Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The moon hung high, bathing Amity Park in a warm glow. A gentle breeze rippled through the grass, cooling the sun-warmed asphalt. Night creatures chirped, hooted, and croaked as the sweltering day slacked off into a warm, comfortable night. A few cars rumbled in the distance. Music played through an open window. The town itself seemed to breathe a collective sigh.

The day had been just as peaceful. A calm summer day, without so much as an ectopus to interrupt it. Danny spent most of it at the pool with Sam and Tucker, hanging out and fighting the heat. They whiled away the hours talking about everything and nothing until the sun set. 

Danny should have enjoyed it more.

Sam and Tucker had gone home after cutting patrol short. The night was calm, and Tucker needed to be up early the next day. They parted ways at the park, waving goodnight. Danny had flown off towards Fenton Works— but changed directions as soon as the neon sign came into view.

Tracing the empty streets, Danny lost himself to the air. The wind rushed past his ears, tossing his hair back. He did several loops, watching as the world tilted around him. After another lap of the town, Danny circled back home. 

Flying usually brightened his mood. Most days, all it took was a few laps to clear Danny’s head.

Tonight wasn’t the same. The moment Danny sank onto the metal roof of the Ops Center, eyes fixed on the stars, he felt a wave of loneliness squeeze at his chest. A familiar ache that stargazing brought when he let his mind wander far away.

Some nights felt lonelier than others. Clear nights, when the sky yawned black overhead and the stars shone brightly. Danny would trace the constellations with his eyes, knowing each one by heart. Their names. Their stories. 

An emptiness lingered beside him, just as dark and oppressing as the night sky. Danny clenched his left hand to keep it from reaching for something– someone no longer there. 

Someone near and dear to his heart, yet no closer to him than the stars.

The distance between them made Danny’s core ache.

The night sky offered some measure of comfort. The melancholy of Danny’s memories mingled with the knowledge that somewhere— regardless of the distance— his brother lay beneath the same stars. 

Brother. Danny couldn’t remember the last time he spoke that word aloud. He whispered it quietly to himself, a small secret into the night.

Danny wondered if his brother still stargazed. If he still thought of him. Perhaps he’d lay beneath the open sky, even now, lost in his own memories. Nights, so many years ago, spent under the stars together.

The thought felt selfish.

Shutting his eyes, Danny took a deep breath and sighed. It was too late for spiraling thoughts.

Phasing down through the roof, Danny landed in his bedroom. He glanced at the clock, groaning. It was already three in the morning.

Danny flopped onto his bed fully dressed, forgoing pajamas. He buried his face in his pillow, wondering if he had any chance at a dreamless sleep. His restless, anxious thoughts and the unpleasant pulsing of his core said no. 

As Danny’s eyelids drooped, his eyes drifted to his bedroom window. There was a gap in the curtains, and Danny could see a sliver of the night sky through them.

He wondered if Damian remembered the constellations.

~*~

Sleep came easily, and the nightmare just as swiftly. 

Windowless metal walls stretched high around him, the ceiling impossibly far away and as inky black as the night sky. The room stretched forwards even further, an endless expanse of grey linoleum, with wires snaking along the walls and across the floor. Without knowing if the hallway even had an end, Danny started walking. He stepped over the wires carefully, eyeing them like treacherous snakes with waiting fangs. His footsteps echoed ominously against the walls, the only sound to break the silence.

Time slipped away as Danny walked. He lost himself to the rhythm of his steps, eyes still trained on the wires. It felt like tripping over one would spell disaster— like it might have already.

Shadows occasionally flickered in his periphery. A voice spoke, far off and quiet. Whenever Danny turned to look, he saw only sheet metal and wire.

A spark of green caught Danny’s attention. A flicker at the end of the hallway, glowing brightly ahead. The light faded as soon as it appeared, leaving a pressing darkness in its absence. The wires thickened and twisted into coiling heaps, covering the floor like the gnarled roots of an old oak tree. Danny slowed to a stop as he stood before a black archway framed with buzzing cables. An open tunnel lay beyond, impossibly dark.

Danny paused, examining the arch. It stretched the width of the far wall and rose up twice his height, wires disappearing through its dark passage. A persistent, gentle hum emanated from the wires. The more Danny listened, the more it began to sound like a voice. Small and coaxing. Promising.

Go on .

The whispers surrounded Danny. Pushed him forward. He had to go forward. The black archway, the wires— something inside yearned to be found. The green spark flickered from the darkest depths.

Danny stepped over the coiling wires.

Darkness immediately engulfed him.

Panic bloomed in Danny’s chest as he took in sharp, hurried breaths. He trailed his hand along the wall, desperate for something to ground him. He felt with his foot for the wires, but could hardly raise his leg. The cables wrapped around Danny’s legs, gripping tight. He stumbled forward and felt something give under his hand.

Pain beyond measure. Blinding, spiraling green. A familiar, wailing scream that tore at his throat and rang in his ears.

The sound slowly faded into distant echoes. Danny could hardly open his eyes. He wasn’t sure he wanted to.

Groaning, Danny lifted himself up on shaking arms. His stomach roiled and his head swam as he took in his surroundings.

Blue tiles. A ratty old rug. The bathtub. Danny lay on the bathroom floor, though he couldn’t remember why he was there. It seemed like a stupid place to be.

Clutching the edge of the counter, Danny hoisted himself to his feet. Eyes shut tight, he fought down the bile rising in his throat. He took several deep, grounding breaths. Danny couldn’t stop shaking. The insides of his eyelids were still stained green.

Slowly, tentatively, Danny opened his eyes. Phantom stared back at him. 

Nothing seemed off. He took in the familiar features with a measure of comfort. Acid green eyes with bright white pupils and dark, tired eye bags. Snow-white hair. Fangs. All normal.

With a sigh of relief, Danny let the chill of his core slip away, transforming.

His breath hitched.

The person staring back through the mirror could have been Danny… were it not for his jade green eyes.

~*~

Danny startled awake, breathing heavily. He sat bolt upright and tossed aside his frost-covered blanket. He shook like a leaf in a powerful storm, though it had nothing to do with the cold surrounding him. Danny didn’t bother to check the time. Stumbling in his haste, feet tangled in his icy blanket, Danny rushed for the bathroom, throwing the door open. His hands gripped the counter, knuckles whitening with the force. Dread curled in his belly.

Danny’s own reflection stared back at him. The same tired eyes, icy blue and stretched wide with fear. 

Danny let out a shaky breath, bowing his head low. 

Relief swelled in his chest… alongside disappointment. Danny couldn’t quite say why. Had he really expected Damian to stare back at him? For his brother to suddenly appear, like any run of the mill ghost haunting him? 

Danny shook his head vehemently. The wood beneath the counter creaked under his grip. He refused to entertain the idea of Damian being a ghost. His brother was alive. He had to be.

One of them had to be.

Danny would never forgive himself if… 

He shook his head again, rough enough to crack his neck.

Damian’s face lingered in Danny's mind. It was so similar to his own, save for the eyes. 

Lifting his head to look in the mirror, Danny flashed his ‘scary eyes’, as Vlad called them. Phantom’s green was too luminous and sharp, a poor imitation of Damian’s soft jade. 

It was close enough. 

Danny shut his eyes.

A knock on the bathroom door made him jump, heart leaping into his throat.

“Is everything okay, Danny?” Jazz asked.

Another steadying breath. “Y-yeah! I’m fine,” Danny called back, his voice wavering traitorously.

A quiet pause. Jazz shuffled on the other side of the door. Danny could imagine her wringing her hands.

“I’m going to make some pancakes and eggs… Do you want some?”

Danny wiped at his face, surprised to find his eyes were wet. Glancing at the mirror, he noticed red rims around his eyes and a green glint around his pupils. Danny looked away.

“S-sure. Uh… what time is it?” 

“A bit past eight. I didn't expect you to be up, honestly,” she said.

Danny dug the heels of his palms into his eyes. If only the hallway in his nightmare had stretched on just a little bit longer…

“Don’t take too long if you take a shower,” Jazz said when he didn’t answer.

After another stretch of silence, he heard her walk down the hall, footsteps creaking on the stairs.

Danny stood in the bathroom, staring at the closed door. Exhaustion clung to him, his vision still bleary with sleep. His left arm ached with the memory of electricity. His skin felt feverish and slicked with sweat, despite the remnants of frost on his arms. 

Danny latched onto what Jazz said. A shower sounded like a good idea.

Chapter Text

Danny avoided the mirror as he left the bathroom. He slipped back into his bedroom, threw his old red zip-up hoodie over a band T-shirt Sam gave him, and grabbed a dark pair of jeans. Danny absently checked his phone for messages. His eyes slid over the screen, struggling to focus.

 His mind felt distant, his thoughts anxious and sour. It was like a cloud had hung over his head since yesterday. Danny couldn't even remember what started it. He often thought of Damian, but he rarely spiraled this badly anymore. At least not where his brother was concerned.

 His nightmares preferred other subjects these days– crackling electricity, malevolent ghosts, and cities come to ruin. 

A single glance at his group chat reminded Danny where the spiral began. 

Tucker left for the beach with his family this morning, and Sam was leaving tomorrow morning with her parents to attend a gala a few states away. Even Jazz had plans for most of the weekend, going on a road trip with her friends. She’d leave about the same time as Sam. 

For the first time in a very long while— since the Accident, since his life crashed and burned for the second time— Danny would be left alone. 

His core thrummed uncomfortably. 

Danny didn't blame any of them. Tucker wanted to invite him to the beach, but the trip involved a family wedding and Danny didn't know his cousins well enough to tag along. 

Sam would sooner chew off her own leg than willingly attend some ritsy gala with her parents. It was in Gotham, at least, so Danny was sure she'd enjoy the scenery if nothing else. 

As for Jazz… she deserved more time to herself. She did enough to keep their household afloat. To keep Danny afloat.

They all kept him afloat.

Heading down to the kitchen, Danny read the latest messages in his group chat with Sam and Tucker.

Tuck: headin out now

Tuck: text me if any crazy ghost stuff happens

Tuck: try not to miss me 2 much <3

Sam: Have fun Tuck!

Sam: Dont let your cousins bury you in the sand this time

Tuck: that was 1 time

Sam: One time too many.

Tuck: hey theyre stronger than they look

Sam: Isnt the oldest one like nine?

Tuck: 10 actually!!!

Sam: Wow what a difference.

Tuck: shouldnt you be packing for that fancy ball

Sam: Please dont remind me.

Tuck: hey its in gotham so mayb youll see batman

Sam: Only if I can escape my parents

Sam: And only if I can deliver him a handwritten fuck you letter

Sam: Over a year of ghost attacks in Amity and not one JL visit!

Sam: That man gives a bad name to bats everywhere.

Tuck: come on were like pros at sneakin out now

Tuck: and pls dont antagonize batman

Sam: True but I also dont feel like getting mugged 

Sam: No promises on Batman though.

Tuck: yeah fair

Tuck: definitely bring an ectogun or smthn at least

Sam: Way ahead of you.

