have the right kind of skill set—the right kind of powers—to make it okay.

And everyone was okay. That was what was important. Even though nothing else had gone right tonight—and that was an undeniable fact—they were all coming home in one piece.

This time, everyone had made it. But what about next time?

Damian and Dick were the first to drag themselves back to the cave, looking damp and defeated. It had started raining at some point between Operation: Iceberg Lounge Meltdown and Boomerang Chase 2: Abandoned Train Line Edition.

“I’m so glad I was wearing B’s suit for that,” Dick announced in lieu of hello. “Rats. Everywhere.”

Damian methodically stripped himself of all his weapons, gaze stony. “I still don’t understand how he evaded us. Unless, of course, Drake gave us poor directions—”

“My directions were perfectly clear, thanks. It’s not my fault you couldn’t see something that was right on top of you—”

“There was nothing there!”

“Are the trackers still registering?” Dick asked, breaking up the argument before it could begin in earnest. For the time being, anyway.

Tim gestured to the screen, where the three bat tracker signals were reading loud and clear. “As you can see, they’re still making a circuit around the city on a train that doesn’t exist.”

The next to arrive were Cass and Steph, looking no less bedraggled but certainly less rat-eaten.

“Dick, I hate your stupid city,” Steph declared. “We fell through three roofs, Dick. Three!”

“Bludhaven is not for the faint of heart—”

“Faint of heart, my ass. Clearly, the real criminal element in Bludhaven is the lack of structural integrity. Even your infrastructure is hostile.”

“I blame Reagan,” Cass signed. She was, of course, correct.

Duke was the next to return, Bruce not far behind.

Bruce’s current expression was difficult to read, even for Tim. Something between frustration and self-recrimination, if Tim was interpreting the micro-expressions correctly. “Let it go, Duke. You’re lucky they were too distracted with the evidence going missing to ask why you’d had it to begin with.”

“I just can’t believe they lost it almost immediately!” Duke said, throwing himself down in a spinny chair. “After I went to the trouble of gathering it.” He scowled. “How do you lose a whole bag of glass?”

The last to storm in was Jason, which was almost a surprise, albeit a pleasant one; even if he'd known, intellectually, that Jason hadn't gotten hurt during the nights mishaps, it was good to actually see.

Even so, Tim hadn’t expected him to come to the cave willingly. He must want information. Badly.

He, like the others, also eschewed a greeting, slamming his helmet down on the table. “Fucking HIPAA laws.”

Tim swirled the ice in his cup—all that was left of his coffee. “So. I’m guessing it didn’t go so great with Leslie?”

“No, it did not go so great with Leslie. If I’d just gone straight to her instead of swinging by the main clinic—” he cut himself off, expression dark.

“I’m still wondering how he got all the way across the north island without exiting any train stations or crossing any CCTV,” Barbara offered, breaking the silence. “It was a good idea, though, following the path of glitching cameras.”

Jason didn’t reply, quietly fuming. Best to just leave him to simmer when he got like this.

Bruce cleared his throat tactfully. “So. Now that we’re all here, does anyone want to tell me what happened tonight?"

After about twenty minutes of yelling, accusations, finger-pointing, and blame assignation, they’d finally gotten everyone’s side of the story, more or less.

The night had been a bigger disaster than Tim had realized. Even so, Tim felt that the judgment Stephanie was casting their way wasn’t entirely justified.

“Let me make sure I have this straight.” She turned to Duke. “You used a hastily constructed fake ID—with your real first name—to get a job at the Iceberg Lounge in order to investigate disappearing bartenders in general and your girlfriend’s brother specifically. You—” she turned to Jason “—also made an appearance there in an effort to track down Markovian terrorists and maybe Karma because they're back in town and selling new weapons that make our Kevlar irrelevant. You, Brucie, went to El Salón del Iceberg to try to talk Harvey down, God knows why. And you two,” she turned to Dick and Damian, smile far too amused, “just happened to end up there because you were—and please stop me if I got this wrong—following a boomerang that was supposed to lead you to a ghost. Which are, apparently, real, thank you for telling me in a timely manner.”

“Yep,” Duke said, popping the ‘p’ and spinning in his chair despondently. “So far so good.”

With a smile caught between amusement and disbelief, Steph continued, “and while you were all there, you all independently decided Some Guy had all the answers, and somehow Said Guy managed to evade all of you while a) sending two of you on a merry chase through the old train lines of Gotham, b) inspiring Red Dead Redemption over here terrorize Leslie's late night clinic interns, and c) giving Bruce an existential crisis."

Dick cringed. “That about sums it up, yeah.”

She grinned. “I cannot wait to meet this guy.”

"New brother?" Cass asked hopefully.

Stephanie placed a hand on Cass's shoulder. "One step at a time, Cass! We gotta find him first, see if he has any trauma, ask his opinions on clowns, the usual." Steph crossed her arms and nodded. “I think Jason should get dibs.”

“Dibs?” asked Jason. “On what?”

“The adoption, obviously.”

“Now, hold on,” Dick protested. “Jay is still technically a teenager, and B already has a billion kids. I should be the one to adopt him.”

“You haven’t even met him!”

“I saw him briefly across the room. He made an excellent joke and disappeared like a wizard.” Dick nodded. “I know all I need to know.”

“No one’s adopting anyone unless we can find him,” Duke pointed out.

“You’ve only been looking one night, Duke, don’t give up so easily. Besides, Cass and I haven’t even tried looking for him.” Steph’s grin turned challenging. “Bet you ten whole American dollars Team Batgirl can find him in less than a week.”

Jason crossed his arms. “Sure, I’ll take that bet. I’ve been looking for him for three weeks and found nothing.”

“That’s because you’re hunting him like a dangerous criminal,” she said, gesturing lazily. “I mean, has he actually done anything wrong?”

“He did steal the ghost-tracking boomerang,” Dick admitted.

“Probably because it hit him in the head and he bled on it,” said Damian. “Leave no trace behind. A criminal’s skills to match a criminal’s mindset.”

“I don't care if he's a criminal. He saved my life and he has important information,” said Duke. “Time-sensitive information.”

“You catch more flies with honey,” Steph countered.

“All of you: are scaring him off,” Cass added to Steph’s point.

Jason rolled his eyes. “We wouldn’t chase him if he didn’t run.”

“And he wouldn’t run if he didn’t have a good reason.” Stephanie hummed, expression thoughtful. “If he’s like any meta I’ve ever met, he probably dislikes authority and thinks Batman hates him.”

Duke winced at that and Bruce averted his gaze. There was a story there, Tim was sure of it.

“Be that as it may,” said Jason, “I can’t wait for him to decide to come to me.”

“I can’t really wait either,” Duke threw in. “If he knows about Iceberg Lounge employees disappearing, then I need to talk to him, stat.”

Tim had been watching this exchange with removed interest. But something wasn’t adding up. “Duke’s position I can understand, and Dick’s as well, but Jason, why do you care so much about this random Iceberg Lounge employee? He’s just a barback, I doubt he has access to the inner workings of the Markovian Terror Cell and Penguin’s involvement with them.”

Jason clenched and unclenched his fists as if considering how much he wanted to share. “It doesn’t have anything to do with Markovians.”

He glanced up at Dick, a silent conversation passing between them. So, Dick definitely knew something. Go figure. He’d been spending a lot of time with Jason lately. Not that Tim was envious or anything.

Finally, Jason sighed and leaned against one of the tables stacked high with damaged gear, far too casual to actually be casual. It was a practiced nonchalance that anyone who knew him could see right through.

Well. This should be interesting.

"I met the kid a few weeks ago. Long story short, I'd been shot, and he healed me." He shrugged like it was no big deal, even though it was very much a big deal.

"You were shot?" said Tim. “With a gun?”

"Yeah, I'm gonna need to hear the short story long version," said Duke.

“Okay. I was shot about seven times by several guns.” He narrowed his eyes. “I guess the new bullets are still in beta mode. It took a few to get through the Kevlar and liquid armor.”

Bruce looked like he was having an internal meltdown.

Tim couldn’t blame him. He was one step behind him on the meltdown front.

“So you were shot seven times and Sal healed you?” asked Duke. “Where did this happen?”

“Well, the shooting happened in an abandoned warehouse over in the train yards, but then there was a chase, and subsequent fall—”

Cass patted Jason on the shoulder. “Fall?”

“Jaybird fell off a building,” Dick supplied.

“Anyway,” Jason pressed on, “the kid found me in the pile of palettes I landed on somewhere in Crime Alley.”

“And he just happened to be there at the right time?” Duke asked doubtfully. “What was he even doing there?”

“When I find him, I’ll ask.” Jason rolled his shoulders. "I don't think he can heal any asshole on the street. He said he was like me, but different."

Stephanie did a golf clap. "Great explanation as always, Jay."

Jason glared at her; a fairly tame reaction for him. "I don't have a better explanation. He bounced before I could get more intel on what his whole deal was."

"Really?” Dick grinned. “You told me he summoned Lazarus water into his hands and used it to heal you."

Traitor, Jason mouthed.

“So, you almost died again,” Damian deadpanned. "And you didn't see fit to tell any of us."

"I told Dick!” He exhaled heavily. “I was holding off on a full report until I had something more substantial than 'there's a living, walking, breathing Lazarus pit in Gotham'."

“I dunno, Jay, that sounds like information a lot of us would have liked to have had,” Duke said. "How long ago was this, anyway?"

Jason shrugged. "About Mid-September.”

“Hang on,” Tim started, recovering enough from the shock to begin putting things together, “you mean when I found you in that alley, covered in blood that you said wasn’t yours—”

“I did tell you it was mine. Eventually.”

“—You’d just been shot?!” Tim ran his hands through his hair. He wanted to scream. It wouldn’t help, he knew, but it couldn't make things worse, either.

He remembered that night. Finding Jason in a pile of trash, covered in blood, acting like he’d been drugged or something. Tim hadn’t been too worried once they’d gotten Jason to a safe house—he hadn’t been bleeding anywhere, his pupils responded to light, and other than being more punny than normal, he’d seemed…himself. Like Jason on his good days.

But he’d been shot. Badly, if his nonchalance about the whole thing were any indication. And some random kid with Lazarus powers had come along and healed him—

But if he hadn’t, what would have happened? Would Tim have found Jason there, dying, or dead?

Tim didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t have time to spiral right now. He’d schedule that breakdown for a later date, please and thank you.

“Anyway,” Jason continued, “I’ve been searching for him everywhere with no luck. But there he was again at the flippin' Iceberg Lounge, of all places, right there in front of me, and now he's gone. Again."

"Lazarus powers, huh. This doesn't make sense," Duke said with a frown. "I thought he had ice powers."

"Ice powers?" Jason echoed.

"He formed an ice shield over me and Bruce. A bulletproof ice shield."

“An RPG-proof ice dome of emotional honesty,” Barbara chimed in. “Pretty impressive stuff.”

"He did seem surprised though, like he hadn't been sure it would work."

"Maybe you boosted him," said Steph. "With your blood, or however it works."

“I don’t know how it works,” Duke said, frustration bleeding through his tone. “There’s not exactly anyone to ask.”

"What do cryogenesis and healing have to do with each other?" Damian wondered.

"Maybe he can just do whatever he wants with Lazarus water," Stephanie suggested. “Freeze it, use it to heal, disappear…”

“What does disappearing have to do with Lazarus water?”

"I don't know, maybe he can make water vapor illusions?"

"No, there's more to this," said Duke. “Did he say anything to you about ghosts, Jay?”

Jason narrowed his eyes. “Why do you ask?”

“If you recall, you asked me about ghosts first. I’m guessing it has something to do with this guy?”

Jason looked over to the robot t-rex, as if staring could will it to life and give him a good exit strategy. “He did mention ghosts, but in an offhand way.”

Duke placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’m going to need you to expand and explain on that one, bud.”

“I guess the most notable thing he said was ‘please don’t die, I don’t want to deal with your ghost’. But he also said I don’t have a ghost core, whatever that means. I wasn’t exactly in a state to ask questions. I doubt he would have answered them, though. As soon as he healed me, he wanted to get away as quickly as possible.”

This was all sounding alarmingly…familiar.

“Now,” Jason continued, “I reiterate, Narrows: why are you asking me about ghosts, this time?”

“Well, because I’m pretty sure he was talking to a ghost at the club,” Duke admitted. “I think it was telling him how to make drinks.”

“You can’t just say stuff like that without context!” Dick protested.

Tim heartily agreed.

"You want context? Okay. Some guy stumbles up to the bar and starts up a chat with Sal. He blames him for his girlfriend being stuck on Arkham Island, then says he's just like some guy he heavily implied to be dead and/or murdered, then he called Sal Phantom, and what did Sal do? He shattered a glass about it. Plus, when we met, Sal was all 'I don't know how to make drinks, sorry', but then he goes and makes a phone call, comes back, and was all 'okay hoss leave it to me!' and proceeded to make all the drinks flawlessly."

"I definitely think you're glossing over some details there, bud," Tim said.

"Feel free to listen to the audio. Barbara can tell you what he said."

"To be honest I was only half-listening, but I did record it," she admitted. "I can attest: it was definitely weird."

Tim didn’t like where this was going. It was just a hunch, but… "This guy. Sal. What does he look like? Black hair? Blue eyes? An unhealthy level of snark?"

"I mean, he wasn’t that snarky—" Duke began.

"Yes, he is, you're just too nice to invoke his sass," said Jason. "What is it, Timber? Spill. You've got that look about you."

“Don’t tell me you’ve met him, too,” said Steph, looking far too delighted by the proceedings.

“Maybe.” Tim pointed a stern finger. He couldn’t believe this, but if it were what it sounded like… "Wait here."

As if they'd go anywhere else.

Tim ran off to his lab and came back wheeling his bulletin board, complete with a map of Gotham, the ghost graffiti photos, and enough red string that even Tim could admit it was worrying. There was also the note that The Guy had left stuck to Tim’s face and the picture of Jason with the duck, with strings leading to the places they’d happened. Maybe he should connect the two now…

Tim was gonna need more string.

Right, focus.

He explained how he’d come across the graffiti, his attempts to photograph it, the strange things that had happened there, and most importantly: the Guy.

“He told me how to take the photos, and these were the results.” He pointed to said photos that haunted him even now. “When I confronted him about it, he all but confirmed the figures were ghosts, but I couldn’t get any other information out of him. Tell me you aren’t noticing a theme."

“Theme?" Jason snorted. "I’m still waiting for the thesis statement.”

Tim didn't roll his eyes, but only because Jason had been shot seven times, apparently.

"The point is: there's a clear pattern, here. Something weird and inexplicable happens, some guy shows up and fixes it, then leaves with a cryptic statement and a firm request that we leave him alone about it." he crossed his arms. "If we've all run across him while investigating our separate cases, then perhaps these cases aren't as separate as they seem. He holds the key."

"I sincerely doubt he has anything to do with the Markovians."

"Maybe not, but Karma is supposed to be dead, and yet he's back— "

"Maybe."

"—and there's also someone walking around who has the power of the Lazarus Pits in his hands? You can't deny that's a very weird coincidence."

Jason narrowed his eyes, but he didn't say anything like 'that's a stupid idea, Timber', so Tim would count it as a win.

“You’ve been quiet, B,” said Dick. "Surely you have something to say about all this."

Tim would also like to hear what Bruce had to say about all this.

“I’m processing,” Bruce said at last. “I know these marks, though I've never seen them looking quite so…blatantly magical.” He looked like he'd eaten a lemon as he said it.

Tim just stared, momentarily speechless. Bruce had hardly said a word since asking everyone what they’d all been doing at the Iceberg lounge, and then when he did speak, it was to say that?

“Of course you have something to say, you’re Batman,” Tim grumbled. “Where have you seen this before?”

“I’ve seen this very graffiti. But…hm.” He paused, eyes taking in the photos. “They don’t look like that in person.”

“You could say that again." Tim ran a hand through his hair. "Do you know what they are?”

“Those are ghost sigils.”

“What the hell are ghost sigils?” Jason asked, always dependable to ask the real questions.

“Language.”

“No. If there were ever a time and a place for language, it’s right fucking now!”

Bruce sighed. “Ghost sigils are a form of ghost magic. I don’t know more than that, other than they are used to summon ghosts, among myriad other things I’m sure Constantine won’t tell me about until it inconveniences us.”

“Ghost magic,” Jason muttered to himself. “What’s next? Ghost Academy?”

“How is Constantine involved in all this?” Tim asked, ready to get this conversation back on track.

“He alerted me to the sigils.”

“So he’s the reason you asked me to take pictures of graffiti.”

“No, that was for a different case—”

“Our case,” Damian cut in, glare more murderous than usual.

“Why?”

“Some of the petty crimes included vandalism,” Bruce explained. “I thought it could be a clue to why it was happening.”

Tim considered that. “The Guy did tell me the graffiti was a spectral lodestone to protect weak spirits and…something else. Warding off evil? Trapping ghosts? I thought he was fucking with me—"

"Language."

" —so I ignored it." Tim paused to consider. “Maybe I shouldn’t have.”

"Maybe not." Bruce narrowed his eyes. “Dick. The boomerang. It led you directly to the Iceberg Lounge?”

“Well, not directly,” Dick admitted. “It went zig-zagging all over the place, Dami and I could barely keep up.”

“But it didn’t seem like it was en route elsewhere and just happened to hit the kid because he was in the way?”

Dick tilted his head, considering. “No, I don’t think so. It crashed through the skylight.”

“It definitely swerved unnaturally towards him,” Duke offered. “I saw it.”

Bruce hummed, but didn’t say anything else.

“C’mon, Bruce, use your words,” said Steph. “You’re killing us.”

Bruce gave a little shake of his head, but he did answer.

“The boomerang was supposed to take you to a specific ghost. Or, rather, it was designed to track a specific ecto-signature. The same one that belongs to whoever has been putting up the ghost sigils that Tim photographed.”

“It’s probably just a fluke, right? I mean, the kid’s not a ghost,” said Dick.

“He’s definitely not a ghost,” said Jason.

“Maybe he was possessed by a ghost,” said Tim. “That happens sometimes.”

“How would you know, Drake? You were passed out during your self-proclaimed possession event,” said Damian.

Bruce closed his eyes. It looked like he was doing that counting thing he did when he was At His Limit.

“Constantine did say the ghost we’re after was powerful enough to be visible even to those who can’t see ghosts, but,” he continued, “I don’t think the boy we all encountered is a ghost. Ghosts don’t bleed, as far as I’m aware. But there is something…phantasmal about him, no doubt.” He pressed his fingers together. “We don’t have the full picture here, only pieces. But, clearly, it’s in all our best interests to find him.

"I don’t believe he is the danger Constantine feared he might be, but that doesn’t mean something more isn’t happening…I’d rather have him as an ally than an enemy." He paused, expression thoughtful. "Maybe he can help with Gotham’s Ghost Influx Problem."

Everyone was quiet for a long moment. "Gotham's…what?"

Danny collapsed onto his bed, a moth-eaten, sagging old thing that probably was some kind of health hazard. It was technically a queen bed, but functionally it served as a twin due to half the springs being rusted out. The springs that weren’t rusted out groaned under his weight, a sound that was as unpleasant as it was persistent.

Most nights, he was tired enough not to care. This night was certainly one of them.

He rolled over to stare at his clock—just past two a.m. At least he didn’t have to be at work tomorrow. Not for the morning shift, anyway. Sal was covering it for him as a thank you.

Sal owed him big time.

He pulled the half-eaten chocolate power bar out of his pocket and continued eating it. The Doc had been right; it was dense but passable. Maybe he should see if the corner market sold an off-brand version of these.

It had started to rain on Danny’s way home, which was truly the shittiest cherry on top of a shitty sundae of a day. He’d kill for a hot shower, but he’d have to wait until tomorrow. His apartment only sometimes had a shower, when it remembered that it used to have one, and that ‘sometimes’ only happened in the mornings. The water was always hot, when it ran, at least. Silver linings.

Exhausted as he was, sleep wouldn’t come easily. Milo still wasn’t back, and now that Danny’s head was feeling a little better, he had questions.

Lots of questions.

It was dangerous business, poking into a ghost’s past. Some ghosts loved to talk about what had happened to them, what their life had been like Before. Angela was like that. Danny knew more about Angela than he knew about almost anyone.

Milo wasn’t like that. He only told the basics, and most of what Danny knew was from context clues he’d pieced together. It didn’t really matter that much. Whatever life he’d lived, it was over, and that was that on that.

Until now, anyway. Now, it seemed, Milo’s life was coming back to haunt them. And not in the fun way.

He’d left Danny at the clinic, saying he needed to go ‘take care of something’. Danny didn’t know what that could mean. Danny didn’t really know anything at all, it seemed.

His ghost sense didn’t really work very well in Gotham; there were just too many ghosts around all the time for it to be a reliable indicator of anything. But there were other tells, he’d learned, like now: the sudden and fleeting smell of whisky and oak.

Milo.

Danny emerged from his bedroom, rubbing his eyes, his comforter that was more holes than blanket draped around his shoulders. Even if he didn’t really get cold anymore, it still felt nice to wrap up in something warm.

"You're back."

Milo was sitting at the kitchen bar, staring out the window. “Did I wake you?”

“No. Couldn't sleep.”

Milo hummed. “I gotta say, when I told you I’d come along tonight because I thought it would be entertaining, that is not what I expected.”

“You and me both, buddy.”

They lapsed into silence again, Milo lost in thought and Danny unsure of what to say. Milo had been in a weird mood since that guy had shown up and started lobbing accusations. He was hard to read on the best of days, but usually, it was all casual dismissiveness and easygoing smiles.

Whatever this was, it wasn’t that.

Milo jerked his head at the item set in front of him on the counter: a plastic bag full of broken glass. "Got you a late birthday present."

“What is it?”

“That is the glass you broke earlier. You bled on it, so I went to rescue it.”

“Rescue it?” Danny frowned. “From who?”

“Who do you think? The Bats.” A cigarette appeared in Milo’s hand, as it sometimes did when he was agitated. He never smoked it; he wasn't able to. It wouldn’t light.

"Why?" Danny asked, completely baffled.

Milo shook his head, disappointment writ clear on his face. “You know what the difference between you and everyone else is, Phantom?”

Danny sighed. So much for getting answers. “Is it that I’m neither dead nor alive but some middle-of-the-road abomination that defies the laws of nature?”

Milo didn’t laugh. “You don’t ask for help. You don’t ask for favors. You don’t expect payment in kind for the things you do." Tension coiled in his shoulders like a livewire. "You don’t have to do it all alone.”

“I’m not alone. I have you, and Angela, and Alex.” Though to be honest, he hadn't seen Alex in the past week. Maybe he was still annoyed with Danny. A week wasn't an overly long time for a ghost to hold a grudge.

Milo brought Danny back to the present, where a ghost who was definitely annoyed with Danny sat in his kitchen. “All of us are dead, Phantom. Even if you asked us for help, there's a limit to the things we can do.”

Danny stared at his feet. There was a hole in his sock. Moths weren't afraid of ghosts, clearly. “There’s Sal and Tamara at work.”

“Yeah, Sal. A real pal. Got you to take his shift at the Iceberg Lounge on the one night when shit went south and got worse.”

“I doubt he did that on purpose. If anything, he was supposed to be the fall guy. He doesn’t normally work Fridays.”

“My point stands. Will you ever call in the enormous favor he now owes you? Don’t answer that,” he said, pointing the unlit cigarette at Danny. “You won’t.”

“I might,” Danny protested.

Milo waved him off. “I helped you because you needed it and because I think you should have some say in the circumstances under which you meet the bats. And because, sad as it is, you’re pretty much my only friend. But know this: they will find you.

“You seem very committed to not letting them find you, though, so you needed someone to step up to the plate and be a cleaner. A fixer. Someone thorough.”

“Someone like you?”

Milo gave him a sharp smile. “What can I say? I have many talents.”

That, Danny was learning, was truer than he’d known. It had been Milo who’d discovered the trackers. Milo who’d helped Danny escape. Milo who’d helped him hide the trackers where the Bats would never find them inside a train they couldn’t ride.

And now, Milo who was doing evidence clean-up. It suggested a certain kind of knowledge from a certain kind of life. Maybe Danny should have guessed, but even now he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

Unfortunately, the things you didn't know could harm you, so whether he wanted to know or not, he needed to.

“You said you’d explain things later,” Danny reminded him.

“Like I said, I had to go back and fix some things. You know how it is. Remove some evidence, do a bit of light gaslighting, encourage the cops to keep the Bats detained for as long as possible—”

“What does that mean?”

Milo drummed his fingers on the counter, taking his time to answer. “Well. The good news is that no one will question why or how it disappeared. The bad news is I had to overshadow a cop to, uh, confiscate it, and liberate it.”

“Milo, overshadowing is—”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s bad, I know—”

“It’s not just bad, Milo! It’s—” Danny took a deep breath. He was regretting starting this conversation. “What if you had triggered the sigils and got sent off to Arkham Island?”

“That’s the thing, Phantom. All your sigils do are stop people with bad intentions, and mine? They were pure.” He grinned, all teeth. “Besides, I was careful not to be overshadowing anyone while they crossed the ley lines. The important ones, anyway. A little glass theft here, a little ‘blundering cop keeps the bats busy’ there, a little witness detail omission. It wasn’t even hard. I actually feel pretty good, all things considered.”

“Then why don’t you seem happy about it?”

"It shouldn't have been easy." he narrowed his eyes. "Did you hear what that asshat said to you? 'A reckoning is coming; my bounds are broken'."

Danny shrugged. "He was just drunk."

"And what if he wasn't?"

"Well, he also said you were a backstabber and a bastard, so—"

"But he was right. I am a backstabber and a bastard."

Danny pulled his comforter tighter around his shoulders. "I don't understand what you mean."

Milo sucked on his teeth. “I used to be somebody, did you know? Not in the good way. I wasn’t important, in the grand scheme of things; I was just a cog in a wheel. But I was The Face, The Front of House for Oswald Cobblepot’s Iceberg Lounge. The one peddling his lies about how he'd cleaned up his act, how everything he did was above board now, how he had distanced himself from his past. And when things did go wrong? I made sure no one ever heard about it. Nothing too illegal—I was just a bartender. But I was the best. And you know what they say about Pingo.”

“He only hires the best.” Even Danny knew that by now.

“Got it in one. Do you get what I’m saying, Phantom?" Milo smiled, a bitter thing. "I'm not a good guy. I worked for Penguin most of my miserable life. I knew exactly what he did, and I didn't care. As long as I got paid, and as long as the people I cared about didn't get hurt. Not that I cared about many people. Always looking out for number one: Milo Gilzean. Dying didn't change that. I didn't do a single good thing until I met you. I was still a bastard, even dead."

"You helped me,” Danny pointed out. “That's not a bastard move in my book.”

Milo gave another rueful smile, looking through the window at Aparo Park. "Do you remember where we met?"

"Under the bridge."

“You were soaked to the bone, shaking, miserable. All you had was that broken umbrella and thirty blob ghosts clinging to you for dear life while ghosts three times your size tried to eat them. And do you know what I thought, Phantom?"

"No, but I have a pretty good feeling you're about to tell me."

Milo chuckled. "I thought, what a sucker. What kind of idiot would stick their neck out for something like that?

“But you kept doing it, for no personal gain. And you were good at it. Far better than you were at taking care of yourself. But that didn't stop you. And so I looked at the weak spirits and shades gathering under your reluctant umbrella, and I saw an opportunity. That had been my move in life: find someone powerful, make yourself useful to them, hide behind them. So I helped you. Brought you here, told you things you needed to get by, and won me a powerful ally. I figured if it didn't pan out, I'd have access to all the best spots in the city, and that would be the end of it. Maybe I could open a few back doors for the ones stymied by your stupid-powerful little doodles.

"But you kept doing more for us. Again and again and...I don't know. I guess it made me want to understand why."

Danny walked over to the rickety stool and sat. “Is that why that ghost called you a backstabber? Did you know him?"

“Honestly? It could have been any number of ghosts. I made a lot of guys mad when I decided to stick with the losers and weaklings in the Park. There are all sorts of Ghost Gangs I could have joined, you know. They all wanted me. I had my pick. I could’ve been spending my time monopolizing a rift, getting stronger.” He smiled. “Instead I’m here. Keeping Bats off your back and making sure you eat breakfast.”

Danny poked his thumbs through one of the larger holes in the blanket. “Why are you telling me this, Milo?”

"Because, Phantom, if he's right about me being a bartending, backstabbing bastard, what if he's right about the other stuff, too?"

Danny didn't know what to say to that. Between everyone he didn't want to see showing up at the Iceberg Lounge, getting shot at, and running away, he hadn't really had time to think about it.

"Whoever he was, he shouldn't have been there. I know it, you know it, and he knew it too. I know you only want to see the best in people, but that guy? That's what a smug asshole looks like when he gets away with it. We call that gloating."

"I'm not unfamiliar. I've been to high school." Danny rubbed his eyes. "What do you think I should do, then?"

Milo sniffed. “I dunno. I'm just a bartender. But some of that stuff your friend was saying about the missing bartenders…it feels…important. I think it has something to do with how I ended up like this.” He huffed, but there was no humor in the sound. “I just can’t quite remember.”

“You don’t know how you died?”

“No. Well, not entirely. Penguin was involved, I know that much. I didn’t really care before. No one else did.”

"Penguin killed you?"

"What? No. Why would he? I made him money and I made him look good." Milo frowned. “What I'm trying to say is, there’s something weird going on here. If I didn't know better, I'd say what happened tonight was a vanity hit on Penguin. Everyone showing up, everyone quitting, people going missing. Part of a long-term strategy, if I had to guess. But whose?"

“You think something is going on?”

“I know it is. In the past, I wouldn’t’ve cared, but now…” He closed his eyes and nodded. “I knew those guys. They wouldn't have just quite like that. So I’m gonna do something I swore I’d never do, Phantom.”

“And what’s that?” Danny asked, suspicions piqued.

“I want to figure out what happened to the Iceberg Lounge Bartenders, so I'm calling in a favor.” He turned to Danny, grinned wide. "Help me, Phantom. You're my only hope."

Danny groaned. "Seriously?"

"I did tell you I'm a bastard," he pointed out. "I need you to be the Artoo to my Leia."

Danny leaned his elbows on the counter. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? I’m not exactly a detective.”

“I don’t need you to investigate; I’ll handle that." He put the unlit cigarette behind his ear. "I won't ask you to save them yourself, either—I know how you feel about heroics. But if I can find the missing bartenders, or figure out what happened to them, I want you to tell someone who can and will do something about it. And with the way things are going, you'll be able to find several someones who fit the bill, if you know what I mean.”

“Milo—”

“Most people might be clueless about what’s going on in this city, but the Bats aren’t most people. And the way things are going, they’re starting to catch on.”

“What about you?”

“Me? Well. I’m gonna follow Pingo around until I get some goddamn answers. And if I know Pingo, I know this: Something has him nervous. It won’t take him long to act, now that his cards are on the table.”

Well. that was something. “Alright. If it’ll help you…”

“It will.” He patted Danny’s shoulder and stood. “Now you be a good patient and go to sleep. You’ve got a real shiner and nothing says ‘I’m suspicious’ like a black eye.”

Danny chuckled. “Yeah, okay, mom, I’ll get right on it.” He stood up, remembering the bag of glass. "what should I do with this?"

"I don't know, throw it in the river? That's what I used to do with evidence I didn't want found."

"That's polluting."

"One of my lesser crimes, I assure you." Milo smiled. He seemed better than he had before. Like something had been lifted from him, or lit within him. Danny was too tired for inspired metaphors.

“You did good tonight, Phantom. If nothing else, you could have a real future in bartending.”

“Respectfully, no fucking thanks.”

Milo cackled and ruffled Danny's hair before sinking through the floor.

Danny was ready for this night to end. He’d been feeling that way a lot lately. Probably not good.

He took the painkillers and fell into a blissfully dreamless sleep. He didn’t have to be anywhere in the morning, for the first time in a while.

How nice.

This was a waste of time.

Jason hadn’t come here to share stories about all their little weird encounters with Lazarus Kid, or to hear about the ‘Ghost Problem’ in Gotham. He’d come here hoping someone would have some leads on finding the Lazarus Kid, since Leslie had been a bust. I can’t tell you about my other patients, Jason, you know this, she’d told him. Though maybe you’ve forgotten; it’s been a while since you’ve needed my assistance.

Jason knew her well enough to understand there was nothing he could say to get her to budge on her stance. He could tell the Kid had been there; he felt it in his bones. Still, he had to try, so he’d told her to pass along the information that If Lazarus Kid came back, please tell him Red Hood just wants to talk.

He couldn’t blame her for the skepticism. Anything Red Hood said sounded like a threat; he’d crafted his image that way intentionally.

She hadn’t made any promises, but she did look thoughtful. That was good enough for Jason—as good as he'd get from Leslie Thompkins, at least.

In any case, the only reason he was still here, now, was that he didn’t have any other leads to chase. Not for Lazarus Kid, not for the Markovians, and not for Karma.

He was hoping something would change on that front soon; Babs was decrypting the data Damian had downloaded from Penguin’s server. On any other night, he’d be ecstatic. Finding reliable dirt on Penguin was always a challenge, but it usually meant a healthy doling out of justice was on the way.

The fact that Penguin was at the bottom of his ‘things to follow up on’ list was telling.

“Well, on the bright side,” Steph piped up, “now that we know this One Guy has answers for pretty much all of us, maybe we can all work together for a change and find him. Preferably before all the ghosts stuck in Gotham decide to possess us and reality as we know it ends. Or whatever is supposed to happen when Gotham gets overfull of ghosts.”

