Chapter Text
There was a dead dude in the pitball. He was as dead as it could go in the humid air of the room and Danny — Denny — despite being dead himself, did not, in fact, know how long it would take the dude to start all decomposing and smelly. He vaguely knew that he should be able to draw some parallels between meat in the fridge and without, but his only experience with the fridge was a nineteen-year-long abuse by ever-so-living food that jumped out of the shelves.
They've closed the pit for a day, with all (three present) of the staff willingfully fledging ignorance, while he and a musclebody of a mob with a moniker 'Bubblegun' were seated in a cameraroom (he didn't know they had one) racking their brains about how to take the dead dude and dispose of him before Mr. Thabolt finds out that they forgot they had a body there. It wasn't their fault or — certainly in Denny's case — not their work, but they had a body, and Denny didn't have documents and he was in the closing shift yesterday with another dirty hundred in his pocket from the boss.
It was cramped with the two of them, in the small room lit by scenes of kids' joy in static black and white camera feeds, and even more static-y with Denny being so close to the recording equipment. But the chairs were comfortable, albeit squiggly under their weights.
"Can't you, like, dispose of him with the... uh, next batch of bodies?" Denny asked after they'd shared an awkward tea. It was probably a leftover leaf brew from an unfinished teapot by one of the visitors with added heated water.
"Kid," said the man who was twenty-five tops, "I'm not sure what you think 'bout us, but we don't, just, kill." He grimaced incredulously, "It's rare to'ave a full shootout in a..." he vaguely shook his head, "residentials 'round'ere."
'Residential area' of the Crime Alley was a bunch of nine-floor community buildings closer to the outer border of the district, with, like, hundred-square-foot rooms with bunk beds, shared showers and toilets on the floor, surprisingly good fire safety, no AC units and a weekly rent low just enough Denny was able to afford even with his budget comprised of ghostly pickpocketed cash. He's heard the rumours — that it was run by Red Hood and his flock of morally-versatile lackeys. He is grateful. To this top-dog gang, that is. Grace of many strangers let him stay alive for so, so long, and so far away from home, his family, his haunt and his face of Danny Fenton... and those who willingly extend the hand are why he doesn't resent his past as Phantom.
And a roommate, who was paying half the rent. Holly, Ancients bless the guy, was the only reason Denny managed to navigate life in Gotham at all.
"I mean, I can help you drag the body somewhere, but I'm in the dark here," Denny sipped the stale tea, "I know a bit from, like, 'Criminal Minds', but I'm not from Gotham, look at me."
"Uuuh..."
"Look at me, Bubblegun," Denny husked sardonically, inspiring his inner dramatics to the surface. He hunched back and slapped his palm over the heart, using all the Vlad's antics he picked up over the years, "My life experience starts and ends in the middle of nowhere's town of nobody, I don't want to get arrested, I'll die in Gotham's prison, c'mooon, loooke at meee, Bubbl', I'm so yooong."
"Oh, shuddup!" the man smacked him playfully, "You're doing good, you'll be good, stop whining, Raw's bitch."
The residential area was also a part of a more well-off community of locals, with some of the regular folks even calling it old and resentful 'Raw's'. As if it was a privilege — a choice to want to have non-hazardous housing. It wasn't totally uncommon to hear 'he's hanging in the Raw's' or 'strolling around the Raw's', but with that gleeful voice you tell your friend you found someone in a ditch, or a dirty puddle. Some... They were... people here, some of whom used to live outside, and this place was the last stop they made before they fell or rose up again. They didn't scrunch their nose at those who won their place here from inside — that's an open welcome to a fight, but there was an air of a 'privileged' fear that was smirked upon — of living in the streets.
'Raw's bitch' wasn't an insult per se, but it usually held an offhanded, halfhearted jealousy.
"K, lemme brain't," Bubblegun slid down the chair a bit. It's not like they didn't talk to each other before, but they mostly crossed paths behind the checkout counter, over money and a discounted soda drink, "It's not like I've got some plan, you know," Bubblegun blinked, "I'm just a-" he waved his hand, as if it explained anything. Denny thinks that maybe it did. That Bubblegun had nowhere to go, no work and maybe he had a family to feed, so he was selling drugs, and Mr. Thabolt won't let him go without a buyout. Or maybe he was once young and stupid, and he had done something. Something that's hanging over his freedom.