The warm scents of cinnamon and vanilla wreathed around Danny as he sat down at the kitchen table. A fresh stack of pancakes was on the counter and Jazz stood at the stove, frying up a couple of eggs.

"Feeling any better?" she asked.

Danny never told her how he was feeling. Jazz knew him well enough. She always seemed to know when Danny was upset. (Sometimes even before he did.)

Though… Danny might have shouted during his nightmare. He couldn't be sure, and didn't plan to ask.

"Yeah, I guess," he mumbled. 

Jazz turned to look over her shoulder, a small smile on her face. 

"Are you hanging out with Sam today?" she asked.

Danny tapped his fingers against his phone case, rereading his friends' messages.

"Yeah, though we can't stay out too late. Her parents want to leave really early tomorrow."

Jazz gave a small hum to let him know she was listening. She flipped the finished eggs onto a plate and turned off the stove. Setting his phone down, Danny got up to grab them both drinks. 

Danny honestly wasn't hungry. He only ever felt hungry after overexerting himself, or when healing from a bad injury. Something about the ectoplasm in Amity’s air sustained him well enough otherwise. 

Sam once compared it to a plant drawing in sunlight.

Regardless, Jazz always made sure he ate. Even if Danny didn't feel hungry, his human body still needed some sustenance. He was skinny enough without skipping every meal.

So, hunger or not, Danny ate the food Jazz made for him. 

Danny tried to cook sometimes, but he didn't have the same talent or patience for it that Jazz did. He still helped where he could, offering to wash the dishes or run to the store for missing ingredients. It was the least he could do.

"You know you’re welcome to come with us,” Jazz said, her tone measured and careful. “Or I can always stay home this weekend.”

Danny gripped his fork tightly, glowering down at his breakfast, as if the pancakes were a new enemy to fight. This was the third time Jazz had made this offer.

"You know I don't want you to do that. You should get to have fun with your friends," he said quietly. “Just you and your friends.”

Jazz sighed. Her fork scraped against her plate as she set it down. She rested her head in her hand, propping it up on her elbow. Jazz leveled him with a piercing look that made Danny squirm in his seat. It felt like being scanned.

"I could always go with them some other time. Besides, you know Wendi is already bringing her little sister," she argued.

Shaking his head, Danny said, "No. I'm fine, Jazz, really. It's just one weekend. I'll probably just play some video games, or maybe hang out in the Zone."

Jazz wrinkled her nose. No matter how strong Danny became, she didn't like it when he spent time in the Ghost Zone by himself. Too many close calls with Walker and Skulker had her just shy of enacting a GZ buddy system rule.

Danny expected her to lecture him about just that. To steer him away from the Ghost Zone and into a quiet weekend at home. 

"Is there anything you want to talk about?" she asked instead.

Frowning, Danny stabbed at a piece of pancake. The worry in Jazz's voice had him feeling uncomfortable. A bit guilty. It bothered him to know just how much time and energy Jazz put into worrying.

Worrying about him.

Jazz looked at him expectantly, waiting for an answer. Danny rubbed the back of his neck, still fidgeting under her gaze.

"I just… didn't sleep well." It was the truth. At least part of it. "And I just know it's going to be a boring weekend."

Jazz nodded in understanding. "At least Mom and Dad will be out of the house with those weapons tests, so you won't get a headache if you stay home." 

Danny couldn't help but laugh. An evening at home without the constant racket of lab work did sound nice.

"Who knows, maybe a quiet weekend will do you some good," Jazz said with a sly grin. "Maybe you'll even get some sleep for once."

He rolled his eyes. "Not If Boxy has any say in it."

"Better Boxy than Ghost X."

Danny leaned back in his chair, groaning at the ceiling. "You know that's not his name," he said for what felt like the hundredth time.

Jazz laughed, though a frown tugged at her lips as she said, "He hunts my little brother for sport, so I really don't care.”

That logic was reasonably sound.

"Skulker's still in Soup Time, so we won't have to worry about him for a few days," he pointed out.

"Still? Hasn't it already been a few days?"

"A day and a half, I think?" Danny said, making a so-so gesture with his hand. "He threw Tucker off a roof , Jazz. Just because I caught him doesn't make it okay. He gets extended Soup Time."

Jazz grimaced, fidgeting with her fork. Danny could practically see her running through every harrowing encounter their squad dealt with, weighing the danger in her mind.

She knew it was necessary. 

That didn’t mean she liked it.

"That's fair,” she said a little too quietly.

Danny doubted Skulker would try anything like that ever again, at least. 

It still didn't erase the memory of watching his friend sail off of a roof.

Tucker would have survived the height, but definitely would have been injured. It was too close of a call. Danny still felt guilty for New Years when Sam fractured her wrist fighting Technus.

Technus knew better now. It only took one Obsession-fueled wail to teach a ghost a very valuable lesson.

Pushing his empty plate aside, Danny decided to text his friends back.

Danny: have fun at the beach tuck!!

Danny: ill make sure sam doesnt go awol before tomorrow

Danny went to set his phone down, but it immediately buzzed with a response. He grinned, reading over the replies.

Sam: Those are fighting words Ghost Boy.

Tuck: how is he even awake right now

Danny: HE got woken up by pancakes

(Or he at least stayed awake for them.)

Tuck: jazz does make good pancakes fair

Sam: Well if youre up already Im coming over to annoy you 

"Sam says she's coming over now," Danny warned Jazz.

Jazz, mouth filled with pancake, nodded to let him know she heard.

Danny: the parents are already gone so youre in luck

Sam: Rad. Be there soon

Tuck: dont mind me

Tuck: ill just be bored to tears in the airport

Danny: hey at least your parents r legally allowed in the airport

Tuck: lol

Yawning, Danny got up and took his plate to the sink. He started washing the dishes and putting away the ingredients Jazz left out on the counter. Though she may be organized in most things, Jazz was a notoriously messy cook. The counter practically looked like a war zone when she baked.

A hand ruffled Danny's hair as Jazz dropped her own plate in the sink.

"Thanks for cleaning up, little brother," she said. 

"You cooked, so it's only fair." Danny set aside the now-clean pan and reached for the mixing bowl. "Thanks for breakfast, by the way."

Jazz hummed thoughtfully. "I still appreciate it. And it’s no problem; I like making pancakes. It's one of the few things in the house I know won't be ecto-contaminated."

She said the last part with a note of disgust, sticking out her tongue.

Danny laughed, flashing her a fanged grin. "Only cause you keep the ingredients in your bedroom," he said.

"Desperate times, desperate measures," she said with an exaggerated sigh.

Danny appreciated everything the Fentons had done for him over the years. Jack and Maddie were his parents, and he loved them like any kid should love their parents.

But… 

There were things they did that would always bother Danny. Their hatred of Phantom aside, the Fentons were often negligent. 

(The on switch of the portal, nestled inside the machine.)

The ecto-contaminated food in the fridge wasn't dangerous to Danny– that ship had long since sailed– but it was a blight to anyone not already overexposed to the substance or death itself.

It didn't take an ectobiologist to notice that even Jazz's eyes glowed in the dark now.

Not that the ectobiologists did notice. Thankfully.

It was honestly a wonder Jack and Maddie didn’t glow themselves at this point. Danny assumed the hazmat suits kept them moderately safe, but Jazz theorized it also had something to do with ectoplasm entering a young, developing body rather than that of an adult.

If there was any merit to Jazz’s theory— and her own glowing eyes suggested that there was— then two children raised with ectoplasm samples nestled against the milk carton were doomed to bioluminescence from the start.

Nevermind the gaping portal in their basement, lurid green and swirling endlessly.

Danny remembered the night Jazz first noticed the glow, a couple of months after the portal Accident. She came into his room, her eyes bright with tears— and something else. Something all too familiar. Two pairs of eyes, one blue and one aqua, glowed faintly in the dark together. He held her that night, like she usually did for him.

A small part of Danny felt shamefully happy that he wasn’t alone.

The Fentons were good people. They meant well, truly. There's just only so much a person can do when blinded by an obsession to rival a ghost's.

Danny had to keep telling himself that.

The front door creaked open without a knock. Sam strode in, waving as she hopped into one of the seats at the dining table.

“Hey Danny. Jazz. Weird hearing your place so quiet,” she said. grinning appraisingly at the silent household. 

Sam’s black hair hung in its usual high ponytail, though she’d gone without makeup or her denim jacket. It was probably too hot outside for both to be comfortable. 

“Hey Sam! I was just about to head out. I need to get some supplies for my trip tomorrow,” Jazz said.

Danny set aside the last clean plate and sat down opposite Sam, turning to the side so he could look at both of them.

“Where you heading to again?” Sam asked her.

Jazz’s eyes lit up at the question.

“We’re going to leave as early as we can and spend the day in Chicago. We’ll probably check out the Art Institute the first day, and the zoo the day after! It’s been a long time since we went up there, and my friend’s little sister has been begging to go to the zoo.” Jazz bounced happily on the balls of her feet as she spoke.

She sounded so excited. Danny hated to think she would drop her plans so easily if he asked.

Sam whistled. “That’s a long drive, but sounds like fun.”

“Yep! Hence the need for supplies, though. Mostly snacks,” Jazz said, smiling wide. 

Even her canines had a sharper point to them these days, though not quite to the extreme of Danny’s fangs. Not yet.

(Hopefully the changes would stop at fangs.)

Danny and Sam nodded. Both knew that the Fenton household was a deadzone (pun discussed and intended) for snacks. Fudge, maybe, but nothing of variety.

Jazz grabbed her keys and bag, swinging the keyring around her finger. She dipped back into the kitchen one last time to pull Danny into a side hug. She squeezed his shoulder tightly and he leaned into her, soaking up the attention.

If Sam noticed the exchange, she didn’t say. 

“I’m going to hang out with Wendi afterwards, but I’ll probably be back around dinnertime if you guys want to order pizza or something,” Jazz said, moving towards the door.

“Sounds good, Jazz. I’ll text you when we figure out what we’re doing,” Danny said.

With Jazz gone and the house to themselves, Danny and Sam decided to play some video games in the living room. It was rare that they got to use the big television in Danny’s house without being unbearably close to the racket from the lab.

Not that they hung out at Fenton Works if they could help it.

Danny was getting better at video games. It was easier now that he had a few controllers modified by Tucker to take the strain off of his left hand, but Sam still thoroughly crushed him in most matches. Even before the accident, it was rare he beat her in any game outside of Mario Kart.

He appreciated that she never went easy on him. 

They played Mario Kart now, a standoff between Bowser and King Boo, each winning as many games as they lost. It felt good to focus on the chaos of flying turtle shells and Sam shouting expletives at Baby Peach as she threw a second blue shell her way.

Once Danny’s hand started hurting in earnest, they called it quits to grab some lunch. 

~*~

“I know you’re dreading the gala, but Gotham has gotta be a cool place to visit,” Danny said. 

He had a small fry and a milkshake, while Sam had her usual veggie burger. They sat in their favorite booth by the window, sharing memes on their phones with each other. They sent the best ones to Tucker so he could enjoy them once he got off the plane. 