“What a novel idea, working together,” Tim snarked. “Love to try it sometime.”

“Pretty sure Sal, aka Lazarus Kid, is too nice to end reality as we know it,” said Dick. “If he actually has this ‘Reality Gauntlet’, anyway. Honestly, I hope he does have it. I trust our future brother-slash-my-future-son with control over all reality more than any other asshole on the street.”

“Maybe Alfred should adopt him and Lazarus Sal can be our cool undead uncle,” Steph suggested. “Just a thought, while we’re all saying just whatever pops into our heads.”

"I still can't believe he's run into all of us and slipped away,” Jason grumbled, glaring at Duke, Bruce, and Tim in equal measure.

"Don't look at me! I was on a separate mission,” Duke protested. “Maybe if I’d known you were all looking for this one guy, I could have done something.”

“Like what? Tag him with a tracker?” asked Steph. “Two trackers, maybe?”

“Or maybe dip on the police investigation and chase him,” Duke snapped back.

“Tried that, didn’t work,” Jason pointed out.

"Please tell me at least one of you managed to get a DNA sample," said Damian.

He clicked his tongue when no one answered with what he clearly wanted to hear.

"He was bleeding profusely from the head! It would have been child's play for me. Had I been allowed into the center of the action, that is."

Dick sighed. "For the last time, I'm not apologizing for asking you to wait on the roof, Damian!"

"And I'm not apologizing for ignoring that order." Damian sniffed. "I simply don't understand what the point of bringing me along was if you didn't intend to make use of me."

"If you're done arguing, I managed to decrypt the files Damian downloaded from the Iceberg Lounge server."

Bruce sighed. “Let’s see what we managed to save. Hopefully, there’s some information on our Person of Interest.”

Person of Interest. Like that encapsulated everything Lazarus Kid was.

“You can quit the epithets; his name is Sal,” said Duke. “I know I’ve mentioned it at least three times now.”

“Is his name Sal, though?” Tim muttered.

“Yeah, Duke. Not everyone uses their real name when applying to work at the Iceberg Lounge, Duke.”

Duke flipped them both off behind Bruce’s back. Jason knew there was a reason Duke was his favorite.

“Steph, Tim: be nice,” Cass chastised. Stephanie just winked at her like the gremlin she was.

Tim was right about one thing at least: Sal was definitely not the kid’s name.

“Sal is as good a place to start as any. Did you catch a last name, by any chance?” Babs asked.

“You know, weirdly enough, it didn’t come up while we were being shot at.”

“Yeah, yeah, cool your jets,” she grumbled. “Let’s see…there’s all the shift schedules and—oh, a list of all employees, excellent.”

An excel spreadsheet popped up. Tim said something that sounded like ‘excel? Really? At least use Python, Penguin, Jesus.’

Fortunately, there was only one result for Sal. Looked like luck was on their side for once.

"Salvatore Romano, barback. Normally works Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday. Hired three months ago," she read off. “His employee ID was clocked in from nine until—well, he’s still clocked in. Guess he didn’t clock out while running away.”

“So far it matches up with what he told you, Duke,” said Bruce.

Jason felt his patience running thin. He wanted to be out there, doing something, not sitting here talking. “Can you cross reference the name in the Gotham—”

“I know how to do my job,” Babs cut in. “Give me a moment…a-ha. Looks like there is a Salvatore Romano who lives in Gotham. So, some version of him exists in some official capacity.”

Bruce hummed. "Any financial records? Bank accounts?"

“According to Penguin’s records, he was cash-only. Seems standard for an entry-level job with Cobblepot.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me if he only takes cash-only jobs,” said Duke. “He seemed pretty adamant about wanting to stay off the radar.”

“Maybe. I’ll need time to dig a bit deeper,” Barbara admitted, “but if this birth certificate is real, his mom is still alive, and she has about $160,000 in medical debt."

Steph winced. "Ouch."

"Fits the bill for the kind of person willing to work for Penguin." Bruce’s eyes tracked over the information carefully. "Can you find anything else on him?"

Jason stood up and started pacing. None of this was important—none of it would help him find the kid.

“Yeah, Babs, can you maybe find anything useful? An address, place of work other than the Iceberg Lounge? A car or bike registered to his name?”

“Sorry, I’m not seeing any folders labeled ‘conveniently compiled information about this one guy’ that surely was all kept in an easily accessible zip on Penguin’s server,” Babs snapped. “But if I search for his employee ID, maybe Penguin kept it somewhere—there we go. Would you look at that, a copy of his Class B driver's license. And he’s an organ donor, that’s nice. Oh, but it expired a year ago."

“Can you—”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m pulling it up, give me a second, Jay! The connection has been slow ever since someone crashed the big bad bat computer.”

“I blame ghosts,” Damian declared. “They seem responsible for everything else that’s gone wrong recently.”

"Is it a real license?" Bruce asked, tone strained.

Jason, for once, understood the sentiment. It was going on three in the morning and they’d been cooped up together for far too long.

"If it's a fake, it's a good one," she said, “but it matches the file kept in the GCDMV database. Ah, here we go, pulling up the file—now!”

The hope Jason had, unfortunately, let build came crashing down. "That's not him."

"Jason’s right," said Bruce. "He’s taller than that. And the jaw shape is wrong."

“Plus this guy is 27,” Duke pointed out. “Our guy is 17, tops.”

“How do you know that?” Stephanie asked.

“He told us he wasn’t old enough to work at the lounge shortly before he bounced.”

Dick squinted at the screen. “So our guy is…not Sal?”

“Aw, no cool Uncle Lazarus Sal?” said Cass.

"Maybe our guy swiped Sal’s ID to get a job," Steph suggested.

“I don’t think so,” said Duke. “Our guy—Not Sal. He knew how to get into the Lounge, he signed in with a valid ID number, and he said he’d been working at the lounge for three months, just like the records say. At the very least, I think Not Sal knows Sal. Real Sal. And probably Melanie, too.”

“Who’s Melanie?” asked Tim.

“Melanie Martinez. She hired me,” he explained. “Right before she quit, anyway. Not Sal wouldn’t let me in the employee entrance until I mentioned her name.”

“Possibility: Not Sal was there to investigate what happened to the other bartenders?” Cass asked.

Duke shook his head. “Not likely. He told me it was stupid to look into people who went missing after working for Penguin.”

"Something isn't adding up here," said Dick. “He fits the profile of an Iceberg Lounge employee, but all of you say that guy—” he gestured to the driver’s license on the screen “—isn’t our guy. Despite being the guy Penguin has on file.”

Barbara typed rapidly, searching for something. "Maria Romano, aka Sal’s mom, just filled a new prescription yesterday. The orders say she needs to be watched closely for adverse effects."

"So 'Sal', who doesn't usually work Fridays, gets called in for a shift, but he needs to watch his mom,” said Tim. “So he asks an Iceberg Lounge coworker to cover for him?"

"Why would a coworker use Sal’s employee ID if he worked there?” asked Duke.

"A friend from outside work, then," Tim concluded. “From a different bar, maybe?”

"Must be a good friend, to cover an Iceberg Lounge shift."

"Or a desperate one. It's the only lead we have." Jason slammed his helmet into his palm. "I say we go ask Real Sal some friendly questions."

“Yeah, let’s all nine of us go to some guy’s apartment and ask him some questions,” said Steph. “I don’t see how that could possibly go wrong.”

“I don’t hear you offering up any ideas, Brown.”

She shrugged. “I still think you’re all being waaay too aggro about this.”

“Moving along,” Dick interjected, “The trackers are a bust. Clearly, he found them and decided to send us on a goose chase.”

“We’ll put a pin in the trackers plan,” Barbara agreed. “Any other thoughts? Besides waiting for him to cross our path by chance again.”

They sat quietly and pondered. Between the nine of them, someone was bound to have an idea.

“There are enough of us to cover all of the graffiti sites. We could each pick one and wait there for him to show up,” Tim suggested. “We have pretty good reason to think he’s the one who’s been putting them up and maintaining them.”

“Last time you went to one of those, you almost got possessed,” Bruce pointed out. “Not to mention that whoever is maintaining the sigils has increased their aggression in protecting them.”

“Yeah, wouldn’t want to get yeeted like Constantine,” Steph agreed.

“It’s not a bad plan, though. I met him by the graffiti, too,” Jason said. Even though he’d thought about that night a thousand times already, he’d nearly forgotten about how he’d ended up falling. In the wake of everything else that had happened that night, it had seemed less important.

But now that he knew there were ghosts that regularly haunted the graffiti, he was thinking about it.

Maybe something had grabbed him. “To be fair, though, I don’t think he was kidding about it being dangerous. I’m pretty sure a ghost tried to kill me there. Or possess me, at least, and almost killed me in the process.”

Dick sighed. “Every time I think you can’t possibly say anything more worrying about that night than what you’ve already said, you prove me wrong.”

“There was blood running down my side, from where I was shot with the weird bullets,” he mused aloud. “Maybe ghosts can touch blood? They did go for the blood-soaked foot.”

“What did I just say?”

“Weird bullets?” Tim turned to Dick. “Like the ones you gave me to analyze? Those weird bullets?”

Dick gave a bland smile. “I plead the fifth.”

“The graffiti is also out, then, though if we use Jason’s idea about cameras glitching out, maybe we can figure out when he’s close by and follow him?”

“Given how quickly he can apparently move around the city, I’m not sure it would matter unless we happened to be close by.” Bruce hummed. “We can’t spend our time camping out hoping we’ll get lucky. We have more pressing issues."

“Like what?” Jason grit out.

"Whatever Karma and Two-Face were up to, they didn’t conclude it tonight. They'll be looking for other opportunities to meet, since Penguin couldn't, or wouldn't, provide one."

"I guess we should track down Penguin and Two-Face, huh," said Dick. "Too bad we don't have a boomerang for them, too."

"Count me in. And then I'm going after Karma," said Duke. "Again. Though I’m curious when you all were planning on telling me he was back."

Jason refused to feel guilty. “If I got confirmation, I would have told you. But you did tell me you were busy.”

“It could be anyone under that mask, don’t forget,” Bruce said quietly. “I hadn’t heard anything other than unconfirmed rumors.”

“As long as tracking them all down means finding Penguin’s missing bartenders, I’m in,” said Duke.

Tim crossed his arms. “I can’t really do anything about the graffiti until Constantine comes back. I guess. If we really don’t have any other options to find Not Sal…”

Jason couldn’t believe this.

“Looks like I was right,” Stephanie cheered. “Sitting and waiting is the best option.”

“Well, if that’s how you all feel—I’m out.” Jason grabbed his helmet. “I’m not waiting." He had Sal's address. Sal had answers, one way or another.

Bruce didn’t try to stop him, which was promising. Maybe he’d finally realized how pointless it was to try.

He’d probably say something about it later. But that was a problem for Future Jason.

Right now, Jason had only one goal: track down Sal Romano.

Chapter Text

Saturday October 15th, 4 a.m.

In Jason’s experience, he’d found that people—including regular, non-terrorist or cape-wearing folk—often could sense when they were being watched, that they weren’t alone in a room. Even when they didn't consciously recognize it, some leftover lizard hindbrain instinct whispered that danger was afoot.

Sal Romano, it seemed, had evolved beyond such instincts.

There was no hint of worry as he ate a pizza slice that had gone cold hours ago. There was no indication of building dread as he hummed along with the jeopardy theme song playing on the mini TV in his kitchen. There was no flash of recognition at the pending danger as Sal looked at the dishes piling up in the sink and visibly decided not to bother.

Jason watched Real Sal putter around in this fashion—unbothered, ignorant—unsure whether it was awe or irritation he was feeling. Sal had walked in front of Jason no less than three times and not noticed him, leaning against Sal's refrigerator, barely bothering to keep himself hidden.

Maybe Jason should cut him some slack; it was four in the morning; Sal looked like he’d just woken up. But Jason had had a shit night; his patience for ignorance was thin on the best of days, and this was decidedly not the best of days.

Now the question was what to do. Watching 'Sal' move around the dark kitchen and waiting for him to realize that Jason was there had long ago lost its charm, not that it had any to begin with. Jason hadn’t ever bothered much with stealth as Red Hood. Intimidation was one of the best weapons in his arsenal; there was nothing worse than seeing a threat coming and knowing you could do nothing about it.

Then again, there was nothing like a jump scare. A little pedestrian for his taste, but it would have to do.

He gave Sal thirty more seconds, just in case, and then— “Yo.”

"Jesus fuck," Sal swore, dropping his pizza in the sink.

"Salvatore Romano? Age 27?"

Sal held up his sauce-covered hands. "I didn't do anything, man, please," he begged.

“Aw, well, that can’t be true, otherwise I wouldn’t be here. Try again.” Jason pushed off the wall and stalked over. "Let’s do this Trebek style, since you’re clearly a fan. We’ll start off easy. ‘Reasons why Red Hood is in my apartment for 100’: this is something someone might ask you if they were checking whether you had an alibi."

“What the hell,” Sal whispered.

“Incorrect. What you’re looking for is ‘where was Sal Romano last night between 9 p.m. and midnight’?”

Sal looked at Jason with wide-eyed bewilderment. If he were waiting for Jason to say 'psych', well. He'd be waiting a while.

Jason, however, had waited long enough.

"C'mon, Sal, clock's ticking."

"I-I was here, taking care of my ma!"

Jason scoffed. “That's what you'd like me to think, isn't it. That you're the dutiful son, that you had no idea what was going down tonight, that you are blameless, faultless, and know nothing.”

Sal was still staring like a deer in headlights.

Jason sighed. If Sal knew anything, it probably wasn’t much, but whatever it was, Jason needed to know. "Let's try again. The Gotham Current Events category for 200—"

"That's not how Jeopardy works," Sal pointed out. He looked mortified that he’d interrupted Red Hood. As he should.

"Here I was, trying to make this fun,” Jason said, shaking his head. “We could do this the less fun way, I guess. Less fun for you, anyway. My normal way of extracting information isn’t as family-friendly, but—"

"Gotham Current Events for 200 is fine," Sal interrupted.

Jason smiled. "Attaboy. This is where Two-Face, Penguin, and a cell of Markovian terrorists had a shoot-out last night. I'll give you a hint: you were supposed to be there."

Sal was sweating. This was the easiest interrogation Jason had ever conducted. "W-what is the Iceberg Lounge?"

Jason clapped. "I knew you had it in you."

"Did something…happen there? Last night?"

“I just told you what happened. Keep up.”

Sal was looking pale and unwell. Maybe Jason should throw him a bone…a distracted informant was a poor informant, after all.

Jason nodded his head toward the TV.

“Go on, flip to the news channel, I’m sure they’re still talking about it. I'll wait.” Jason pulled out one of his pistols and checked the magazine. He hadn’t stopped at any of his safehouses on the way over, too intent on getting answers as quickly as possible. He only had a couple shots left, but that was fine. Iceberg Lounge employee or not, Sal wasn’t worth shooting.

Sal, of course, didn’t know that. He kept one eye on Jason as he flipped through channels until he got to GC1-News. “ —Police are saying there were no major casualties, however, tensions are high as we head into midterm election season. This is the biggest act of domestic terror the city has seen in months. With several key slots up for grabs on City Council, the incumbent members are sure to have the heat on in the upcoming debates. How do you answer for this kind of violence when you run on a platform of having been a good influence on the city?”

Jason rolled his eyes. Typical news banter; something horrible happens and all they could talk about was 'how will this affect the polls?'

Scenes of the interior of the Iceberg Lounge flashed on the screen: the destroyed bar (fire mostly extinguished), the melting iceberg (with several zoo keepers trying to corral the seals), a scene of guests huddled under shock blankets. The chyron scrawled across the bottom of the screen, listing the actual facts as the newscasters (whose names Jason never bothered to learn) continued doing a whole lot of talking without actually saying anything.

Attack late last night at the Iceberg Lounge—no casualties—Two-Face and a Markovian Terror Cell responsible—Police Investigation ongoing—Missing Iceberg staff? —Red Hood and Batman: working together or at odds? —local celebrity Bruce Wayne says he is ‘fine, but shaken’ —

“Two-Face remains at large, as does Penguin,” the Newscaster wrapped up, “though we have yet to determine whether Mr.Cobblepot was a victim or perpetrator of this particular attack. Now, over to Sean with the weather—”

Jason watched Sal take in the news, observing how he reacted. Had he known? Was he worried?

He looked pale, a shaking hand covering his mouth, eyes wide. “Shit,” he whispered softly. “Was anyone hurt?”

“Weren’t you watching? No one died.”

Sal ran a hand through his hair. Jason noted his sigh of relief.

“Good. That's…good."

Sal jumped as Jason slid the magazine back into his pistol with a satisfying click. "Someone you know and/or care about working tonight?"

"No,” Sal replied, too quickly. He wasn’t a very good liar.

“And yet you seemed worried.”

“I can be relieved no one got hurt even if I don't know 'em." He crossed his arms. "What the hell are you doing here, anyway?"

“Your employee ID was clocked in, but you weren’t there,” Jason explained. "I want to know who covered your shift."

“How do you know I wasn't—”

Jason gestured to the news, which was currently forecasting Gotham’s shit weather. “Do you have fluff for brains? I was there. And you weren’t. So I reiterate: who was covering your shift, Sal?”

"I don't know! M-Melanie arranges all that shit."

"Really. Melanie Martinez?"

Sal sniffed. Was he crying? Damn. "Yeah. She’s the head bartender. She’d have a much better idea of all that."

So he didn’t know she’d quit. According to Duke, he and Lazarus Kid had only been told about fifteen minutes before open. Even if she hadn’t quit, it was a poor deflection. Sal had to know that.

Jason looked around the apartment, tapping his arm with the pistol barrel. The apartment wasn't nice, but it was nicer than three days a week as an Iceberg Lounge barback could afford. And with his mom $160k in the hole, she probably didn't own it, either.

"Say, Sal. Where's your other job?"

"What?"

"Are you part of the Goonion?"

"What?"

"Yeah, didn't think so. So what is it you do?” Jason pressed. “Bank teller? Grocery store clerk?"

Sal’s gaze darted around. Looked like he was almost definitely about to lie. Or tell some version of the truth completely unhelpful to Jason. "I do odd jobs, okay? Got a buddy who's a plumber, sometimes he needs someone to drive him around—"

"And that's you? With your expired Class B driver's license?" Jason holstered the pistol and pulled his gloves on tighter, clenching and unclenching his fist. "You can't be an organ donor if your license is expired, you know."

"What the fuck, man."

"Just tell me what I want to know and I'll leave you alone and forget this ever happened."

"I won’t," Sal muttered. "Fuckin’ vigilantes…what is it you wanna know?"

"Who. Covered. Your. Shift. At. The. Iceberg. Lounge. Tonight."

Sal ran a hand through his hair again. There was definitely pizza sauce in it now. "He's a friend of a friend, ok? I don't know him personally. I needed a cover on short notice and he needed money. He looks enough like me that no one would ask questions! It was a win-win situation for everyone," Sal explained, eyes wide and desperate.

Hm. Not entirely true, but which part?

“I sincerely doubt your ‘friend of a friend’ would consider getting wrapped up in a rogues attack a ‘win-win’ situation.”

Sal winced and didn’t deny it. Guess he wasn’t as stupid as he looked, after all.

"If you don't know him,” Jason continued, “how did you get in contact with him?"

"Um…why do you need to know?"

“So I can contact him, asshole.”

“I-I don’t remember, okay?”

Jason was mentally updating Sal's status from 'shit liar' to 'couldn't lie to save his life'. He'd be eaten alive if he stayed at the Iceberg Lounge. Good thing it was gonna be closed indefinitely.

Jason considered what the best approach was. Obviously, Sal was lying and definitely knew Lazarus Kid. He was trying to protect him, which was admirable but annoying. Not many had the cajones to stand up to Red Hood.

Usually, Jason used his fists to get uncooperative marks to talk. But Jason didn't want to scare off Lazarus Kid; beating someone into submission in order to find him was probably not the way.

Better ease up on the intimidation factor. Just a touch.

"I'm not gonna hurt him. I just need to ask him some questions.” Another pause. Should he elaborate? “He has information I need."

"I fucking doubt it! He's just a kid!"

"So you sent a kid into Penguin’s den?"

Sal scoffed. "C'mon, man, you know how it is. You gotta take whatever you can get here.” He spread his hands helplessly. “Like I said: he needed the money, I needed a cover. Nothing's never happened since I've been working there, I thought he'd be fine! If I'd known, I wouldn't've asked him—"

"But you did." Jason stepped closer, leaning all 6’2” of himself over all five feet and five inches of Sal Romano. "Maybe you don't know, but I got a thing about kids being put in tough situations by adults who should have protected them."

"Money and favors keep you safer in Gotham than any moralistic bullshit ever will," Sal spat. "I've told you what I know, now get the fuck out of my apartment."

Damn. So much for using height to his advantage.

Jason leaned back. This was probably as far as he could take it with a civilian before Bruce decided he needed another lecture.

Whoever Lazarus Kid was, Sal wasn’t talking.

“Sal? Who are you talking to in there?” an older female voice called.

Sal withered visibly. “Uh, no one, mah! Just…yelling at Jeopardy again!”

That would be the sick mother, probably. Time to scoot—despite what people thought, Jason had a line, and scaring sick mothers was over it.

He leaned in close again, putting a hand on the wall behind Sal. "Next time you need a favor, don't fucking ask a minor."

Sal sneered. "Fuck you very much, yourself, Hood."

8 a.m.

“I still can’t believe Babs said she’d only give us a five-minute head start with any Lazarus Sal Intel she finds!” Steph complained. “I mean, we’re her team! The betrayal!”

“Jason: would call that cheating,” Cass pointed out. “We: should win fairly.”

Stephanie sighed dramatically. “I guess. But he’s had three weeks to look, I don’t see anything wrong with evening the playing field.”

Cass raised an eyebrow. Whatever they were doing, it wasn’t 'evening the playing field'. They wouldn’t need to be so secretive if it were. “This: is Red Hood’s territory. He: won’t like us being here.”

“You mean generally in Crime Alley, or specifically here?” Steph grinned. “I’ve invited him to come with us to Bat Burger so many times and he always says no.”

“Next!” called a server dressed as Batgirl. She was wearing the original version. Babs’ Batgirl.

“Besides, we’re not here in our suits,” Steph added quietly. “We’re here as just us, Steph and Cass, getting some breakfast sandwiches.”

“At the 'creepiest Bat Burger in Gotham',” Cass signed, quoting what Steph had said on the way over here.

“Maybe it’s haunted. Who knows? Ghosts are real, after all.” Steph stepped up to the counter and started ordering for them.

Cass took a look around. It was decidedly the un-busiest Bat Burger she had ever been inside. It was supposedly the newest one, but there was a certain…sobriety to the atmosphere. It wasn’t creepy, exactly, or sad. It reminded Cass of a cemetery. It was restful, a bit somber, but not creepy.

But, apparently, word on the street was that it was creepy. According to Babs, even criminals found it off-putting; it had the longest-running streak of no robberies, at three months. Cass didn’t see it, but maybe it was something only criminals would understand.

Normally, she’d think the place was understaffed, with only two people working the front and two more in the back. She couldn't see the ones in the back, but the other front of house costumed server was dressed like Red Robin. It was an old Red Robin costume, though—based on Jason’s, if Cass wasn’t mistaken. The server wasn’t wearing the black cowl, though; just a standard domino mask. There was sauce in his hair. He looked tired—there was a wariness in the way his eyes darted around.

Not a morning person, it seemed.

“Anyway,” Steph continued, right where she’d left off, carrying their tray to a booth by the window, “Tim has gotten to poke around here, and so has B. And Jason. Clearly, if we’re gonna run into this kid, it’s gonna happen somewhere in Crime Alley.”

“We: have our own case to investigate,” Cass reminded her. “This: is fun, but not mandatory.”

“Aw, c’mon, Cass. It’s our future brother or uncle or cousin we’re talking about here! And ten whole American dollars! We could buy half a burger with that money.”

Cass smiled. “We will meet him,” she signed, “one way or another.”

“Yes, yes, you’re very responsible. Our case is obviously more important, but,” she pointed at Cass with a tater tot, “I’m just saying, if we spent a little bit more time in Crime Alley, see what falls into our lap, I wouldn’t be sorry to say ‘I told you so’.”

“Agreed.” Cass nodded. “But we don’t even know what he looks like.”

“Not true!” Steph pulled out her phone and showed the police sketch Dick had sent to the Bruceless Bat Chat earlier that morning. “He looks like this.”

That was decidedly untrue. Duke and Tim had both let Dick know how very much Not Sal did not look like that. Even Jason had chimed into the chat—rare for him—to let Dick know it was a bad sketch and that this was why cops only solved 2% of major crimes.

She didn’t point any of this out to Stephanie; based on the way her eyes were crinkled in amusement, she already knew they wouldn’t find their newest family member with that sketch. It was funny to look at, though.

“Anyway,” Steph continued, “He’s a guy with black hair, blue eyes, and an unhealthy level of snark. How many of those can there be in this city?”

“Dick, Jason, Tim, Damian. Bruce,” Cass listed off, then added on, “Alfred.”

“Alfred has white hair. And Damian has green eyes.”

Cass pointedly ate a tater tot. She felt her point was made.

“Okay, fine, when you’re right, you’re right. But I really like winning.” Steph narrowed her eyes. “He’s here somewhere. I feel it in my bones.”

“Here: specifically? Or, here: generally?”

“Both. Either. Jason certainly never checked Batburger, I can guarantee that.”

Cass looked over to the two employees, snarking back and forth. They looked like they were having a fight.

“I told you I’d be out for blood, did I not?” asked the Bat Girl employee. "I said if anything happened, I'd hold you accountable, and now you complain about the consequences?"

“Yeah, Tam, but this wasn’t my fault—”

“It is your fault. And you’ll be on grill-cleaning duty until you get that through your thick skull. And you better make sure he gets paid, too. With interest.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Red Robin employee grumbled. “I’ll apologize when I see him later, okay?”

“It better be the most sincere apology of your whole goddamn life.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“So,” Steph said, “I had a thought about our actual case, let me know what you think—”

Noon

"Damn, Danny. I can't believe so much shit went down while you were covering me." Sal laughed sympathetically, though his smile looked strained. He had heavy bags under his eyes and some kind of sauce in his hair.

Despite the night Danny had had, somehow Sal looked worse.

"What can I say? I have bad luck."

“Yeah, heh. Bad luck.” Sal swallowed. “So, uh, I ask this without judgment, but did you by any chance do something to piss off Red Hood while you were, you know, hiding from getting exploded or whatever?”

Tamara slapped Sal’s shoulder. “I think what you mean is, ‘Danny, dear God, I’m so sorry Danny! Are you okay, Danny? I can’t believe my lack of planning got you put in such a bad situation, Danny. How can I ever make it up to you?' I mean, look at his eyebrow! That’s gonna scar!”

“Hey, it’s a look, it gives him character—” Sal tried, dodging another shoulder slap “—but I’m sorry, regardless! Seriously, though. What’s Red Hood’s beef with you?”

Danny sighed. Sal had already apologized to him profusely, several times. Danny was starting to get tired of it. He just wanted to put the night behind him and forget it ever happened.

His prospects weren't looking very hopeful, the way this day was going. “I can’t recall doing anything specific to piss off Red Hood, no. Why do you ask?”

“Well, because he showed up at my apartment this morning asking a whole lot of questions about you, like how did I know you, how did I contact you, who were you—he interrogated me Trebek-style, Danny. I think I deserve some answers. Maybe a little hazard pay myself.”

“…Trebek-style?” Danny asked.

“You don’t wanna know, trust me,” Tamara advised. “It’s not as cool as it sounds.”

“It wasn’t 'cool' at all! I thought he was gonna shoot me or break my bones or something!”

Tamara rolled her eyes. “You told me he didn’t even touch you.”

“But he could have. The guns were out! He loomed.”

So. Red Hood had tracked Sal down a lot faster than Danny had expected. Milo was right; the Bats finding Danny was only a matter of time. And significantly less time than he’d have hoped, too.

“What did you tell him?"

Sal smirked and thumbed his nose. "Absolutely nada! Nothing useful, anyway. Still, what the hell, right? He knew all this shit about me, it was freaky. So. Why the hell is Red Hood looking for you? And why did he come to my place because of that?”

“Uh, maybe because Danny was covering for your sorry ass at the Iceberg Lounge when all that shit went down?” offered Tamara. “Red Hood was there. It was on the news.”

That was as good an explanation as Danny could have come up with. “He probably thinks I have information or something. I did leave before giving a police report.” Or talking to Batman about anything he might have seen. But Danny wasn’t going to bring that up.

“Shit. Stay safe out there, bruh. Though if Red Hood is after you…” Sal placed a hand on Danny’s shoulder. “It's been real nice knowing you.”

Danny rolled his eyes. “He’s not going to hurt me, he just wants to talk. Probably. Still. I’m sorry he came after you looking for me.”

“Danny, you don’t have to apologize for shit,” Tamara cut in. “You were doing him a favor. Dealing with Red Hood is more than what he deserves considering you could have died. You’ve barely been in this city for three months and already you had a run-in with Penguin, Two-Face, international terrorists—” she cut herself off with a long exhale. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

"I hadn't had a run-in with any of those things before yesterday, to be fair."

"That doesn't make it better!"

Danny shrugged and turned to Sal. “I really don’t blame you, dude. It’s not like you knew Two-Face and the Markovians were gonna show up. Right?” If anything, Danny blamed Clockwork along with whatever unlucky star Danny had been born under.

“I swear, I had no idea! Though it does make me wonder if Ned knew. He was the one who asked me to cover for him, you know.” Sal wrung his hands. "I'll make sure you get that extra incident pay. I'm real sorry you got wrapped up in all that on account of me."

“Honestly the worst part was that the bartenders never showed up. It was just me and Duke the whole night.”

“Duke?” Sal frowned. “Who’s Duke?”

“Uh, the other barback?”

Sal shook his head. “There is no other barback. It’s just me, Melanie, and Eugene.”

“Who the hell is Eugene?”

“The other bartender!”

"Well. I guess it's just gonna be you and Duke from now on. Eugene quit. So did Melanie. Actually, apparently, all the bartenders quit? Duke will probably quit, honestly, if he knows what's good for him. You should, too. It's probably gonna be closed for a while since, you know. The bar got exploded."

“They all…quit?” Sal’s eyes darted nervously around the restaurant.

Danny wouldn’t call himself a detective by any means. Usually, he didn’t have to search to find his problems or what caused them. But the missing bartenders had been on his mind, given that Milo had popped up right as Danny had been walking to work to tell him ‘he’d found a lead’ and would ‘be calling in that favor soon’.

Duke had said it, too: people who worked for the Iceberg Lounge were going missing. Sal had said something offhand about it, and now Danny had experienced for himself how severely understaffed it was. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that was Highly Suspicious.

Since Danny was going to go through the effort of giving information about the missing Iceberg Lounge employees to the Bats and the Birds, he might as well be thorough about it. Sal was more likely to talk to him than a vigilante, anyway.

“Sal…do you know something about any missing bar staff?”

“What? No. What’s there for someone like me to know? Nothing.”

Tamara crossed her arms. “You’re a shit liar, Sal.”

“I lied to Red Hood!”

“Did he believe you though?” Danny was genuinely curious. Actually, scratch that. There was no way Red Hood had bought whatever poor lies Sal had peddled. He wasn’t that good, and Red Hood was a bat.

“Look, I don’t know anything concrete, okay? I just know there’s no way I would have been hired under normal circumstances.” Sal turned away and fiddled with his gloves. “And I also know Melanie told me not to ask questions if I wanted to go home at the end of the day. So, I didn’t ask. I figured it was just, you know. Typical working for Penguin stuff. Curious employees are dead employees.”

“Which is why you should quit,” Tamara pointed out. “Like I’ve been telling you. I know you need money, but I’m sure your mom would rather be in debt than sonless.”

“Maybe you’re right,” he admitted reluctantly. “If Melanie quit…I mean, she wouldn’t. That place was her pride and joy. She’s been running it for the past six months or so, you know. Big shoes to fill, so I hear, but no one will really talk about it except to say ‘don’t ask.’ So I didn’t.”

Danny felt an unfamiliar unease settle in the pit of his stomach. “Sal…are you in trouble?”

“No. But who knows if I woulda been if I’d been there last night.” Sal shook his head. “I know you said I didn’t need to apologize anymore, Danny, but truly. I’m grateful. Whatever you did to make it out, I don’t think I coulda done it.”

Danny rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, if I ever need a favor, I know who to call.”

“Consider it done.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Tamara said skeptically.

“I don’t suppose you’re a native Spanish speaker?” Danny asked hopefully. “I need to interview someone for a class project.”

Sal grimaced. “Sorry, Danny. I come from a long line of New Jersey Italians.”

“Yeah. I figured you didn’t.”

“Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?”

"I dunno, Sal," Tamara said, "Maybe it's because you thought 'yo soy embarazada' means 'I'm embarrassed."

"Doesn't it?"

Danny and Tamara shared a look and started laughing. "No."

"What does it mean, Danny? Tamara? C'mon, tell me, I'm dying, here!"

"Don't worry about it, Sal. It's nothing to be 'embarazada' about."

Looked like Danny was gonna have to figure out how to interview some ghosts, after all. Sr. Gutiérrez neither knew nor cared about Danny's troubles. Maybe something analog would work to record the ghosts…who did he know who had a cassette player in this decade?

“So. The kid took the ghost tracker,” Dick said without preamble.