Everyone has done something in the Allew. Denny knew, Denny did.
"Maybe you know a place to ditch him? I was thinking sewers, but maybe you know how to cut him in a bagillion pieces and, like, flush him in the toilet or something."
"Ferine," Bubblegun sent him an incredulous cackle that reverberated from his giant chest, "We're not even flashin' toilet paper, but we could cut'im in pieces, tho I'm sertain boss'll notice."
Crime Allew's dialect wasn't about how you pronounce words; it was, from what Denny understood, how you tacted your sentences. The speech went fast, more noticeable with kids and those who grew here, as they swallowed the ends of words and pauses, trying to deliver what they wanted as fast as they could. It was also about how people sometimes won't outright say 'yes' or 'no', with some of the older folks dancing around a moot point for more than necessary, in his taste. It was a little strange, with how almost everything else tended to be more harsh and straightforward.
"I'm not sure I have any idea how to get a chainsaw."
"They used to sell'em in Pinkney's hardware store, but it'll cost a bunch. And I know the closest manhole is used by rogues and such, and that's," he scrunched his nose, "survivelence...? I doubt Hood will care, but he lets bats hang out here if they need..."
"Wow, I'm so sad I work in the nicest neighbourhood of the Criminal Alley," Denny mused.
"I know, right."
"Maybe just a garbage bag?"
"In the shape of a human?"
"We'll fold him? Or, like, take out his organs — I saw a machete in the kitchen?"
Bubblegun hid a giggling sniff and took another awkward sip of the tea, not turning his eyes away "More ideas?"
"We don't have chemicals that can, like," Denny wiggled his fingers, imitating bubbles.
"I wish we did."
"There are no constructions around; he has blood all over, so we can't pretend he's drunk... but we can toss him to another shoot out... we could also stuff him in a furry suit and let it rot... But I think we'll need the suit for holidays... ugh, bodies don't really burn good... Do you have fireworks or a bomb?"
"Too loud."
"Ugh, yeah and where-? And there's nowhere close to bury him-"
"We could bury him in the Park's park beside."
'Park's park' was an unofficial name of a sporadic tree-dense spot — thanks to Ivy — that was formerly a place of some governmental memorial that nobody cared to remember.
"There're creeps there."
"We'll creep out the creeps," Bubblegun heightened his voice with a sarcastic surtanity.
"Dude, the river is closer than Park's park. It's, like, two streets, no? Can we just dump him there?"
"Sprang flows east, so the body'll pull up in the Coventry, and police there get angsty over corpses from our side. But," he inclined his head forward in thought and pointed at Denny, "we could rope him to something heavy. What d'you think?"
"Why... why're you pointing at me? I work as a cashier. You work as a mob, it's your job to think about it," Denny wildly gestured between them.
"It was a planning session, buddy. We made a plan together, we are accomplices now, good work, us." Bubblegun took Denny's hand and high-fived it, "I've got some unnecessary concrete blocks prepared."
Denny sized the giggling man with distaste.
"Bitch, forty minutes! If you had a plan, you should just have told me." The younger kicked the other in the shin. "Ughhh, I can't believe you!"
"There are few fine ways to dispose of a body, they are totally cool 'ere, no worry. But, but, you really got artsy," Bubblegun was laughing, "and I was- I was invested."
"I was fucking... Dude, we have to sneak a corpse from my workplace, I was fucking horrified! I am horrified!"
"You should give yourself some credit," he huffed, "you are tot-tally cool."
"I'm gonna piss myself just in spite."
"Do it."
Denny flipped him. And then he went back to work.
The dead dude was not heavy enough for them both to struggle — he was, actually, pretty small, compared to most of the goons Denny was accustomed to seeing around. Still, they went by foot — because it was easier to cut through some yard-wells and streets so small people would be able to shake hands from the windows. It was a short walk, albeit tricky, always keeping to the shadows of low overhangs even in the night, with almost no lights working in Crime Alley.
Well, it was tricky for Bubblegun, Denny had his fairly good — albeit half-ass working — purple-tinted nightvision.
Denny's left hand felt stronger and steadier, the scar slightly more aggreviated that he would have preferred. It was strange that such an easy labour, apparently, was enough for his human body to dip into his other side. He should get his iron levels or some... sometng. At this point he had run out of ideas on approaching his double-sided health issues.