The Nasty Burger was empty except for Danny and Sam, leaving them free to laugh loudly without disturbing anyone nearby. A lot of their classmates were away on summer vacation, and some were probably still sleeping in. If not for nightmares and Jazz’s early riser tendencies, Danny would be among them.

Sam tipped her head side to side, taking a long sip from her soda.

“I am pretty excited to see the city. I’m gonna see if I can get some cool pictures of the gargoyles.”

It was such a Sam answer; Danny grinned. 

“Maybe you’ll find a vigilante sitting on one of them,” he teased.

Danny didn't know much about Gotham, other than the vigilantes that roamed the city, and what Sam told him of the history and architecture. Her mention of gargoyles reminded him of the pictures she showed Danny and Tucker, and one in particular with Robin perched on top of a gargoyle nearly twice his size.

Sam snorted. “It would be cool to see one of them, I guess, but you know I’m still mad at them. I know we’ve talked about this a hundred times before, but the least they could’ve done is checked .” 

Her brows knitted together as she scowled, staring out the window as if Batman himself might appear on the other side of the glass and finally face her ire.

Sighing, Danny picked at the edge of his milkshake lid. He probably shouldn’t have brought the Gotham heroes up. He knew it was a sore spot for her– for all of them, in a way. 

Danny tried not to think about it too much, but there were nights where he sat on his bedroom floor, gritting his teeth as Jazz sewed him up, resentment coiling inside his chest as he braced through the pain and felt the tremble of Jazz’s hands. 

How many scars would he have if the Justice League had offered any measure of help? How many nights would his friends have spent stitching his skin together, patching up the gaping wounds on his body before tending to their own cuts and scrapes? 

Danny took pride and even joy in his work as Phantom. He knew Sam, Tucker, and Jazz felt the same, but there was only so much they could handle without feeling the strain.

They were still just kids. 

“I see a vigilante pretty much every day, so they’re not that special anyway,” Sam said, jerking Danny from his thoughts. 

Danny choked a bit on his milkshake. 

“Did you just… compare Phantom to the Gotham vigilantes?” he asked between coughs.

A devious grin curled Sam’s lips. She reached across the table, gently patting Danny’s arm.

“If the jumpsuit fits.”

“I don’t think wrangling ghosts in a small town is the same,” Danny said in a low hiss.

Sam shrugged, leaning back against the booth seat. 

“You’re right. Phantom’s cooler,” she said, her tone boasting. “Does twice the work with a fraction of the supplies and training— and no adult supervision.”

Danny made an indignant squawking sound, but it was drowned out by Sam’s raucous laughter.

As her laughter died down, Danny tried to keep protesting, but Sam leaned across the table on her elbows and carried on.

“Phantom doesn’t get enough credit and you know that. He works hard, and this town’s lucky to have someone as stubborn as him.”

Danny’s cheeks flushed hot with embarrassment. He wanted to phase through the ground and disappear. He glared down at the last of his fries, refusing to meet her gaze. 

Mercifully, Sam dropped it there. For now. 

Self worth pep talks were more common than Danny would have liked.

~*~

From Nasty Burger, they went to the mall. It was too hot to do much of anything else, and Sam wanted to look for creepy accessories she could sneak into her gala outfit. Sam’s parents would kill her if she went overboard at such a high end event, but that wouldn’t stop her from toeing the line.

All in all, it was a pleasant, quiet day at the mall. Danny could have done without Boxy tearing apart two stores in a rapid bid for shoe boxes, but at least he didn’t try to flee. Three minutes of shoes soaring haphazardly through the air, quickly ended by three seconds of holding a Fenton Thermos. Easily one of their better mall trips in the last five months.

Sam left the mall with a new bat pin. Danny called it ironic. Sam called it an act of defiance.

By the time Jazz texted Danny to say she was home, pizza sounded better than any plan they could come up with. 

They walked back to Fenton Works, Danny flaring his core to keep them both cool. It drained his energy, but it was better than feeling absolutely miserable in the heat. Sam leaned against him, appreciating the chill.

“I wish I could bring you with me to Gotham. I think it’s supposed to rain a couple of days, but I bet the city will be stifling.”

Danny chuckled. “Missing your personal AC unit more than your friend? Wow , Sam, rude.”

Sam shoved him, sending him toppling into a nearby hedge.

“I just remembered Gotham is on the coast and shouldn’t be that hot anyway, so nevermind.”

She kept walking, leaving Danny to untangle himself from the hedge branches. It took a little too long for him to consider using intangibility. Embarrassingly long. By the time Danny freed himself, Sam started running, laughing over her shoulder.

Danny chased after her, putting just a little bit of extra power into his strides.

~*~

His parents still weren’t home by the time the pizza arrived. With how focused Jack and Maddie were on their current project, Danny doubted he’d see much of them all weekend. 

When Danny was younger, he would have resented their absence. Now he took relief in it.

The thought made him feel guilty.

Danny, Jazz, and Sam took over the living room, piling onto the couch with pizza and some extra snacks Jazz bought from the store. Danny sat in the middle to continue his best impression of a humanoid air conditioner, his head rested on Jazz's shoulder and his legs lying over Sam's.

After debating how upset Tucker would be if they continued their Avatar rewatch without him, they decided to play it safe and stick to movies instead. They put on a romcom with intentions of tearing it apart, but by an hour in all three of them were fully invested in the plot. 

Another romcom followed. 

They were just about to start a third movie when the front door flew open.

Danny swung his head around, already on high alert. Even if it was just his parents, it paid to be ready to dodge anything.

Sometimes his parents warranted more wariness than anything else.

Jack and Maddie trudged through the front door, lacking their usual enthusiasm. Jack had a large metal case swung over his shoulder, and Maddie had a three-ring binder filled to the brim with pages.

"How did the testing go?" Jazz tentatively asked them.

Danny could already guess the answer. Their parents didn't react to failure well. They usually bounced back quickly, but the lows between sparks of inspiration could be crushing. Judging by Jack's quiet demeanor and sullen slouch, the results were obvious.

"There are some issues to work out still," Maddie said with a weary sigh. 

Her shoulders slumped, as if her last bit of energy trickled out with the sigh.

Jack dragged his feet into the kitchen and grabbed some cold pizza. Maddie followed and rooted through the cupboards, pulling out a couple mugs and some decaf coffee.

"What sort of invention is it this time?" Jazz asked.

Danny tensed at the question. He stared determinedly ahead at the paused television, straining his ears to catch every word from the kitchen.

Maddie gave another sigh. He heard the coffee maker start, the sound grating in the quiet. 

"An ectogun, of sorts," she said. Vaguely.

Danny never liked when his parents were vague about their projects. It usually meant they were dabbling with something particularly dangerous or explosive.

Jazz and Sam clearly felt the same way. Sam fixed Maddie with a poorly concealed glare, while Jazz leaned forward to hide Sam from view.

"Just another ectogun?" Jazz asked, a sharp edge to her tone.

Jack sat down at the kitchen table, while Maddie kept flitting about the counter, preparing coffee. Her auburn hair looked frazzled, as if she’d been running her hands through it. She didn't turn to face them as she spoke.

"We won't know how it works for sure until we complete our testing. We can give you kids a rundown once we get a working prototype."

Danny really didn't like that answer. Whatever they were working on, it had to be cruel. Jack and Maddie were more than aware of their kids (and Sam) supporting fair treatment of non-violent ghosts. If they wouldn't disclose information about one of their inventions– the very things they lived to talk about– Danny dreaded to think what fresh hell they'd cooked up in the lab this time.

Sam moved as if to confront them, but Danny grabbed her arm and gave a small shake of his head. They could figure it out later, once the weapon had gone through more testing. Maybe Danny could even scout out their testing grounds… 

Or maybe not. Jazz would probably kill Danny the rest of the way if she heard he got close to Jack and Maddie when they were out testing in the field, on high alert and ready to shoot anything that glowed.

Before they could decide if they should move into Danny's room, Sam's phone rang. He could hear Pamela Manson's voice over the line, ordering Sam to return home. She rolled her eyes as her mom carried on and Danny laughed dryly.

He had forgotten Sam needed to go home for her trip. The time just slipped away, ever as elusive as Clockwork themself.

"Welp, guess it's time for me to head out," Sam said as she got up and stretched, her shoulders popping.

"Do you want a ride home?" Jazz offered.

Sam seemed to consider the offer for a moment, but shook her head.

"Naw," she said, waving her hand dismissively. "It's not that far, and it just means I get to stay out a little later.” A devious grin. “Thanks, though."

Sam grabbed her bag and Danny got up to see her out. He was just opening his mouth to say goodnight when Sam pulled him into a hug.

"It'll just be a few days," she said a bit too gently. "One day to get there and explore, one for the gala, and a couple more for some other business my parents are doing in the city. Just text me if you get bored or lonely."

Danny's core gave a stuttered hum, happy to have her support but distressed to see her go. He leaned into the hug, sure Sam could feel the uneven purr emanating from his chest. 

"I'll text you guys even if I'm not bored. Just to annoy you," he mumbled into her shoulder.

Sam laughed, patting the top of his head. At his grand height of five-foot-nothing, Sam already towered over him by at least six inches. Jazz was even taller, though at least she didn't wear thick combat boots.

"I'll text you when we land tomorrow. Bye Danny, bye Jazz!" 

She gave Danny one last squeeze before heading out the door.

The house felt a little bit colder as the door shut.

Jack and Maddie were still sitting at the kitchen table, talking with their heads together. The more they spoke, the more Jack perked up with his usual enthusiasm. Danny had a feeling they'd started working out one of the issues with their prototype. They'd probably be down in the lab again first thing tomorrow morning, forgoing breakfast for their work.

Jazz decided to head to bed early and Danny followed after her, both of them saying a quick goodnight to their parents from the stairs. Danny didn't want to be left alone with them right now. Not when their new weapon still lay at Jack's feet, hidden in its metal case. Fenton experiments, even the ones that didn't seem to work, could still prove harmful.

Even fatal.

Jazz stopped at the top of the stairs and turned to face him. She put a hand on Danny's shoulder and spoke quietly.

"We’re leaving early tomorrow so I won’t wake you up. Don't forget, if you need me to come home for anything, I'm only a call away."

Nothing short of dying a second time would have him call her.

He nodded anyway.

“I’ll see you late on Sunday. Love you, little brother.”

She pulled him into one last hug, kissing the top of his head.

“Bye, Jazz. I love you too,” he said, hugging her back with the same, stuttered hum vibrating inside his chest. “Have a safe trip.”

Chapter Text

Though Danny went to his room the same time as Jazz, he didn’t expect to sleep anytime soon. 

Alone with his thoughts, Danny sat on the edge of his bed and wrung his hands. His room felt too small. Stifling, like the heat. The distant murmur of his parents’ voices carried through the door. The more Danny focused on the sounds, the more tense he became. Most of the words blended into a dissonant garble, but some words reached his ears.

Sharp . Fire . Catch . Hook .

Each snippet he understood raised more questions than answers.

Danny’s heart began to race, imagining what their new weapon could be. If it would work on him. If he could escape it. If it would hurt him. 

How badly it would hurt him.