“Jesus,” Jason cursed, nearly toppling over his coat rack. Apparently, he hadn’t been keeping up with Bruce’s Situational Awareness Training if he could get so shocked by Dick waiting for him in his apartment while he was out.

“Who the hell let you in?” Jason asked once he’d recovered.

“I let myself in,” Dick said, leaving the obviously unsaid.

Based on Jason’s scowl, he still heard it.

“Shouldn’t you be out looking for drug dealers?” he snarked, kicking the front door shut behind him.

“Funny you should ask, I was doing that, actually. See, I got called into the GCPD—as Officer Grayson, not Nightwing. Apparently, some of the people at the Lounge last night? You’ll never guess—”

“Were they on Mezmur?”

Dick sighed. So much for the craft of storytelling. “Yes. Several of them were suffering the adverse effects. Crying, despondency, et cetera, so they called in yours truly as the ‘resident expert’, which isn’t saying much.”

Jason hummed, throwing some butter and popcorn kernels in a pot. Oh, goody. So there’d be snacks for this conversation.

“Did you learn anything helpful?”

“No. It’s the same old story. They were all super wasted though. They’d been drinking more than any human should be able to tolerate and survive, so add that to the ever-growing list of weird things about this drug.” Dick leaned back against the window, looking down to the street below. It was usually quiet in Crime Alley this time of day, and today was no exception. It was overcast, sky dark and heavy with impending rain. Finding clues in the rain sucked almost as bad as grappling in the rain.

“One of them said they remembered working at the Iceberg Lounge for years, but when we asked him basic facts about the night, he couldn’t remember anything.” Dick sighed again. “He didn’t even remember there being more than one bartender, so. A bust all around.”

“Any traces of the drug itself, though?”

“Nope. Still haven’t gotten a sample. I’m honestly starting to wonder if it’s even a drug…”

“What else would it be?”

Dick shrugged, “anyway, that took all morning, and then I was in the neighborhood anyway, so. Here I am.” He gestured lazily to himself sitting in Jason’s window. “As you’re no doubt wondering what I’m doing here, I came to have a little post-op chat, mano a mano, since you high-tailed it out of the cave. We got the Markovians locked up, by the way. If you even care. Speaking of, where have you been all night? Hanging out on the town, making new friends, influencing people?”

Jason rolled his eyes. “You know where I was. I went to see Sal Romano.”

“Ah.” Dick tossed the box he’d brought in his hand and caught it as he contemplated the best approach to this. He’d kind of hoped Jason would realize en route that it was a bad idea, interrogating Real Sal without a plan. Oh well. “Was he helpful?”

“Not really. He’s like anyone from the Bowery.”

Loyal, close-lipped, and not a fan of Red Hood, in other words. “Just tell me you didn’t beat him up.”

“Obviously I didn’t beat him up,” Jason said, rolling his eyes. “He’s not a suspect. Plus, I didn’t want him to tip off his buddy that I’m looking for him.”

Dick tossed the box some more. “I hate to be the one to break it to you, Jay, but I’m pretty sure that ship has sailed.”

Jason shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not.”

Stubborn to a fault. Some things never changed. “So, you went to question him. That took up at least half your morning. Then what happened?”

Jason sighed. “I hung out on his roof until he left for work, and then I lost him when he got on a bus.”

“Bested by public transportation once again, I see.”

Jason flipped him off.

“Anyway,” Dick continued, “As I was saying, pretty sure that our friend Not Sal took the Boomerang.”

“Yeah.” Jason crossed his arms. “What about it?”

“Well, it almost definitely honed in on him since it hit him in the head, and then he took it with him after being all ‘I’m mysterious, stop looking for me, wahh I’m a walking Bruce Wayne Adoption Case waiting to happen’.”

“The point, Dick.”

Dick smiled, ready to drive The Point home. “So I’m gonna say I was right and we could have used the Boomerang to track down Not Sal, aka Lazarus Kid, aka New Brother to Be!”

The first kernel popping underscored Dick’s very apt, completely faultless logic.

“You don’t know that.”

“Duke said the thing swooped in unnaturally and hit him in the head, so I’m gonna say I do know that.”

Jason half-turned and started shaking the pot, raising his voice to talk over the sound of popping corn. “Then I’m gonna say I was right that the Boomerang doesn’t actually track ghosts at all because it was supposed to track ghosts and it tracked him and he's not a ghost.”

"There was a ghost there though, according to Duke."

“According to Duke, he can’t actually see real ghosts."

Jason dumped the popcorn into a bowl, salting it generously and bringing it over to Dick.

“Then what does it do?”

Jason tossed a piece of popcorn into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “I don’t know. I guess we can ask Lazarus Kid when we find him.”

“Oh, so it’s ‘we’ now?”

“Tell me you’re not invested.”

“I’m not invested,” Dick said, just to see what Jason would say to that.

Jason tugged the bowl closer to his chest. “I see. Well, I guess I’ll have to eat this popcorn by myself then because it’s only for people invested in finding Lazarus Kid.”

“Oh, low blow, Jay.”

Jason threw a piece of popcorn in his mouth, very pointedly.

“Ok, I’m invested, but only because you make good popcorn.”

Jason smirked. “Everything’s better with butter.”

“True.”

They ate the popcorn in silence for a while before Jason asked, “So what’s in the box?”

Dick grinned and tossed it to him. “Open it.”

Jason’s expression as he pulled the item out of the box was priceless. “What the hell is this?”

“Exactly what it looks like: a tiny cowboy hat for Dr. Quack. To cover the melted wick.”

“Where did you even get something like this?”

“I asked Timmers to 3D print me a tiny cowboy hat, and he did.”

Jason sighed, but he had a small smile on his face. Score one for Dick.

“This is the weirdest thing you've ever given me, but thanks.”

“What are brothers for?”

"So far? Breaking into my apartment and eating my food. And crafting accessories for my candle."

"Where did you get that candle, anyway? I looked on etsy. There's nothing else like it out there."

"Why do you want to know?" Jason asked, tone suspicious.

"Uh, because I want one, obviously." he stole more popcorn. "Ducks are social creatures, Littlewing. Dr.Quack needs a friend. A brother duck."

Jason closed his eyes and leaned back on the couch. "Lazarus Kid gave it to me. It wards against evil spirits, supposedly."

"What?" Dick scoffed. "Where is this Duck Lore coming from and why am I only hearing about it now?"

"You didn't ask."

"Well, I'm asking now! All the more reason to find him. We need to find his duck candle supplier."

Jason snorted. "I already found her. Believe me when I say you really don't know what you're getting yourself into."

Dick smelled a story. "I think I'd like to find out. Clearly it's essential background knowledge in the search for Lazarus Kid."

"It really isn't—"

"I'll be the judge of that. Spill."

Jason shook his head, but he did explain. "Well. Her name is Jessica—"

early evening

After discovering that the bullet fragments had not simply destroyed Jason’s suit but also his body, Tim had reprioritized his never-ending list of things to do, moving the bullet analysis to the top. Some might call it a displacement activity, or a hyper-fixation, but making sure you knew everything about the bullets that could kill your supposedly nigh-bulletproof brother was a very normal, balanced reaction and Tim wouldn't hear anyone say anything against his completely well-adjusted coping mechanisms.

It wasn’t like he had much else to do while waiting to find Not Sal, who apparently held all the answers to all their questions. Tim was also still benched from his bruised ribs, so he had to put that energy into something. So: bullet analysis it was.

Of course, because no one who regularly visited the Bat Cave knew the meaning of ‘personal boundaries’, Damian showed up eventually. He could have arrived silently if he’d wanted to; the fact that he didn’t meant that he wanted to be noticed, and thus wanted something.

Tim never thought he’d see the day. First, ghosts were real and taking over Gotham; now Damian wanted to spend time with him? Would wonders never cease?

Well. Wonders, or a sign of the end times. Tim was undecided; he’d wait for more data.

“Damian. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Am I unwelcome in your lab?”

“Not since you stopped with the stabbings,” Tim said with a shrug, “But. You never visit my neck of the woods anymore, so. My question stands. Do you need help burying a body?”

“Tt. I’ve never needed help with that. Never kill someone you can’t dispose of yourself. What are you looking at?”

What a worrying set of words to string together. Tim took a miserable sip of coffee. Whatever That was about, he decided, it wasn’t his problem. “I’m analyzing the composition of bullet fragments that our friend Not Sal fished out of Jason’s stomach.”

“The ones that can pierce kevlar and liquid armor?”

“The very same.”

“Hn,” said Damian, narrowing his eyes as he looked over the read-out on the screen. “It looks like Nth metal.”

“Yes," said Tim, taking another sip of coffee. "Yes, it does.”

“That’s a highly coveted, extremely rare substance—”

“I’m aware.” Which, really, was the problem. “Technically, it’s an Nth metal alloy. There’re traces of copper, some lead, oh. And Lazarus Water.”

“There’s Lazarus Water in the bullets?” Damian crossed his arms. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. I ran the tests five times. So unless you think there’s something wrong with the software or the instruments, then yes.”

To say the least, learning that the bullets were some kind of nth metal alloy was not the news he’d been expecting. Or hoped for, really.

“And we are to assume the Markovian arms dealers are selling Nth metal bullets on the streets of Gotham?”

“Apparently. Unless they only had seven and used them all on Jason.”

“Why would someone use something so precious and rare to shoot Red Hood?” Damian mused.

“Have you met him?”

“Are you saying he’s worth it?”

Tim sighed. “I don’t know what I’m saying. Maybe they discovered that regular bullets just don’t keep him down. I don’t know why they’d bother mass-producing them, though. And based on what Jason found in their warehouse—”

“ —before he was shot,” Damian added angrily.

“—they apparently have, and I quote, ‘a fuck ton’ to sell.”

“Is that more or less than a metric ton?”

“I don’t think it’s been standardized.”

Damian huffed. “Todd owes much to the swear jar.”

“I still don’t see why they’d bother. Sure, they can make a lot of money, but why would anyone buy Nth metal bullets when regular bullets will usually get the job done? And why put Lazarus Water in bullets? It heals wounds, so unless it’s some kind of healing bullet…” Tim trailed off. He’d gone through this mental circuit enough times to know there was no obvious answer.

“There are many secrets to the Lazarus Pits even my grandfather did not know. Or did not divulge, at any rate. But perhaps whoever made these bullets has more personal experience with the pits.”

Tim leaned back in the chair, slowly turning it around. “You think Karma is actually Karma?”

“Ignoring how nonsensical that statement is—”

“It makes perfect sense in context, of which I know you are well aware—”

“Until we capture the individual who appears to be Karma, we cannot overlook the possibility that he was revived in a pit and knows exactly who Red Hood is. Who knows what else he might know?”

Tim drummed his fingers on the desk. “Still. Why try so hard to kill Jason?”

“Perhaps they did not expect to see him so early in their operation and wanted to make sure their scheme wasn't discovered. Or, perhaps, they weren’t trying to kill him, but put him out of commission.”

"And what would putting him out of commission accomplish?"

Damian's eyes got that pinched look that meant he was unhappy. "Well, as I said, we should assume this 'Karma', pretender or otherwise, knows who Red Hood truly is, in which case they may well know who Father is as well."

"You think they tried to kill Jason because they wanted to get to Bruce?"

"It would not be the first time someone has tried that tactic, would it?" Damian crossed his arms. "Such a tragedy would have put us all in an emotionally compromised state."

Tim smiled. "Aw, you do care about us."

Damian rolled his eyes but didn't deny it.

Tim considered what Damian said. It seemed a bit convoluted as a plan, but if there were one thing Tim could say about this whole situation, it was that nothing about it was clear. “Well, until we have more information, it’s all just idle speculation."

"You cannot plan for scenarios outside your ability to anticipate."

Well. He wasn't wrong about that.

"What’d you come down here for, anyway? I know it wasn’t just to see what I’m doing.”

Damian pursed his lips and looked away. “I require your conspiracy board.”

“You mean my Ghost Graffiti Vision Board? It’s not a conspiracy if it’s true.”

“Perhaps.”

Tim sighed. “What do you need it for?”

“I wish to confirm a theory concerning my petty crimes case, and since I am unable to use the computer to do so, I have no choice but to do it…manually.”

Well. Tim couldn’t think of a good reason to say no. “Sure. Just don’t remove anything from it. Every piece of string is important, and if you mess it up, I’ll know.”

“I don’t intend to remove the string. On the contrary, I think it might be important.”

“It is important.” Tim paused. “I thought this was a case you were working on with B?”

Damian scowled. “Father has been preoccupied of late, as I’m sure you’re aware. A series of petty crimes hardly holds a candle to a new drug, weapons deals, the potential return of Karma, occult graffiti, missing bartenders…did I miss anything?”

It was strange to hear Tim’s own thoughts about his photography case spoken back to him. From Damian, of all people.

“It’s only petty crimes for now. There’s more to it. It's a symptom of something else.”

“I know that." Damain sniffed. "I will figure it out and put an end to it, with or without father’s input.”

Tim drummed his fingers. “Would you like some help?”

“I can do it by my—”

“I know. I asked if you wanted help. Who knows? With the way things are going, perhaps your case is linked to all this too.”

Damian crossed his arms. “I fear it might be.”

Well. That didn’t sound good. “If the Iceberg Lounge showed us anything, it’s that we should probably talk about our cases more. Tell me what you have so far.”

Jason could not believe he was here again. To be fair, this was all Dick's idea. Dick had heard the tale of Jessica and, rather than agreeing he wanted nothing to do with it as any sane person would, he'd said "So when can I meet her and get a duck candle all of my own?"

So here they were, on the doorstep of Jessica's Magic Candles, regretting every choice that had led him to this moment.

Dick knocked, smile far too self-satisfied.

Jessica of Jessica’s Magic Candles opened the door, because she lived there. She was wearing an apron covered in wax this time. “Oh. It’s you again. With a friend!”

"Brother, actually," Dick said, pulling out the Grayson charm. "How do you do?"

"I knew you'd be back," she said.

“I didn't,” Jason mumbled.

“Did you come here for a tarot reading?”

"Actually," Dick cut in, "we came here for another duck candle. I saw his and I simply had to have one."

Rather than pleased, Jessica looked worried. "Are you being plagued by evil spirits as well? It's worse than I thought if it's targeting your whole family."

Jason would have laughed had he not been annoyed about the whole situation. "The only thing plaguing us is an insufficient number of ducks."

"I don't know about that. Your aura looks darker than it did before…"

Jason looked to Dick, hoping his desire to leave immediately was written on his face.

If it were, Dick ignored it. "He didn't actually use the duck candle, you know. He got attached, you know how it is."

"Oh, yes, I do. Better to sacrifice a duck candle to appease the spirits than an actual duck, though, right?"

"Um." Dick glanced over at Jason.

Jason couldn't wait to say 'I told you so'.

"I'm not so sure I want to sell candles you don't intend to use."

Jessica, back at it again with the bad business takes.

"What if we bought a candle to burn and a candle to keep?" asked Dick, ever the negotiator. "Maybe one without a face?"

Understanding dawned in her eyes, her mouth a small 'o'. If Jason were the betting type, however, he'd guess that whatever she was about to say was a vast misinterpretation of the situation.

“Oooh, you’re a vegan! Why didn’t you say so?”

“I’m not a—that isn’t—” Jason decided then and there that there probably weren’t enough words in any language to explain all the ways she was wrong. No use trying. “Do you have any faceless candles or not?”

She had the gall to look disappointed. “I know told you before: I make all my candles to order.”

That didn't sound right. It had only been a couple days since she'd told him about all the different, mildly appropriative candles she had. How could she have sold them all so quickly? “You don’t have any pre-made? Duck-shaped or otherwise?"

“Well, I did have some,” she explained, tone only somewhat patronizing, “but, well. I had to use them all.”

Jason took a moment to count to ten. He was not going to become her business manager, but god did she need one. “You used. All of them?”

She nodded.

“Why?”

“Well, it was a matter of life or death! You see, my mother. She was in an accident, they didn’t know who she was, she was stuck in a coma—that’s how I met our mutual friend!"

Jason mouthed 'Lazarus Kid' to Dick, who'd shot him a confused look.

Jessica continued, "I thought she was dead. He helped me learn that she wasn’t. Anyway,” she pressed on, ignoring the insane number of things that had just come out of her mouth, “my mother woke up yesterday. Well, not my mother. Someone else was there when she opened her eyes, and that just wouldn’t do. So I had to burn all the candles to banish whatever had taken up residence inside her.”

Jason had been wrong before. But never this wrong.

Coming here was the worst idea in his life, clearly. And it hadn't even been his idea. “How did you come to the conclusion that your mom was possessed?”

“I just knew. A daughter always knows.” she nodded as if that were at all a satisfactory explanation. “I'm trying to make more candles, as you can see—” she gestured to her wax-covered apron “—but my supplier hasn't been answering my calls. I found someone else who sells the right plants, but The Planchette said NO, so I’ll have to keep on looking…” she trailed off.

Jason didn’t often find himself speechless. But here he was. The fact that Dick also had nothing to say was more impressive, really. Dick always had something to say.

“Anyway,” she continued, “what is your problem that you need candles and/or the voice of the Dead for? You never said.”

Might as well tell her. Maybe she’d say something else to give Jason a colorful new appreciation for the grounded people in his life who just dressed up in kevlar and beat people up about their problems. “I just...I can't sleep. Well, I can, but I have nightmares. Nothing helps.”

“Ahh, I see, you need to sleep so that the spirits may guide you to The Voice of the Dead in your dreams, as they did me.”

“That's not—no.”

“This is a safe space.”

“Unless you’re an evil spirit,” Dick muttered. “Are you sure you don't have any way to find him?”

Jason bit back a sigh. He'd already explained why Jessica couldn't help him find Lazarus Kid, but Dick was stubborn enough to believe he could find a solution to a problem no one else could find.

He was right about that belief often enough to justify it, to be fair.

She considered that. “Well, I could try another tarot reading—how did the last one turn out, by the way? Did you see him at the Penguin exhibit at the zoo?”

Jason was about to tell her no, he had not, because he didn’t, but then he realized. He had seen Lazarus Kid at a Penguin exhibit, of a sort.

Jason was never telling her. The last thing Occultists needed was encouragement. “I didn't find him at the zoo, no,” he said, just as Dick opened his big fat betrayer's mouth to say, "Well, actually, funny you should ask! We saw him at the Iceberg Lounge! Before everything broke bad there. Like, waaay before. Days, even."

Jessica smiled. "I knew it was a good reading."

“Technically it wasn't a reading," Jason pointed out, for all the good it would do. "It was the wind.”

“The spirits use many voices to communicate, that's true.”

Jason wanted to scream. “Well, if the spirits are listening now and could point us in the right direction, I'd really appreciate that!”

She smiled and patted his hand. “I'll go get what you need.”

She turned and retreated into her apartment before Jason could tell her no. Or Dick could tell her yes, for that matter.

"I think this was a great idea, coming here,"' Dick said with a thousand watt grin. "I have so many good ones, you should listen to me more often."

"You would think that," Jason grumbled.

When Jessica returned, she had a white candle in hand. It was shaped like the bat symbol.

“I thought you said you didn’t have evil-spirit warding candles.”

“I don’t. This doesn’t ward—but it will help you sleep. It's a jasmine candle, it promotes clarity of mind and calls forth good dreams. And it smells nice. I made it for my girlfriend's little brother, but he's moved past Batman." she rolled her eyes, like they were co-conspirators in some inside joke. "Now he's all about Wonder Woman, so I’ve had this lying around.”

“You didn’t use it?”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t. Sometimes the bad dreams tell us more than the good ones. It’s how I found my mother. But everyone must walk their own path.”

Jason leaned against the doorframe. He really didn’t think he could take much more of this. “Is it a magic candle?”

“All my candles are magic," she said, expression serious.

There was no helping some people. “I don't say this often, so believe me when I say it's perfect. In short: we’ll take it,” said Dick.

Well. At least Jason would have no trouble burning this one.

“Wonderful—now, there's a specific route you'll have to take for the candle to work—”

“That’s really not necessary—”

“It is.”

Fifteen minutes of convoluted explanation later, he had his newest candle. He hoped this wasn’t a sign of a trend.

Just when he turned to leave at long last, she called him back.

“Ah, wait! You have something stuck to the back of your coat!” she reached over behind him; Jason felt the weight of her hand briefly and the sound of tape peeling off leather.

She offered it to him. It was a Bat Burger receipt. “I didn’t take you for a fan.”

“He's not,” said Dick. "A shame, really. Their Night-wings are to die for!"

Jason sighed and took the receipt from her. Maybe it had gotten stuck to him when he'd tried to follow Real Sal on the bus. Even as he thought it, he knew that wasn't right, but he didn't know how else it would have ended up on him. Based on the address at the top, it was from the newer Bat Burger in Crime Alley, god only knew why anyone thought that was a good place for a Batman-themed fast food franchise.

Jess smiled. “Maybe it’s a sign. You did ask for one.”

Jason just barely managed not to roll his eyes. “You mystic types see signs in everything.”

“There are signs in everything, if you know what to look for.”

"Yeah, J. There are signs in everything, listen to the expert," Dick teased.

Jessica smiled and walked back into her apartment. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again before too long, if the pattern holds. One of these days, you’ll do a proper reading.”

“If your bad advice pans out, maybe I will,” he joked, instead of over my dead body, which was just in poor taste. Her mother was unwell and maybe possessed.

"I will definitely be back for a duck candle. I'll commission one. Do you make them in blue?"

Jason looped his arm around Dick's neck. "He'll email you about it. Thanks, Jess. Good luck with your mom."

"I don't need luck, but I appreciate it."

When they were outside (at last) Dick stretched and smiled like the cat who caught the canary. "Well. That went great!"

"It did not. We spent way too much money on a candle that doesn't do anything."

"How do you know? Besides, we're supporting a small business owner. Suck on that, Bezos."

Jason sighed. "Well. Now you've met Jessica of Jessica's Magic Candles."

"You really did a poor job of describing her. She's funny, smart, driven—"

"You just like her 'cause she's a redhead."

"That's not the only reason," Dick said, clutching his heart. "Anyway, it's not like it was a total waste of time. You got a candle and a lead."

Jason stuffed the receipt in his pocket.

"I didn't get a lead. I got the opposite of a lead. 'Have a nice sleep and hope your dreams tell you something'? Please."

"First of all, she didn't say that. The opposite, really. Second of all," Dick poked him in the shoulder. "Bat Burger."

Jason rolled his eyes. "You just want to go 'cause Bludhaven doesn't have a Bat Burger."

"That's…not the only reason!" Dick crossed his arms. "In fact, I'll make a bet, here and now: when you inevitably decide 'fuck it' and go to Bat Burger, if for no other reason than you want to say 'I told you so', you'll find Not Sal. Maybe even Real Sal. And definitely a delicious burger, because overpriced or not, Bat Burger knows its stuff."

"If I go to Bat Burger, which I won't."

"You say that now, but a big brother knows."

"Uhuh."

"It's true!"

"Sure it is."

Bat Burger. Yeah, right.

late

Bruce waited exactly 19 hours to go visit "Sal" at his apartment for a short chat. A civilian would definitely need a cooling-off period between a visit from Red Hood and Batman, but Bruce couldn’t afford to wait too long.

He’d not protested when Jason stormed off into the night to interrogate the man. But he hadn’t said he wouldn’t be doing his own investigation as well.

One thing was apparent as soon as Bruce saw Sal Romano: he definitely wasn't the kid. Not that there'd been any doubt, but it didn't hurt to be hypervigilant.

Sal sighed, shoulders drooping, and pinched his nose.

"Please, why do you people keep showing up?"

He was ironing a Red Robin costume. Not a very well made one, but good enough. It was a uniform Bruce recognized.

So he was a Bat Burger employee. Interesting.

"You work at the Iceberg Lounge."

It wasn’t a question; Bruce had seen the photos Damian and Oracle had downloaded from Penguin’s Server showing Sal Romano at earlier shifts, working behind the bar. But part of being a good detective when working an uncooperative informant was establishing a baseline of what they looked like when they lied and told the truth.

"Yes? Or, I did. I'm thinking of quitting, given what happened.” He swallowed loudly, brow damp with sweat visible even in the dim evening light. “I, uh, could have died."

Bruce narrowed his eyes.

"You weren't working that night. But someone clocked in using your ID number. Who was it?'

"W-what makes you think I wasn't there?"

Bruce admired his bravery, annoying as it was at this moment. "Because I was there. Who are you protecting?"

Sal muttered something unsavory under his breath. "I already told Red Hood—"

"Nothing useful.” Bruce stalked closer, hugging the shadows enough to stay mostly hidden, but letting enough light fall on him to emphasize his size. “I know you know more."

A long beat, and then—

"He's my friend, ok?” Sal rubbed his eyes, shoulders drooping. Guilt? Stress? A combination of both? “He wouldn't have been there if it weren't for me. He was doing me a favor, and he almost died! He's just a kid, dammit."

"Maybe you should have thought of that before you involved him with Penguin."

"He needs money as much as any of us! If I'd known that would happen, I wouldn't have asked him! Please, he has nothing to do with anything that happened there, okay? He’s just a kid," he repeated.

Bruce waited for Sal to calm down before continuing. "I just need to talk to him."

Sal glared, Gotham defiance shining through. "So you say. I'm not gonna sell out my bro, especially after he saved my ass."

"People’s lives are at risk. He can help."

Sal looked uncertain. A little more, and he’d flip. They always did.

“Your friend could be in danger. I won't be able to help him if I don't know who he is."

"In danger? W-why?"

"Most criminals don't like witnesses to their crimes roaming around."

"Witnesses?"

Bruce bit back a sigh. Clearly, words were not getting through. “Why don’t you take a look out the window, Sal?”

Sal eyed him warily but shuffled over and peered out. “I don’t see what I’m supposed to—Jesus, are there people hanging from that light post?” he turned to Bruce. “Did you do that to them? Are you going to do that to me?”

“They were here, looking for you. Because they think you were at the Iceberg Lounge yesterday.” Bruce paused to let the implications of it all sink in. "I made sure they didn’t find you, but what do you think would've happened if they’d kidnapped you only to find out you're not the one they’re looking for?”

Sal shut his eyes and ran a hand through his hair. “Shit.”

"If we catch the ones responsible for this, the safer everyone will be. But I can't without your friend's help." Bruce paused. "All I need is a name."

Sal hesitated a moment longer. "Danny. His name is Danny."

Well. It was something. "Does Danny have a last name?"

"I don't know, man, probably? He never told me. His family is out of the picture. They don't even live here, they're in the midwest somewhere I guess.” He covered his eyes with a hand, voice rough with emotion. “I swear, that's all I know!"

“You don’t know where he lives? Whether he’s in school?”

“He’s in school. He complains about it as much as any teen. I don’t know which one, though,” he added.

Bruce wanted to push a little more, but Sal was clearly at his limit. He hadn't done anything wrong; he wasn't a criminal and this wasn't an interrogation. At least he'd confirmed one of Bruce’s theories.

"Thank you, Sal. You've been a huge help. I promise nothing bad will happen to Danny."

"No offense, Batman, but that's not a promise you can make."

Batman nodded. "We won't bother you again."

“Lucky me,” he grumbled under his breath.

Bruce stalked back towards the windows. It was something, but it wasn’t enough, and he didn’t have time to track down one kid with Constantine due to return any day now expecting results, not to mention the case Jim had given him, and trying to make sure Duke felt at home in the Manor, and processing how close Jason had once again come to death—

"Hey, Batman?"

Bruce paused.

"Help him if you can? I don't know exactly what he's got going on, but if anyone needs help, it's Danny."

"That's what I'm trying to do."

Sunday, October 16th, morning

“Danny. What the shit.”

Danny sighed. “What.”

“Batman showed up at my apartment last night. Looking for you!” Sal crossed his arms. “I can’t take this, bruh. My ma’s sick, you know. She don’t like vigilante-flavored surprises.”

“What do you expect me to do about it? Commit a felony so the bats show up to get me, and tell them to leave you alone?”

“I mean, I wouldn’t hate it if you did that.”

“Yes you would,” Tamara cut in, “because if something happened to Danny then you’d have to take the trash out all the time.”

“True, I would hate that. Though you currently have me on trash duty for the next month—”

“Because you almost killed Danny!”

“I really think that’s an exaggeration of events,” Danny said. “But, look. I promise if I ever meet any of the bats for non-felony reasons, I’ll tell them to leave you alone, ok?”

“Yeah, sure, whatever.” Sal crossed his arms. “Probably the only chance I’ll ever get to meet Batman and he interrogated me.”

“Better you than me,” Danny joked.

Sal rolled his eyes. “Hopefully, now that they’ve seen I’m not you, the word’ll get around.”

“‘The word’?” Tamara repeated. “What word?”

“I dunno, that I’m not Danny, I guess!”

She narrowed her eyes. “Did you tell Batman Danny’s name?”

“What? No.” He glanced away. A bead of sweat rolled down his neck.

“Sal…”

“Shit. Okay, fine! Maybe I did! I’m sorry, Danny, Batman is really scary, okay? I thought he was gonna kill me!”

“That’s the one thing Batman doesn’t do!” Tamara groaned. “Everyone knows that! You work at Bat Burger for christ's sake!”

“It’s a little hard to hold onto that fact when he’s in your bedroom because, and I reiterate, he broke in to interrogate you! I didn’t tell him anything else, okay? There are probably a million Dannys in Gotham! Hell, my cousin’s name is Danny! Or maybe it’s Denny…we’re not close.”

Danny closed his eyes. This was definitely Clockwork’s fault, somehow.

Tamara, likewise, was not satisfied. “Who else did you tell? Penguin? His goons? Two-Face?”

“No one, I swear!” Sal cried. “Besides, Batman took care of the goons for me—”

“Goons came after you?” Danny felt the bottom of his stomach drop. “Why?”

“According to Batman, criminals don’t like witnesses and, uh. You’re a witness. Or they think I am, or…I’m not real clear on who’s actually in danger, okay? Maybe we all are.”

Well, this was an unsatisfactory situation, to say the least.

Danny tried not to look over his shoulder as he walked home, but that was easier said than done. The noose around his neck was tightening, and he was running out of options.

Bats were after him. Goons were after him. Probably the IRS, too. They seemed to be after everyone.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to let the Bats catch up to him. Maybe they would just want to talk to him one time and then they’d leave him alone, take care of anyone else trying to chase him down…

Who was he kidding? His luck was never that good.

Needless to say, it was a relief to get back to his apartment without anyone accosting him, but somehow he knew his problems were just beginning.

“Hey, Phantom,” Milo said, fading into existence next to him. “I got the intel I was looking for. I know where Penguin’s gonna be, and when. Shit, being a detective is easy when you’re dead.”

Danny smiled. “I’m glad you had some luck with it.”

“Luck schmuck. This was all skill. Anyway, like I thought, he’s planning to move out pretty quick. Laying low for a couple days so the cops, Bats, and Markovians lose his scent, and then it’s go time.” he frowned. “I did scout ahead to see what was going on at the place he mentioned, some warehouse in the Tricorner, but it was weird. I couldn’t get into the backroom at the warehouse, so I don’t know what might be back there.”

“You couldn’t get back there? Why not?”

“I don’t know. Never met a wall I couldn’t walk through since I became like this, but there it was. A wall I couldn’t walk through.” he hummed. “Nice to see there are still new things I can experience, even dead.”

Danny frowned. That wasn’t good. He knew for a fact there weren't any leylines in the Tricorner strong enough to manipulate into a wall to block a ghost. “Did it hurt you?”

“Not exactly. It felt strange, but it was just like the way walls used to be. Solid." He crossed his arms. "Anyway, whatever’s back there, it’s nothing the Bats can’t handle.”

“You hope.”

Milo sniffed. “Yeah. Anyway. I’ll probably hang around to watch the night of.”

“When’s that?”

“Tomorrow. The Bats should be free. No one whose worthy of their attention commits crimes on a Monday. All I need for you to do is write the note, and then we gotta track down some trackers.”

“The bat trackers? We left them on the train. Do they even still work?”

“Of course they do, Batman made them. Those things probably work in space, even. Anyway, I have a genius plan for getting their attention to the note in a timely fashion. It’ll be great.”

“Will it make them mad? Because I’m worried they’re already kinda mad at me.”

Milo tossed his head side to side. “It might annoy ‘em a bit, but they won’t be able to complain since we’re handing them everything they could want on a platter.”

"Except for me," Danny pointed out.

Milo waved him off. “Anyway, if you could drop it off for them tonight, that’ll give ‘em a whole almost day to prepare for Pingo. And after that…”

“After that what?”

Milo smiled and ruffled Danny’s hair. “Nah, it’s nothing. We’ll worry about ‘after’ when we get there.”

The tone of Milo's voice put Danny on edge, but he didn't have the bandwidth to tease out what might be behind it right now. Right now, Danny had to worry about writing this note to the Bats. And his Spanish homework. And maybe the goons that were after him and/or Sal.

With a sigh, he pulled out his notebook. “Alright. Lay it on me. The when, the where, the who.”

early evening

Duke usually liked weekends. Usually, he got to spend time with Izzy, finish his homework, get a good patrol in, and sometimes even have time to hang out with his friends and family.

The Saturday after the Iceberg Lounge incident was anything but enjoyable.