They went through the arch in the building, which looked like the house was built around it, giving its local flavour of gothic design and industrial brick-everything-else, and came right to the high river bank, separated by some shyly rusted rails. It gave off some private area vibes, the way it was secluded by the building, and Denny felt like he was walking in someone's backyard.
"K, buddy, gimme a second," Bubblegum huffed, and jogged back, leaving Denny alone. With a corpse.
"Prepared, my ass." Denny sniffed. It was surprisingly un-cold December, but it was humid in the way that made his skin gather condensate. It bothered him, especially under his nose and on his neck, and the cheap polyester of his jacket just made the itch worse.
He wondered if Holly wondered about his whereabouts. His friend knew — from experience — that Danny would be able to get himself out of trouble, but both of them kept their problems out of each other's way, while they could. He did text him, but it was before the closing, and it was already three in the morning, and some not-adult-enough part of Denny wished for Holly to stay awake. To be worried. To wait for him.
He tried again to rub away the condensate from his face, this time seeing a slight — almost unnoticeable bruise forming around the scar in the middle of his palm, which meant his blood vessels started to deteriorate and leak. Probably from his ghost half still being sick in the ways he can't diagnose, but... It was getting worse, which meant he wasn't space-obsessing enough, or getting ectoplasm... Shit, it could be anything, really. He knew the ambient ectoplasmic levels were good, even compared to old-lovely Amity, but what if his core wasn't processing it right? It couldn't be that damaged...
Right?
Denny spared a glance at the corpse. Three bullet wounds in the chest. Broken teeth. He was sure the teeth were fine while the dude got shot, so maybe that's what Bubblegun did while he went to change from his working uniform. Dental cast, right? He got one before, for braces, but then his teeth fell out and he got a new set — still somewhat crooked, but in a way it was obviously and intentionally predatory. He doesn't think he smiled as human after that.
"What's that guy doin'here, stargazing?" someone asked from over his head. Despite the mechanised voice, the intonation felt half melancholic and half upbeat.
Denny jerked his head up, feeling a quivering bundle of nerves pooling in his guts and tethering his fast-beating heart down with it. Shit, shit shit, fucking Bubblegun!
There was a — man, in a red mask, that was covering his head, leaving only the whites of the eyes, clothed in what he learned was a typical Gotham's tough-guy gear, with a bunch of guns, one of which was held and — almost — pointed at him from the hip level. He was standing on a fire escape on the third floor.
"There are no stars," Denny whispered.
"What was that?" Red Hood lazily bent forward from the rails.
Denny coughed a few times before making his voice clearer over the near-silent kick of the waves. "No-, no stars in Gotham, Red Hood... er, sir," It created a haunting echo in the arch. He curled into himself.
The Red Hood guy frowned — eye lenses squinting — and started slowly strutting down the stairs. "Don't call me sir, sliver. 'Sup you did to my buddy?"
"I didn't uh," his eyes darted, then fixed on the Hood's eyes, "I- I didn't kill him. But I need to move the body 'cause... work. Environment-" He rubbed the back of his neck in sudden shame. He's not sure why his feelings swiftly flowed from fright into... whatever embarrassment he was feeling — but, but the guy had some liminality that stuck only to those who have experienced a medical death, and that somehow made him feel more... At ease? He wouldn't classify it as a natural response, but there was some instinctual, whiny part of him that was certain that the guy was more curious than angry.
Then Denny mentally went over the words and felt himself succumbing to the panic again — his? buddy? Oh, shit, bitch, fuck, Mr. Thabolt did not...
"... Work environment?"
"... Yeeeaaah."
The crime lord twirled a gun in his hand, pointing it to the sky, then toward Denny, "And where are you working?"
And that's what Holly and some others made him remember and understand alongside the local rules — Red Hood is the highest authority in the Alley, and he expects no bullshit. Especially from nobodies like them, who benefit from his protection the most.
Kinda like ghost haunts. Easy.
"Arcade centre. The... 'Island of Fun'..." Denny took out a hand from his pocket and slowly pointed in the arc, where that fucking traitor Bubblegun disappeared.
Red Hood's posture slowly changed into something of amusement and then, right away, into delight.