Not just him. Danny wouldn’t be the only one in danger. Without knowing the severity of their project, it put the safety of every ghost in Amity Park into question.

He could already feel his Obsession burning.

Danny’s breaths came too quick, racing in tandem with his overactive mind. Before Danny knew it, he was hyperventilating. There wasn’t enough air in the room. He could only focus on Jack and Maddie’s voices. The tight feeling growing in his chest. The way the air chilled around him. 

Danny covered his ears, trying to block out their voices. He rocked back and forth, forcing himself to count his breaths like Jazz taught him to.

This wasn't anything new. He was used to watching his parents build weapons. Used to the dread of waiting and wondering. Why was this any different?

A loud exclamation from the kitchen made Danny lose track of his counting. He desperately wanted to wake up Jazz, or call Tucker and Sam. He had to remind himself they were all probably asleep. They deserved the rest. They were on vacation, just like he should be.

Another loud exclamation from Jack made Danny jump. He shook, every one of his nerves on edge. It was the last push Danny needed to transform and take to the sky. If anything could soothe his panic, it was soaring through town, the wind whipping his hair and the stars shining overhead. 

~*~

Amity Park always felt different at night. It hummed with a quiet, languid energy not unlike the outer fringes of the Ghost Zone. A gentle caress of darkness. The first quiet notes to a slow song. The crisp nights of fall, no matter the current season.

Danny drifted over the park, breathing in the night air that his ghost half didn't need. He lost himself to the wind. Let his mind drift aimlessly as he traced the familiar streets. The tight feeling in Danny’s chest uncoiled as he relaxed into the breeze.

A few days to himself didn't seem so bad, if they could all be like this. 

If he could just keep himself busy. 

Flipping onto his back, Danny floated over the bridge to Elmerton. The gentle lapping of water below, the subtle whoosh of the wind. The sounds pulled his eyelids low as he stared up at the sky. It was slightly overcast now, with fluffy clouds rolling over the eastern edge of the sky like an enveloping blanket. Danny could still pick out the Cygnus constellation, framed just between those rolling clouds like a bird in a cage.

The sky felt so vast. Immeasurably so to Amity, small and tucked away as it was. Just a single speck in an endless sea. 

Danny wondered, not for the first time, what his life would have been like if the Fentons never found him. 

Danny didn’t remember much before the Fentons. Just hard work, offset by a kind smile and gentle green eyes. Hard days spent training, that still resonated in the way he moved and fought. Nights spent close to the only person he cared about– who cared about him. His memories were vague and distorted. Fragments. Pieces of a person with a different destiny. Everything before the accident felt like a distant, far off dream.

His first accident. His first mission.

Danny remembered being small and afraid. Separated from his better half. Told to kill.

He remembered hesitating. 

He remembered hands grabbing his throat. Fighting with every ounce of his strength. Nails digging into flesh. Being thrown against a wall. His ears ringing. Fire spreading and shadows lengthening. The target fleeing, leaving him for dead.

A bright flash– an almighty rumble– and a building tumbling down, down, down . 

Danny still shook at the memory. The sound still lingered in his ears, alongside the phantom press of shattered stone.

Ancients only know how Danny survived, buried beneath that mountain of rubble. He still had burns on his legs, and a gruesome scar below his knee where a metal rod drove through his broken leg. Yanking his leg free had hurt nearly as much as dragging himself from the wreckage. 

Yet nothing hurt more than knowing he failed. 

Danny knew from the moment he hesitated that he could never return home. To Damian. If there was any luck left in the world, he’d be presumed dead. (Assuming he didn’t first bleed out.) 

Danny wished for that small mercy as he stuck to the shadows, bloody, broken, and lost beyond measure. 

The League never found him. A little girl with fiery red hair did instead.

His big sister, Jazz— and he, her stray cat of a brother, found in a ditch by the park. 

She still pointed out the spot sometimes.

It took a long time for Danny to adjust to his new life. He felt like a working dog with no task, left in a home where lazy nights watching television replaced backbreaking training. Danny could never relax. He spent each day alert, waiting for someone lurking in the shadows to finish what the explosion couldn’t.

Jazz was so patient with him then. Her unyielding kindness terrified him.

He felt a betrayal in every soft smile Jazz gave him. Every hug she enveloped him in. Every nightmare and worrying thought she coaxed him through. As if accepting each small act of kindness from Jazz drove a rift further between Danny and Damian. Replacing him.

Time eased that worry and lowered his guard. He loved Jazz like his own flesh and blood. She was too much her own, headstrong person to ever be a replacement. 

Danny could only hope that Damian had someone like Jazz in his life now. If only to fill the gaping void he couldn’t.

Not that Jazz filled the void left by Damian’s absence. 

Danny never told his family or friends about that missing chunk of his soul. Damian. His old life. He kept his memories close to his chest like a closely-guarded treasure.

Danny might never tell them, he realized. It felt a bit ironic, that the people he cared about knew more about his death than his birth.

It was better that way. Easier.

Danny closed his eyes, letting his mind wander.

A plane flew somewhere overhead, a distant rumble against the quiet hush of wind and water.

The hallway returned unbidden to Danny's thoughts. Long and stretching on, on, on… towards the portal.

Danny could still hear the quiet whispers. They babbled in the river, and breezed in the wind. When his eyes fluttered open, the sky replaced the yawning black of the portal. The distant stars seemed to glow green. 

A jade green. 

A thousand pinprick eyes in the dark, staring down at him, thrust through the gaps in the clouds. Glaring and cold. 

Danny sat up with a jolt.

He had stopped floating at some point, landing on the outer stone wall of the bridge. The wall felt icy where he lay, coated in a thick layer of frost. Danny clenched his fists, glad to at least see white gloves. He must've dozed a little.

With one last look at the sky, finding Cygnus obscured by the clouds, Danny headed home.

~*~

Danny coasted through the Ghost Zone, constantly changing directions as his surroundings shifted and warped. The purple doors stretched too tall. The islands shrunk and twisted in spiraling designs. The sky itself rippled like the eddies of a river. 

Danny felt like he was searching for something, though he couldn't remember what. Everything seemed too far away. No matter how far Danny flew, the distant, island-dotted horizon stretched on immeasurably. 

Familiar fragments hung in his periphery. Floating gears, shards of ice, and the glint of glowing eyes.

Each turn of his head showed only rippling sky.

If he strained his ears, Danny could hear whispers. Not the same dull static he associated with the Ghost Zone, but a purposeful voice taunting him from the shadows. The eyes in his periphery flashed brighter with each unintelligible word. 

The sky kept changing colors, cycling through shades of green until it resolutely burned a vibrant jade. The color stained the islands, the doors, and Danny's own hands. It bled through his fingers like ectoplasm, only wrong.

Danny woke up.

He sat up slowly this time, groaning. A chill hung in the air and Danny had somehow managed to tangle his blankets so tightly around his legs he had to use intangibility to free himself. Sunlight filtered through the crack in the curtains, stinging his eyes. The clock read nine AM. 

Danny tried to lay back down, but felt too restless. Too worried he'd just slip into another nightmare. (One much worse, knowing his luck.)

Danny was no stranger to bad dreams. Dark, ghoulish nightmares that played off of his deepest fears and worst memories. The portal's powerful shock. Broken and battered friends. Steel tables and sharp scalpels. A city burned to the ground. 

Familiarity never made them any easier.

Still, Danny would prefer if his nightmares had the decency to leave out Damian. He might even prefer ones about Dan.

…

Okay maybe not. 

Guilty reminders of what he left behind were definitely preferable to the worst possible version of himself.

Maybe Danny really did need more sleep. Or a therapist that wasn’t Jazz.

…

Definitely both.

Danny spent the rest of the morning in a fog. His parents were already down in the lab, causing their usual cacophony of noise. Not one to tempt a headache, Danny decided he'd rather wander around town than be an unwitting patron to the world's worst orchestra.

On his way out the door, he noticed a note on the counter from Jazz, laying atop a few bills.

See you late Sunday, Little Brother. Stay safe, and make sure you eat.

-Love, The Best Big Sister

Danny pocketed the note alongside the money, a smile curling his lips. She really was the best big sister. Jazz knew Danny hated asking their parents for things. Not since he was a freshly adopted child with an uncertain place in the family, and certainly not now when he kept his distance to assure the Drs. Fenton never felt the subtle chill of his skin. Knowing Jazz, she probably asked Maddie for money for her trip, only to leave half of it on the counter for him.

If she used the money to guilt trip him into eating, then so be it.

Outside, the heat was all-encompassing. The sun beat down on Amity, baking the asphalt without so much as a breeze. The clouds from the night before had completely dispersed, offering no reprieve from the harsh sunlight.

Danny stuck to the shadows the best he could, faint memories of the League tickling the back of his mind. It became something of a game, seeing how gracefully he could pick through the thin shadows. Danny kept the chill of his core flared as he went, but the heat sapped away at the cold, draining his energy like a sieve.

If only to escape the heat, Danny decided to grab an early lunch at the mall. He didn’t feel like going to the Nasty Burger by himself. At least he could keep moving at the mall, and meander around the other shops without melting into a puddle.

( Not great imagery. Danny mentally apologized to Dani for that one.)

Finding the most secluded spot of the food court he could, Danny sat down with his burger and fries and made good on his promise to annoy Sam and Tucker.

Danny: im already bored come back

Sam responded almost immediately with a pathetic, teary-eyed cat meme. She and Tucker each had a collection of them saved for Danny specifically. It had only taken his core purring one time for them to jump on the cat jokes. 

Between the three of them, they joked they were a cat, a bat, and… a dog. Tucker refused to keep the rhyme going with rat. Seeing as he was the only one good at drawing animals, Sam and Danny couldn't exactly dispute it. 

Sam: I literally just got off the plane why are you like this

Danny: abandonment issues

Sam: I swear if you pull the orphan card

Danny: abandonment issues from my orphan days

Sam and Tucker were told the same lie he told the Fentons: that he could hardly remember his family, he remembered some sort of accident, and that he was now on his own. 

They used to ask Danny questions, searching for any scraps of information they could to learn more about their friend. He would take the questions in stride, brushing them off with the same humor he carried in Phantom's morbid quips. Jokes of being a poor orphaned child, without a memory of how he wound up that way. His amnesiac origin story.

Danny was always good at deflecting. 

The burns on his legs blended into the myriad of ghost hunting scars now, but before the Accident Danny would sometimes catch Sam and Tucker staring. 

He told them he didn’t remember what caused the burns. 

He knew they didn’t believe him.

Sam: Im just going to dump you at the shelter the moment I get back

Sam: Let you relive the good old days.

Danny: and you wonder why im like this

Tuck: danny

Danny: ?

Tuck: it wont be so bad at the shelter

Tuck: mayb youll get adopted by a family that doesnt hunt u for sport

Danny: WOW

Sam: LOL

Danny: WOWW

Sam: You broke him

Tuck: hey it was a good one

Danny: WOWWWWWW!!!

Danny: ok it was

Danny: but knowing my luck id just get adopted by like

Danny: vlad.