He spent his Saturday at the GCPD answering questions he'd already answered as well as questions he wished he could answer, like what had happened to the other barback he'd been working with, and did said barback actually exist because they were getting conflicting accounts about that, and if he existed why had he left before talking to the Police, and was he involved with any of the high profile criminals who'd made an appearance last night, and did Duke know who he was, and and and and and—

And then, he'd had to tell Izzy he still hadn't found her brother, and then he'd had to go on patrol, and then it was late and he still had homework, and the Iceberg Lounge had called him to ask him to come in tomorrow to pick up his hazard pay, and Duke sometimes wondered why he did any of this.

By the time Saturday was over, it felt like he'd been running in circles.

Sunday hadn't been much better. It brought with it a huge squall that apparently was the remnants of a hurricane down south. He didn't hate rain, but it was always harder to get anything done when you were up to your eyes in it.

It had been several long hours of dissatisfying searching. For Karma, for Two-Face, even Penguin was in the wind.

What it boiled down to was Duke floundering around in the rain, conflicted about which direction to take, and accomplishing a whole lot of nothing.

In short: Patrol hadn’t gone great, and to top it all off, he’d missed visiting hours. Again.

He didn’t have time to spiral about it—and he didn’t get the time, either.

“Signal,” came Oracle’s voice through the comms. “Are you still on patrol?”

“I was just about finished up, why?”

“Two of the trackers we attached to Not Sal just went offline, but one of them is on the move again.”

Duke sighed, stopping on top of a water tower. He didn't like to talk and grapple at the same time if he could avoid it. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I am not chasing down a ghost train.”

“It’s not looping through the abandoned train lines anymore,” Oracle said, then paused. “It’s on top of your uncle’s apartment building.”

“Excuse me.”

“I said—”

“I heard you, but—why?”

“Maybe he’s giving himself up?” she tried. “Better go check it out. I can alert back-up if you need it…”

“I don’t." Duke stood up. "Let’s go see what this is about.”

When he got to the tracker, he was as disappointed as he was unsurprised. Not Sal wasn’t in sight, but there was a note frozen to the roof door.

Duke peeled it off and snorted.

To the bat and/or birds who left the three (3) trackers on me: First of all, NOT COOL. AND I WOULD KNOW WHAT IS AND IS NOT COOL.

Second of all. I was asked to pass along some information to you, and I do so in the vain hope that MAYBE you’ll leave me alone. Long story short: I know where Penguin is. Or will be, anyway, which is far more helpful to you, anyway. Easier to plan, so I hear. Pingo's been laying low, but I guess he thought enough heat was off him today to make some moves.

Anyway. He’s going to be in the Tricorner docks tomorrow night at 8 PM. There's a warehouse there registered as storage and delivery for the Iceberg Lounge—off the books, as I understand. Which is never good, probably. IDK. They say that on crime shows and TV would never lie.

Third of all. There’s a guy who lives in this building who I’m like 98% sure knows the Signal (sorry if that’s supposed to be a secret Signal but them’s the breaks). He was telling me that some bartenders from the Iceberg Lounge have gone missing. I don’t know about that, but maybe ask him about it? And then ask Penguin about it? He’s probably downstairs like, right now. Duke, I mean. Not Penguin. Though IDK if Duke is his real name, actually.

Anyway. You can thank me for saving you time and effort by never looking for me.

[P.s. I'm keeping the Booo-merang.]

Well. That was certainly not how Duke was expecting the evening to end. He hadn't expected Not Sal to care about the very brief mention of missing people. Also, clearly someone needed to tell Not Sal that if he wanted a team of detective to leave him alone, he shouldn't reveal that he had the kind of connections that took what would have been a multi-day search through all Penguin’s holdings and narrowed it down to one location and time immediately.

He tapped his comm. "Oracle."

"Signal. Did you find the tracker?”

“I did, yes. Our friend Not Sal gave us a lead on Penguin.”

“He did what? Why? And how?”

“I don’t know. It’s not a very long note. He gave us a time and a location.” Duke smiled. “I don’t suppose there’s any video footage of him leaving this note?”

“Already checked. Nada.”

"Yeah, figures. So. Do you want the intel or not?"

"You know I do."

Duke smiled. "Good."

late

As Bruce waited in the dark of Jason’s apartment, he wondered if this was the best approach.

Unfortunately, it was the only approach he knew of at this point, and anyway, it was too late to back out now. Jason didn’t come to the manor. Jason wouldn’t answer his calls. Bruce didn’t want to send this over text or via a proxy.

He wanted to tell Jason himself. Even if it meant waiting in his apartment for him.

All too soon and not soon enough, Jason was back. He took one look at Bruce and sighed. “What are you doing here?”

“What do you think?”

Jason didn’t answer that question; he moved through his apartment, shedding layers. He had a small gift bag that he placed gently on the counter, followed by his “civilian” gun, as he called it. He pointedly released the magazine and started counting the bullets.

Bruce didn’t know whether it was a self-soothing habit or something he was doing now to spite Bruce specifically. The fact that Bruce wasn’t sure killed him.

“You realize I’m going to have to move now?” Jason said at last. “I really liked this place.”

"You don't have to move—"

"Can't have Batman just showing up at all hours, uninvited—"

"You were shot." It was a low blow, Bruce knew, but it was true. But it wasn’t what Bruce had come there to talk about.

Jason looked away. "It was a month ago."

"Yes. And you didn't tell anyone." Unsaid: you didn't tell me.

"I told Dick.” Jason shrugged. “Besides, I got better."

"Because you were helped by an unknown party, who just happened to have a special ability to help you.”

“You say that like you wouldn’t have been exploded by an RPG if that same kid hadn’t saved your ass.”

Well. He wasn’t wrong. But Bruce still didn’t know enough to move beyond this—his mind kept playing ‘shot seven times in the stomach’ on repeat. Stomach wounds were painful. They bled sluggishly—a slow death.

A merciless one.

“Would you have been alright if he hadn't helped you?"

"I mean, Tim was close by," Jason hedged. "So, probably.”

He put down his gun and turned away, opening the fridge. It was worryingly empty.

"And you would have asked him for help?" Bruce pressed.

"Does it matter? I didn't need to." Jason pulled a milk carton out of the fridge, sniffed it, shrugged, and downed the rest. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

Bruce bit back a sigh, knowing this display was definitely just to irritate him specifically. “What did Sal Romano tell you?”

“Nothing useful.”

“Jason—”

“No.”

“I didn’t say anything yet.”

“You’re gonna ask me about the kid. The answer is no, I’m not telling you about him yet.”

Bruce took a deep breath and tapped into that well of patience that, at this rate, was going to run dry. “May I ask why not?”

“Nothing to tell.” Jason leaned back against the kitchen sink, arms crossed. “Haven’t found him yet.”

“There’s obviously something. You told Dick.”

“Yeah, I did. So you can get off my back about it now.”

Bruce considered his options. The safest was just to let it go and wait for Jason to tell him in his own time. But time was rarely on their side, and Bruce needed to do something. “If nothing else, he has some of my tech. I need it back.”

Jason snorted. “You say that like I personally can do something about getting it back to you.”

“There is—if we share our information—”

“Oh, so now you want to share? You first, then.”

This wasn’t going well.

Bruce didn’t have patience for games like these. He didn't want to play games at all. But life rarely cared about what Bruce wanted.

He'd been planning to tell Jason, anyway. He could share this story. “I met him once before. In Crime Alley.”

The fact that Jason didn’t need to ask when and why Bruce had been there—or protest it—was a fact Bruce was choosing to interpret as ‘promising’.

“He reminded me of you, a bit, the first time we met," Bruce continued. That impression had only been solidified at the Iceberg Lounge. “At first, I thought he was you.”

Jason snorted. “Did he try to steal your tires or something?”

“No. It was more the way he looked."

"So he just appeared and you thought 'hey, a kid with black hair in Crime Alley, he's just like Jason."

"No." Bruce pressed his thumbs together. "He just treated me like…well. ‘Just some guy’."

"Really."

"He also beat up three muggers and told them to get lost.”

"There it is, violence. That's what reminded you of me."

"Protection," Bruce countered.

Jason narrowed his eyes. “It’s funny, you know. I thought he was you, when I met him. And then Dick. Black-haired, blue-eyed, snarky. Helpful. Kind. To be fair, I was bleeding out and minorly concussed, but still.”

This was positive, Bruce decided. They were talking, there was no antagonism. Or very little. “I thought he was a ghost.”

Now Jason was laughing. At Bruce, yes, but it was still better than nothing. “No shit? Like, a real ghost?”

“He said some very cryptic, worrying things, and then disappeared. Literally." Bruce smiled. "What was I supposed to think?”

“So he ghosted you too, huh? I guess you have known about ghosts for a long-ass time now,” Jason grumbled.

Bruce took a deep breath, in and out. “The information was always available to be found. I suppose I thought you especially would have already known about them.”

This was a dangerous conversation topic, but Jason liked danger. He liked the challenge of it.

Bruce didn’t. But he wanted to make Jason happy.

“Well, they don’t give you a guidebook when you die. It just happens, and then sometimes, it un-happens. Still no guidebook. Though Lazarus Kid did mention one, might've been a joke, though.”

“Danny. His name is Danny.”

Jason turned sharply to stare at him, eyes flashing greenish in the dim street light slanting through the blinds. “How do you know that?”

“I asked Sal Romano. Nicely.”

Jason stared at him. “You broke into his apartment and interrogated him, didn’t you.”

“I didn’t interrogate him,” Bruce denied. “I questioned him.”

“So did I! Jeopardy style. Very thoughtful. Red Hood’s nicest interview ever.” He grinned, all teeth. “Anyway, I’m gonna keep looking for Danny. You let me take point on this.”

“Why?” Bruce wasn't surprised by the demand, but he wanted to hear the reasoning. Not something he deduced from secondhand information, but something he heard from Jason himself.

Jason smirked, as if he understood exactly why Bruce was asking. Still, he humored Bruce with an answer. “Because I saw him first.”

“Technically, you didn’t.”

Jason rolled his eyes.

“But, fine.”

Jason eyed him warily. "Fine? Just like that?"

"You don’t trust me?"

"Well, you broke into my apartment to have a conversation, so, no, not really. Why are you letting me take point?"

It had gone well so far, but Bruce doubted ‘because it seems important to you’ would appease Jason. Even if it were true.

Bruce sighed. "Danny didn’t seem…open to the idea of meeting Batman when we chatted inside the ice he shielded us with. Bruce Wayne has no reason or ability to track down someone like Danny. But it stands that we need his help, and he might need ours. I don't want to scare him off."

Jason shot him a smile caustic enough to eat through iron. "And you think sending Red Hood after him conveys warmth and welcome?"

"You do have a rapport with him. And you’re not only Red Hood, Jason." Bruce stood up. He’d already overstayed the welcome that hadn’t existed to begin with. “You don’t need to move. I won’t come here again without an invitation.”

“Like that’s stopped you before,” Jason mumbled. “Why bother breaking in, anyway?”

“Situational awareness training.”

“Oh, goody,” Jason snarked. “Did I pass?”

“The only thing that might kill you here is the milk.”

“Smelled fine.”

“It expired two weeks ago.”

“So?”

Bruce sighed. “You’re lactose intolerant.”

“Not anymore. The ectoplasm that I apparently have takes care of all that.” He smiled manically. “Nothing can stop me now. Queso City, here I come.”

Bruce sighed again. “Goodnight Jason.” He paused. “I did find one other possible lead about Danny. I think he works at Bat Burger.”

“Bat Burger?" Jason scowled. Bruce knew he wasn't a fan, but it was an extreme reaction nonetheless. "How do you figure?”

“Well. Sal works there.”

“So?”

“Bat Burger doesn’t do background checks and you get to wear a mask while you work. For someone looking to hide…seems like an ideal job.”

“Still. Bat Burger? Right under your nose, just like that?”

“Batman doesn’t go to Bat Burger,” Bruce said. “A known fact.”

“But Bruce Wayne does.”

Bruce just smiled. “Yes, but Danny doesn’t know that, does he?”

Jason narrowed his eyes, but it was the kind that belied thinking rather than irritation. A hopeful sign.

“Use the fire escape to leave,” he said after a beat, thoughts his own for now. “It’d be embarrassing if anyone who knows me sees Batman leaving from my front door. What will the neighbors say? They think I’m such a reputable young man.”

Bruce raised an eyebrow but left the way he came. He didn’t like fighting with Jason. He never had.

Monday, October 17th, morning

Barbara sighed and pushed her glasses up her nose. Hours of staring at a screen never got any easier, and yet she never felt more in her element than when she was here, doing this: sifting through data, looking for clues.

Usually by this point, she would have the beginning of some potential leads to chase. So far, though, she had nothing.

The closest thing she had to a lead was something Bruce had asked her to do, which was to look through Bat Burger employee information to see if Sal Romano worked there. What she could find was interesting and would be something she’d like to study, but it hadn’t helped. Unlike Penguin, the Bat Burger HQ Server did not keep detailed information on their employees. Each franchise had a reference number and basic information about the current number of employees, but not who they were. All of that information was managed privately by each individual Bat Burger.

She’d looked through a few, just to see what she could find, but half the franchises were ‘paper only’ types, and the other half were so disorganized it almost seemed deliberate. It might have been; lots of undocumented people worked for Bat Burger.

In short, it wasn’t a very productive avenue to venture down, and Bruce had said as much. It’s nothing more than a hunch, he’d said, so don’t spend too much time on it.

She wouldn’t have, but she didn’t have any other better hints to explore. All of the video footage from the Iceberg Lounge involving their friend Not Sal was corrupted. It wasn’t as bad as the body cam footage Tim had tried to take of him, but it was still unusable.

Barbara was still betting that it was some kind of scrambling tech, not ghosts. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had used experimental technology to circumvent surveillance. Then again, she and Tim had worked on the mask cameras to counter that kind of tech, so if it were tech, it was something she wasn’t familiar with.

She didn’t know what to make of all this talk of ghosts. She supposed it wasn’t that different from aliens, and Lazarus Pits, and metas. She didn’t really understand what they were, though. Were they actually human souls, or something else?

She’d found some research published in a scientific journal, but a lot of it read as extremely prejudiced. Not to mention at least half of the published research came from individuals who claimed not to have ever encountered a ghost—or an ectoplasmic entity, as the ectologists preferred to call them. That was highly suspect in Barbara’s book.

But physicists wrote about things whose existence they could only posit, and that was looked on as legitimate, so who could say, really? If the Higgs-Boson particle could be taken seriously enough to build the CERN particle collider, then why not posit the existence of ghosts based on limited but consistent data?

If nothing else, it was something else she’d have to research, when she had the time. She had much more pertinent research topics to prioritize at the moment, like where Bruce had gotten the ghost-tracking device, and how did it work. Engineering was really more Tim’s purview, but she’d like to take a crack at it. Tim was distracted right now anyway.

Her top priority right now, however, was locating Pamela. No one had seen or heard from Poison Ivy since she’d left the Birds of Prey. After betraying them. A fact that was as unsurprising as it was painful. A quiet Ivy was a dangerous Ivy, and she’d been under the radar long enough that Barbara was starting to wonder whether she should recruit more people to help search for her. Cass and Steph were doing an admirable job sweeping the city, but they’d seen neither vine nor petal from Ivy, despite their efforts.

Well. Maybe Lazarus Sal could help locate Ivy, if he really could talk to ghosts. Given what Duke had told her about the note Not Sal had left, she was feeling optimistic.

Barbara was pulled from her thoughts by her phone—her dad was calling. That was unusual. Hopefully no one was dying. “Hey, pops. What’s cooking?”

He huffed a laugh. “Don’t call me that. It makes me feel old.”

“Understood, Father Commissioner, sir.”

He sighed, but it sounded fond.

“What’s going on?” she prompted. “It’s not like you to call me at work.” He knew she was busy. He was busy, too.

“Oh, nothing bad, I just wondered if you’d heard about the whole Iceberg Lounge debacle.”

Read: did she know anything further she could share.

“My usual source of gossip on these matters seemed…occupied,” he continued.

Read: he’d noticed it was Dick in the Batman costume. Or at the very least, not Bruce.

He must be frustrated by the radio silence if he were calling her about it. She wasn’t sure how to feel about that. They often worked together, but not usually so…directly. It was one of those ‘if neither of us acknowledges it then we can maintain plausible deniability’.

“I heard a bit about it, yeah,” she offered at last. This was a secure line, but she’d recently been introduced to one way her tech was failing her. Clearly, one could never be too sure of anything. Because ghosts. She continued, “Nothing is clear yet, but I’m sure you’ll hear more soon.”

“Soon, huh.”

“Sorry, dad. It’s a weird one. We're still sorting out the facts ourselves.”

“Yeah…lot of that going around these days.” He sighed again. “Anyway, how’ve you been?”

Oh boy. Small talk with dad time. “Busy, you know how it goes.”

“No one goes into the public sector for the money or the free time.”

She chuckled, mostly for his sake. “True enough.”

“As long as you’re happy and you remember to take time for yourself on occasion.”

“Like you do?”

“Yeah, fair.”

She decided to throw him a bone. “I went out for drinks with Dinah the other day.” Never mind that it had been about three months ago now. ‘The other day’ was such a usefully vague turn of phrase.

“Oh yeah? That’s nice. It’s good to have a friend outside Gotham.” read: it's good to have friends who don't wear capes.

If he only knew.

“Hey, I have multiple friends outside Gotham. Do you?”

“Yeah, but they’re all in Chicago, so.”

“No dice?”

He chuckled. “Anyway, I know you’re busy, I’ll let you go. I just wanted to… check in. Maybe we could get dinner sometime this week. Or whenever you’re free.”

“Sure dad. I’d like that.”

“If you’re not too busy, I mean—”

“Never too busy for my old man.”

“I’m not that old,” he protested. “I don’t even qualify for senior discounts at Costco.”

“I could make you a fake ID that lists your birth year as 195—”

“Hey now, no, I’ll pay the full, non-senior price for a couple more years, thanks.”

“Uhuh. Well." She smiled. Ending phone calls was the worst. "I’ll call you sometime this week, we’ll figure out dinner.”

“Okay. Good. Yes. I'd like that.”

“Night dad.”

“Goodnight, Barbara.” She hung up. Things were…better with her dad. Not great, not terrible. He didn’t approve of what she did. He was proud of her. He couldn’t talk about it. He asked her why they didn’t talk anymore.

Well. No one went into the vigilante business because they wanted something to talk about.

“Knock, knock.”

Babs turned. One of the library interns—Paula, if Barbara wasn’t mistaken—was leaning through the doorframe, braid dangling over her shoulder. She was still in school, Barbara was pretty sure. Nice kid.

“What’s up?”

“Sorry, I know you’re working, but there’s a patron out front asking if we rent out cassette players?”

“Cassette players?” Barbara frowned. “Why?”

“I dunno, he said he needs one to record something, I guess, and thought we might have some.”

Barbara considered. She’d remember renting them as a kid to listen to audiobooks, way back in the way back. The Gotham Library never threw anything away.

“I think we might still have a few in the basement archives, if you know how to get down there. You have to take the stairs in the very back, there’s a key hanging in the staff room—”

“Oh, I know how to get down there, I go at least once a week. I love it down there! So creepy! Total TMA vibes, amirite?” She shot Barbara a wink and a finger gun. “I’ll go take care of it. Thanks, Babs!”

Barbara sighed. Hipsters and their lo-fi beats. It was fine; using the library meant library funding, so she couldn’t complain. There was also no wheelchair-friendly path to get down there, so if she didn’t have to ask someone else to go, all the better.

Someone really should fix that. Maybe Bruce would make a generous donation to the library…

Who was she kidding? Of course he would.

lunch

Danny stared at his phone, willing himself to make the call. It probably wasn’t his greatest idea, doing this during his limited free time. On a Monday no less. But he’d put it off all weekend and this morning he'd been busy at the library and. Well. What it boiled down to was: he really couldn’t wait anymore.

He hadn’t dialed the number in months—hadn’t let himself do it. But now it was a matter of ever-increasing importance.

It was one thing if Batman had used the Booo-merang to find him. It was another thing altogether if Batman was working with his parents to find him.

He took a deep breath, in and out, and pressed call.

It rang four times, and then—

“You've reached Fenton Works. We're busy — chasing ghosts! —but if you leave your name and number, we'll get back to you as soon as possible. If you're calling to report a ghost emergency, please hang up and call the police. They can reach us with the ghost siren. Thanks for calling!”

Of course he got the answering machine. Not surprising; his parents rarely answered the Fenton Works phone. Mostly because people called to yell at them more often than for “Legitimate Ghost Reasons”.

Well. The least painful option had failed. Time for the next one: the home phone.

Ring, ring, ring, ring—

“You've reached the Fentons! That's Jack — Maddie — Jazz — and—” Danny winced and pulled the phone away from his ear at the painful static. “If you're calling about a ghost emergency—”

Danny hung up.

The next number was by far the most painful. The most likely one to answer, and the most dreaded.

He dialed his mom's number, heart pounding. It rang once, twice— “Your call has been forwarded to an automated voice messaging system. Maddie’s Cellphone is not available. The mailbox is full and cannot accept messages at this time. Goodbye.”

Danny sighed before the message could repeat. Just his luck.

He had one last thing to try—something he never thought he’d ever do. It went against everything he believed, but he needed to know if his parents were in Gotham.

He dialed. He waited. “Amity Park Police Department, this is Linda, how may we assist you?”

Well. At least he’d reached an actual person. “Uh, yes, hi, are you the people to call if we spot a ghost?” he asked, trying to sound like someone who had definitely seen a ghost and was super worried about it, totally. “I mean, other than the Fentons? I tried calling them but they didn’t pick up, and the voicemail said to call you guys if there were an emergency, so…”

Linda sighed. “Is this another prank call? No one’s seen a ghost in months.”

“Yes, I know, but I saw one over by the park, I swear! A big green dog.” Sorry, Cujo.

Linda sighed again. “Are you sure? We’ve finally fixed up all the GAV damage—”

“I’m positive. Pretty positive. It looked like a ghost.”

“Can you describe it to me?”

“It was, uh, green? And dog shaped?”

He could practically hear her eyes rolling. He didn’t blame her; he was being super annoying.

“I’m really scared, I’m pretty sure this is one I saw in that self-guided ghost tour brochure at the bus station—”

“Alright, young man, settle down. I’ll call them up. For their sake, I hope it is a ghost. I saw Jack Fenton moping around town hall this morning with the missus right on his heels—anyway, if you’re this skittish about ghosts, maybe you should move along to a different town.”

So they weren’t in Gotham. They weren’t looking for him. He wasn’t on their radar.

He should have been relieved. Instead, he was just…disappointed. “Thanks, Linda. I gotta go!”

He hung up before she could say anything else, like ‘who are you’. When his parents got to the park and didn’t see a ghost there, they’d be disappointed, sure, but Danny knew for a fact that disappointment couldn’t kill you.

The bell rang, signaling the end of fourth period. Spanish class was next. He doubted his absence would be noted, but it was important to him to go when he could.

With a sigh, he zipped up his backpack and headed for the door.

afternoon

This was a stupid idea. Jason had had a lot of those lately.

After Bruce's impromptu "visit", Jason had spent all night trawling the streets looking for the Markovians and come up empty. Neither threats of violence nor delivering on said threats had gotten him answers. His heart hadn't really been in it; he'd been thinking about Lazarus Kid. Danny. It was hard to beat someone into submission when thinking about something like 'I finally know the name of the one who saved my life'. It was hard to be Red Hood and do what Red Hood needed to do when it was precisely the things that Red Hood stood for in the eyes of the public that made Danny run.

Of course he ran. Why would anyone in their right mind give Red Hood the benefit of the doubt? But Jason wasn't only Red Hood, he was Jason, too. Danny didn't know that, of course, and the way things were going, Jason might not get the chance to explain.

He'd ended the night with no new leads on Karma and the Markovians. No new leads on Danny, either. Dead ends all around.

Except. In a moment of weakness and morbid curiosity, he'd lit the stupid 'good dream' candle. And it had worked. He'd slept fine. No good dreams, but no bad ones, either. Maybe it was a coincidence. Or maybe Jess was right about something.

So he didn't have any leads, except. The candle had helped him sleep, despite him believing the whole thing was bullshit. He’d found Lazarus Kid—Danny—at a penguin-aligned location, despite the clue only being given by wind and chance. And on top of the receipt being stuck to his coat after asking for a sign, Bruce had mentioned Bat Burger to Jason as a location to investigate.

So, he didn't have any leads, except he did, if we were willing to do something stupid.

Standing across the street from the Crime Alley Bat Burger, he vowed that no one would ever hear about this. Especially Dick. He'd never shut up about it. Unfortunately for Jason's sense of pride and ever-waning ability to Deny, he was getting that same feeling that had plagued him for the past three weeks. A distinct tug with the distinct flavor of pit waters. He’d felt that same tug at the Iceberg Lounge, the one that said turn around, and then there Danny had been.

This was a stupid idea, yeah, but maybe it wasn't stupid at all. The only stupid thing would be to not investigate it because it seemed stupid. Ghosts were real, after all, and he had died and come back to life, and he knew several aliens personally. No use getting hung up on something like realism this late in the game.

The worst thing that would happen is he’d walk inside and he’d be wrong. Being wrong wouldn’t kill him—he knew that from experience. He’d been wrong a lot lately.

With one last forlorn sigh, he crossed the street and walked inside.

His first thought was a violent reminder of why he avoided Bat Burger on principle: the uniforms. The bright colors. The decorations. They were all just so…bad. Tasteless.

His second thought wasn't much of a thought at all, because as soon as he looked at the server behind the counter, Jason just. Stopped. Stopped thinking, stopped feeling, stopped processing altogether.

The person manning the register was wearing an old Robin costume. Jason's old Robin costume, or a uniform inspired by it, at least. The yellow cape, the red mask, the green gloves. Even the way his hair was styled was the same.

Normally the uniforms were just cringe-worthy attempts at the Bats’ attire. The employees wearing them rarely looked enough like the actual vigilantes to mistake them for the real thing.

But this Robin had black hair. He had muscle definition. He had a wariness about him that had Jason doing a double take.

He didn't just look like a Robin; he looked like Jason. It was uncanny. It was like seeing a ghost, or traveling back in time and looking at himself, because this kid had to be around the same age Jason had been the last time he was Robin.

When he died.

This Jason 2.0 was also the source of the pit's siren call. A fact that Jason realized as soon as he got over the fact that he wasn't looking at his own ghost.

He was, however, looking at the kid he'd been searching for going on four weeks now. Danny.

He’d found Danny.

Chapter Text

Monday, October 17th

Jason was of the strong opinion that often the only difference between tragedy and comedy was framing, perspective, and where the story ended. From the point of view of the characters, there was very little difference.

Jason didn't like to think of himself as a character in a story—life rarely held the kind of intention and meaning that stories did—but if someone had asked him which genre's elements had shaped his life, he would have said tragedy.

At this present moment, however, he would have bet at least one of his pistols that if anyone were watching, they were laughing at him.

There was probably a lesson in all this. Refusing to come here out of spite for all these weeks…how many times had he walked past this Bat Burger? How many signs had he missed or flat-out ignored? And for what? Pride?

Maybe it didn’t matter. He’d always heard it said the key to good comedy was timing, and if this were a comedy set-up for somebody’s amusement, then at least it wasn’t a tragedy. He'd love to have a happy ending for a change.

"Uh. Are you gonna come in or what?" asked Danny, brow furrowed in concern. “You’re letting all the warm air out.”

So he’d noticed Jason staring. Danny. Not surprising—the door chime was going off repeatedly and—as he noted—the brisk autumn day was sucking the warmth out of the building.

What Danny hadn’t seemed to grok was who, exactly, Jason was.

Perfect.

This time, Jason had the upper hand. This time would be different. This time, Jason wouldn't let Danny escape so easily. And even if he did, Jason knew where Danny worked now.

But, better not to reveal all his cards too soon. For the moment, they were both trapped in the customer-server social convention.

Jason could make this work.

"Sorry,” he said, stepping inside. He walked towards the register, sticking his hands in his pocket and aiming for casual. His hand brushed against the receipt that had sent him here and—the duck? Dick. He must have put it in Jason’s coat pocket.

They would be having words.

Danny smiled as Jason approached. It looked forced—a customer service smile if Jason had to guess.

The Bat Burger was mostly empty, save for Danny and his two co-workers, one of which was definitely Real Sal. He was chatting with a black woman dressed up in a uniform clearly inspired by Babs’ Batgirl Suit. She was working the fryer; Real Sal was scrubbing the grill.

Neither of them had noticed Jason walk in, it seemed.

Jason tried to project calm as he came to a stop at the counter, the only thing separating him and Danny. The uniform was even more off-putting up close. Traffic light was a difficult color combination to pull off. Not that it looked bad on Danny; it was more that the effect of the harsh, flickering florescent lights that made it look like a costume in a horror film. The Ghost of Robin Past. 

How to go about this…did he announce himself? Did he drop hints to see if Danny picked up on it? Did he act natural and play it by ear?

Danny had never seemed scared of Red Hood. He hadn’t seemed scared of anything, the two times Jason had met him. Jason knew well enough that fear wasn’t the only thing that made someone run.

“So you made it inside,” Danny noted. “Congratulations.”

“Congratulations?”

“Yeah. You seemed pretty freaked in the door over there. Did someone dare you to come to the Creepy Bat Burger? I’m pretty sure you have to actually order something to get ‘street cred’ for it, but—”

“Danny!” a muffled, feminine voice sang from the back. “We talked about this!”

Real Sal and Burger Batgirl turned, noticing Jason for the first time. They quickly went back to chatting, unconcerned.

“Right." Danny shook his head. "Let me start over.” He sighed much more wearily than anyone his age should manage. Then again, working customer service just did that to people. “Welcome to Bat Burger. May I take your bat order?”

Jason tried not to smile. He didn't think he succeeded. “Do they make you say that?”

“Yeah. Haven’t you ever been to a Bat Burger before?” He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. “It’s part of our Bat-Brand.”

He sounded wary, but not in the ‘oh shit Red Hood just walked in’ kind of way. Just in the regular ‘please don’t be a Karen’ kind of way.

"Bat-Brand, huh." Jason rededicated himself to being casual; he could do it. This was fine. It wasn't an interrogation. This was a normal social interaction. "Why are you wearing such an old Robin costume, then? There have been at least two Robins since that one."

The question seemed to take Danny off guard. Dammit. So much for normal. What did normal people talk about, anyway?

"Actually," said Danny, "there have been three. Unless you count the whole ‘We Are Robin’ movement, in which case there have been like, at least five other Robins. Maybe even six or thirty. Who’s counting? Not me."

"Not me, either. Too many, really.” Jason leaned on the counter. That was a normal casual thing to do at a restaurant, right? “But my question stands. Why that costume, specifically?" In for a penny, in for a pound.

Danny sighed, muttering something about pedantic fanboys before answering, “we get all the old costumes at this franchise. If you want to see newer costumes, go to a nicer Bat Burger. Or, hey, go do a felony or something and hope the real Bats show up, there’s an idea.”

Jason snorted. He was glad he hadn’t misremembered Danny’s snark.

“Any other questions,” Danny continued, “or are you gonna order something?"

Jason couldn't help it; he liked this kid. He’d given Jason the run-around, sure. But any sensible person would run if Red Hood were chasing them.

But he wasn’t Red Hood, not today. Just Jason. He hadn’t really come here intending to order anything, but he hadn’t yet decided what to say to Danny about the real reason he’d come here, either.

Maybe he should give up on the 'normal conversation' attempts, though. "I've never been here before. What's good?"

Danny’s eyebrow twitched. "That depends. Are you a vegan or vegetarian?"

“You have vegan food here?”

“Yes. It’s one of the most” —he sighed deeply— “bat-tastic features of our menu.”

“I’d think that’d be the costumes.”

“You’d think that, wouldn’t you?” Danny mumbled. “So, are you vegan?”

Jason thought of Jessica and smiled. "No."

“Then I suggest the OG Batburger. With fries."

“The basic fare, huh?” Jason drummed his fingers on the counter. "Aren't you supposed to ask me if I want to Jokerize them?"

Danny seemed to be reaching the end of his customer service manners. "I don’t know. Are you gonna order fries?"

"Sure. Let’s go for the classic. But,” he added, “I don't want the fries jokerized."

"I guess you have taste, after all."

Jason hummed. It had nothing to do with taste and everything to do with principle. Why a restaurant created as an altar to Batman would include menu items celebrating murderous criminals would always be a mystery to Jason.

Danny punched in the order on the aging register, the machine making pained beeps of technology long overdue for retirement. “So, one batburger, one regular fry. Do you want a pop with that?”

“Pop?” Jason echoed, just to be annoying.

Danny sighed again. “Sorry. A soda.”

“You know what? Yes.” Jason hated American soda, but if he remembered correctly, they had lemonade here. Overly sweet lemonade, but he could water it down.

“Great.” Danny slid an empty cup over the counter. “Fountain’s over there. You can have free refills, ice, mix all the flavors, whatever you want. Will you be dining in with us today, or taking that to go?"

The answer Danny wanted was clear by his hopeful inflection on the second choice.

"Dining in," said Jason, biting back a smile.

Danny visibly deflated. "Great. Your total comes to $15.57. Thanks for choosing Bat Burger.”

The price was way too high for fast food, but Jason didn't care. This was research.

“Danny!” called the same voice as before; Danny visibly withered.

“Have a Bat-iful Day,” said his mouth. Where’s a falling anvil when you need one? said his eyes.

Jason bit his lip and turned away. “Thanks,” he choked out.

No wonder Dick loved this place.

“This is such a bad idea.”

“You did it.”

“Yeah, because I didn’t know what it would do, and now I know, and I’m telling you: it’s a bad idea.”

Damian—gremlin that he was—crossed his arms. “We’re only here because of you.”

Tim—wise older brother that he was—rolled his eyes. “That is a gross misrepresentation of events and you know it.”

The not-so-gross representation of events that had brought them here was thus:

Tim and Damian had spent most of Saturday and all of Sunday in what was, in hindsight, too long to be cooperating without something going horribly awry.

It had started productively enough. Damian wanted to see if there were any correlation between his Petty Crimes case and the Graffiti. Tim had hit a dead-end with the graffiti, and so was happy for a new angle. Any angle.

Honestly, he wasn’t fully sure what he was trying to do with the graffiti anymore. They kind of knew who was doing it, and as soon as they found him, Tim could just. Ask. It was kind of dissatisfying, but not every case was worthy of being serialized in a novel.

But if it could help Damian feel productive, well. Tim was happy to help. Any bonding was good bonding, and Damian was clearly feeling neglected and underutilized. Tim could help with that—he knew everything there was to know about neglect. He could get a degree.

Anyway.

They’d been looking at Damian’s cases and plotting out where they happened—Damian because he wanted to use Tim’s Vision Board and Tim wouldn’t let him do so without his supervision; and Tim, because there was a whole laundry list of topics he didn’t want to think about and working on other people’s problems was an excellent distraction.

Tim had thought it was safe enough. They weren’t using a computer, so they couldn’t crash anything. They weren't suited up to go anywhere, either, so Tim couldn't get in trouble for aggravating his ribs (which were nearly healed now, not that anyone had asked him).

It was a flawless plan, until it wasn't.

They began by taking the cases that they’d determined were ‘Crash Worthy’ and grouping them by location—first by neighborhood and then by street.

Using thumbtacks to plot the Petty Crimes had been Tim’s idea, and it had been an inspired one, if he said so himself, as two things quickly became apparent:

1. The Petty Crimes locations weren’t random.

and,

2. The Petty Crimes were related to the Graffiti.

At some point during his early Graffiti investigations, Tim had connected all the graffiti locations to each other in every possible configuration with string. Eight connections per each Graffiti spot meant…well. A lot of string. But it was thanks, in part, to this visual madness that the correlation between the crimes and the graffiti became clear: where these strings crossed each other, invariably there was a petty crime case or three linked to the same location.

(Actually, there was a third thing revealed by this plotting: there was a large circle in Robinson Park where strings crossed but there were no crimes reported. Which meant several possible things: no crimes were committed there; crimes were committed but no one reported them; or…something else Tim hadn’t thought of yet. Tim was putting the whole point on the back burner for now, though. There were too many unaccounted-for variables to account for. Tim didn’t know what to make of it yet. It was either something that would become obvious as time went on, or it would turn out to be a false flag.)

These Two (plus one) revelations were good news until they took a swift turn towards bad. The bad being: Tim and Damian disagreed on the cause and the culprit.

Damian’s proposed cause was, predictably: “It’s obviously ghosts, Drake. They’re possessing people.”

Considering all the victims said they wanted to ‘live a little’, and given that ghosts were real, it wasn’t an unreasonable assumption. Tim himself had, briefly, maybe, been possessed by a ghost. But that had happened at an actual graffiti location, not any of the places where the Petty Crimes had happened. Just the regular, garden variety Crime Alley Crimes.

Additionally, Damian’s ghost theory had one major flaw: It didn’t account for the why. But that was fine. Often the why became apparent after the 'who' and the 'what' were definitively deduced.

Damian’s second theory, to account for the why, was much less promising than his first: “Obviously, Not Sal devised this to distract us. The Graffiti, the bullets, the disappearing bartenders, probably the new drug, the petty crimes. Who knows what other diabolical schemes he's got waiting?”

Tim had pointed out that it didn’t really fit Not Sal’s personality or his stated intentions, such that they were.

Damian, by contrast, said Not Sal was a Known Liar and had banished the only person who could independently verify any of this. Which was, admittedly, a fair point.

Which brought them here. Damian decided that trying to get possessed intentionally to prove this was all Not Sal’s fault was the best course of action. Tim was here to stop him, ostensibly, but in actuality with the intention to follow him around with the 'back-up plan in case things went horribly wrong'. A back-up plan that consisted on only salt and chalk, both of dubious origin (Constantine, Hellblazer, known Con Man and Libertine).

The only reasons Tim hadn't called Bruce or Alfred or Dick or even Jason were two-fold: one, he didn't think it would work, and two, if it did, he was curious what would happen. And since Damian was going to do this with or without Tim's involvement, better to participate in the vain hope he could mitigate the worst result. And maybe learn something, as a fun bonus for being such a cool brother.

They were at the ‘crossing point’ that had the highest number of petty crimes, which was seven, incidentally. The fact that they were in the Coventry—the neighborhood with the highest crime rates in the Middle Island—was something that only further complicated matters. Tim wasn't sure how they were meant to tell whether a crime was Ghost Powered or not without a Batcomputer handy to crash.

They had waited there for about half an hour before Tim pointed out that technically, the only place they knew for a fact someone could get possessed was at a graffiti spot. That someone being Tim, and that fact being unconfirmed.

His intended reason for making this point was that what they were doing was stupid and they definitely should not be doing it. Or, at the very least, they should wait until Constantine’s ban ended and he could tell them some additional reasons why it was a bad idea and should not be attempted.

Unfortunately, Damian’s takeaway was that perhaps one needed to get possessed close to the graffiti, and then the ghosts would use their new human vessel to go to the ‘crossing point’ to commit crimes.

As they walked from the Coventry towards Crime Alley, nothing Tim said deterred Damian. Par for the course, really.

Finally, they arrived. The graffiti looked the same as it ever did—green and strange. In fact, it looked even less legible than it had the last time Tim had seen it. More zalgo fuckery had been added. He could still tell it said ‘Gotham’s Ghosts Are Watching You’, but that might have only been because he already knew what it said.

“This is far less artistic in person,” Damian said disdainfully. “I prefer the photographs.”

“Was that a compliment?”

Damian glared and ignored the question.

"Once more, for good measure, are you sure you want to do this?"

“From what we’ve read of the other victims of ghost possession, the worst that could happen is I might feel dizzy, I might experience some memory loss, drops in body temperature, mood swings, as well as a sudden and profound desire to commit petty crimes.” That was Damian-speak for 'I have thoroughly analyzed the risks and refuse to admit that maybe it isn't worth it'.

“So just a normal day, then,” said Tim, giving up.

“I will be depending on you to ensure that nothing worse than that happens to me while I am no longer in control of my person.”

“Damian—”

“I need you to follow me from afar,” he pressed on. “See where I go. If I’m right, there are two locations close to here where the body hopper should direct me. Though perhaps there's something else we've missed, since we're not ghosts.”

Tim shook his head. “I just want it stated once more, for the record: This is a terrible idea."

Damian raised an eyebrow that made him look just like Bruce and stuck his hand out toward the graffiti.

Before he even made contact, he froze, hand dropping to his side.

"Change your mind? That was quick." And not like Damian, either. When he committed to doing something, he did it.

When Damian turned to face Tim, it became clear why he was acting out of character: that wasn't Damian.

Danny wished he could say that another not-quite-a-ghost showing up at his place of work was his biggest (current) problem. Especially since Danny was at least 87% sure this newest not-quite-a-ghost wasn’t new at all and was in fact Red Hood: Civilian Edition.

He’d stood in that doorway for far too long a time to be someone who didn’t recognize Danny. He hadn’t asked Danny any questions that weren’t at least tangentially burger-related, but then again the question remained: why was he here? He didn't seem like the thought of ordering a burger had even occurred to him until Danny asked him for his order. In fact, he didn't seem like someone who had ever been in a fast-food restaurant at all before. He'd glared at the soda machine for so long Danny almost went over and asked if he needed help with it.

The only reason Danny wasn’t 100% sure whether Maybe Red Hood was definitely Red Hood was that the coterie of shades that usually followed Red Hood around seemed to be missing. That could be on account of the potent ‘leave me alone’ vibes Danny was currently putting out into the world, though. Then again, Danny was pretty sure his Fuck Off Vibes weren't working so great on account of the other problem plaguing his register, for as it so happened, Danny’s biggest problem was not Probably Red Hood in his civies drinking a watered-down lemonade at table two.

That honor went to Rich Guy (Tim)’s Ghost Dad, who had flown through the window around the same time Red Hood had shown up and was rather insistent on getting Danny’s attention.

He simply wouldn’t take no for an answer. Or, more accurately, he was refusing to acknowledge Danny’s firm stance of ‘I’m ignoring you with the strength of a 1,000 burning suns’.

Thanks to his most unwelcome ghost visitor, Danny could only divert so much attention to the Red Hood-shaped Problem. And it definitely was a problem: Based on the way Probably Red Hood was staring at Danny, there was a non-zero chance he’d been made. That was annoying and something Danny was going to have Feelings about later, but it was far less immediate than PTA Ghost Parent making vague threats and knocking over serving trays.

Danny would like it stated, however (if only for his own satisfaction), that domino masks as a way to hide your identity were total bullshit.

“Please, Phantom, if I could have just a moment of your time—”

“Order up!” Danny called, placing the burger and fries on one of the trays that hadn't been knocked over and sliding it over to where Red Hood In All Likelihood could get it.

“Yes, yes, you’re very busy, I understand,” Dad Ghost continued, “but my son and his brother are about to engage in some extremely ill-advised behavior and I really must insist—”

Son and his brother? Why not 'my sons'? His adopted brother, perhaps? Not really Danny’s problem, but he couldn't help it if his life experiences made that sort of thing stick out—

“Yo,” said Most Likely Red Hood, ambling up to the counter. “This mine?”

Danny gave his best Customer Service Smile, with no teeth. Teeth were off-putting. And his only card to play right now was not letting ol’ RH know that Danny knew who he was. “Well, as you can see there’s no one else here, so—”

Dad Ghost flew in front of him. “Pay attention, Phantom! I will not be ignored for the likes of him!” He glared at Danny. “I don’t want to start pushing things off the counter again, but I will! I'll explode ketchup, even!”

Red Hood frowned at the air where Rich Dad Ghost was flying around. “Are you sure—”

“I will shatter glass, if that’s what it takes, Phantom!”

Emotionally, Danny was banging his head on the counter.

Physically, he was gesturing to the headset he was wearing; the one that every Bat Burger employee was required to wear while working the register, despite the fact that this particular location did not have a drive-through nor did it have a functional radio system to talk to the kitchen; those had stopped working the minute Danny showed up, and no one cared enough to figure out why. Normally, it suited him just fine. He pretended to take fake calls all the time to avoid talking to annoying customers.

Unfortunately, he had a pretty good feeling that Red Hood (assuming it was Red Hood), was well aware that it didn't work because his gaze was following the wire from the headphone down into the pocket on Danny's belt that held nothing but the other end of the wire. It was supposed to plug into a battery-powered radio pack. Or a Bat-tery, if you would.

Still, Danny pressed on. If this person were Red Hood, there was a non-zero chance he maybe already knew there was a ghost here, anyway. So. Tally-ho, or something. “Oh, excuse me one moment, sir, I’m getting a, uh, bat-call. On the bat-phones.”

Fortunately, he seemed amused. Maybe concerned.

Actually, screw that. Danny wasn’t going to worry about how other people were feeling today, thanks.

“What can I do for you today, sir?” Danny said into the headset, glaring at Rich Dad Ghost.

“My son is messing around with the graffiti, as I’ve said numerous times now.”

Danny must be getting really good at ignoring things. He'd missed all that somehow. “What? Again? Why?” Danny reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose before he remembered there was a mask there. One last, flimsy layer of protection against being recognized, worthless as it was. No-nose pinching on the job. “Didn’t he learn his lesson the first time?”

“I did warn you he wouldn’t be deterred, and his ribs are all but healed now.” Dad Ghost actually looked proud. “He’s always been extremely curious, more so than cautious, and he and his brother came up with opposing theories to test—and they decided trying to get overshadowed on purpose was the best way to get evidence.”

Danny needed a minute to process that. He doubted he'd get one, though. “What is wrong with them?”

“They're both scientifically-minded, ambitious, and competitive.”

Ah. Danny knew the type. He’d lived with them for most of his life. “Well, sucks for them, I guess. What do you expect me to do about it?”

“They're not far from here—and this situation looks like one you’d rather avoid.” He jerked his head over to the Guy who was Probably Red Hood, unwrapping his Batburger with undue suspicion. “So maybe you could just sneak out of here for a jiffy, help my boy, and be back before any more harm comes to the undeserving.”

Danny wasn’t sure why Dad Ghost knew who Red Hood was, but if he were anything like Milo, he’d probably followed the Bats and Bat-adjacent people around for a while. Mystery solved—what remained of it, anyway.

“I'm pretty sure this situation" —he jerked his head over at Red Hood— "is unavoidable, but even if it weren't, I can’t do what you’re asking.” Danny gestured to the restaurant. “I’m working. Are you familiar with the concept? If I just walk out of here, they’d fire me, or give me shitty shifts—well, shittier.”

Definitely Red Hood snorted in an aborted laugh. So he was listening. Great. Just, awesome.

"Anyway," Danny continued, "if it's like last time, he'll just, you know. Take a nap."

"It's not Tim I'm worried about! It's his brother! He's already gotten overshadowed."

Danny sighed. "Oh, is that all? Not ideal, but as soon as he walks across any boundary, the uh—you know. Will get yote. I can't believe you bothered me at work about this," he added under his breath.

Dad Ghost grimaced. "Well, yes, you see. I thought so as well, which is why I didn't intervene sooner. Or attempt to. But somehow the ghost who overshadowed him seems to have found a—" Dad Ghost hesitated.

"A…?" Danny prompted.

"A loophole."

Danny took a moment to process that. "A loophole." He looked up, but instead of patience or answers or anything useful he only saw the stained ceiling tiles. "What kind of loophole?"

"The kind that lets a ghost overshadowing someone…ignore the rules?" Dad Ghost did look apologetic. "Tim is following him around, but since this is what they wanted to happen, they aren't aware that it, uh. Shouldn't be happening. Like this. So if you could just…fix it? Somehow?"

"Oh, sure, just 'fix it somehow'." Danny took a deep breath, and then another for good measure. "Where are they?"

"Currently?"

"Yes, currently!"

"They're in Burnley, headed due South."

Too far for Danny to do anything about it while on break. He looked over Dad Ghost. Danny should probably learn his actual name, but he was still committed to never seeing this ghost or the people attached to him ever again.

Dad Ghost looked far too hopeful considering the grim situation he'd just described.

He cleared his throat. "They have some tools they could use to fix this. If they, well. Knew it needed fixing. If someone told them, I mean, and since you're tied up here…" he trailed off.

Danny knew where this was headed. This was what Dad Ghost had been angling for since the first time Danny stumbled upon them in that godforsaken alley. "I suppose you think you're the one to tell them, then."

"I just need a little help to give a little help!" he gestured to Danny. "If you could give me some kind of tool or implement that would allow me to inform Tim of the danger, I'd be more than happy to get out of your hair!"

That sounded like a bad idea to Danny. "That sounds like a bad idea to me. Even if I could do that" —which he could, no doubt, but that didn't mean he should— "how are you going to convince them you are who you say you are?"

“I'll figure something out! Please just—let me do something!”

First those assholes at the Iceberg Lounge, now this. Another problem. Something was wrong with the ley lines, and Danny didn't know what it was. Hadn't even realized there was a problem. Other than having to fix the sigils and the graffiti all the time, and whatever was going on with Emily, and—well, that was just two things. But here was a third thing. Maybe.

Danny sighed and pulled some of the thermal paper out of the register. He crouched down where Red Hood couldn’t see him, drew 3 quick sigils on the paper, and ripped it into thirds. “I need you to listen to me very carefully, Dad Ghost—"

"My name is Jack."

Danny rolled his eyes. "Awesome, cool, so important that I know that right now. Do you want to tell me your favorite color as well? Your favorite sports team? How you like your eggs?"

The grill flared up with a loud pop as Jack gritted his teeth. "Point taken, Phantom."

"Anyway, Jack, this sigil" —Danny held up the first two scraps of paper— "will prevent anyone from overshadowing them, and notice how there are two? They need to hold onto these. Since they've been messing around with the sigils, they might be a target for other ghosts. Nod to tell me you understand."

Jack growled something improper under his breath, but he did nod, so Danny was satisfied.

He held up the third sigil. "Now this one is different, see? This will let you speak to anyone you're touching. Now the one who's already overshadowed, he let this happen? On purpose?”

"Yes, as I've explained more than once—"

"Well, that complicates things," Danny pressed on, "but it might be a good thing. If he'd fought the overshadow and lost, well. Then I'd have to intervene. But since he wanted this, for some asinine reason, he's basically just asleep in there. You need to wake him up and convince him to fight back, okay? If he's as stubborn as his brother he should be able to force the ghost out with willpower alone."

"Oh, fighting back should be no problem for him at all," Jack agreed. "Stubborn as a mule, that one."

That was encouraging, at least, until Jack frowned. "He might be difficult to convince to fight, though. They're after information, and I don't see Damian being interested in abandoning the experiment until he's gotten what he's after."

Did Danny have to do everything? "Then tell him!" he hissed.

He peeked over the top of the counter. Red Hood was either ignoring Danny's admittedly suspicious behavior or he was very committed to getting every drop out of that ketchup packet.

Danny ducked down again, to see Jack reaching for the sigils. Danny pulled them back. "Ah-ah, not yet. If you take these, you're going to immediately become a target for other ghosts there. Do you understand?"

"I do. As long as you understand that this wouldn't have happened if you'd just told Tim everything to begin with."

Danny sucked on his teeth. A lot of things might be his fault, but this wasn't one of them. Honestly, if he'd known it would come to this, Danny would have just told Tim himself. The whole point was keeping people safe. Clearly that hadn't worked, Danny could admit that much.

He didn't feel the need to explain himself to anyone, though. No one had ever cared about his reasons in the past, and he doubted that was about to change today. "This is a one-time thing. An exception. Consider it a thank you for alerting me something is wrong." He looked Jack straight in the eye. "As soon as you start to use it, the sigil will start to deteriorate. You won't have long to say what you need, or everything you want. Understand? Don't waste it."

This time, when Jack reached for them, Danny handed the sigils over.

“I understand. You won’t regret it, I assure you. I owe you—”

“A favor, yeah, yeah. Better hurry.” Danny stood up as Rich Dad Ghost sped off. Red Hood was watching him with interest. “How’s the burger?” Danny asked, a bit more tartly than he’d meant to.

“Bat-tastic,” Red Hood said with a sarcastic smile.

Well. At least someone was having fun.

As Jason sat there and watched Danny’s strange and yet amusing performance with the headset call that obviously wasn’t connected to anything that would make it work, one truth was becoming abundantly clear: this kid needed help. Big time.

Jason only had the smallest idea of what was going on—he’d only glimpsed behind the thin veneer that hid the masquerade—but that was all it took to know that Danny was definitely talking to a ghost.

The headset did lend some plausible deniability, but barely.

If Jason had to guess, Danny probably wasn’t used to having to hide it. When confronted with the strangeness of his behavior, most would not jump to the improbable but true conclusion that the reason was ghosts.

Now the question was: what was Jason going to do about it? Offer an exchange? ‘I help you figure out how not to be so obvious, you help me figure out what the hell is wrong with me’? Jason doubted that would go over well. He didn't want to just show up and demand help. That felt ungrateful, considering Danny had literally saved Jason's life.

The good news was: Jason didn’t have to figure it out alone.

The bad news was: he’d have to admit that to someone else in order to get help.

But Dick had already said he was committed to helping with this—generally speaking, if not this specifically. And he’d find out soon enough.

Now, how to be artful about this…Jason smiled as it came to him.

Jason did stay there, mostly because he didn't have anywhere else to be, but also because he wanted backup in case Danny figured out who Jason was. It seemed likely he had suspicions, but he hadn't called Jason out on it. Yet.

That was fine by Jason. In the brief time Jason had been sitting here, he was already starting to feel better. He felt like a capybara in an onsen full of yuzu. And duck candles. Maybe he could just come here every day for the rest of his life and that would fix him…

Yeah, probably not. But he could enjoy the mental image while he waited, watching as several other customers came and left. All of them ordered their food to go; Jason alone had ordered his food to dine in. All of them seemed committed to getting in and out as quickly as possible. Jason couldn't relate. Other than the horrible decor and the vague sense that Jason was being watched, this was the most relaxed he'd been in weeks.

To his credit, Dick did arrive in record time, which meant he had probably already been in Gotham. More follow-up with the Mezmur victims at the Iceberg Lounge, perhaps.

Clearly, being unprepared for seeing the kid dressed in Jason's Robin costume didn't help with the shock of actually seeing it for himself. Jason hadn't told him because he wanted to make sure he wasn't just imagining things through his own distored lens.

They way Dick froze in the doorway before shaking his stupor spoke volumes. So it wasn't just Jason, then.

“Welcome to Bat Burger,” Danny said, sounding defeated, “Can I take your Bat Order?”

“I’ll be right over,” Dick said with a blinding smile and a wave. “Love the uniform by the way. Classic.”

He sat down at Jason's table, stealing a fry before Jason swatted him away.

"Get your own food."

"Jay, believe it or not, you make more money than me. Buy your big brother a Bat Burger meal? Please?"

Jason didn't bother to hide his smirk. “So what you're saying is crime really does pay, after all? More than being a class traitor, anyway.”

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up," Dick indulged. "I was right and you admitted it. I'm gonna be living off that high for a while.”

Jason, having no graceful retort, threw a twenty at him. "Go wild."

The restaurant wasn't very big, so Jason could hear Dick perfectly when he ordered Night-wings with onion rings. It took everything in his power not to cringe. Even more so when Dick decided to make small talk with Danny. Couldn’t take him anywhere.

At least Dick's version of small talk was only marginally better than Jason's. Which meant Jason had done better than he thought, or they were both disasters.

"So tell me, is there a reason no one here is dressed like Nightwing?” Dick asked, right off the bat. “There are at least two Nightwings at the West Side Bat Burger."

Danny gave him a bland smile. "There's a reason, yeah."

When Danny didn't explain, Dick asked, "So…what's the reason?"

“We’re not at the West Side Bat Burger.”

Dick pulled out his most charming smile yet, totally unphased in the face of teenage sarcasm. "And that’s the only reason?"

Danny looked left and right and leaned closer, bringing a gloved hand up to his mouth and whispering, "the other reason is that my supervisor doesn’t like Nightwing.”

"Oh.” Dick pouted. “Are you serious?"

"No, I'm Robin."

Jason snorted. "Good one."

"Good to see working customer service hasn't killed your spirit," said Dick.

"Oh, my spirit died long before I got here, I'm just contractually obligated to be funny. It's part of the uniform." He smiled wider. "Also, they can't afford to fire me, in case you were thinking of complaining," he added, glancing at Dick.

"I wouldn't dream of it,” Dick replied, holding a hand over his heart. “Humor is part of the Robin Brand."

Danny was clearly beginning to get uncomfortable with the attention Dick wasn't bothering to hide. “Right. Well. Your meal will be ready shortly. Feel free to wait at literally any of the tables. No need to stand here. Really.”

“I don’t mind waiting right here. Really."

Danny narrowed his eyes and turned around to start preparing the meal.

While he was distracted, Dick looked to Jason and mouthed, 'I love this kid.'

Jason just rolled his eyes.

"Can I help you with anything else?" Danny asked as he placed the tray in front of Dick, clearly piqued. God, it was like looking at a mirror from the past.

"No, sorry, it's just—you look just like the Robin who wore that costume."

"Uh-huh."

Dick sighed. "You probably don't remember it, but…"

"No, I remember. The Robin who wore this costume died."

Dick clearly wasn't expecting Danny to come right out and say it. "Well, yes, but—"

"Does it bother you, too? Write a letter to HQ. Please. They don't care what I think about it. You, on the other hand, are a customer. They'd care if you tell them it's wrong to use a dead kid's likeness to sell burgers."

Dick looked crushed. "Oh."

"Danny, what did I tell you about anti-capitalist propaganda on the clock?" called that same voice from the back.

"Only on Sundays when the Televangelists can't hear me?"

"Thank you." Must be a manager. They always seemed to be hiding in back offices while everyone else worked.

"Anyway," Danny continued, pointedly pushing the tray closer to Dick, “Have a bat-tastic day.”

“Thanks.”

Dick came back to the table like a kicked puppy, plopping down into the plastic banquet like a sack of wet socks. "Fuck."

"Yeah."

Danny, clearly, had moved on, cleaning the countertop and restocking things now that there was no one bothering him at the register. He was, apparently, unbothered by the conversation about death. Then again, he had it several times a day, from the sound of it.

"So. That’s him, huh," said Dick. He’d switched to Romani, his favorite for talking about private affairs in public.

"That's him," Jason confirmed, taking a bite out of the burger. It was, unfortunately, very good. He didn’t want it to be good, but he supposed it was difficult to mess up a cheeseburger. He nodded his head to the other worker dressed as Red Robin. “That’s Sal.”

“Shit. Real Sal?”

“Yep.”

“Well. I guess that’s as good of a confirmation as we’re gonna get that that’s definitely our guy…”

Jason didn’t really feel like explaining that he just knew because it wasn’t something that really made sense. But he’d told Dick he would know him when he saw him, and he’d been right. “I recognize him. Even with the mask.”

Dick nodded, expression carefully schooled into neutrality. Jason appreciated that he didn’t press for more details.

"So. What's our move here?" he asked, biting an onion ring with more aggression than necessary.

"Our move?"

"You need my help, whether you want it or not." He gave Jason a knowing smile and a wink. So he'd seen through the text for what it was: a veiled request for assistance. Ah, well.

"Kid's slippery," Dick continued. "You’ve been looking for him, and here he is. You can get your answers."

Jason twirled a burned french fry between his fingers, debating whether or not to eat it. "You think it's the right call?"

Dick frowned. "What do you mean?"

"We know who he is if we need him. Or where to find him, at least.” Jason shrugged, looking at the empty ketchup packets he'd stacked on a napkin. “Maybe that's enough."

"Are you sure?"

Jason shrugged again. He wasn’t sure about anything these days, it seemed. He'd been wrong about everything else.

"Why the change of heart?"

"Honestly? Seeing him dressed like that." Like me, he didn't say.

Jason had only been thinking about why he needed to find Danny. He hadn't thought about what Danny might think.

Danny looked resigned. Hunted. Tired. Jason didn't want to be the cause of that.

"If our places were switched, I wouldn't want someone tracking me down to ask me questions about my death and subsequent undeath."

"But your positions aren't switched. And if he might be able to help you…shouldn’t you at least ask?" Dick steepled his hands. “For years you’ve wondered why the pit affected you so differently than others. I think you should take the chance to find out.”

“Maybe.” Jason sighed. "But if nothing else, I don't want to scare him off."

Dick nodded sensibly. "So we play it cool. Hang back, watch…maybe see where he lives, generally. Just in case."

Jason decided to eat the burnt fry. He could use the calories. “I guess it’s worth a shot. Not that I think we’ll be able to figure out where he lives.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m pretty sure he knows exactly who we are. Or he has a hunch." Some of those comments were far too pointed to be unintentional. "He’s probably gonna be extra alert to the fact that we might be following him. I would, in his position.”

“Give us some credit, Jaybird. Maybe he’d recognize you, he’s seen you twice. He only saw me once, and I was dressed like Batman.” Dick crossed his arms. “No way he knows who I am.”

“I think you’re forgetting how much trouble he’s given us,” Jason pointed out. “He’s not just a random civilian. Kid’s got chops.”

“Do you wanna make a bet?”

Jason clicked his tongue. “You win one bet and you let it go to your head? Fine. Stakes?”

“If you’re right, I’ll read any book you want me to.”

“Really? Any book?”

“Any book.” Dick grinned. “If he knows who we are and calls us out on it.”

“Alright. And if you’re right?”

“If he doesn’t know who we are, you have to come to dinner at the manor at least once a week. For a month.”

“That’s four dinners.”

“That’s about how long it’d take me to read a book."

"Four dinners or a month?"

"Depends on the book, but I know your tastes." Dick pointed an onion ring at him. "Fair’s fair.”

Jason considered. He didn’t really think he was wrong. This was an easy bet. “Fine.”

"Great! I can’t wait to tell Alfred to set a place for you.”

“And I can’t wait to make you read the Iliad.”

“Anything but the Iliad," Dick groaned. "I’ve read it three times already. Anyway. What do you think of Bat Burger?"

"Too expensive."

"But?"

"…I can see the appeal."

Dick held his hands open and looked skyward. "He sees the light!"

Jason threw a fry at him.

As Tim followed Damian from afar, he began to wonder at what point he should call this whole experiment a failure and instigate the fail-safe. Which wasn't much of a fail-safe, considering it was just salt that Constantine had allegedly given Bruce to 'paralyze the ghost they were looking for'. Tim didn't even know if it would work on Damian, considering he was not a ghost.

He was, however, being piloted by one. The question was: where was the ghost headed? It seemed to be following a path that only it knew. Tim was marking it with the so-called magic chalk, but he didn't want to waste it if it turned out this ghost was just…lost.

Tim tried to hold onto the fact that this had been the point; this was what Damian wanted. It was all going according to plan.

…this felt like a worse plan than he’d thought.

The sign he was looking for came from a most unexpected source. Not one Tim would have put much stock in, in any other situation. But given the givens, he'd take it.

This has gone on long enough, Tim, said a voice inside his mind. One that sounded like his dad, if he were given to whimsy. Use the salt. Your brother is in danger. Better to risk his irritation than his life.

That was all the encouragement he needed. It felt kind of stupid, like an old fishwives superstition, but he threw the salt at Damian.

Damian stopped. Huh.

"Now what?" he asked.

The voice answered, now you let me handle it.

Tim waited a minute, then another. Five minutes passed before the voice returned. So, the salt bought some time, but we're not out of the woods yet, Timbo.

This, Tim decided, was the opposite of an ASMR video to fall asleep to. He had goosebumps, but it was anything but pleasant. "Who am I speaking to?"

The voice chuckled, a raspy sound that ached to hear. I think you know. Timmy, there's not much time. The ghost is strong; he doesn't want to leave, but I think I can help. Damian's going to wake up soon, and he won't remember this at first. Make sure he understands the danger hasn't passed. Hold onto the sigils, Tim, both of you—

"What—I don't—" Tim could recognize well enough the signs of an impending breakdown. All that spiraling he'd been putting off was knocking on the door, demanding attention.

Listen to me, Tim: Damian will remember everything eventually, he can explain. If not, Find Phantom. I won't be around for a little while, if this goes the way I think it will. Just know it was worth it.

Tim felt a cold, broad hand on his back. It wasn't exactly familiar—Jack had never been one for physical affection, much. But Tim just knew.

That was his dad.

I've been watching you, Tim, his dad continued. I'm so proud of you. You're amazing. I'm sorry I never told you enough. I love you. Tell Damian he's wrong, at least in part. This isn't Phantom, it's—

The voice cut off. This, Tim knew. It had only happened once before, but it was horribly familiar.

"Dad?" he said, though he knew it was already too late. He looked down at his hands, where two pieces of thermal paper rested with a familiar scrawl.

Damian blinked and shook his head, back to himself. "Drake. Where are we?" Damian frowned. "I don't remember coming here." 

Tim stepped backwards until he felt the rough texture of the brick wall on his hands. The alley smelled like fat and gasoline and—ozone. There was the never-ending symphony of Gotham traffic, honks and yells and engines running and stalling—

"Drake. What's wrong?"

Tim took a deep breathe or three. "I'm gonna need a minute."

"For what? What happened?"

"Scratch that. I'm gonna need five."

Damian pushed his sleeve back and looked at his watch. "Well, you have about three minutes to get it together. I'm supposed to meet father back at the mansion. We have plans tonight, if you recall." Damian frowned again. "What are we doing out here so late?"

Tim shut his eyes. This was gonna be a bitch to explain to Bruce.

It almost felt too easy, coming here like this without having to do any of the legwork. But just like Not Sal said, Penguin was in an unregistered warehouse at the Tricorner yards, at eight o’clock on the dot.

Duke didn’t think it was a trap; Not Sal didn’t seem like the type. There was no reason to look a gift horse in the mouth, anyway. Even if this was a somewhat unsubtle bribe on Sal’s behalf to get them to leave him alone.

If Duke had had his pick, though, he wouldn't have tracked down Penguin first. Vying for top of his personal shit list at this moment was Karma, followed by an ever-increasingly urgent need to find Hector.

But Karma, like the kid, was a ghost in the wind. And Hector...well. This wouldn't be the first time he'd disappeared. Wherever he was, Hector could take care of himself. Karma, on the other hand, had the means and motive to hurt large amounts of people. Case in point: the bullets.

When it came to Penguin…they definitely had bigger fish to fry, but looking for Penguin might mean finding the missing mixologists, so it wasn't a complete waste of time.

There was also the small but potent chance that regardless of whether the missing people were here, Karma or Two-Face might show up. Whatever they’d started on Friday hadn’t concluded, and criminals had their own information networks.

"Oracle," he said, "we've got eyes on Penguin."

"Tricorner yards?"

"Tricorner yards," he confirmed. "Looks like he's trying to skip town."

The fact that Karma might be here was why Cass had asked to come with him. Cass got it, especially when it came to Karma. He had tried to kill her too, after all.

Stephanie had opted not to come along. Maybe she understood on some level that this was personal for Duke and Cass. He wouldn't have minded a little extra help in this case; it would have been overkill for just Penguin, sure, but if Duke and Cass had to face off against three rogues and their goons at once...