Sam: Id never let the shelter adopt you out to him

Danny: you already left me there why do you decide where i go

Tuck: you say that like your considering vlad

Danny: NO

Sam: His cat is probably just as lonely as he is

Danny: no no no nono no

Tuck: fr tho poor maddie

Danny: PLEASE

Danny: we do not speak the cats name.

Sam: Lol

Danny: if he ever gets an actual cat named danny tho im not gonna be the only one hunted for sport

Tuck: hey maybe hed leave u alone tho 

Tuck: let cat!danny take the fall

Danny: can the shelter just euthanize me instead

Danny: put me out of my misery

Sam: I would never leave you at a kill shelter

Danny: awwww <3

Tuck: holesome

Danny: hole 

Sam: HOLE

Tuck: gdi

Their chat kept going for over an hour. 

Tucker recounted the woes of sharing a hotel room with three little kids. Apparently, one of his cousins was obsessed with lizards and managed to catch five anoles before releasing them into the hotel room with reckless abandon. They were still trying to catch one of them. Tucker had an unfortunate run-in with the rogue lizard this morning when he reached for his hearing aids and felt something skitter out from under his palm.

Lizard wrangling aside, Tucker also told them about the Florida beach his family was staying at. They saw a pod of dolphins near the shore early this morning, and the water was clear enough to see the sand below. They were going out on a boat ride along the coast in a little while. 

Sam told them about the awful turbulence coming into Gotham, and how their flight was almost canceled in the first place because of the stormy weather in New Jersey. Despite dreading the gala tomorrow night, she was already enjoying the sights of Gotham. She sent them a few pictures of tall, gothic buildings below a rainy sky. 

Their conversation petered out as Sam’s parents took her out for lunch, and Tucker’s parents chastised him for texting his friends when he should be spending time with his cousins. 

Danny sighed. He tapped the edge of the food court table, staring at his long-cold fries. He managed to eat about half of his meal before getting lost in conversation. Now, alone and bored, he picked at the cold fries with a frown.

It wasn’t that Danny hated being alone. He mostly wasn't used to it. Before the Fentons, Danny always had Damian by his side. Now, he always had Sam, Tucker, or Jazz. Often all three of them. Between habit and his Obsession, Danny was used to always having someone nearby to check on and talk with.

And Ancients, how his Obsession itched today. The three people he cared most about were so far away– too far for him to help, if anything were to happen.

Four people, if he counted Dani. 

(She spent much more time away than in Amity, but Danny still cared about her.)

Five people, if he counted Damian. 

(Part of him always counted Damian, no matter the time and distance apart.)

Danny had to keep reminding himself that they were all probably safer where they were now, rather than back in Amity where the ghosts rivaled the rats in population.

…

Tucker and Jazz were definitely safer at least. 

Danny did his best not to think about the crime rate in Gotham, or how Sam and her parents, with the wealth that they had, would be prime targets for mugging.

At least Sam had an ectogun and the aim to back it up.

Danny always had to trust that, wherever Dani was, her powers would be enough to keep her safe. He would feel better if she at least carried a cellphone, but, in her words, Dani was: 'A free-range goose that can't be tamed.'

Jazz said it was better for Danny’s mental health that he tried not to worry too much about Dani when she was away. That it wasn’t conducive to his Obsession to worry about someone who actively distanced themself from his help.

It sounded callous, but he knew Jazz said it from a place of well-meaning. 

Only, Jazz didn’t quite understand how rattled Danny felt whenever Dani left. How rattled he was when he first met Dani. How she sometimes looked a little too much like himself— like Damian— and how seeing her leave dug much deeper than it should.

At least the similarities between brother and clone were not only skin deep. Damian, just like Dani, was more than capable of defending himself. If he stayed with the League of Assassins, probably even more so now. 

If he lived.

If he even survived his own first solo mission, or every mission that followed it.

I wouldn’t know. I never went back for him.

Danny clutched his head in his hands, trying to shake away the rising intrusive thoughts. 

I would have been killed , Danny reasoned with his own head. 

Damian would have grieved for me a second time.

 The thought sickened him. Panic crept into his chest. 

Looking around, Danny tried to ground himself. He needed something else to think about. 

Something about remembering he was in a food court, surrounded by advertisements with smiling food items and colorful fonts, felt just ridiculous enough to calm him down.

What a place to have a near breakdown.

Stretching, Danny realized just how stiff his back was from sitting in the uncomfortable food court chair for almost two hours.

His sudden movement caught the attention of someone nearby, like a shark honing in on a seal. Danny couldn’t say he was surprised to see the familiar, broad silhouette. 

“What are you doing at the mall all by yourself, Fenton?” sneered Dash Baxter.

Danny had hoped Dash and all of his friends were away on vacation by now. He supposed at least a couple of them were, seeing as it was just him and Kwan.

“Leave me alone, Dash,” Danny groaned.

Ever as predictable, Dash deigned to do the opposite. He grabbed the chair opposite Danny and sat down, still sporting that smug sneer. Kwan sat down beside him, matching his expression.

“Did your lame friends finally ditch you?” he asked with mock sympathy.

Danny fixed him with a glare. He wasn’t in the mood to deal with Dash on the best of days, let alone now.

Dash reached across the table and took several of Danny’s fries. He made a face at how stale they were, but hid it behind a grin. Danny had to suppress a laugh.

“Freaky Fenton, can’t even keep two friends,” Dash continued to mock, leaning across the table as Kwan laughed.

Danny leaned back, his nose wrinkling. “Is that all you have to say? Or is there another reason you’re annoying me?” he said.

Danny really didn’t feel like mincing his words today. Dash was frankly lucky he had more restraint.

Dash bristled a bit at that, his eyes narrowing. He couldn’t exactly punch Danny in the mall, especially in the food court. There was too much of a risk of getting kicked out. Ironic, that the mall cops seemed to care more about bullying than the entire high school.

“I don’t have to say anything. Only a loser sits and eats shitty fries at the mall alone,” Dash said.

He didn’t wait for a reply— perhaps too worried he’d snap and punch Danny if he had to listen to one more quip. Dash swept his hand across the table, knocked the rest of Danny’s fries into his lap, and left with a cruel laugh, chatting animatedly with Kwan.

Once upon a time, the exchange would have angered Danny. Now it was just plain annoying. Box Ghost on a Monday morning level annoying. Nothing Dash could say would ever compare to what his own mind cooked up in his nightmares.

Danny picked up the fries and tossed his garbage in the nearest trash can. Hoping that the day wouldn’t get any worse, Danny started wandering the mall.

There was something relaxing about walking the mall by himself. Danny only visited the mall alone when he had to grab something last minute, to buy a gift, or to chase down a ghost. He’d never just gone to the mall to… exist. To walk around and take in the sights at his own pace. 

Danny noticed a few things about the mall that he normally wouldn’t. How the windows in the ceiling had been repaired since Skulker’s attack two weeks ago. A mosaic koi pattern on the bottom of the fountain, hidden under piles of pennies. The singe mark still on the wall next to the candle store, from when Jack Fenton had spectacularly missed Johnny 13 at point-blank range over a month ago. 

Stopping by the bookstore, Danny found a book he was pretty sure Jazz would like. Between reading books on psychology, she often liked to read fantasy adventures. It was a far cry from the classics she used to pull off of their parents’ bookshelves and read to him at night. Danny treasured those reading sessions, but mere mention of Moby Dick still made him feel exhausted.  

Considering the stress Jazz carried on her shoulders, Danny thought it was a good thing she had some form of escape to balance it out.

As if he was one to talk about managing stress. Ha.

After the mall, Danny stopped by the house to drop off the book and unwind for a bit. The house was mercifully silent, his parents already gone. Danny sank onto his bed and played a few different games, hopping between them whenever he lost focus. He eventually settled on playing an old Pokemon save file, grinning when he saw the cyndaquil Tucker lovingly named 'Beanlad'. 

Time slipped away and by the time Danny beat the fifth gym, his left hand felt stiff and sore. Rubbing at his palm, Danny glanced at the window. The sky outside was already getting dark. 

Danny strained his ears for any indication that Jack and Maddie were home, but all he could hear was the gentle hum of the air conditioner. He considered going downstairs to grab something for dinner… for all of ten seconds. Jazz wasn’t home to nag him into eating, and he really didn’t feel like picking the fridge for edible scraps. Danny had eaten lunch, after all. That was more than enough in his opinion. Besides, he could always make it up by eating extra tomorrow.

Danny stared out the window. Patrolling– flying– seemed much more inviting.

Chapter Text

Bruce was tired.

Preparing for galas was always a headache. A necessary headache, but a headache all the same. One that didn’t exactly go away during the gala either.

Networking. Small talk. Maintaining his "Brucie" persona until the muscles in his cheeks ached from a forced grin. 

Wrangling his children.

All were social conventions that Bruce would rather not deal with if given the chance.

He could only hope his children would behave this time. Hope. The last gala had gone smoothly… for all of seventeen minutes. The atmosphere of the event took a decidedly negative turn when Tim fell asleep during a conversation with the CEO of a large tech company on the west coast– followed shortly after by Damian taking offense to a comment on his height and punching the CEO's college-age son in the face.

Bruce blamed Tim's exhaustion and Damian's irritability on exams. 

The excuse worked about as well as it could, but it wouldn't fly for this event. It was the middle of summer now and both Damian and Tim were out of classes.

Most of Bruce’s children would attend this gala. It was a large fundraising event for hospital equipment, with benefactors coming in from across the country, and some even from overseas. Bruce originally intended to only bring a few of his children, but the situation snowballed when no one could agree on who should take the ‘fall’ and attend. In the end, Bruce decided he would rather drag all of them to the gala than have a tournament break out in the manor. It would make a good show for the media, in any case. All of his wards dressed in their best and on their best behavior.

…

It was a pipe dream, but one Bruce would resolutely shoot for.

Truthfully, Bruce didn’t expect all of his kids to stay for the full duration of the gala. Even if things went smoothly (not enough emphasis could be put on the word if ) they had a way of slowly sneaking off during crowded events, one by one. It was somewhat endearing, though Bruce would never admit that aloud.

Still, Bruce would be remiss if he didn’t at least warn them of his expectations for tomorrow night. He waited until finishing dessert before speaking.

“I expect you all to behave tomorrow at the fundraiser. Please. Don’t forget the gala has been pushed back by an hour.”

They sat at the dining room table, satiated by one of Alfred’s immaculate feasts. Damian and Dick sat closest to Bruce, with Tim, Duke, Stephanie, and Cass sitting further down the table. The dining room hadn't been this full in weeks, and it warmed Bruce's heart to see it that way. Alfred, too, had gone all out for their meal. Perfectly cooked beef wellington, a massive salad, roasted vegetables, and three different kinds of pie. It was only a shame Jason couldn’t attend. How convenient for him that an investigation lined up perfectly with this weekend.

At mention of the gala, Damian made a displeased sound. Bruce prepared himself for the usual rant.

"I don’t see why we should all attend, Father," Damian said. "Richard and Drake should be adequate."

Before Bruce could open his mouth, Tim beat him to it.