Well. They'd manage. But he hoped it wouldn't come to that.

Speaking of.

"You and Batgirl intercept him," said Bruce. "Robin and I are en route."

“Why are you late?”

Bruce was silent for a long time before saying, “we’ll discuss it later. Stay focused on the mission at hand.”

Duke squeezed his fist. He didn't want to wait for Bruce, but he didn’t have all the necessary information to get the answers they needed from Penguin. Despite all their increased information sharing, there was no way to be certain something vital hadn’t been glossed over until it was too late.

"Oracle, is Red Hood online?" Duke asked. "And close, by any chance? And available?"

"Sorry,” came the unexpectedly quick reply from Jason himself. “Busy."

"We're following Danny," said Dick.

"Danny?" Duke frowned. "Who's Danny?"

"Not Sal," said Jason.

"…You found Not Sal?" File that under Information Duke Would Have Liked To Have Had Sooner.

"Yeah. We found Danny. Anyway," said Dick, "we're following him, trying to see where he lives."

Duke was almost jealous. That sounded like more fun than interrogating Penguin.

"You and Cass and B and Robin can handle one little flightless bird yourself can't you?" Jason teased.

"Names," said Bruce.

"Kid's onto us," said Jason.

"We don't know that—" Dick protested.

"We're walking in a huge square."

"Cut the chatter," Bruce cut in again. "Nightwing, Red Hood, stay on Danny. Batgirl, Signal, prevent Penguin from leaving. Engage if necessary, but don't take any risks. See what you can learn from afar. Everyone else, stay on task. Keep comms on, but maintain radio silence."

"Understood. Signal out." He muted his comm and turned to Cass. "Looks like we're sneaking for this one. Let's go see who he's meeting with."

They kept to the shadows, aided by Duke's umbrakinesis. Penguin was in a tiff, pacing back and forth ranting to a captive audience.

The Iceberg Lounge Bartenders, in all likelihood. Duke couldn’t see well enough from where they were hidden to tell if Hector were there, but he definitely recognized that split-dyed hair as Melanie.

"I really am sorry about this, but it was for your own safety! He was trying to hold my reputation hostage, understand? That's not something you can easily recover! Now," Penguin said, slicking his hair back. "I will happily give each of you $10,000 and release you from this place. All you have to do is say you were on a training retreat in South Beach. Oh, and never mention any of this, ever, to anyone, or I will, unfortunately, have to kill you." He gave a greasy smile that promised violence he wouldn’t regret.

"Why risk it, Cobblepot? I say kill 'em now." Great. Two-Face was here, too. He saw Cass turn up her receiver so Babs and Bruce could hear.

"You would say that, Dent, because you lack vision!” Penguin shrieked.

"On the contrary, I’m the only one seeing things clearly.” Two-Face flipped his coin, a clear ringing noise cutting through the air. Duke still couldn't see him, but he was stationary. Not nervous, unlike Penguin. “Unlike you, I saw the writing on the wall. Co-operate or get got. Besides, I kind of like what he’s got planned. I especially appreciate the initiative to reveal another side of the city.”

Penguin all but hissed, clearly agitated. He mopped his brow with a handkerchief that looked like it had already been used too much to be much use to dry anything. "What he's proposing is insane! This city may be rotten to the core, but it's my city!"

"It's mine, too, fish breath." Two-Face flipped his coin again. "For what’s coming, I'd rather be on the winning side."

"There is no winning. There are only bad outcomes and worse ones."

Duke looked at Cass. "Any idea what they're talking about?" He signed.

She shook her head. "Sounds bad."

"If you're gonna leave, you better get going soon," said Two-Face.

Penguin gripped his hair. "There is no leaving! It starts here, but if he gets his way, then it's everywhere!"

"Then why fight it?"

"Because I certainly don't intend to help him make his plans come to fruition!"

"I'm sorry to hear that," said a new voice, distorted through a voice modifier.

Duke felt the hairs on his neck stand up. Karma.

"I had hoped you'd come around, once you saw what I had to offer." A pause. "After I went to the effort and destroyed your club to show how serious I was, too. Though really, you did the lion's share of that work by yourself. Hiding away your best talent like some kind of miser of fun.”

Penguin turned to glare off somewhere into the warehouse not visible from Duke’s vantage. "You offer only madness."

"I offer an escape from inevitability, Penguin. I thought a smart businessman like yourself could see that."

Duke tapped his comm. "B, what's your ETA?"

"Ten minutes."

Karma stepped into the dim light in the warehouse, sourceless green light bouncing off that contemptible helmet.

Duke clenched his fist. "Karma sighting confirmed," he whispered into the comm. "Please advise."

"Hostages," Cass added urgently. "Situation developing. Crossfire risk."

Bruce took a microsecond to absorb that, then—"Intervene if necessary, but try to wait. I don’t want you fighting three rogues by yourselves."

"All I see is that you didn't come back quite right in the head," Penguin spat. He fingered his umbrella handle, eyes darting around. “Not that you were ever quite right in the head to begin with.”

"Pity," said Karma. "I suppose penguins really are flightless birds, doomed to crawl on the ground with the rabble."

Karma lifted his hand, and twenty mercenaries dropped down from the rafters.

"Sorry, B, I don't think we can wait," said Duke.

He turned to Cass. "I'll grab Penguin. You get the hostages."

"Karma? Two-Face?"

Duke ground his teeth. He hated this, but there was only one choice. "We'll find them later. I'll try to plant a tracker. Penguin has information and might be willing to make a plea bargain. He’s always covered his own neck." He squeezed his fist. "We’ll use that."

She nodded. "Lights out?"

Duke smiled. "Lights out."

He might be Gotham's daytime hero, but he didn’t mind putting in a little overtime after dark.

He reached to the shadows and pulled.

Danny was being followed.

He'd been unsure at first; people didn't see him unless he wanted them to, and sticking to the shadows was enough to throw most off his trail.

But after a couple blocks, any lingering doubt was replaced with certainty. Whoever was following him was good; good enough not to be seen, and good enough not to lose him. He wasn't even trying to be sneaky now. He was just walking in a big square through the Narrows and they were still following. So they knew he knew he was being followed, probably, unless they thought he was lost. But given that they'd been following him from work, it was unlikely they didn't realize he was trying to lose them.

Better to get this over with, then.

He turned down an alley with no exit and stopped walking. They’d probably think he was trapped. People following you tended to like that sort of thing. Little did they know, he could leave anytime.

"Why don't you come out?" he called.

After a moment, Nightwing and Red Hood landed on his right and left, respectively. Effectively boxing him in. Great. So maybe they did know about his tricks. Didn’t mean they could stop him, but still.

"Told you he knew," said Red Hood.

"Worth a shot," Nightwing responded.

Some of the spirits who typically followed Red Hood were back. Danny wondered where they’d been this afternoon; maybe they only watched him as Red Hood? That didn’t seem likely. Then again, it wasn’t really Danny’s problem. They kept their distance still, but less so than the last time Danny had seen him. Not that he’d had much chance to consider it at the Iceberg Lounge on his way out the door.

Nightwing, Danny had never officially met before, other than this afternoon. That hardly counted as a meeting, especially since he hadn’t known who he was at the time. Even now, though, there was something familiar about him. His broad smile and choir of shades following him around were both fairly distinct. Death-Touched. He wore it differently than others Danny had met; it had been with him a long time.

If Red Hood’s shades kept their distance, Nightwing’s hugged him close. Something about them was familiar, too…well. It'd come to him eventually.

"What do you want," Danny bit out at last.

Nightwing held his hands up. "Just to talk."

"Uh-huh. Is that why you were following me all secret-like? Because you think stalking is a great conversation starter?" Danny shook his head. "What are they teaching at Gotham's Night School for Underprivileged Vigilantes these days?"

Red Hood made a coughing sound that was probably an aborted laugh.

"We were gonna talk to you,” Nightwing insisted. “Eventually."

"Once you figure out where I live?"

Nightwing just continued smiling, unapologetic. “Well, considering how you keep running away before we get the chance to talk, it seemed like a good idea to know where to find you in case you ran again.”

“Maybe you should have taken the hint.” Danny felt a surge of frustration that he quickly tamped down. Getting angry wouldn't solve anything. He took a deep breath in and let it all out. "Well, we're all here together now, so say your piece so I can get on with my evening."

Nightwing and Red Hood shared a brief glance, silently communicating whatever plan they had. Great. Wonderful. Danny loved a plan, especially one made about him.

"You bailed before you gave your witness statement to the police," Nightwing began.

It took Danny a minute to understand what he was talking about. “At the Iceberg Lounge? That was ages ago. Days, even.”

Red Hood snorted. “Is there another police investigation you dipped on?”

“No.”

Nightwing cocked his hip and crossed his arms. “And you wouldn’t lie to us, would you?”

Danny was about three seconds away from dipping on this interrogation. “Okay, so I didn’t give a statement. Big whoop. All cops are bastards anyway, so my golden rule is: don’t fucking talk to cops.”

Nightwing seemed taken aback by that, while Red Hood cackled.

"See?" He said. "This kid is great."

"There are good cops, you know," Nightwing protested.

"What, the ones who want to ‘change the system from the inside’? Has that ever worked?"

Nightwing deflated at that. "Forget the cops, ok? Batman still wants your statement."

"Yeah? Well, he's not here."

"We can give it to him for you. Though if you want to tell him yourself, that can be arranged." Nightwing paused. "I have it on good authority that you're quite a fan."

Danny narrowed his eyes. "Did Bruce Wayne tell you that in his witness statement?"

"Maybe," Red Hood hedged.

"You shouldn't take anything he said to you too seriously, to be honest. He got hit in the head with like, glass and tequila during the shoot-out. He might have been concussed."

“I’m gonna cherish this audio one day," Red Hood sighed happily; it sounded happy through the crackle of the voice modulator, anyway. "I just know it.”

"You also got hit in the head, or so I hear,” Nightwing pressed on, smile knowing.

Oh no. Danny knew what that meant. He was gonna ask about the—

“Did you still have the boomerang you ran off with, by the way?"

Danny sniffed. "No comment."

"Personally I don't care about your witness statement or the boomerang," Red Hood cut in. "I came to ask you what you did to me when you healed me."

"Sounds like you understand perfectly. I healed you."

"But how?"

"Chicken noodle soup," Danny said before he could decide whether or not he wanted to. Great, just what he needed, to piss off Nightwing and Red Hood. "Heals all wounds."

Time to bail.

"Anyway,” Danny continued, “if that's all—"

"It's not." Red Hood stepped closer. "Listen, kid, whatever you did to me—You didn't just fix the gunshot wound.” He crossed his arms. “I'm kind of freaked out about it, you know? You would be, too, if someone fundamentally changed your understanding of your own fucked up biology."

"Your biology isn't that fucked. I've seen worse." Well, that wasn't true, actually. "Unless you're talking about your corrupted ectoplasm? Is that still bothering you?"

"My…what?"

"The green stuff, you know."

"Has it been bothering me…" He exhaled heavily. "You could say that, yeah."

"Uh. Okay?" Danny shifted his feet. Red Hood, overall, looked better than when Danny had found him bleeding out in that alley. He also looked worse than when Danny had left him there. "Did something happen?"

Danny's mind raced with possibilities. A lingering effect from the bullets; a GIW-crafted ecto-pathogen; a major emotional trauma—

"It's nothing new. Years it's been that way, and in ten minutes, you did what I thought impossible. You made the pit rage disappear." he paused, as if picking his words carefully. "I just want to know how."

Danny didn't know what pit rage was, but it didn't sound good. It wasn't called 'pit fun times' or 'pit party' or anything like that.

"Your ectoplasm was like, super messed up. I thought it was from that fight, but have you been living like that?" Danny squinted. "For years?"

Red Hood flexed his hands once, twice.

So. That was probably a yes, then.

Danny's core throbbed sympathetically.

“What he hasn't mentioned is that it got worse again,” Nightwing offered, leaning against the alley wall. “You healed him, but it came back.”

Danny frowned. “What do you mean it 'came back'?”

“Whatever it was that you got rid of,” Red Hood said, clearly starting to get frustrated. It didn't feel pointed at Danny, necessarily. It sounded like he just didn't have the words to explain it.

"You really don’t know what you are, do you?"

Red Hood bristled. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Danny wasn't sure he knew either, exactly. Red Hood clearly wasn't a full ghost. He wasn't even a half-ghost, really.

What Danny did know was this: when he'd helped Red Hood, his ghost sense whispered the same, but different. Red Hood didn't have a ghost core. He just had ectoplasm, and it was hurting him. Had been for years, apparently.

Well. At the very least, Danny could maybe understand now why Red Hood had been searching for him so desperately. Oops.

He considered his options. Maybe Red Hood would leave Danny alone once he got a bit of instruction?

Danny didn't really want to explain anything about himself or ghosts; explaining even a little bit meant opening himself up to questions, speculation, the works. But he couldn't in good conscience leave Red Hood so…alone. Danny could answer a few questions, tell him how to get by…yeah, Danny could do that. It wasn’t that different from what he did for the dead in this city.

"If I tell you what I did, it stays between us. Can you agree to that?"

"Yes," said Red Hood, relief palpable.

Danny glanced at Nightwing, who was still leaning against the wall, arms wrapped tight around his stomach, that same meaningless smile pasted on his face while his shades sang his praises. You can trust him, he means well, he cares, trust him trust him trust—

It clicked, then, why the shades were familiar. Danny had seen them before. At the Iceberg Lounge. Following Batman.

Or, well. Not Batman at all, maybe. Danny had all kinds of questions about that, but he probably wouldn’t get them without revealing his hand a little bit.

"Be honest: if I ask Nightwing to leave, will you tell him everything anyway?"

"Also yes."

Well. At least he was honest. Though based on Nightwing’s expression, he was surprised by that answer. Interesting.

“Alright. You can stay, Nightwing, if you answer one question: what were you doing pretending to be Batman at the Iceberg Lounge?”

Nightwing opened his mouth and closed it. “What?”

“Don’t bother denying it. I know you were there. You can’t be both Nightwing and Batman. So unless you’re actually Batman dressed as Nightwing currently, then you were pretending to be him. I want to know why.”

Nightwing ran a hand through his hair. “Uh…how do you know that?”

Danny smirked as a terrible answer occurred to him. “You have an aura about you.”

Maybe this was why occultists were Like That. It was fun.

He resisted only a moment longer before relenting. “Fine,” Nightwing groaned, “yes, that was me. I was there because Batman was busy. With…stuff. Secret stuff I can’t tell you.”

Danny nodded. That was good enough for him. Batman hadn’t been there, hadn’t seen Danny. He was safe from Batman’s ire a little bit longer. “Ok. You pass the vibe check.”

“You call that a Vibe Check?” Red Hood mumbled. "You didn't even try to tackle him."

“I just wanted to see if you’d lie. I can tackle you if you want, but I'd rather not.” Danny grinned. "You have comms on, right? Turn them off."

"But—" Nightwing protested.

"No buts. Those are my terms. I tell you what you want to know, and in return, you promise to take it to your grave and beyond. Both of you."

Nightwing raised his hand. "I would like to reserve the right to share any non-personal details with trusted comrades in case something life-threatening related to this issue happens to Red Hood."

Danny pinched the bridge of his nose. "It won't, but fine. Tell your little Bat friends I'll have you home by curfew, though they're probably busy right now, assuming you got my note. You did get my note, right?"

Nightwing shook his head. “Yeah, we got it. Really curious how you knew about Penguin, by the way—”

“I'm surprised you're not there with them,” Danny interrupted. If they couldn’t figure out how he knew, maybe the World’s Best Detectives title meant less than Danny believed.

“This is more important,” Red Hood said quietly. “We don’t often work together, anyway. They’ll be fine without us.”

Danny wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he just shrugged and moved on. “Well. Tell them if anything happens to you while you’re with me, I’m sure they’ll hunt me down, et cetera, so I’ll make sure you leave in one piece."

Red Hood chuckled and tapped on his ear. "You heard him, Oracle."

Nightwing also tapped on his ear. "Tell B not to freak out."

It wasn’t exactly the most secure; Danny couldn't confirm their comms were actually off, but what was he going to do about it? Where they were headed, there would be enough ectoplasmic interference to make any recorded audio and video unusable. Not that it mattered that much. The Bats had already found him. It wasn't like they were going to upload his information to a government database. Unless the JL servers counted...

Nope. Not thinking about that.

“Any other conditions?” Red Hood asked.

“Yeah. We can't talk here. I got shit to do tonight and can’t sit around playing 20 Questions: Ghost Edition in this alley until you're satisfied.”

"You're not worried about ending up on some hit list because you're seen with us?"

"I'm pretty sure I'm already on at least one hit list," Danny admitted, thinking of Penguin.

“I’m not sure—” Nightwing started, but Danny cut him off.

“Those are my terms. I can't put my entire schedule on hold to accommodate you."

"Fine by me," said Red Hood as he walked toward the mouth of the alley. "Let's go."

Nightwing shook his head, but followed. "I can't believe he's taking us to a secondary location. And that we’re following.”

“And I can’t believe you two stalked me to my place of work and tried to follow me home," said Danny, sticking on the mask, "but here we are.”

“What makes you think we know where you work?” asked Nightwing.

Seriously? How stupid did they think he was? "You came to my job. You ordered your own hero menu option."

"That could have been anyone. The Night-wings are good."

Well. They were pretty good, Danny could admit. But he wasn't giving this up yet. "You asked me why there weren't any servers wearing Nightwing costumes."

"Whoa, there weren't? Someone should fix that. My suit is the coolest."

"You have the same ghosts." There. Trump that.

Nightwing turned his bewildered gaze on Danny. "What?"

Danny shrugged. "Don't worry about it."

"Now, hold on, I think I'm perfectly entitled to worry about—"

"Oh, save it, Big Bird," said Red Hood as he pulled off his helmet. He had a domino mask on underneath, but still.

“Uh. What are you doing?” Danny asked. A perfectly reasonable question.

“You already saw my face. It doesn’t really matter, does it?” he tucked the helmet up under his arm. "Besides, I'm more incognito this way, if we're gonna do an escort mission on foot."

Well. There went any lingering doubt. That black hair and white tuft were very distinctive. Definitely the same guy.

While Nightwing had a mini-meltdown, Danny pulled out his phone and sent himself a text that said Nightwing and Red Hood. Mostly so there was some kind of trail in case something happened to him, but also to create the illusion that there was someone waiting up for him. Which there was, in a sense. But no one who could do anything or tell anyone if he didn’t come home.

Danny nodded. “Let's go. It's not far.”

He turned to leave, but Red Hood called him back. "Before we follow you off into the night, can you give us your name, at least?"

Danny thought about reminding him that the evening had started with them following him anyway, but he was too tired to argue the point. "I can. But I’m pretty sure you already know it, don't you?" Sal had told Batman, after all. And even if Batman hadn't shared that information with the rest of his little clan, Nightwing and Red Hood had definitely seen Danny's name tag.

"We do know your name, but I'd still like to hear it from you.” Red Hood smirked. “It’s good manners.”

“Fine," Danny said, throwing his hands up in the air. "It's Danny.”

“Got a last name?” Nightwing pressed.

“Not for you.” Not one they could use to find anything useful, anyway. "Let’s go—"

"You're not gonna ask us for our names?"

"Are you serious? It's like vigilantism 101 to keep that shit on lock." Danny paused, then added, "Also, stalkers don't tend to tell you their names, so. No, I'm not gonna ask."

"We aren't stalkers," Nightwing said, sounding lost.

"You’re after some of my biggest secrets and you attempted to follow me home from work."

Nightwing grimaced. "Okay, listen—"

"Sorry. Is there another word besides stalker you'd be more comfortable with?"

Neither of them said anything. Good.

"Well, now that that’s settled—”

“No, you’re right. This isn’t fair,” Red Hood interrupted. “Surely there’s something else we can give you. Something we can help you with, maybe.”

Danny sighed. All he wanted was to get this over with. “Unless one of you is a native Spanish speaker and can help me with my homework, then I’m afraid not.”

Red Hood and Nightwing looked at each other with the matching grins of two people who were In On Something.

“Well, chico, it’s your lucky day.” Red Hood waved. “I fit the bill. I can help you with your homework.”

Danny took a moment to just…stand there for a moment. Why had he invited more interaction? He couldn’t decide whether this was good luck or bad.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

Honestly, Danny should have expected this. There was no way he was actually going to interview Red Hood in Spanish, but if the thought that Danny might accept that kind of help would get this show on the road, he could go along with it. “Fine. Great. Let’s go, I guess."

“I think you mean vámonos.”

Danny sighed again. “Don’t make me regret this.”

As they walked through the streets, it became clear where Danny was leading them. There was nothing else over there that could count as a destination, anyway.

"Aparo Park?" Jason asked as they reached the gate. It wasn’t normally open this late, but it seemed someone had forgotten to inform the gate it was supposed to be locked.

"The cool kids call it Apparition Park," Danny replied. "On account of it being the best place to see a ghost. You’re not afraid of ghosts, are you?"

“No,” said Jason. “Ghosts are afraid of me.”

Danny snorted, an almost laugh, but let the claim pass without comment. "We've got a little farther to walk. Keep up. Things get weird here this time of night.”

Jason had never had much reason to visit Aparo Park; it was unusual in that it straddled the Narrows and Gotham Heights—one of the nicer parts of town forced to share a park with one of the poorest. The city kept the Park clean because rich people might look at it sometimes. The city didn’t add any water features because they hated poor people or something.

There was nothing over there that Jason had any interest in, and the kinds of people Red Hood went after didn’t care for it, either.

He doubted anyone would want to be here now. A dark, mostly empty park would be unsettling for most, but know this one was definitely haunted gave it a certain ambiance. Every now and then Jason would walk through a cold spot, and sometimes he thought he could hear a whispered conversation despite there not being anyone around.

Despite all that, though, to Jason, mostly it just felt…peaceful. Like the Bat Burger, but with less obnoxious colors.

The path Danny took them on led to a walking bridge, but rather than cross, Danny jumped over the railing to a different path below, about a ten foot drop.

“You’re not afraid of heights either, are you?” he called up to them. He stood next to a bench just outside the mouth of the underpass, dimly illuminated by a single green street lamp. The bench was just big enough for the three of them to sit, if they squeezed.

The light did little to dissuade the shadows from encroaching—they didn’t menace or loom, but there was a presence to them. Jason felt sure that if he had the right kind of cup, he could take a scoop out of the darkness.

“You coming or what?”

Jason followed suit, while Dick took the stairs, which earned an eyeroll from Danny.

"Welcome to my office,” said Danny once they were both on the path. He gestured to the bench. “Sit."

Dick sat first with his usual flair, throwing an arm over the back of the bench and propping an ankle up on this knee. Anyone who didn’t know him might think he was relaxed. Jason knew better.

Jason sat down at the other end of the bench, placing his helmet in his lap.

Danny, notably, did not sit. “Go on, then, ask your questions. Night’s not getting any younger.”

Jason’s mind raced with all the things he’d been dying to ask for years. Where to even begin? “What am I?” It had been weighing on him since Danny had said Jason didn't know what he was. "I'm…human, aren't I?"

"You are," Danny agreed, which was good, but then he added, "Well. Mostly.” Which was significantly Less Good.

“Mostly?”

“Yeah. You’re like, Human Plus: extended edition.”

Dick hummed. “Sooo…a meta human?”

Danny made a so-so motion with his hand. “Jury's out on that one, tbh. You just…have ectoplasm as part of your biological makeup now, that’s all.”

“Oh, is that all,” Jason muttered. “Where is it? In my blood?”

“In your blood, in your hair, in your lungs. In your dreams, maybe. That happens sometimes.”

“In my dreams?” Jason really hoped Danny was just fucking with him. Then again, if the nightmares were caused by the pit, and the pit was somehow related to ghosts and ectoplasm…

“You said my ectoplasm is corrupted. What’s wrong with it, exactly?”

“I’m not sure,” Danny admitted. “If you told me a bit more about how you came to have ectoplasm, maybe I could figure it out, but not everyone is super jazzed to talk about that sort of thing.”

“I got it the same way everyone gets it. From a Lazarus Pit.”

Danny squinted at him. “What’s a Lazarus Pit?”

“You don’t know?” Jason squeezed his helmet hard enough that it creaked.

“Nope,” Danny said, popping the p. “Guess I was absent during the day we covered that in Obscure Shit Nobody Knows About 101.”

That certainly threw a wrench in things. Somehow in the ‘let’s find Lazarus Kid aka Danny’ part of his plan, it had never occurred to Jason that he might need to explain anything about his own background, or the pits, or…any of it, really. He should have known, but…he’d never told anyone. He’d never had to.

“You look like I told you I’m a flat earther or something,” Danny joked. “Is it like. A big deal? Relevant backstory?”

“Yeah, it’s kind of important,” said Dick, right as Jason said, “Nah, we don’t need to talk about it.”

Danny sighed. “Usually the people I do this for are definitely, 100% dead, so the conversation is more along the lines of ‘do you know you died’ and ‘what do you want to do about that knowledge’.” He paused, looking Jason over, assessing. “You do know you died, though, right?”

“Obviously I know that,” Jason said, crossing his arms.

Danny held up his hands. “Listen, like 8 out of 10 ecto entities you talk to don’t know it, okay? It’s kind of a thing.”

“You do this sort of thing often?” Dick asked lightly.

Danny raised an eyebrow. “Often enough.”

It was then that Jason remembered something Jessica had said about him. A tidbit of information he’d dismissed as her woo nonsense, but maybe there was something to it. He hated the thought, but he was here in large part thanks to Jessica and her nonsense. “Jessica said you’re a psychopomp. She called you The Voice of the Dead.”

Danny groaned. “I told her not to call me that! It’s not a thing!” he crossed his arms. “Why do you even know her?”

By way of explanation, Jason pulled Dr.Quack out of his pocket. “I thought she was a lead to find you.”

Danny stared at the candle for a long moment. “It has a hat now.”

“And a name. He got a little burnt,” Jason admitted, pulling the hat off to reveal the blackened, curled wick.

“Huh,” said Danny. He looked like he was fighting a smile. No one was immune to Dr. Quack.

“Well, moving along, I’m not ‘The Voice of the Dead’ or whatever other ideas Jess has about me. I help ghosts with things, and some of those things include moving on, but again, why are we talking about me?” He ran a hand through his hair. “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on with you, Hood. Why you went to Jess, of all people, for information, and stalked around Crime Alley questioning homeless kids, and lurked in doorways in a threatening way, all in pursuit of me.”

Jason was almost impressed by the extent to which Danny seemed to be aware of his activities from the past three weeks. It was gratifying to know that, at the very least, Danny had been actively avoiding him instead of Jason just being unlucky.

“I thought I made myself clear: I want to know what you did to make the Pit Rage go away, and I want to know why it came back.”

“Pit Rage, now there’s a new vocabulary term,” Danny snarked. “What the hell is Pit Rage?”

Jason felt the pit swirl at its name, as if recognized. It felt muted, though, as if spending time with Danny had helped it already.

That, and Yorick, balanced on top of Jason’s helmet.

“It’s a side effect of using a Lazarus Pit,” Dick offered, ever observant. “Uncontrolled rage, violence, anger.”

“Ah, the Lazarus Pit,” Danny sang. “The super important thing we don’t need to talk about.”

"Pits, plural," said Dick. He crossed his arms. "Big ol' holes in the ground full of green, glowing, magical water that kills the healthy and heals the weak. Also controlled by like, the most evil guy ever, may he rest in fucking pieces."

Well. Dick wasn't wrong.

“Green and glowing, you say…” Danny hummed, then he held out his palm and pooling there was green, glowing light, liquid and dangerous and beautiful—

Dick drew in a sharp breath. "Yep. That's pit water."

It definitely bore an uncanny resemblance to pit water, but now that Jason was looking at it when he wasn’t bleeding out and delirious, he could see some differences. Unlike the threatening green of the pits, the ectoplasm glowed a soft celery color. It made Jason think of spring snow and clean air and the Northern Lights. It cast strange shadows on all their faces, like something was moving across it.

Similar, but different. Just like he and Danny were.

"Where I come from, we call it ectoplasm,” Danny said. He swirled it in his hands lightly, causing pieces of it to float up like a lava lamp. “I don’t think it can just straight up kill a person, not on its own. Though I guess with some creative application—”

“It’s not exactly like Pit Water,” Jason cut in. “That lacks malice."

Danny grinned. “I can make it icy if you want.” He cupped his hands like he was making a snowball, and when he opened them—

An ice duck. Jason barked a laugh. “Now that’s what I call a magic duck.”

“Thank you,” Danny stressed.

Dick hummed. “But does it float?”

“Probably. Ectoplasm isn’t a dense as water. And ecto-ice molecules pretty much do the same thing as water when they freeze—the structure makes it less dense when solid, so—” he cut himself off. “Anyway, we all know why ice floats on water. Ecto-ice does, too. But it won’t melt. So.”

“Danny,” said Dick, voice teasing, “are you a science nerd?”

“I think you have to actually be good at science to claim that, actually, so.” He shrugged.

Not high self-esteem, it seemed. Something to address, one day. If Jason got the chance. “Why doesn’t ecto-ice melt?”

“Well, it’s tied to my will. As long as I don’t want it to melt, it won’t. Unless something awful happens to me, I guess.” He handed the duck to Jason. “Congrats, you’re a collector now.”

“It’s not a collection until there are three,” Jason pointed out.

Danny’s eyes gleamed. “Challenge accepted.”

"So you can make ectoplasm in any form? Is that your thing?" Dick asked.

"Not exactly. We’re not here to talk about me, though."

“Can Hood make ectoplasm?”

Danny tilted his head. “No, I don’t think so. You have a base level that’s bonded to you, but you can’t make more than that.”

Jason somehow only had more questions now.

Then Danny added, “but, maybe you could learn, I don’t know. I’ve never met anyone quite like you before. And ectoplasm is…well. Weird.”

Danny summoned more of the green liquid version in his hands, shaping it into an energy orb, then a shield, then back to ice. “Ectoplasm in its most basic form is inert. But my ice is ectoplasm, ghosts are ectoplasm, and that weird feeling you get in an empty stairwell at night? Ectoplasm.”

Well. That was one mystery solved, at least, linking the ice to the ghost powers.

So,” Danny continued, “a pit or ten full of ectoplasm that can kill people and revive the dead? Not surprising. Not good. Sounds very cursed—”

“Oh yeah it’s defo cursed,” Dick agreed. “But we can’t get rid of them. Something, something, would end the world? I don’t know.”

“Yeah, that happens,” Danny said agreeably. “Anyway, if you were dunked in something like that, Hood, I guess that explains your corrupted ectoplasm…though I don’t fully understand the nature of it, if I’m honest.”

“I know a lot of people who’ve been ‘dunked’ in a Lazarus Pit who don’t have Pit Rage, though.”

Danny raised an eyebrow. “You said it was a side effect.”

“Yes,” Jason stressed, “but for everyone else, it was temporary. Mine…lingered.” He looked down at the two ducks now sitting on his helmet.

“Hm, I see what you meant about it being important, Nightwing,” Danny said dryly.

“When you did whatever you did to me—”

“I healed you,” Danny cut in, almost reflexively.

“You made the pit waters quiet down. I thought it was gone altogether, but it started creeping back in after a week. Nightmares, headaches, mood instability.” Jason closed his eyes. “It’s almost worse, having gotten used to it, having it go away, and to know it’s gonna come back, and get worse, and worse…I thought you fixed it.”

Danny hummed. “I didn’t do anything particularly special. I diluted the corruption. That’s all. You might notice a similar effect here.” He gestured to the park.

Jason did feel better, but only marginally. “I can’t spend all my time here.”

“Well, I can do the same thing I did last time, but the results would probably be the same.”

Dick shrugged. “That sounds like a solution to me.”

“It’s really not. Do you really want to have to rely on me for ecto-dialysis every three weeks for the rest of your life?” Danny grimaced. “You don’t want to hitch your fate to mine, believe me.”

That was a worrying statement.

“But,” Danny continued, “without the distraction of trying to fix a big hold in your stomach, maybe I can figure out what the problem is. If nothing else, it will help in the short term. I’ll need to touch you again. Is that alright?”

Anything was okay as long as he got answers. “You don’t need to see my blood again, do you?”

“That shouldn’t be necessary, no,” Danny said with a small smile. He held out his hand. “May I?”

Dumbfounded, Jason pulled his glove off and placed his hand in Danny’s. Danny’s hands were cold, but not unpleasantly so. Considering he had ice powers, it wasn’t unexpected.

Danny gently flipped his hand over, staring at Jason’s palm. Jason couldn’t remember the last time someone had been so gentle with him. It made him want to cry. Not because no one had wanted to—he just hadn’t allowed it. He didn’t feel like he deserved it. He didn’t feel like they did, either. To treat him as if he were the exact same Jason, after everything—

But Danny hadn’t known him before. He only knew Jason as someone who’d nearly died in front of him and thanked him for saving his life by hunting him down.

Jason didn’t deserve gentleness from Danny, either, but he couldn’t turn it away.

He didn't feel anything happening, other than a brief shock like an ice cube being thrown down his shirt running through his system. It felt like recognition, almost. Different, but the same. Jason would have said it called out to the pit waters inside him—the ectoplasm—but it was far too peaceful to relate it to the pit.

Finally Danny let go of Jason’s hand and stepped back. “Hm.”

That didn’t sound promising. “What does ‘hm’ mean?”

Danny frowned and didn’t answer the question for a long time. Finally he said, “These ‘Pit Waters’. Would you say they are, hm. Cursed, maybe? Like, actually?”