"If I have to drag myself to a gala when I could be doing more research, then so do you, Demon Brat," he said.

Tim had even worse eyebags than usual and looked about ready to pass out. He'd been working on research for almost a week now, and no amount of scolding from Alfred could keep him from it. Alfred managed to take away his laptop last night, but Bruce suspected Tim still spent all night up on his phone. 

Damian bristled, but this time Bruce made himself heard.

"It's good for the public to see us together. A happy, healthy family. One that doesn't start fights at a fundraising event."

His eyes lingered on Damian, who didn't flinch or shy away, but instead gave Bruce a hard, defiant stare. Bruce sighed.

"Just one night. That's all I ask," he practically begged.

"We're not that bad," Dick said placatingly, though the effect was somewhat ruined by the wide grin stretched across his face.

Stephanie snorted.

"Didn't you break a chandelier at that ball in February?" Duke asked Dick.

Cass dissolved into quiet laughter. Stephanie’s laughter was not as quiet. Dick threw his hands up in the air, his expression torn between a grin and a grimace.

"Not on purpose !" he argued.

"And I did not purposefully start a fight," Damian added.

Tim, who had slouched in his chair with half-lidded eyes, snapped awake to say, "You broke that guy’s nose!"

"Sleeping Beauty," Cass said simply, nudging Stephanie and pointing to Tim.

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose and heaved a weary sigh as Tim spluttered about the case he’d been invested in, and how the gala hadn’t even had coffee. Damian, meanwhile, declared he’d gladly break another nose if anyone gave him reason to.

Only a stern look from Alfred calmed the table back down. Bruce still felt a headache burgeoning between his ears.

"Is there going to be anyone interesting at the gala at least?" Dick asked.

Bruce nodded. He started to rattle off a list of high-profile guests, but was cut off by Dick, who shook his head dismissively.

“No, no– anyone to look out for?” he clarified.

Bruce paused, his jaw tense as he decided what to say. There certainly was one person he wanted to investigate– the very same person Tim was losing sleep over researching. He weighed the pros and cons of putting a target on the back of one person at the gala. Keying all of his children in could prove either beneficial or disastrous. Beneficial if they managed to gather more information, but disastrous if they made fools of themselves or overdid it.

Ultimately, Bruce decided he favored information. Tim would probably point the man out anyway.

“A man called Vlad Masters,” he said. “He's tried making deals with Wayne Enterprises multiple times, asking WE to partner with his own business, DALVco. Masters' past business dealings are… suspicious, to put it mildly. There’s not much to find about the man or his work, but there’s evidence of tampered records, and of Masters securing business deals with people that previously refused his offers.”

Tim suddenly groaned exasperatedly. Bruce turned to find him with his head in his hands, as if he shared Bruce’s growing migraine. 

“I’ve been staring at that business name for days and I’m only just realizing it’s Vlad backwards.”

Dick laughed. "Is that any better or worse than just slapping Wayne on everything?" he asked.

"Worse. A surname carries more weight," Damian said with certainty.

Dick furrowed his brow, staring up at the ceiling in thought.

"Yeah, but… Sretsam doesn't have quite the same ring to it," he said. 

Stephanie gave a delayed laugh at Dick’s joke, mouthing the nonsensical word to herself.

“What exactly is suspicious about the guy, though?” Duke asked, mercifully pulling them back on track.

“What isn’t, is a better question,” Tim said. “Other than the sketchy business deals, he moved to ‘the most haunted town in America,'" Tim made air quotes around the phrase, "became mayor within a few months, and his company produces and sells ghost hunting equipment.”

Stephanie slammed her hands on the table, an amused grin spread across her face. “I’m sorry, what? Mayor of a haunted town? Ghost hunting equipment?”

"I understand your enthusiasm, but please do not slam the table, Miss Stephanie," Alfred intoned. 

Steph removed her hands from the table and put them in her lap, flashing Alfred an apologetic grin.

“Wait, is he from that tourist trap town? Amity-something?” Dick asked. 

“Amity Park, yes,” Bruce said. “The residents claim the town is a hotspot for hauntings, but there’s no proof of these claims other than eyewitness accounts and blurry or doctored photographs.”

A hoax, Bruce was sure of it, though he couldn’t say to what ends. He suspected the tourist trap could be a front for something more nefarious.

“There’s not much info about the town in general, though, let alone about the supposed ghosts,” Tim added ruefully, fighting back a yawn. “I’d still rather stay home and keep searching for information. We don’t need everyone there to interrogate Masters.”

Bruce fixed Tim with a knowing look, his brows furrowed. 

“You’re not getting out of this. Besides, we’re not interrogating Vlad Masters. I plan to talk business with him. Depending on how the conversation goes, we might work out a visit to Amity Park. Another family from the same town will be at the gala, the Mansons, but they don’t seem connected to Vlad Masters otherwise. They could provide more information about the town, at least.”

“Is Batman going to invest in ghost hunting now?” Dick teased, barely concealing a laugh.

Bruce suppressed a groan. “There’s no ghosts. Just a tourist trap and some shady business.”

“How can you be sure?” Stephanie asked, though her tone said she found the situation funny.

Maybe it would be funny, if Bruce’s head wasn’t throbbing.

“With the amount of research we’ve done, if there are real ghosts, someone’s hiding them incredibly well,” Bruce said.

“We’ve seen stranger,” Cass signed over the table. 

While Bruce had to agree with that sentiment, he chose to draw the line at ghosts. 

As the conversation petered out and his children grew restless, Bruce stood from the table and stretched. The night was still young and some of them had patrol to get to. He also had to try and convince Tim to get some sleep. Rested or not, Bruce would drag the boy to the gala tomorrow if he had to.

~*~

The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows as the heat of the day slacked off. Danny flew over the rooftops, twisting around chimneys and over powerlines. Cars rumbled below on the road, and a few people walking stopped to wave at Phantom as he passed. Danny watched the sun slowly sink lower in the sky, until the last red streaks of sunlight faded on the horizon. 

Night fell soft and quiet. A warm breeze rustled the tree branches, crickets chirped, and fireflies glowed in the yards like miniscule, blinking stars. Danny did another roundabout lap through town, weaving between the houses and shops, dipping over the roads, and skirting along the riverbank before doubling back. 

A chill worked its way up Danny's spine, followed by a faint puff of mist. Looking around, Danny spotted a faint, wavering green glow by the school's football field. Danny approached cautiously out of habit, though he suspected there was no danger.

A small pack (no, flock?) of blob ghosts capered around the bleachers, making trilling sounds as they went. Danny counted seven of the little ghosts, with the largest of the flock being no bigger than a rabbit. The blob ghosts stopped and wheeled around as he approached, spinning in corkscrews, their tails intertwining and brushing over each other. Two of them trilled happily and flew to greet Danny. He felt a small pulse of emotion from them, a soft, happy contentment.

Blob ghosts were strange little things. They preferred to travel in groups, communicating through pulses of emotion and those high-pitched trills. They enjoyed visiting Amity, where they could safely coast through the air without fear of bigger ghosts chasing them. As long as the Fentons didn’t spot them, they were relatively safe in town.

When Danny first started ghost hunting, he treated the blob ghosts the same as any other. He would round them up, suck them into the thermos, and spit them back out into the Zone without a second thought. It had taken Sam suggesting he wait and observe them for Danny to realize how harmless blob ghosts were. 

Now, unless the blob ghosts were in imminent danger from his parents, Danny let them be. Even Valerie tended to ignore them when she was out hunting. They could hide if they needed to, and would eventually drift back into the Zone on their own without provocation.

The blob ghosts followed Danny sometimes. They would float after him on patrol, or gather around when he lay stargazing. Every once in a while they’d follow him to school, though the blobs would thankfully disperse if Danny flared his core just right, giving them a warning. 

Danny did the opposite now. He flared his core in greeting, grinning as the blobs trilled and swarmed around him. They brushed against his shoulders, rolled through his hair, and coiled around his spectral tail. Trilling merrily, they surrounded Danny with pulses and waves of cheerful energy.

For a moment, his worries drifted away.

Sinking onto the bleachers, Danny sat with the blob ghosts for a long while. He held out his hands, grinning as they rolled over his fingers and nestled in his palms. The blobs favored his left hand, gravitating towards the scar hidden beneath his glove. Curious to see how they’d react, Danny took off the glove, revealing the glowing scar that marked the Accident. The lichtenberg figures that spiraled up from his palm, normally pink, took on the same acid green of his eyes whenever Danny transformed into a ghost.

The blob ghosts rolled over the scar, their beady eyes fixed on the bright shade of green. Danny couldn’t say what drew them to it. The color itself, a latent energy that buzzed beneath his skin, or something more instinctual to them. A memory. A feeling.

Danny sighed wistfully. He replaced his glove and laid down along the bleacher seat, wrapping his tail under the bench. His hands pillowed under his head, Danny looked up at the sky. Clouds had rolled in throughout the evening, making it too cloudy for stargazing. He stared upwards all the same, watching the blob ghosts float lazily overhead. A few of them settled on his chest, close to his core. One nested in his hair, perched in his unruly bangs.

Closing his eyes, Danny listened to the sounds around him. The trills and chitters from the blob ghosts. The gentle hush of wind through the trees behind the bleachers. An owl hooting softly in the distance.

A shout.

Danny’s eyes snapped open immediately. The blob ghosts dispersed with anxious chirps as he sat up and looked in the direction of the sound. 

Another shout, this one louder.

The blob ghosts disappeared, leaving only a faint echo of confusion and fear where there had been contentment.

Danny took to the sky, darting across the football field and through town. He let invisibility wash over him as he flew. Several crashes accompanied more shouting and Danny turned to hone in on the noise.

The voices were familiar.

The commotion came from the northern edge of town, where an old office building sat alongside a stretch of forest. Before Danny could even see the people shouting, he saw flashes of light and a large green blur

Danny knew what to expect from the moment he heard the voices, but his core still pulsed uncomfortably at the sight. His parents stood on the edge of the forest, shouting loudly as they shot at—

Cujo .

The dog had a thick ghost net tangled around his hind legs and was snarling ferociously as he staggered through the treeline. He was mobile enough to keep dodging, but only just. Cujo’s movements were uncoordinated, each sharp turn sending him careening into tree trunks or skidding across the grass, kicking up dirt and tree bark. A weeping dark spot across his back showed at least one shot had met its mark.

Cujo had caused Danny a lot of trouble over the last year. He had a knack for finding Danny, sniffing him out when he least expected it and causing his own brand of chaos. No amount of property damage could make Danny hold it against the ghost dog, however. He never meant harm. Cujo was just like any living puppy. He wanted to run around, play, and explore. 

Danny never had to wonder what kind of dog Cujo was in life. The ghost spent every day of his afterlife with an easy, carefree energy that translated past his green fur and glowing red eyes. 

He was just a puppy.

And this particular puppy trusted Danny. He sought him out every time he slipped out of the Ghost Zone. No matter where Danny was, Cujo would return to him. Just to play. 

To see his parents hunting Cujo now… To see the dog– his dog hurt and trapped. Danny’s core buzzed like a wasp nest that had just been struck. His Obsession burned like the singed hairs on Cujo’s back. 