“You could say that, yeah.”

“And people have definitely died in them? Maybe, well. Violently?”

Jason did not like the direction this conversation was going.

“Yeah,” said Dick. “A lot of people.”

“Hm. I see.” He turned an apologetic gaze on Jason. “There’s no way to put this nicely. Your ectoplasm is haunted.”

Jason blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I know it sounds stupid—”

“There are ghosts in my blood?”

“Not full ghosts, and not in your blood. Not only your blood, anyway,” Danny said, holding his hands up in what seemed to be a placating manner. “But ghost…feelings? Yeah, that still sounds stupid. But. Yeah. You’re haunted. It’s not as bad as it sounds?”

Jason wondered what, exactly, Danny thought it sounded like, because it sounded pretty bad.

“Great. I’m so glad ‘my blood is haunted by ghost feelings’ isn’t as bad as it sounds.”

“Hm, yeah, well. That’s not all,” he said, because of course he did. “So…the ectoplasm was probably haunted before it met you. Ectoplasm is…clingy. And if this pit you fell in—it was definitely a pit full of ectoplasm, right?”

“Yes,” Jason grit out. “But I didn’t fall in.”

“I’m sure that’s a heartwarming story for another time. The point is—” Danny paused. “Well. I see why you call it pit madness. It likes you, and it likes you mad.”

“Great. The ghosts in my haunted blood like making me mad. Anything else you wanna share?”

Danny visibly considered it. Not a great prospect for Jason, all told. “No? I don’t fully understand it, though. So. That’s it for now?”

“Please tell me this is a good news, bad news situation,” said Dick, voice strained.

“Sure. The bad news is it’s happening, the good news is I can fix it. Probably.”

“Probably?!” Jason took a deep breath.

“Well, I say ‘I’ can fix it, but really it’s gonna come down to you, Hood. I’ll help, though. As much as I can, anyway.”

Jason took a deep breath. There was a lot less certainty than he was hoping for, but it was something. “What will it take to fix this?”

“Well, I’m not entirely sure. You can’t WebMD this kind of thing, you know?” Danny crossed his arms. “I’ll have to think about it. But there are things you can do to help.”

“Whatever it is, I’ll do it.”

“There’s one other thing you can do that might help, though I’m not sure if it would work…”

“Tell me,” Jason said, trying and failing not to sound desperate.

“You have to stop feeding it.”

“Feeding what?”

Danny’s eyes drifted somewhere over Jason’s shoulder. “The things you don’t want following you.”

Well. That was ominous. “So, what? If I don’t want to be angry, just don’t be?"

“Maybe go to some therapy or something, I don’t know. Read a self-help book on anger management. Do some yoga.”

“That’s your advice? Basic Self-Care?”

Danny threw his arms up.

“I don’t know, okay? You’re the one who came to me. I’m sixteen! I don’t know shit!” He shook his head. “I mean, I get it. It feels good sometimes, doesn’t it? Being mad? I get it. But the things that feed on your anger want you mad and will do what it takes to keep you that way, so. I dunno. Be spitefully chill for once in your life.”

“I don’t think it works that way. But thanks, I guess.” Jason sighed. “Unlike some people, I can’t just ‘Let It Go’ my way through this.”

Danny rolled his eyes. “Oh, an Elsa joke, real clever.”

“Yeah, Red Hood here’s more of ‘Let It Burn’ Fire!Elsa remix, anyway,” Dick joked.

Well, hey, that was a thought. Jason picked it up where he sat on Jason’s helmet. Dr. Quack. He felt sick even imagining, it, but—

“Does this actually ward against evil spirits? Would it make me…feel better. If I…burned it.” Jason grimaced. He’d said he’d do anything, but… “You said it would help, remember?”

Danny sighed. “I honestly don’t know. I’d had it less than half an hour when I gave it to you. I didn’t want it. Jess’ stuff makes my nose itch. But,” he continued, “considering you’ve given it a name and accessories, I’m gonna take a wild guess and say you’re a little bit attached to it. So I can’t recommend burning it. If it would upset you.”

“It would definitely upset him,” Dick confirmed. “You live to float another day, little friend.”

Well, that was a relief. “Her other candle worked. So I wondered…”

“Other candle?” Danny frowned. “You bought other candles from Jess? Why?”

“I was looking for you. I thought Dr. Quack was a lead…”

Danny snorted. “You named it Dr. Quack?”

“His first name is Yorick, actually.”

Danny shook his head. “And does Yorick make you happy?”

“Well…yeah,” Jason admitted. He’d never really thought about it like that before, but here he was. Getting life advice from a sixteen-year-old and showing him his emotional support duck. Who now had an ice friend.

“Then it works. In the stupidest way possible.” Danny chuckled. “If there are less bad feelings to feel, then the spirits who feed on those things will leave you alone.”

“Not gonna lie, that sounds pretty on-brand for Jessica,” said Dick.

“You’ve met her too? Wow. She’s the most well-connected candle seller in Gotham.”

Jason put Yorick back in his pocket for safekeeping. Now that he knew his well-being was, potentially, tied at least in part to a candle, he’d need to either re-prioritize his life or find somewhere safer to keep the duck. “She’s given me two accidental leads on where to find you. At this point, I owe her a tarot reading, I’m pretty sure.”

Danny raised an eyebrow. “Your money to waste, I guess.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Well, if that’s all, I think I mentioned I got stuff to do, so. Shoo. While we all still like each other.”

“Shoo?” Jason chuckled. He didn’t think he’d ever been dismissed so casually. Not as Red Hood, anyway.

“I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again soon when it’s inconvenient to me.”

“You’ll probably be seeing all of us at some point,” Dick cut in. “We kind of all have questions for you.”

Danny offered him a tart smile. “Great, just. Awesome. Looking forward to it.”

“I know you said no questions about you,” Dick hedged, “but just…are you okay?”

“Am I okay?” Danny repeated.

“You know kind of a lot about ghosts and death and Cognitive Behavioral Therapy for a sixteen-year-old.”

“What, in your estimation, is a good amount for a sixteen-year-old to know about such things?” Danny said, tone light. “Asking for a friend.”

Yeah. He definitely wasn’t okay.

But. Jason recognized the mindset of the stubbornly independent. It was as familiar a look on Danny as the Robin uniform.

Jason pulled a receipt out of his pocket and scribbled down some numbers.

"Here, before I forget. My phone number. Use it, don't use it, it's your choice. But better to have a number you can call than not."

Danny stared at it for a long moment before he took it with obvious doubt. "Thanks."

"It's the least I can do after stalking you across the city and demanding answers. Answers that you actually gave me."

Danny shrugged. "I know what it's like to want answers no one can give you."

Another tick in the ‘dear god someone please help this kid’ box.

Danny pulled out his phone again. "It's late now, and I've got homework. You've probably got…bad guys to beat up, or something."

“Please consider giving Batman his boomerang back, at least,” Dick said, standing up.

Danny crossed his arms. “If he wants it, he can negotiate for it himself.”

“Oh? Are you open to negotiations?”

“No.”

"Big Mood," said Jason, standing as well. “We’ll get out of your hair. I don’t think I said it yet, but: thank you.” He paused. “Or as we say in Spanish—”

“GOODBYE,” Danny said, disappearing into the dark underpass.

Dick sighed. “I wanted to ask him if he'd make me a duck, too."

"He's probably not far."

"Dark. Ghosts. Annoyed meta teeneager." Dick shook his head. "I’m not following him in there.”

Chaos. That was what confronted Bruce and Damian when they arrived on the scene.

Duke’s umbrakenesis was always a sight to behold; it was all the more powerful at night, with so much shadow to draw from.

Bruce had crafted his image as Batman as being one with the shadows, one who could emerge from anywhere. Duke put Bruce’s words into action, literally.

Damian was perched beside him on the roof of the warehouse, eager to fight as they peered down through a shattered skylight to the conflict below.

Bruce still wasn't entirely sure of his decision to allow Damian to come along. Tim had been evasive about the why, but he had indicated that Damian might not be himself. "Something weird happened. It should be fine, but, if it isn't, better for it not to be fine at home than in combat, right?"

Tim had artfully avoided answering further questions, and then it was time to go. Damian had passed all the reflex tests Bruce and Alfred had thrown at him, and he had a very good point that where Penguin showed up, there Two-Face and Karma were likely to be true. He had looked rather smug about it when Cassandra and Duke confirmed as much.

“Aren’t you glad you didn’t leave me behind in the cave, father?” he’d said. He certainly seemed like himself, for the most part. But Tim didn't give vague warnings for nothing. He'd only shaken his head and said "Don't tell me I didn't warn you" when Bruce announced his decision.

By contrast, when Bruce had asked Tim if he wanted to come along, he had opted out. “I’m still recovering from my bruised ribs. A couple more days and I should be fine, but I’d be more of a liability than an asset to you tonight.”

Which meant he was almost certainly suiting up and going out to do something else. Probably with Stephanie, since she had also 'opted out' of this particular mission.

Bruce was looking forward to wrapping up this whole Ghost Charade. But for now, the mission came first.

He quickly scanned the scene—what he could see of it, anyway. Flashes of light from gunfire were visible on occasion, but Duke’s shadows mostly covered that. The sounds, however, were more than loud enough to be heard. Cassandra was escorting the civilians away from the warehouse, just as planned.

Now, to join the fray.

“Robin, go assist Batgirl,” he instructed, already anticipating how unpopular this would be. “See if any of the more stable hostages can tell you anything."

"She looks like she has it handled," Damian tried. “I could be of more use in combat than hostage retrieval.”

"You have your directive, Robin." Bruce dropped into the darkness, switching on his infrared as he went. He knew Damian would do as he was told; he was on thin ice as it was.

Whether Damian would stay with Cassandra after helping her was another question, but Bruce wouldn’t have taken to the streets night after night to beat back Gotham’s darkness with his fists if he didn’t have an above-average level of hope.

He heard one final "Tt" of disapproval over the comms, before the fracas of gunfire and yelling overtook his hearing.

Disarming and disabling the terrorists was not the most harrowing challenge Bruce had ever encountered, but he’d learned through experience that even the small fights couldn’t be underestimated. A goon could get just as lucky with a shiv as a rogue with a flawless plan, after all.

Being Batman meant outsmarting and outmatching luck, though.

“Shit, the bat is here!” someone yelled.

“You’re just seeing things, take out the Signal!”

“I can’t see shit to make shit up!”

Two more Markovians, disarmed and knocked out. Only six left—Duke had taken care of most of them before Bruce arrived.

“Signal, where are the Rogues?” Bruce asked, taking out three more terrorists.

“I don’t know, it’s like they disappeared. I can still hear them, though, so they haven’t left—”

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t The Bat and the Signal, back for round two! Or is it three? It’s hard to keep count. For all that you bats don’t kill, you sure do keep messing up with me!” The modulated voice changer crackled as Karma—or his impersonator—cackled with glee.

Duke peeled back the darkness to reveal Karma striding across the floor, dark helmet gleaming in the newly restored light. It was a green, sickly color. That never meant anything good.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to cut this little blast from the past short, unfortunately,” Karma continued. “This is not the right time or place for us to meet.”

Karma stopped right at the edge of Duke’s undulating shadows, Harvey on his right, dragging a bound and gagged Penguin behind him. “I don’t recommend pursuit. I think you’ll find it a…solid challenge, shall we say?”

With one last cackle, Karma grabbed Harvey’s arm and—sunk through the floor? With Harvey and Penguin in tow?

“What the fuck,” said Duke.

Bruce didn’t have the heart to correct him. There were many words in the English language, and sometimes fuck was the right one.

He turned his scanners to the ground, hoping to pick something up on thermal. He saw three vague shapes, too cool to be human, and much farther underground than they should be. “Oracle, can you find schematics to the sewer system on Tricorner?”

“Pulling it up now. There’s a manhole cover just outside the warehouse on the Northwest.”

Bruce looked to Duke. “Let’s go.”

“Just the two of us?” he said, but he followed.

“We should at least attempt to find a trail, pick it up later.”

“I’m game, let’s go.”

“So,” said Dick. “That was the kid. Danny.”

“Yeah. That was Danny.”

“Sarcastic little shit, huh.” He laughed. “I like him. Will you be adopting him, or are you going to defer to moi?”

“Did he look like he was open to the idea of any of us adopting him? He called us stalkers. And he had a point.”

Dick hummed. He had a feeling it was only a matter of time until Danny was a part of their family, one way or another, but…Danny did have a point. So did Jason. So many points.

But Dick had some points to make, too. “I can see how you thought he was one of us, originally. When you were shot, and bleeding out, and delirious, and dying, and wouldn’t let Danny call anyone to help you—”

Jason sighed. “How long have you been holding onto that lecture?”

“Oh, you think that’s the lecture? We’re just getting started. I held off until you’d found the kid because I know how you get when you’re focused on something—”

“And how’s that?”

“ —don’t hear a word anyone says to you, that’s how. Anyway, now that you’ve found him, I can list all the things you’ve done to worry me, starting with hunting down the Markovians by yourself when you thought Karma might be involved.”

Jason sighed again. “If I’d known you’d be like this, I would have asked Tim for help.”

“Yeah, right,” Dick scoffed. “But, first things first—” he paused and turned to Jason.

Jason looked instantly wary. He looked even less thrilled when Dick spread his arms. “Bring it in.”

“I don’t think—”

“I won’t say anything about it, and we don’t have to talk about it, but I just—” Dick paused, wondering how to express this. “I know it’s not the same, but it wasn’t easy for me, either.”

The 'it' was left unnamed, as always. Your death. What happened to you. Everything else. They'd barely even brushed on it tonight, but anytime the Lazarus Pits came up, it was sure to be a bad night.

Dick had a feeling this night would be an exception.

Jason rolled his eyes, but he did hug Dick back, so Dick would take that as a win. They’d never really talked about it. Ever. At first, because it was a surefire way to set off the pit rage. Or, well. Jason’s supernaturally-fueled temper, apparently. It just became understood: we don’t talk about Jason’s death.

“I know you don’t like talking about it,” Dick said, squeezing his arms just a bit tighter while he could before stepping back, “but if you ever need to, I’m here.”

Jason sighed. “Can’t this wait until after we find Karma?”

And there it was. The end of that conversation. It was the most they’d ever really talked about it, though, so maybe it was progress. There weren’t any articles or books on how to talk to your undead family about the experience.

But though it stung to admit, maybe Dick wasn’t someone Jason could talk to about it. Dick had never died, not really.

Danny, though...maybe Danny could be that person for Jason. On one hand, Dick didn't want to think that Danny had died. Undied. Any of it. But if it had happened, there was nothing Dick could do about it. And just maybe Danny needed someone, too.

Dick stood up and shuffled the melancholy under the rug with a practiced grin and a cocked hip.

“Oh, so it’s we now?”

“I at least want to hear what the others found at Penguin’s warehouse. Who knows? Maybe they found the Karma-impersonator and this whole thing can be considered wrapped up tonight.”

Dick shook his head. It was a poor attempt at an evasion, but he was almost tempted to let Jason take it. This was the first time in…well, years, since he’d seen Jason so peaceful. So centered.

Maybe the ducks were to thank. Or maybe it was Danny.

“Since when is our luck ever that good?”

“Yeah, that’s fair.”

Dick turned his comm back on. "Red Hood and I are headed back now."

“Ah, so the Burger Bat didn’t kill you and he has you home by curfew, as promised,” said Babs. “Commendable.”

“Everyone’s pretty much wrapped up at the Tricorner,” said Stephanie, “or so I hear. I’m not there.”

“You didn’t want to be,” Barbara pointed out.

“Batgirl wanted to cover for Red Robin. He’s in a funk, apparently.”

Dick frowned. That didn’t sound good. “Is he okay?”

“He said he wants to be left alone ‘until the sun rises tomorrow’, so yeah, probably.”

“How’d it go with Penguin?” asked Jason, adjusting his gloves.

“Well, he was there, just like Danny said—”

“Obviously.”

“And Two-Face was also there. And Karma.”

Jason froze. “…Karma was there?”

“Yeah. We were all surprised. Did Danny mention it to you?”

“No. We had other things to talk about,” Jason said, voice going chilly. “Why was Karma there?”

“Same reason he was at the Iceberg Lounge, presumably,” she responded in kind. “Unfortunately, they all got away.”

“All three of them got away?” Dick cursed. “How?”

“Well, I wish I could tell you, but between Signals’ shadow show and more camera interference, I couldn’t see. B and Signal tried to run after them, but Batman is already heading back.”

“And what about Signal?” Steph pressed.

“He wasn’t ready to stop searching. Batgirl went after him. His tracker is still on, so I’m not worried.” Babs hesitated. “Hector wasn’t among the people Penguin was keeping at the warehouse.”

“Well. Shit.” Steph, as always, knew just what to say.

“Robin.”

Damian jumped, whipping around to see his father standing in the doorway, bathed in green light.

“What are you doing in here? I told you to go assist Batgirl.”

Damian glanced around. He was inside the warehouse, which was empty of life. Besides himself and father, of course. It was completely destroyed. Crates were shattered, there were holes in all the walls. No blood on the walls or ground, which was always a positive in Damian’s book. It looked like a normal warehouse post-raid. Chains hung from the rafters, some still swinging slightly from the earlier action. The windows were all shattered, which made it a fairly useless warehouse now in a place that rained as often as it did in Gotham.

One thing did stick out as unusual, however. A room at the back, door left ajar, with a soft green light spilling out.

Well, that, and the fact that Damian had no memory of any of the events leading up to this moment.

Glowing green light never meant anything good in Damian’s experience. Ace chemicals, Lazarus pits, acid, kryptonite, Green Lantern Corps—

“Robin.”

Right, he’d been asked a question.

The trouble was, he couldn’t remember deciding to come inside. If he pressed himself to remember, he could recall going to help Cain with the hostages, but it was as though he were remembering a dream, or a story as told by someone else. He was fairly confident that he’d interviewed a few of the hostages, but he couldn't remember what any of them had said. And then…

Then he was here. Inside the warehouse.

The floor was covered in red flower petals and black leaves veined with purple, leading back to the door with the green light. He'd walked as if compelled toward the green door and pushed it open—

But did he remember doing that, or was that merely a logical reconstruction of what must have happened, given that he was here, now, inside the warehouse, standing in a doorway?

“I needed to see something,” he said at last. It felt true.

The room attached to the main storage area looked like a repurposed office. On the floor were more of the unusual petals and leaves, wafting a scent he couldn’t quite identify. It almost smelled spicy.

The walls, by contrast, were cast in green light by a dome-shaped energy field. If Damian had to guess, it was maintained by the generator in the middle of the dome.

Damian approached it. He’d done one, admittedly, ill-thought-out thing today. What was one more?

He reached out as if compelled. He needed to touch it; that would fix everything. It might cause some problems for Tim—

Tim?

He stuck his hand through the green energy. It shocked him lightly, like a carpet-static discharge.

Father grabbed his hand and pulled it back. “What are you doing?” he asked. The tinge of panic wouldn’t have been evident for most people, but Damian wasn’t most people.

“It wouldn’t hurt me,” he said. “Melanie told me. It’s a ghost shield.”

That’s right. Melanie. He had interviewed her, she’d said something about it…Pingo made us all sleep under that thing. It was weird as fuck.

It was alarming, to say the least, that he didn’t remember most of that interview. There’s a line in the sand, she’d said, but what about?

“I think it’s safe to say Penguin knows about the ghosts,” Damian offered.

Father pressed his lips into a thin line. Damian could imagine all the things he was thinking. I shouldn’t have let Damian come, Damian isn’t ready for solo work, Damian can’t follow orders.

Damian didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want to read it on father’s face, either, so he knelt and inspected the petals. They looked like roses, other than the black and purple leaves. They didn’t smell like roses, though. They smelled like…nothing Damian could identify.

It was probably good practice not to sniff unidentified flowers too deeply. Especially with Poison Ivy still on the loose.

He pulled an evidence bag from his utility belts and gathered several samples.

“What happened with Karma and Penguin and Two-Face?” Damian asked.

“They got away.”

Damian paused. “All of them?”

“Did you not hear the explanation over comms?”

Damian frowned. He had not heard the explanation over comms. “Perhaps this device interferes with it…supposedly, it’s a ghost shield.”

“So you said.” Father stepped up to it, gaze silent and assessing. “It’s from the creators of the Ghost Tracking Boomerang.”

“Fenton Works?” Damian wrinkled his nose. “Does it actually work?” Unlike the boomerang.

“Hn.”

Damian clicked his tongue. “If they had something this useful, why did you only buy a boomerang?”

“These went out of production months ago.” Father stepped through the shield and turned it off. If it shocked him, he didn’t show it.

As soon as it powered down, chatter flooded the comms. “ —telling you, that doesn’t count!” came Todd’s voice. So they’d come to their senses and turned their comms back on.

“We were at the right location, wrong time!” insisted Brown. “So we win the bet!”

“The terms of the bet were ‘whoever finds him first’, and that was me, so. Ten bucks, Spoiler.”

Brown growled. “Five bucks, no more, no less.”

Father pressed his lips together, a small tell of frustration. The first and most often violated rule of comms was ‘no cross talk’. One could only say ‘cut the chatter’ so many times in one evening.

“Maybe you should turn the shield generator back on,” Damian suggested.

“And maybe you should tell me why you were not assisting Batgirl, as instructed.”

“I did help her. And then I did some further investigating.” He held up the evidence bag with the petals as proof.

Father sighed again. Rather unnecessary. “I want a full report when we get back to the cave.”

He stood and waited at the door, watching Damian. Damian stared back for a moment, unsure of what this particular exchange meant when it occurred to him that he was still kneeling on the floor.

He stood. His feet did not wobble, and father did not frown.

“Naturally.” Damian glanced around as they exited the backroom. He saw Batgirl with the hostages and saw the approaching lights of emergency vehicles in the distance. They must have been called while Damian had been…indisposed.

There was one notable absence, however. “Where is Signal?”

“In pursuit.”

A very economic answer. And a pointed one. “Alone?”

“Signal can handle the ramifications generated by chasing his inquiry to his satisfaction.”

Damian was not satisfied with that answer. “Of course he is capable, father, but taking on three Rogues alone is ill-advised for anyone.”

“He won’t find them. They…disappeared.”

“All three of them? How?” Damian narrowed his eyes. “Did they escape on the Ghost Train as well?”

“We don’t know there’s a ghost train, technically,” Richard chimed in over comms. “Dang, we should have asked him about that.”

Damian sensed he was missing some context. “Asked who about what?”

“You didn’t hear?” Brown sounded unusually delighted. “They found Not Sal!”

“His name is Danny,” Father said, at the same time as Todd and Drake.

Brown groaned. “Seriously? How do you all know this? I thought we were sharing our information now!”

“Consider yourself informed.”

“Please stay on topic,” Damian requested. “How did Karma, Two-Face, and Penguin get away?”

“They sunk into the ground,” Father growled. “I believed they’d escaped through the sewers, but there was no trail to pick up down there. Pursuit was impossible.”

“It was ghosts, wasn’t it?” said Richard.

“Unconfirmed.” Father placed the shield generator in the back of the Batmobile. “Fleet Delmar’s mask and suit had the ability to absorb and redirect meta abilities. Assuming it is the same mask and suit, there is a chance whoever wears it now has somehow…duplicated the abilities of ghosts.”

“That accounts for Karma, but what about Penguin and Two-Face?”

Cain joined them by the Batmobile. “Two-Face: willing ally of Karma. Penguin: unwilling hostage.”

“I have the audio recording, we can analyze it later,” Oracle offered.

Good.

“I: am going after Signal,” Cain said.

Father turned to her. “You know where he is?”

“I: know where he will go.”

“Alright. Do you want assistance?”

She shook her head. With a little salute, she disappeared into the night following a trajectory only she knew.

Damian noticed Thomas was unusually quiet on comms. He must have turned his comm off. An unwise decision. Understandable, perhaps, however. There was nothing more annoying than chatter over comms when you were focused on a mission.

“Everyone, we will debrief tomorrow,” Father continued. “Please try to make it.”

“Wow, he said please and everything!” Brown marveled. “I’ll be there, just for that. Red Robin and I have some interesting things to share, anyway.”

“Wait, you do?” said Richard. “I thought you said he was—”

“Show up tomorrow and you’ll find out. Spoiler out!” The comm beeped as she signed off.

Father climbed into the driver’s seat. “Nightwing, Red Hood, what did you learn from Danny?”

“Oh, dear, what’s that?” Richard clicked his tongue. “Dang, what do you know? I gotta go, too. Something unspecified but super important just came up. Nightwing out!” Another beep of an ended comm.

“Red Hood—”

“Nope.” Another beep.

Father sighed. “I suppose you also have something important to get to, Oracle.”

“Sure. I have a generic excuse. Good night!”

Damian felt that was a rather unsatisfying end to what should have been an easy and successful mission. But the night was young, perhaps he and father would—

Hold on, autopilot engaged? “Why are we returning to the manor?”

Father gave him a look filled with undue disapproval. “Your skin is flushed red and you’re sweating. Clearly, you’re unwell.”

“I feel fine.”

“We will let Alfred be the judge of that.”

“But—”

“Would you rather we go to Dr. Thompkins?”

Damian crossed his arms and scowled. “There’s no need to waste the good doctor’s time since I feel absolutely fine.”

Father said nothing, not even giving Damian the chance to argue.

“This is authoritarian behavior.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way.”

“The criminal element never sleeps.”

“It’s a school night.”

“It’s not even ten o’clock!”

“And you’ve already completed two missions today, you should feel proud of yourself.”

Damian sunk down in the seat. Most dissatisfying, indeed.

Father sighed. “Look at it this way: if you aren’t sick, you get the satisfaction of saying ‘I told you so’.”

“Don’t talk down to me, father.” Damian sniffed. “It’s only fun to say that to Hal Jordan.”

“It hasn’t lost its charm?”

Damian didn’t want to smile, but he couldn’t help himself. “Not yet.”

“Give it time.”

It was always difficult to calm down after a night out on patrol, to take the adrenaline and the anger and shuffle it away for eight hours. Or more usually: four.

Tonight, it was easy.

Maybe he should have gone back out, searched for Markovians or Mezmur leads for Dick, but if Karma were in the wind already, so too would his goons. And Dick wanted to get back to the manor to check on Tim.

For once, Jason was turning in early.

He pulled Dr. Quack out of his civilian coat pocket; he’d been in a rush earlier, between leaving Bat Burger to suit up and returning in time to make sure he didn’t miss Danny leaving. The cowboy hat was a little askew, but it suited him.

He carried the duck over to the water bowl and set him gently afloat, adding the new ice duck next to Dr. Quack. It did, indeed, float.

Ice duck needed a name.

Fire and Ice. It didn’t go together thematically, but Jason didn’t care. He could do what he liked with his duck enclosure.

Jason sat down on his bed, which creaked under his weight.

“Well, Yorick, Duckie, I did it,” he said, just to hear it aloud. “I found him. Danny. Me, Jason Todd, not Red Hood. Go figure.”

For the first time in a long time, Jason found himself laughing. Not sardonically, not at anything.

It was relief.

Everything wasn’t better, not by a long shot, but goddamn. Finding out you were walking through a tunnel with light at the end was a hell of a lot better than being buried underground. He’d dug himself out before—but maybe part of him had still been in the grave, clawing to get out. Or maybe it was just waiting there, waiting to be found.

Jason didn’t know. He was too tired for a coherent metaphor. The point was, he felt a clarity beyond vengeance and punishment. He still had those goals: find the Markovians, find Karma, find Mezmur. But that was an old song, an empty life always searching for the next thing. Now he had other things, too: recommend a book for Dick to read, help Danny with his Spanish homework, tell Steph he’d won her bet.

Jason had never been a particularly peaceful person. He’d always been driven with energy. As Robin, it had served its purpose. As Red Hood, it served a different one. As Jason, it had always gotten him in trouble.

This wasn’t peace; it was harmony. He’d always felt at odds with all the different pieces of himself, but this? This he could live with.

It was no more discordant than a magic red duck candle he'd never have to burn next to a duck made of ghost ice that would never melt, floating side by side.

Chapter Text

Monday, October 17th

Tim picked up a soldering iron, fusing two more capacitors to a new motherboard he’d designed and printed half an hour ago. He wasn’t, technically speaking, supposed to be here; using the WayneTech R&D lab to try to make a digital camera capable of detecting ghosts was probably not the best way to make use of the assets of a multibillion-dollar company. But it was the only problem he could work on that satisfied both his desire to not think about anything while also needing something to keep his hands busy so he could think.

His dad was still around. His dad was gone, now, again.

His dad was a ghost. His dad was dead.

His dad had given him a sigil, and a name, and another variation on final words that Tim didn’t want to think about, had to think about, couldn’t stop thinking about, wanted to move past—

“What’s up, Tim?”

Tim jumped and dropped the soldering iron. “Jesus, Steph!”

"Just Steph is fine,” she said, hopping up onto the table next to him. “Whatcha doing?”

“Research.”

“On?”

He sighed. “I’m trying to find a way to let our masks record ghosts on video, but step one is making a camera that can do it, and then integrating the tech, and then working on fixing the audio problems—"

"And you have to do this right now? Did you even eat dinner?"

Tim picked up the soldering iron. "I had sone free time to work on this now, so I am."

“Great! So you're free. What do you say we go stalk the DA Investigator together? Yes or hell yes? And get you some snacks or something.”

He considered the motherboard; that was probably too many capacitors. “And why would I want to do that?”

“Cass is helping Duke chase down Penguin and maybe Karma, and B said you were in a mood, so since you’re not busy I’m here to recruit you to Team Batgirl’s Cause.” She picked up a screwdriver and put it back down, then did the same with a wrench, hemostat, and hex nut driver. 

She'd always preferred to look at things by picking them up. 

He sighed, caught between fondness and irritation. “I thought you were looking for Ivy.”

“We are. This guy has made a TON of super sketch botanical purchases recently. Considering his boss is up for re-election in like, two weeks, and is trailing in the polls, you’d think he’d have more important things on his mind than gardening and potpourri.”

“Well. That sounds like an interesting lead for you to follow,” Tim agreed, testing the board with a multimeter; the power was flowing, just like it had been the past five motherboards he’d tested. That didn’t mean much re: the success of the prototype, though.

“An interesting lead for us to follow,” she corrected. “You’ve been stuck doing stuff in labs for weeks. Don’t tell me you don’t miss patrol; I know you.”

He walked over to the shadowbox he’d set up; inside was a scrap of thermal paper with an unintelligible scribble on it. A scribble whose origin he recognized, if not the purpose.

“I’ve had bruised ribs for the past two weeks—”

“And they’re healed now.”

Tim connected the digital camera to the new-and-improved motherboard, mark…five, by this point. He turned it on, set it to record the sigil and—

Sparks. Failure.

Time for mark six. Maybe if he used a different kind of alloy for the circuits? Or the solder? He could probably melt down some of those nth metal bullets and—

Stephanie placed a hand on his shoulder. “Tim. I’m worried about you.”

“What? Me?” He leaned on the table, shocking himself with the power that was still running through the motherboard. “I’m tippity toppity.”

“I’m not even going to dignify that with a response.” she unplugged the camera. Probably smart. It was starting to spark and smoke. “You don’t have to tell me what’s going on with you, but clearly you need a productive distraction. This—whatever it is—isn’t working.” She gestured to the five melted motherboards littering the desk.

“It’ll work eventually,” he insisted. “I just have to keep trying different things—”

“And then what?”

“I don’t know! And then we’ll know if there are ghosts around? Who might be important to us?”

She sighed. “Did something happen?”

Tim thought about not telling her. But, all other things aside, Steph was one of his best friends. Used to be, anyway. Things had been weird since they’d stopped dating, but—

Well. It took two to make things, weird, didn’t it? “You’ve seen the photos I took.”

“The awesome occult graffiti ones? Yeah.”

Tim fiddled with a screwdriver. Philips Head. #2. “There’s a ghost I recognize in the pictures…”

“Your dad?”

He whipped his head up to stare at her. “How did you know?”

She crossed her arms. “I know what he looks like. I kind of thought you didn’t want to talk about it.”

“Whatever gave you that impression?” he almost smiled, but he really wasn’t in the mood.

She was watching him with an expectant look on her face.

Yeah, there'd be no avoiding this conversation.

“I thought I was prepared for whatever I might learn," he began. "I knew it was a possibility that was really him, that he was still…around, somehow. But it just didn’t really seem…well. Real, until I heard his voice…”

“Hold up, you heard his voice?”

He explained the whole story to her, starting with the good news—progress on Damian’s case—and ending with the bad—Damian getting possessed. Plus whatever had happened to his dad, which he didn't know beyond 'he's not here anymore and won't be for a while'. Unless he was here, and Tim just couldn't see him, and he was panicking for nothing.

“Not Sal told me that the graffiti was dangerous. I kind of just thought he said it to make me go away, though.”

Steph hummed. “Your dad said he was coming back, didn’t he?”

“He said that,” Tim agreed, casting his gaze over the melted motherboards. “But I don’t know what it means.”

“He told you who to go ask, right? Phantom? Who is probably Not Sal?”

Tim’s datapad beeped then, saving him from having to give her an answer that wasn’t pathetically honest or pathetically dishonest.

“Oh, they finally moved,” he said, zooming in on the map.

“Who?”

“Jason and Dick. They’ve been chilling at a Bat Burger all day.”

She leaned her chin on his shoulder, peering down at the map. “How do you know they’ve been chilling at Bat Burger?”

“I’ve been tracking them remotely all day through the chips I installed in their phones.” It was a better thing to think about than ‘hey my dead ghost dad might be in trouble and I can’t even see him let alone help him’.

“I’d say that was invasive and creepy if I didn’t know borderline stalking was as good as an I Love You in Bat. Hey—don’t roll your eyes at me, it’s true.”

Tim didn’t deny it; he was rolling his eyes. “They shouldn’t have asked me to give them a custom phone build and OS if they didn’t want me to use it.”

“I’m choosing to interpret that as sweet. Weird, but sweet.” She wandered off again, looking at the detritus of Tim’s work process on his desk. “Which Bat Burger were they at?”

“The creepy one on the border of the Narrows and Crime Alley,” he said, distracted. It looked like they’d gone to one of the micro caves and back to Bat Burger while he’d been distracted with the motherboards. Interesting.

“Okay, change of plans,” Steph cut in. She tapped on the screen. “Forget about the DA Investigator, let’s follow Dick and Jason instead. That sounds fun.”

“I never agreed to go with you to stalk the DA Investigator,” he pointed out.

“But you were gonna. Admit it.”

“Steph—”

“Anyway, we can go after DA Investigator any day that ends in Y. But I smell shenanigans.” she grinned. “Let’s show some love and solidarity with a good ol’ follow the birds. And get you some answers about your dad.”

Maybe it was all the caffeine on an empty stomach with a generous helping of  emotional turmoil, but Tim was having a hard time following. “…what?”

She threw her hands in the air. “I had a feeling about that Bat Burger! It’s the only place Jay wouldn’t check for someone in Crime Alley! He hates that place. And now he’s been there all day? With Dick? I repeat: I smell shenanigans. Not Sal-nanigans.”

“You think they found him?”

“I think we should go find out. So suit up and saddle up. You’re in for a privilege few can claim.”

He put the tablet down. “Which is?”

She grinned. “Becoming an honorary member of Team Batgirl, obviously.”

— — —

Tim crouched down on top of a building, eyeing the park from afar. “How many attempts does this make?”

Steph scoffed and crouched down next to him. “Six. I’m starting to think your ‘Ghost Mask Video Plan’ has merit after all. What the fuck is up with this park?”

They’d successfully followed Jason, Dick, and ‘Not Sal’ through the Narrows, undetected, until they came to Aparo Park. Which was less ideal for grappling, but there were plenty of shadows to stick to.

Unfortunately, following them into the park had pretty much ended as soon as it began. No matter what path they took, he and Steph always ended up right back at the entrance. They’d tried waking around the outside to enter from a different gate. They’d tried hopping the fence. They’d tried grappling up to a tree. Nothing helped.

The Park didn’t want them there. Or something in it didn’t want them there, at any rate.

Tim was getting real tired of ghost shit.

“Cursed, maybe,” he offered. “Haunted, probably—”

“Full of nanobots, possibly?”

God, Tim missed when Nanobots were the go-to solution for weird shit happening.

“On the plus side,” Steph continued, “they did find him.”

“On the minus side, the park has decided we don’t pass muster,” he mumbled. So close, and yet so far.

“Well. I know when to call it quits. We can just ask them later how to find Not Sal, or pop over to Bat Burger and give ‘im a friendly talking to.” She stood up. “What do you say we go track down that DA Investigator? You’re already suited up and everything anyway.”

Tim stood, too. He had a feeling this had been Steph’s plan from the get-go. But she’d been right; he’d missed this. “What’s the deal with him, then?”

“He’s been doing unspeakable things with his money. Laundering it, shuffling it around, spending it like there’s no tomorrow. On plant stuff.”

“Plant stuff?”

“Dried herbs, flower seeds, essential oils.” she shuddered. “So many essential oils. I'd say he was trying to start a pyramid scheme, but it doesn't really make sense.  Anyway, Oracle’s been keeping an eye on him all night, so. What do you say? Red Robin and Spoiler versus the World? Take two?”

Tim shook his head and pulled out his grapple. “Lead the way.”

Cass found Duke right where she expected she would, in the building where it all began with him and Karma.

What was left of the building, anyway.

She landed silently next to him, perched on the edge of an old brownstone across the street from the wreckage.

“Did B send you?” Duke asked her after a beat.

“No. Came on my own.” she paused, then added, “didn’t tell anyone where.”

He huffed, an almost-laugh. “B probably knows, anyway. He knows everything.”

“Does not.” She bumped her shoulder against his. “He: would agree.”

Duke nodded. “You’re right. It’s just…ghosts existing? Sure. Fine. Whatever. Might as well happen. But now people we already stopped are back? And we're just stuck doing the same things, over and over again?” He gestured to the destroyed building. “Where does it end?”

“Not the first time,” she pointed out. “Rogues Gallery.”

“This is different.”

“Duke…” It wasn’t the first time her words had failed her. Knowing something was wrong was much easier than knowing what to do about it.

Duke just patted her knee. “It’s okay. I don’t suppose anything happened after I pursued Karma, for all the good that it did.”

Cass considered. “Batman and Robin: found new tech. And strange flowers. Damian: acting off. Not himself. Worried. Tim and Steph: following Nightwing and Red Hood and Lazarus Sal.” she paused, then added. “Danny.”

“So that’s where Steph and Tim ran off to tonight.”

She signed, “stalking family is a love language.”

That won her a laugh. Sure, she wasn’t as punny as Dick, but she could tell a joke when it really mattered.

“Are the hostages safe?”

She nodded. “Penguin: takes care of his assets.” That was probably a cold comfort, but it was a known fact that if you made Penguin money, you'd be under his umbrella. For better and for worse.

Duke leaned back on his hands, letting silence fall between them. It wasn't heavy, but she knew what he was going to ask.

“Hector wasn’t there, was he.”

"I’m sorry.”

He shook his head. “I knew it was too good to be true. Too easy.”

“At least it wasn’t a trap,” she pointed out. “No bombs.”

“Yeah. No bombs.” He stared at the rubble for a little while longer. “…do you think he left a ghost? Darin Griffith?” he gestured to the rubble.

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. She hoped not. She didn’t think anyone deserved that; death without rest, without peace. Watching the world moving on without you.

“Maybe Danny would know…”

She leaned against his shoulder. She doubted he really wanted to know as well as she knew he might ask, anyway. She hoped he wouldn't. He didn't deserve that burden.

“Not your fault.”

“I know that. Doesn’t mean I don’t feel responsible. Karma was right there—they all were!—and they just…slipped right through my fingers.”

“And the ground,” she pointed out. “Shouldn’t be possible. Not your fault,” she reiterated.

“Yeah, yeah. I hear you.” He stood up, which was a good sign. Physical movement to lead to emotional processing. “So when is the inevitable group sit-rep I undoubtedly postponed by running off?”

“Tomorrow,” she said, standing as well.

He pulled up his wrist computer. “Really? But it’s not even late.”

“You: are a daytime hero. Bedtime.”

“Okay, mom," he said with a chuckle. "Bedtime.”

She nodded. "Good bat."

"Dick."

Dick didn’t startle, because, unlike some people, he’d kept up with his situational awareness training.

But he could be annoyed that Bruce was in his apartment, uninvited, waiting for Dick to return. Just because he’d done the same thing to Jason earlier this week didn’t mean anything.

"Bruce. What are you doing here?" Dick had half-expected this. He should have, anyway. Bruce had never been put off finding out the information he wanted by someone hanging up on him.

Dick had hoped he might have the rest of tonight to himself, though. What was the point of moving away from the Manor to another city if your dad was just going to be hanging out in your apartment waiting for you to get home, and probably judging the decor (or lack thereof)?

"You met Danny tonight."

Dick resisted the urge to sigh. "Yeah? And?"

Bruce raised an eyebrow. Well, Dick couldn’t actually see that his eyebrow was raised; Bruce still had the cowl on. But Dick was getting some very strong raised-eyebrow vibes.

"What do you think?"

"About Danny? Cute kid. Great sense of humor. Probably needs therapy, but who am I to judge?"

Bruce didn't say anything, waiting for more in his way.

Dick really did sigh this time. "What do you want me to say?"

"You and Jason spoke with him for some time." Translation: he wanted to know everything.

He was in for some disappointment.

"Danny made us promise we wouldn't share anything he told us. I said I'd take it to my grave and I meant it." Dick had been reluctant to make that promise, but now that he knew what he knew, he was glad. He understood why Danny asked that of them. "He's got kind of a lot going on, from what I can tell, but he wasn’t exactly in a sharing mood."

"You must have some impressions.”

Dick’s impressions were: would it kill you to ask a question like a normal person? But, that wasn’t fair. Bruce wasn’t a normal person and never had been.

"Well. He's not dressing up in kevlar and hitting the streets of Gotham, which is more than I can say for most people I know these days."

Bruce hummed. "He doesn't think he can be a hero."

"Now, I wouldn't say that—"

"He told me so. Me and Duke."

Well. That changed things. Dick had heard some worrying statements of low self-esteem from Danny, but maybe it was more serious than it appeared.

Bruce was still waiting for an answer of some kind. He’d probably be content to wait just like that for a week if that’s what it took. But Dick knew all Bruce’s tactics; throw out a few crumbs of information—Danny told me and Duke some things, why don’t you share and we can complete the picture together?—and hope to get a flock in return.

But even if Dick were willing to spill the tea, so to speak, his cup was empty.

"He really didn't tell us much about himself, alright? He mostly answered Jason's questions about his whole situation, and before you ask, I'm not telling you what those questions were." He paused, then added, “or the answers. You can ask Jason yourself.”

Bruce folded his hands. Not the answer he wanted, then, but one he'd accept. "Was it a helpful conversation?"

"Sort of?" Dick ran a hand through his hair. He either needed to cut it or start tying it back again. "I think it was mostly helpful. I'll tell you this, though: somehow he knew it was me wearing the Batsuit at the Iceberg Lounge."

"Hn."

"Yeah, my thoughts exactly." Dick shook his head. "He said he knew me by my ghosts."

"Your ghosts?"

"He didn't elaborate.” Dick had compartmentalized all thoughts of ‘ghosts following him’ for a later time, and what did you know? It was a later time. He’d happily hit that emotional processing snooze button a few more times, though. At least until Bruce left. “I don't think he liked me very much, to be honest. He definitely doesn’t like cops. Though whether he was saying that in general or as a pointed dig at me, I’m not sure. I guess I can’t blame him…"

Bruce let that statement pass without comment. He’d made his thoughts on Dick’s career choice well-known several times over. It got a little harder every time to tell Bruce he was wrong. If he got that same talking to from Danny a few more times…well. Maybe he should start looking for a new job.

"When will you see him again?"

"I don't know. How much money are you willing to drop at Bat Burger?" Dick opened his fridge. It was worse than Jason’s, honestly; at least Jason had cheese. Dick just had baking soda. Time to shut the fridge; no need to give Bruce another reason to visit with groceries. “It was, uh…something. Seeing him there. At Bat Burger.”

“Why?”

“His uniform is a Robin costume.” Dick looked out the window, hoping for a convenient excuse to not have this conversation. Unfortunately, Bludhaven was quiet tonight. Always letting him down, this city.

“A Robin costume.”

“You’re doing that repeating thing you do, B. Use your words. Elaborate. This isn’t charades.” Incidentally, Dick was great at charades. When he wanted to be, anyway.

Bruce sighed. “What is so something about Danny’s work uniform being a Robin costume?”

Dick was almost proud. But now he had to answer. Reward good behavior or something.

He didn’t want to say it. He was still processing it. “Danny’s uniform is modeled after Jason’s Robin costume. And when he wears it…they look…a lot alike.”

Bruce didn’t say anything to that. At least he understood.

“I froze in the door when I saw him,” Dick admitted, running a hand through his hair again. “I knew it wasn’t Jason. I mean, I could see Jason, sitting in the booth. But…I guess it doesn’t have to make sense. It was like…”

“Like seeing a ghost?”

Dick huffed. He didn’t feel like laughing, but it was better than the alternative. “Yeah.”

“I thought so, too,” Bruce offered. "The first time I saw him."

Great. So it wasn’t just Dick who’d taken momentary leave of his senses.

“I think…Danny will be good for Jason,” Dick said after a long pause. Then he braced himself to add, “and I think you should let him, um. Handle this.”

“Handle what?”

“You know damn well what I mean.”

“Hn.” Bruce stood up and placed a box on the table. “Then will you pass that along to Jason to give to Danny?”

Dick narrowed his eyes. “What is it?”

“A comm.”

“Wow.” Dick scoffed. “That’s fast, even for you.”

Bruce stood there, gaze considering. “Penguin had an anti-ghost shield, and Karma disappeared through the floor, like a ghost. Constantine says there are more ghosts than there should be in Gotham—”

“Yeah, I get it, ghost shit is kicking our asses. But you’re giving him a comm? Usually, you’re trying to get people not to be vigilantes.”

“I don’t want him to be a vigilante,” Bruce said, tone edging towards frustration. “It’s…insurance. For Danny and for us. He doesn’t appreciate us following him around, does he?”

The word stalker still stung, stuck on repeat in Dick’s mind like a splinter. “No, he does not.”

Bruce nodded, clearly believing his point to be made. “If we can contact him, he won’t have to worry about us showing up when he doesn’t want us to.”

Dick hated when Bruce made a good point. “Fine. I don’t see why I have to give it to Jason, though.”

“I’m not welcome at his apartment.”

“I don’t want to be your go-between, B. That’s not fair.”

“Then you give it to Danny. He doesn't want to see me, either.”

"That's your takeaway?" Dick mumbled.

Bruce stalked over to the window facing the alley. “Buy some groceries, Dick.”

Then he grappled up to the roof, always having to have the last word.

Dick really hated it when Bruce had a point. "Nice seeing you, B. Thanks for stopping by. Always a pleasure." Where was an emotional support duck when you needed one?

It was late by the time Danny stumbled into his apartment, bone tired and frustrated. His schedule had been full before the whole ‘Involuntary Q&A with Red Hood and Nightwing’ was imposed upon him. He’d like to think he’d saved himself time in the future by not trying to avoid the inevitable, but that sounded like a shallow excuse even inside his own exhausted brain.

He ran through the checklist, sure he was forgetting something; he’d needed to check the sigils, and he had. Unfortunately, he hadn’t figured out how overshadowed humans were passing over the leylines without getting un-overshadowed. He’d finally resorted to just strengthening them because he didn’t see anything visibly wrong other than being somewhat underpowered.

He meant to go to the library and get some homework done, but that time had been allocated for answering Ghost Questions, and now the library was closed. He’d have to do that tomorrow. He needed to go to the laundromat, there was a twenty-four-hour one somewhere around the park…

Well. Whatever it was he’d forgotten, he’d probably remember when it was neither convenient nor timely.

At least he was home, where nothing could bother him other than homework and maybe Angela if she wanted to box, and maybe Alex if he decided to stop sulking, and—

And then he saw Milo waiting for him.

"Phantom. The tip-off worked. Signal made it to the warehouse, freed the hostages."

It took Danny a full minute to process and remember what Milo was talking about. With everything that had happened tonight with Red Hood and Nightwing, he’d nearly forgotten about the tip-off he’d given the Bats.

But, he hadn’t told them about hostages. He hadn’t known about any hostages. “What about Penguin?”

“He got away. Two Face and Karma were also there, but they also got away, so.”

Guess that explained why Milo didn’t look happier about the proceedings. "Any casualties?"

"Nothing but Penguin’s dignity, not that he had much to begin with." Milo hopped up on the counter. “I found out what was in that backroom, by the way.”

Danny dumped his backpack on the two beanbags that counted as the only non-essential furniture in his apartment. He was the only one who regularly sat, so no one minded. He still had two, just in case, though. “You were able to go in?”

“No. I had to look through the open door.” Milo frowned. “There were these weird petals everywhere, but that wasn’t the strangest thing. That honor goes to the green energy shield that lined the walls.”

Danny froze. “Green shield?”

“Yeah, a Fenton Works shield, according to Batman.”

Just when Danny thought maybe this night had turned out okay, after all. He’d done his duty, he’d made sure no persons Fenton were involved in this at all, and yet— “Are you sure it was a Fenton Works shield?”

“I couldn’t get in there to see. But yeah, I’m pretty sure. Penguin set it up. Apparently, he made the hostages sleep under it?”

Danny scoffed, mostly to hide his building panic. Batman buying something from his parents was one thing, but Penguin? “Why? A ghost can’t overshadow a sleeping person.”

“Well. Guess Pingo didn’t know that. Clearly, he was paranoid about ghosts finding his hostages—”

“Who are these hostages, exactly?” He walked over to the refrigerator, hoping to find something to eat after a long day full of unpleasant surprises—

It was then that he remembered what he’d forgotten.

Groceries.

“The missing bar staff. He was hiding ‘em so they wouldn’t get got, I guess.”

“Why would he worry? Who would kill his bar staff?”

Milo frowned. “Well...I don’t know. But I think you should talk to the bats about it. Something fucky is going on. Karma ain’t a ghost, far as I can tell, but he phased through the ground. Took Pingo and Two-Face with him.”

“Who the hell is Karma again?” Danny asked, shutting the fridge. He should eat something, bare fridge be damned. Doc Thompkins made it sound like eating was a big deal. She was probably right. He thought he still had butter around here somewhere, and maybe something to go with it in the pantry…

“He did a whole bunch of shit a while back. Blew up some buildings, killed some people, tried to kill some other people—I don’t know what happened to him. Apparently, he’s supposed to be dead, but—” Milo gestured broadly to himself and Danny. “Maybe it didn’t stick. Or maybe that isn’t Karma. Or maybe he never died. I dunno. I’m not a—what are you eating?”

Danny paused, the buttered saltine halfway to his mouth. “Dinner?”

Milo looked like he had several things he wanted to say about that, but fortunately, he kept it to himself. Good.

Instead, he stuck the unlit cigarette in his mouth, rolling it between his lips. “So. Fenton Works. Are we gonna talk about it?”

That was a graceless change of topic.

“They made that boomerang, didn’t they?” he nodded his head to said boomerang, which was currently sitting frozen in a block of ice in the sink. Danny hadn’t been sure what to do with it on Friday, and he hadn’t had any dawning moments of clarity since then.

He hadn’t seen it in almost a year, even before ending up in Gotham. He’d assumed it had gotten lost somewhere in the whole Clockwork-Dan debacle, but here it was again.

He wasn’t happy to see it, exactly. But it was something from home.

“What’s there to talk about?”

“Based on all the things you’re not saying? A lot.” Milo crossed his arms. “It’s an unusual name, Fenton. And then there’s the ghost-tech angle, and how you know exactly what it is, and how your last name you don’t use anymore is—”

“Yeah, they’re my parents. My parents made the stupid boomerang, and they made the ghost shield, and a whole bunch of other shit.”

“Huh. Your parents you never talk about? Those parents? Or—”

“The less said about them, the better.”

“Unless they’re here.”

“They’re not. I checked.”

“Then why is all their shit showing up here?” Milo shrugged. “Least you can do is ask. Even if they’re not here, do you really want the Bats consulting them?”

“How do you know so much about them?”

“I followed Batman home and read about them over his shoulder. What? I was curious.”

Danny sighed. He should have expected that. “Their stuff doesn’t usually work the right way. That boomerang was supposed to track ghosts, but it only ever tracked me. The ghost shields worked in small spaces, but they don't pass through walls. You could easily just phase up through the ground and get in underneath.” He rattled the cracker sleeve; the saltines that were left were more shattered than whole. “For all they think they know about ghosts, they don’t really understand ghosts.”

Well. Food was food, he supposed.

“What else did they make?”

“All kinds of things. Guns, cars, sentient ham. You name it.”

“How Americana of them,” Milo said mildly.

Danny nodded, trying to butter the saltine crumbs. He probably needed the calories.

“Phantom, seriously, go get some real food. This is Gotham; there’s always somewhere to eat.”

“I don’t want to go back out, I just got home. I had a long day, you know.”

“There’s delivery.”

“Too expensive. And who’d deliver to a building that doesn’t technically exist?”

“You’d be surprised.” Milo crossed his arms. “What were you doing tonight that kept you so busy?”

Danny gave up on the butter; just plain saltine bits were fine. “Answering Red Hood’s questions.”

“Ah." Milo sniffed. "So. He caught up to you, then?”

“Yeah. Nightwing, too.”

“Hm. Are you going to see them again?”

“I doubt I have a choice. They know where I work now.”

Milo winced. “Tough break.”

Danny shrugged. “You said it was inevitable. You were right.”

“Hm. Well, next time a bat keeps you out so late, you make them buy you food.”

Danny considered that. “You know, that’s not a bad idea.”

“I’m known to have good ones, on occasion. Like this one: check your backpack. You keep snacks in there, right?”

That's right; Danny had saved something from lunch, he hadn't had time to eat it— “A granola bar! Milo, you’re a lifesaver.”

He just gave Danny a sad smile. “I try.”

Steph heard the sound of a door closing and smiled; she knew Cass could close it silently if she wanted to, but it was her way of letting Stephanie know she was home.

"Hi, Steph."

Steph swiveled around in the office chair she kept in the living room for exactly this purpose: drama. “Cass, I’m glad you’re home.”

“Penguin and Karma and Two-Face got away,” Cass said, lying down on the sofa with a pillow on her stomach. “Duke: was upset. Everyone: upset.”

“Yeah. Tim and I kind of struck out, too.”

“DA Prosecutor?”

“Yeah, we found him.” Steph sighed. “And he cracked like an egg. He didn’t know anything, though. He said the DA told him to buy all the botanical shit, but he wouldn’t say why, but also it might not matter if he got re-elected, so. No Poison Ivy links, just…politicians being Like That, you know?”

Cass nodded. “Know it.”

“We also struck out trying to follow Dick and Jason.” Steph turned the chair idly back and forth. “They found Danny tonight.”

“Uncle Sal?”

“The Very Same, Batgirl. Unfortunately, Aparo Park was like, ‘Nah, you’re not getting past my gates’, so. Then we went after the DA Investigator, and you know how that went.”

“The Park talked to you?” Cass signed.

“No. I think it’s cursed or something, though." Steph sighed, giving a moment of silence to all the time wasted trying to enter a haunted park. "Anyway, Cass, you and I have a bone to pick with the boys."

Cass tilted her head. "We do?"

"Yes! All of them have met Danny except for you and me! Even Babs has met him vicariously through comms." Granted, Steph had seen him from afar, but that really wasn’t the same.

"Damian," Cass pointed out.

"He was in the general vicinity at the Iceberg Lounge."

"Kate. Alfred."

Stephanie waved her off. "The Point is, you and I are being deprived of meeting Lazarus Sal, aka Danny!"

Cass nodded. "New brother."

"I mean, pretty much, right? I can see it already: Jason versus Bruce in the custody battle of the year. Maybe Dick will throw his hat in the ring, who knows? It's up to us to be objective arbitrators here."

“Meaning?"

"Meaning we gotta meet Danny! And I have a plan.” Steph scooted the spinny chair closer to the couch until she could reach out and touch Cass if she wanted to. “See, I learned some very interesting things about what the two babiest birds have been up to lately, and I have to tell you, Cass, it’s nothing good. Not for them, anyway. It’s great for us.”

“Why?” asked Cass, but she was smiling, so she probably knew. At the very least, she knew Steph well enough to guess, but Cass understood half the fun of a scheme was presenting it.

“Because blackmail, Cass, that’s why.” Steph leaned her cheek on her fist, gesturing broadly with her free hand. “Damian and Tim found some interesting patterns that linked the graffiti to Damian’s case, right? So far so good. Only Damian decided the best way to test this pattern was to get intentionally possessed by a ghost—”

Cass held up her hand, asking Steph to wait. “Is Damian okay?”

“Well…actually, I don’t know.” She was genuinely concerned about that, honestly. Damian had sounded like himself on the comms—when she’d been listening in, anyway—but Tim was stressed about it. Probably blaming himself, too, on top of whatever was going on with his dad…

Kind of a shit show. Why were they like this?

But Steph had a plan to set everything right, if she understood the situation correctly. And it would work if everyone played along.

“That’s part of the reason why we’re gonna go find Danny, and it has to be tomorrow. Before our sit-rep meeting. If Damian isn’t okay, Danny can fix it, probably. Tim seemed to think so.” Steph placed a solemn hand on her chest. “And everyone in this sad little clan of ours knows the only thing worse than a plan going to pot is Bruce finding out about it before you can fix it.”

“True.”

“Now, the post-Tricorner Yards meeting might be postponed until tomorrow, but I smell an opportunity.”

“Does it smell like burgers?”

Steph laughed. There was nothing like the pieces of a plan falling into place. “Bingo, Bango. Now, here's the important part: if we play our cards right, we can get Danny to live with us in the long run while Bruce pays rent…"

Tuesday, October 18, 5 pm

Danny stared at the group standing in front of him. Maybe there was smoke in his eyes. Surely he couldn’t be seeing what he thought he was seeing.

Actually. He probably was. He glanced back at the grill, on fire, then down to the fire extinguisher in his hands. The fact that Nat (his favorite supervisor, though that wasn't saying much) was just staring at the grill like the Final Girl in a horror film was probably not good.

Sal and Tamara were arguing over whose fault it was, and Danny was the only one who knew how to use a fire extinguisher, apparently. The other two’s contents were now mostly on the ground, instead of the fire. Which was still burning.

And before him, seven people who either weren’t real or who didn’t have the good sense to leave a restaurant that was, visibly, burning the food.

Danny knew his luck.

"Big Bird was right," said Spoiler.

"Uncanny," said Red Robin.

Batgirl tilted her head.

"This is foolish," said Robin. “We all have more important things to be doing.”

"You didn't have to come, Robin," said Signal.

"You could've stayed with B," Nightwing agreed. “We all know how that would’ve panned out for you, though.”

Robin sniffed.

Danny gripped the fire extinguisher tightly. Maybe if he crushed it, the resulting loud sound and spray of flame-retardant foam would frighten them away? No, no, he didn't want them knowing he could crush a fire extinguisher with his hands. Plus, even if this place burned to the ground, he couldn't just start over somewhere they couldn't find him.

When Red Hood told him to expect more bats, he hadn't expected…this. Namely, all of them showing up at the same time. In costume.

This…was less than ideal.

"Dare I ask what you're all doing here?” he managed at last.

"We're getting food," said Nightwing, smiling. "And if you have time, we have a couple of questions of the life or death variety."

"I'm just here to sit here and do some anger management," said Red Hood.

"So. Is this a bad time?" asked Nightwing.

Danny glanced over his shoulder to where Sal and Tamara were still arguing while Nat finally started extinguishing the fire on the range.

It certainly wasn't a good time. Not for Danny, anyway. “If I say ‘yes’, will you all leave?”

“Probably not,” Nightwing said, a touch apologetically.

Danny wondered if it were too late to run.

“It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours,” he said, looking between Red Hood and Nightwing.

“What can I say? You made a true Bat Burger Believer out of me.”

“Our grill is um. Broken,” he tried one more time. “As you can see. You do have eyes under those lenses, don’t you? Sorry if not. I shouldn’t assume.”

Red Hood snorted.

“According to the Official Bat Burger Website, all your vegan food is cooked on a separate grill,” Red Robin read off his goddamn wrist computer. “So, theoretically, we could all order vegan food and it would be unaffected by your regular grill being on fire. Right?”

“Theoretically you could do that, yes," Danny asked, customer service training taking priority to the many, many rude things he wanted to say. "But the vegan grill isn’t on all the time, so it might take a few minutes to heat up—”

“More time to spend at our new favorite Bat Burger,” Spoiler said with a wink.

"In that case…" With a sigh he felt down to his bones, Danny shifted fully into Customer Service Mode. "Welcome to Bat Burger, I guess. May I take your Bat-Order?"

They all seemed to know what they wanted at least, given that the vegan menu was much smaller than the main menu.

Seven orders of vegan wings and vegan fries. Three of which were jokerized. Which kind of defeated the point of them being vegan, given that ‘jokerizing’ them was basically just cheese sauce.

“Will you be taking that to go or definitely taking that to go?”

“We're dining in," said Red Robin. "I know you heard us say we have some questions—”

“Whoa, is that the whole Bat Clan?” said Sal. “Like, for real?”

“No,” said Danny. “They’re an improv LARP Team.”

“Oh.” Sal looked relieved, though he did scoot away from Red Hood. “Is that like, a cosplay thing?”

"It's not cosplay," Robin hissed.

Danny saw Sal eye the sword on Robin's back. It did look pretty real. Probably because it was real.

“The Robin in this group is a method actor,” Danny offered as an explanation. “I mean, it would be absolutely insane for the entire Bat Clan to show up here like this, right?”

“Totally,” Sal agreed. “Though it's kind of dangerous to walk around these parts dressed like that. You from out of town or something?"

"They're Metro-Kids," said Danny, relishing in the visible annoyance of everyone but Batgirl. It was no less than they deserved.

"You know," said Sal, "I met the real Red Hood once. And the Real Batman.”

“Is that right, Real Sal?” said Spoiler, eyes twinkling.

“Not something you usually brag about,” said Red Hood.

Sal smiled, cocky. “Nah, it’s cool. He needed my help, see? Though I gotta admit, Red Hood sucks at Jeopardy—”

“Hey Sal I think you should go do something in the kitchen,” Danny interrupted. “Like right now.”

"What should I do—”

"Literally anything."

Danny would say this about Sal: he took direction very well. He gave a little salute and disappeared.

“An Improv LARP team?" Red Robin, aka TIM, shook his head. "Really?”

“I didn’t have a lot of time to come up with anything better,” Danny grumbled.

“I thought it was clever and creative,” said Red Hood, once again proving why he was Danny’s current favorite. “I especially liked the part where Robin almost ruined it.”

Robin sniffed. “I don’t want to hear that from someone who hasn’t mastered as simple a game as Jeopardy.”

“Watch it, Demon Brat, we’re here largely because of you and your bad ideas.”

“It was tactically sound—”

“Excuse me,” Danny interrupted. “I have an open food ticket here, and until I close it, I can’t get this show on the road.”

Spoiler pouted. “Aw, Danny, it almost sounds like you’re trying to get rid of us.”

“I’m sorry, do I know you?” Danny rubbed his temples. “I’m too young to have a major cardiac event—or a minor one, but you all are really testing my limits here. Please, will you just—pay? It’s a simple transaction. Dozens of people do it daily.”

Red Robin slid over the exact amount, including tax. At least he was efficient and didn't ask Danny to break a hundred.

“I was promised corporate puns,” said Spoiler. “I’m not hearing any.”

Danny rolled his eyes. “Great, so cool that you’ve all been talking about me, love it.”

“Was that an ice pun?”

Danny elected to ignore that comment. "I'll have your stuff out asap, but as you can see, we're not doing so hot at the moment."

“That was definitely a pun,” Spoiler whispered loudly.

"Danny," said Batgirl. "One corporate pun? Please?"

He sighed again. “Have a Bat-tastic Day. I’m certainly not.”

Spoiler and Batgirl clapped.

This had been an incredible idea if Stephanie said so herself. Going to Bat Burger with everyone was always a winner, no doubt, but Jason almost never participated.

Here, he seemed relaxed like she’d never known him to be. Which perhaps wasn’t saying much—he seemed annoyed with everyone else being here, but for a little bit there he almost sounded like he was having fun.

Danny, by contrast, did not look like he was having fun, but Steph was going to chalk a generous 88% of that to the fact that he was literally fighting fire in the kitchen.

No one else looked like they were having fun, either. Time to liven things up a bit.

“So," she began, "none of you ever said anything about Danny being Mini-Hood. He’s even got a little white streak.”

Jason scowled; he’d elected to leave the helmet behind and sport the ‘can’t see anything but my hair which is my most identifying feature’ mask. He did have the hood up, which helped, but still. “He isn’t a mini-me. Don’t call him that.”

“He also didn’t have a white streak before,” said Dick. “Maybe we really are stressing him out…”

“I don’t care about his hair, I care about getting Damian un-possessed,” said Tim. “That’s why we’re here.”

“I’m not possessed, Red Robin, as I’ve said numerous times—”

“Oh. So, you just don’t remember anything that happened yesterday for perfectly normal reasons, then, Mr. Eidetic Memory.”

“That’s a stupid nickname,” said Damian, which was as good as an admission that Tim had a point. Which he did. They all, did, really.

What had happened was this: Stephanie, having heard the whole sordid tale from Tim the night before, had proposed a solution that suited everyone: before the sit-rep meeting (which she had generously invited herself to despite not having been at the Tricorner Yards), they would all go for a little meet-and-greet at everyone’s new favorite Bat Burger to see if Danny could fix Damian.

“It will go over better with Bruce if we’ve already searched for some solutions before telling him what went wrong,” she’d explained.

Damian had insisted that he definitely wasn't possessed, but he’d agreed to come in the end, which meant he was probably worried about it.

Speaking of which. “Hey, Mini-Hood, come over here for a minute!” Steph called.

“What are you doing?” Jason hissed.

“We’re not gonna get any answers or help if we don’t ask,” she pointed out. “I’ll ease him into it, don’t worry.”

“Now I’m definitely worried,” said Duke.

Danny trudged over, not bothering to hide his irritation. “What.”

“We have a question for you. Settle a debate for us.”

“It’s not really a debate—” said Tim, but Steph shushed him. She had a plan here. “How do you feel about clowns?”

Everyone visibly withered at her question, which was unfair, really. It was a perfectly reasonable question.

“Clowns?” Danny repeated, as if he couldn’t believe this was really happening.

“Yeah.” Stephanie folded her hands on the tabletop. “Clowns.”

“Seriously?”