Sweeping low, an ectoblast already charging in his right hand, Danny called out.

“Leave him alone!”

Jack and Maddie both whipped around. Jack turned entirely, swinging his whole body to face Phantom. Maddie kept her position more guarded, her head tilted to follow Cujo’s movements.

The dog had retreated further into the treeline, biting at the net around his legs. Cujo looked up when Danny called out, his low-hanging tail wagging slightly. Danny had never seen Cujo look so subdued. Frightened. 

An ectoblast whirled a foot from Danny’s shoulder as Jack fired his ectogun without so much as a warning. 

“Meddling ghost!” he called, adjusting his aim for another shot. “You’re not getting away this time.”

Danny didn’t give him the chance to shoot again. He fired his own ectoblast at the gun in Jack’s hand, knocking it out of his grip. Jack shook out his hand with a curse. He stumbled backwards and fell over something on the ground. Danny faintly recognized the metal weapon case before a hissing sound alerted him to another incoming shot. Danny just barely moved to avoid Maddie’s much more precise aim. It felt like time slowed down as the green blast tore past him. The shot flew so close to Danny’s head that it singed a few of his hairs. 

Turning invisible, Danny flew into the trees. He didn’t want to fight his parents. Once he freed Cujo, Danny would fly back home and pretend this never happened. He’d get Cujo back into the Ghost Zone, go up to his room, sink onto his bed, and vent to Sam and Tucker about this.

The usual procedure.

It didn’t take long to find Cujo. The large, glowing dog could hardly hide amongst the trees, and he didn't manage to get far into the forest. The net had snagged on a low tree limb, becoming impossibly twisted. Danny watched in dismay as Cujo tried to turn intangible and the net let out a buzzing, audible shock. His left hand twitched uncomfortably. His core pulsated. 

Cujo cried out in pain and rage. He tried to shrink, his body compressing slightly before a second shock lit up the net. Whimpering, Cujo bore his massive jaws down on the net, trying in vain to bite through the steel cables. His red eyes were wide with fear, his ears pinned back. 

Danny rushed to help. He placed a hand on Cujo’s back to try and calm him, flinching slightly as the dog whipped around at the sudden contact with his teeth bared. A snarl died in Cujo’s throat as his eyes landed on Danny. He let out a low, desperate whine that pierced his very core.

“It’s okay, boy,” Danny said quietly, stroking his fur, avoiding the angry ectoblast mark behind his shoulders. “I’m going to get you out of this.”

With a nervous glance through the trees, Danny unclipped the thermos from his belt and twisted off the cap. There was no use trying to untangle Cujo’s legs. Not with his parents so close by, and Maddie still armed.
“I know you hate being in this thing, but it’ll keep you safe,” Danny said more urgently.

Cujo fixed him with those wide, jewel-bright red eyes. He bent to lick Danny’s hand.

Leaves rustled. A branch snapped. Voices. 

Danny slammed the button on the thermos, his hands shaking as the beam shot forward and absorbed Cujo.

He had just enough time to dodge Maddie’s second ectoblast.

A strange, grating sound ripped through the air. 

Something sharp and narrow hit Danny in the side.

Chapter Text

Something sharp and narrow hit Danny in the side, piercing through .

It struck with enough force to throw him back, hurtling into the trunk of an oak tree. The back of Danny’s head struck the bark with a dull thud . His vision swam. He gasped for air he didn't need, reaching for his side as he heard the clunk of something metal and felt a pull .

His vision bleary, his thoughts sluggish, Danny looked down.

A metal bolt sat lodged in his side, inky black and stained with green.  A dark chain snaked along the forest floor, securely fastened to the metal shaft. 

It was some sort of harpoon gun. His parents had been working on a harpoon , of all things. 

It was so simple. No grand lights or parlor tricks, just a crude metal bolt anchored to a chain.

Dread pooled in Danny’s stomach as he watched the chain pull back, growing taut.

Danny tried to turn intangible on instinct, fear gripping his chest as disjointed voices reached his ears. He felt the familiar chill of intangibility stutter and fizzle out, and tensed as the metal shaft shuddered. 

Panicking, his breaths coming fast and shallow as a dull ache settled in, Danny shot into the air. 

The initial shot had hardly registered in Danny’s mind. A pinch, pressure, and an uncomfortable weight. 

The sudden jolt upwards was not so kind.

The tug on the harpoon ripped a cry from Danny’s throat, his side burning white-hot with pain. Woozy and sick to his stomach, Danny swept around the oak tree, trying his best to get out of line of sight. 

The voices drew closer, hurried steps crashing through the undergrowth. An ectogun whined somewhere in the dark and another shot lit up the forest, stripping bark from the side of the tree Danny hid behind.

Shaking, Danny grabbed the harpoon’s shaft to keep it from moving. He could only grab it with his left hand, the thermos still resolutely clutched in his right. He wouldn’t abandon Cujo. Not here or now, even as a painful spasm tore through his scarred wrist. It was all Danny could do to hold on. Only adrenaline and fear kept him moving.

The harpoon had barely hit him. It struck the furthest part of his side, a bit below his ribs. It was a good thing for most of his organs, but not for much else. A near-miss was still a hit. 

Danny could see the sharp point of the harpoon sticking out from a second puncture towards his back. Nasty, hooked barbs sat beneath the tip, dripping with ectoplasm, gleaming in the moonlight dappling through the trees.

The chain tugged and Danny bit back another cry. He tightened his grip on the harpoon, darting away from the voices and dragging the chain along with him. 

The clinking, rattling sounds of the chain would surely linger in his nightmares. A haunted chorus of buzzing electricity, static, far off whispers, and manic laughter– now underscored by the grating rattle of chains.

Danny’s fuzzy mind struggled to form a plan. He tried to keep pressure on the line, making sure his parents had no slack to wrap it around the tree trunks. If the chain caught on any of the trees, it would give his parents the leverage they needed to pin him down. He couldn't risk pulling the harpoon out now. The barbs would do a lot more damage going backwards, ripping through his insides like uncaring claws.

Danny had enough sense to try and clip the thermos to his belt and free up his hand. After several failed attempts– the chain jerking him to the side, dots floating in his vision as the harpoon moved – he heard the merciful click of the clip on his belt.

“Plant your feet, Jack!” Came Maddie’s sharp voice. 

In another time, in another place, Danny heard Maddie call the same words. He sat by the lake, nine years old and sunburnt, with Jazz sitting next to him, a book in her hands. He watched with wide eyes as his father held a fishing rod, digging his feet into the marshy bank as he tried to reel in a massive catfish. The rod bowed as the fish fought, and it eventually snapped under the strain. The sudden break sent Jack flying backwards, splashing mud all over Danny and Maddie as he landed. Jazz was spared the worst of it, her book miraculously untouched. Jack howled with laughter; Danny and Jazz couldn’t help but join in. After a pause, shaking the worst of it off, Maddie laughed as well. They caught nothing that day, but Danny remembered the drive home. His parents smiling as they talked about the trip. Windows down and a warm breeze teasing through his muddy hair. Jazz still sat beside him, humming to herself as she read. 

The memory drifted far off and hollow. Dragged away by sharp hooks and the fear of a reeling line. The hands on the other end.

The chain yanked downwards, the harpoon bucking in Danny’s grip. He wondered how that fish felt, fighting the tug of the line. How relieved it felt when the rod finally snapped and set it free. 

(He tried not to think of the hook still lodged in its gills, or the line dragging after.)

If a fish could fight the hook, Phantom could. 

Jack may be a strong man, but he was only human. If Danny could lift a bus, he could easily lift Jack Fenton.

Holding tight on the harpoon shaft with both hands, ectoplasm staining his gloves in gory streams, Danny flew higher. He kept the chain clear of the branches. If it snagged now, then it wouldn’t matter how strong he was. 

The idea of Jack dangling in the air bothered Danny, but it was the only plan he had short of ripping the harpoon from his side. With any luck, Jack would either lose his grip or have the sense to let go before he parted ways with the ground. 

Danny breathed heavily as he rose higher. His hands shook from the effort of holding the harpoon. From the throbbing in his head. The deep, searing burn in his side. 

The chain stretched on below him, a cold and dark line over the trees. Between his blurred vision and the dense foliage, Danny couldn’t tell how long the chain was. He drifted to the side, trying to drag the chain farther from the trees and towards a small clearing.

Danny caught sight of Jack’s neon orange jumpsuit just as another ectoblast barreled towards him. Veering to the side, the blast struck part of the chain, exploding into a shower of sparks and sizzling green flecks. The metal went unscathed.

Ectoplasm ran down the chain, slick under Danny’s fingers. His left hand shook and burned, his fingers twitching. He grit his teeth, determined to not let go. 

Jack had his feet firmly dug into the ground, a line of disturbed soil behind him where he must’ve been dragged. He had the barrel of the harpoon gun clutched tightly in his massive hands. Danny wasn't sure if Jack would let go, even if he lifted him high above the trees. 

If only he could shake the gun free… 

Danny took a deep breath.

Letting gravity take over, Danny dropped suddenly, allowing the chain to go slack. Jack, who had put all of his strength into pulling on the chain, fell backwards in a heap. Maddie turned to grab the chain and in that moment Danny shot upwards as fast as he could.

The movement jerked the harpoon gun from Jack’s hands, but it also made Danny lose his grip on the shaft. The weight of the chain pulled on the harpoon. The metal rod pitched forwards and the hooked barbs dug into his flesh. Pained tears welled in Danny's eyes as he twisted to grab the chain and take the weight off of the harpoon. Without sparing a glance backwards– ignoring the furious shouts from below– he took off towards town. 

Danny flew erratically, not sure where to go or what to do. He felt like a strange, gruesome kite. The harpoon gun's barrel dangled far below him, waving dangerously in the wind. It struck against a roof with an almighty clang . Danny pulled up higher, still clutching the chain, trying to drag the barrel up with him. 

He kept to the outskirts of town, searching fearfully for anyone that might see. The idea of people seeing the town hero stuck like a fish made bile rise in Danny’s throat. He didn't need anyone— humans or ghosts— to see him hurt like this. 

The only thing Danny could think to do was go to the river. The bank was secluded by tall trees and would give him some shelter to handle the harpoon. 

Besides, Danny could always toss the harpoon into the water and hopefully never see it again. 

His landing was less than graceful. The barrel of the harpoon gun crashed against the rocks, loudly bouncing before falling into the water with a splash. Danny slowly lowered himself onto the shore, trying to breathe deep and evenly. It was something to do. Something to focus on and keep himself grounded.

Danny’s fingers ached as he finally let go of the chain. He sat there for a moment on one of the rocks, trying to calm down. Staring at the ectoplasm coating his gloves. Every inch of him shook.

Danny's thoughts came slow and sluggish. His core thrummed in a furious tattoo. Steeling himself with gritted teeth, Danny looked down at the damage.

The wound wasn't that bad… Danny told himself. Just a puncture, if he ignored the harpoon still stuck through his side. He explored it with still-shaking fingers, feeling where the metal rod entered and exited his body. The slightest, feather-light touch made him groan with pain.

The harpoon stuck out at an odd angle and moved a little too easily. It looked like mostly a flesh wound, though there was a chance it clipped part of his intestine. (At least Skulker had taught Danny that his intestines healed surprisingly well from puncture wounds.)

Danny realized that the harpoon could have ripped out of his side with the right amount of force, tearing through his skin like a yanked earring. 

He tried to erase that image from his head.

Twisting around– slowly, breath hitching as the movement jostled the harpoon– Danny examined the weapon's tip. It had two nasty, backwards-facing hooks below the original point. He pressed down on one of the hooks, trying to bend it towards the shaft. Whatever his parents had made the thing of, it was sturdy.

Danny experimentally reached for his core, wondering if he could still call upon his ice. Dreading if he couldn't. The harpoon disrupted his intangibility, but the fact that he could still fly gave him a small measure of hope.

Mercifully, cool blue ice sprang to his fingertips. He could have cried with relief. He almost did.

Danny wondered if this was even the harpoon’s true design. If his parents had more time to work on the device… What could the harpoon have done to him? He could think of at least five different ways Jack and Maddie could ‘improve’ upon the design, each significantly worse than a metal rod stuck resolutely through his flesh. 

Perhaps it was better not to dwell on how this situation could have been worse. 

Anything to stave off the panic attack he felt brimming in his chest.

He could panic later, once there wasn’t a harpoon in his side.

Danny covered both ends of the harpoon shaft in ice, sighing in relief as the chill numbed the pain in his side. Once the metal was thoroughly coated in ice, Danny braced himself. He took in slow, shaky breaths, trying to quell the trembling in his hands. He wasn’t even sure if his plan would work.

Holding the base of the harpoon with one hand, Danny gripped the top with his other. He sucked in a deep, shaky breath. He counted to three. With all of his strength, he bent the barbed end with a quick, wrenching motion.

The frozen metal creaked and snapped under the force. Danny buckled over in pain as the remaining half of the harpoon jolted, tugging at the wound. The world spun. His stomach rolled. His breaths came sharp and shallow. Tears welled in his eyes.

" Fuck …" Danny whimpered.

It took a while for the world to stop spinning. Danny rubbed at his face– belatedly realizing his glove was still covered in ectoplasm. He groaned.

What a shitty situation.

What a shitty, ridiculous situation to land himself in. His friends and sister leave for one day ( one ) and Danny, in all of his infinite wisdom and grace, somehow managed to get skewered with a harpoon .

Phantom is practically the Fentons' white (haired) whale .

Ancients, Danny always hated that fucking book.

He laughed humorously– and immediately regretted it. There was still half of a harpoon stuck in Danny's side and it jostled each time he moved. Just seeing the chain still anchored to his body made him want to scream.

Grimacing, Danny gripped the remaining metal with both hands, steeled his nerves, and yanked it out.

Danny choked out another heartfelt "Fuck ," as the harpoon came free, slicked green with ectoplasm. He stared dazedly at the broken metal shaft, starbursts blinking in his eyes as waves of pain crashed over him. 

The chain clinked as Danny threw the metal rod aside. It clattered across the rocks, leaving a grisly trail.

Reluctantly, Danny looked at the ragged, stained holes in his suit. He pulled at the material, wincing as his fingers brushed over one of the punctures. Ectoplasm oozed freely from his side, welling up through the tears and dripping onto the stone below. The world pitched a little as Danny’s head swam with dizziness.

Perhaps he should have broken the chain and waited until he was somewhere with medical supplies to pull the harpoon out…

Well, the harm was done now. He couldn’t exactly jam the thing back in. Calling upon more of his ice, Danny coated both sides of the wound in a layer of frost. The chill felt heavenly, dulling the searing burn to a muted ache. More than that, it would help stop the bleeding. 

Not a permanent fix, but a serviceable one.

Danny pulled on the chain, dragging the barrel of the harpoon gun out of the water so he could get a better look at it. The gun looked like most Fenton tech: silver with green accents, bulky, and like parts of it had once belonged to a household appliance. If Danny had to take a guess, the center of the barrel looked suspiciously like a blender.

Regardless of what it was made of, Danny didn't plan to leave the gun in one piece (even at the bottom of the river). He froze the part of the chain closest to the gun and broke it with a nearby rock the size of his fist. Wedging the rest of the weapon between two boulders, Danny took the same rock and smashed it over every inch of the barrel.

He started off methodically. Well-aimed strikes on the most fragile parts of the weapon, enjoying the way it crunched and gave under the rock. 

Anger took over at some point. 

Tears streamed down Danny's face. He grit his teeth, fangs bared in a bitter snarl. Ragged, uneven breaths forced their way through his teeth. He drove the rock into the metal until the shattered scrap tore at his knuckles, shredding his glove and making his hand bleed.

As his anger cooled, as the last scrap of metal dented and flattened under the rock, Danny shut his eyes. He sat back and listened to the river. To the sound of his own haggard breaths.

His hands shook. He choked down a sob.

Danny looked at the scrap metal. At the thing that had encompassed his parents' entire world for the last week. The thing that made them skip meals. That kept them awake at night. 

A small amount of pity coiled in Danny's chest. Bile rose in his throat and drowned it just as quickly. 

Why should he pity their lost work when it hurt him?

Were Danny a malicious ghost, he could have easily tossed Jack into the air and thrown him without any regard for his safety. Many ghosts would have. It was such a dangerous design, and just the sort of foolish thing his parents would gravitate to. Yet it had worked– to an extent. 

And what an embarrassment it was that Jack Fenton landed the shot. 

Danny would have laughed, were he not so miserable.

No, Jack and Maddie deserved no pity for this. If they wanted to waste their hours toiling away on a cruel weapon– one that had as much potential to hurt Jazz as it did to hurt a ghost– Danny was happy to tear it apart. To lay waste to their hard work.

Maybe he'd destroy the blueprints once he got home.

Raze their life’s work to the ground. Tear it apart the same way it tore through him.

Danny shook his head, pulling at his hair.

The idea was tempting, but felt…wrong. Destroying the weapon itself was one thing, but to actually root through their research and torch it… 

Danny didn't want that over his head.

He still wanted to love them.

He still wanted them to love him.

Loving them felt like holding onto something with claws and teeth, hoping it wouldn’t bite.

Knowing it had bitten before and would bite again.

Though even if he could stomach burning their research, Danny didn't need his parents knowing that a ghost had access to their blueprints. Knowing them, they'd assume it was Phantom seeking revenge. 

(Which they'd be right about on this one occasion.)

The last thing Danny needed was to give Jack and Maddie another reason to hurt him.

Throwing the shattered scrap into the river would have to be enough.

Danny's core thrummed with satisfaction as he watched the last link of chain sink below the dark water. Polluting the river with scrap metal didn't sit well with Danny– Sam would probably yell at him once (when) she found out– but he just wanted the thing gone .

And, oh Ancients, if (when) his friends and Jazz found out about this… 

The one time they leave. 

All it would take is Jack lamenting about his escaped catch in front of Jazz for all three of them to know. There was no hiding this, even if he could hide the injury itself.

(He had enough practice with that, but Jazz, Sam, and Tucker knew him too well.)

Danny would never live this down. Jazz would never leave town again; she'd put a child leash on him. Tucker would put a tracking device in his suit. He'd have to hold Sam back from beating his parents within an inch of their lives.

(Would he want to hold her back?)

What a mess.

Danny stared at the river, his thoughts drifting further and further away with the flow of the current. Fishing trips and fishing lines. Ghost hunts and ghoulish chains. 

Danny tried to remember the last time he felt safe at home. Before the portal, when ghosts were mere fantasy. Those years between the League and the Accident, when Jazz, Sam, and Tucker coaxed Danny out of his shell and made him feel like he truly belonged. When the worst parts about going home were spoilt food and the incessant banging of metal from downstairs. When Jack and Maddie hugged him, called him son, and he’d heard no threats in their voices. 

A painful twinge made Danny’s breath hitch. He was still very much injured. Sitting beside the river, moping, wouldn’t fix this. 

Danny staggered to his feet on trembling legs, holding the ice encasing his wounds. His entire body ached. His head, his back, his arms– his side .

Exhaustion dragged at every inch of his being. He felt so, so tired . 

Danny’s bleary eyes lingered on the rock he’d sat on. The stone had a sickly green sheen to it, with ectoplasm pooled in the soil below. A gory reminder that he couldn’t rest until he dealt with his injuries. 

He thought of sinking into bed and staring up at the stars on his ceiling…

His bedroom over the lab, filled with weapons and the tools to create more.

No.

No, Danny couldn't return home. Not yet. Not with a hole in his side and the sensation of a harpoon ramming into his body still fresh in his mind.

For now, Danny would hide himself away and lick his wounds like a fox escaping the hounds. Once he patched himself up, Danny could work up the nerve to go home. To look his parents in the eye and pretend he didn’t fear them.

Tucker's place would have to do. His house would be empty, and there was a large first aid kit stuffed in Tucker's closet, identical to the one hidden under the loose floorboards in Danny’s room.

With any luck, Jack and Maddie would trudge home in a sour mood and head straight to bed. 

They might not even be home yet. They might spend another hour or two out searching the town, hunting in vain for either an injured Phantom or what was left of their latest passion project.

Danny smiled at the thought. 

He frowned just as quickly. 

Empty homes, all of them.

No Sam. No Tucker. No Jazz. 

A brother and sister untold miles away.

A lonely ache settled in Danny's core. What he wouldn't give to fly home and sink into Jazz's arms.

Chapter Text

Danny phased through Tucker’s bedroom window. His room was dark and quiet, lit only by moonlight filtering through the curtains and several blinking lights from the computer tower on his desk. The bed was left unmade, blankets spilling half onto the floor. Danny could see a few cups on the nightstand, and an overflowing trash can beside it. Though he’d been gone for a couple of days, it looked as if Tucker had never left.

Landing, Danny swayed unsteadily, tipping dangerously to the side. He grabbed onto Tucker’s desk chair for balance. Danny carefully walked to the closet, pushed aside the jackets and coats, and grabbed the first aid kit hidden in the back. After making sure he wasn’t dripping ectoplasm on the floor, Danny stumbled down the hallway to the bathroom one slow step at a time.

He flicked on the light switch. The sudden burst of light against stark white tile burned Danny’s eyes and made his head throb. Groaning, squinting his eyes, Danny shuffled into the bathroom. He leaned against the counter, gripping it tightly as he waited for a wave of dizziness to pass. 

A bright gleam over the sink caught Danny’s attention. His own reflection.

A disheveled wreck stared back through the mirror. 

Danny’s hair was even messier than usual, white tufts stuck up in the back with ectoplasm from his collision with the tree. A thin line of green trickled from a cut across his nose. More ectoplasm covered his face in smears, broken by tear tracks that carried the green stains down his throat. His eyes were puffy and red-rimmed, shining brightly against dark eye bags.

Danny wiped the ectoplasm from his nose and turned away from the mirror.

Looking down at his hands, Danny took in the ragged sight of his right glove. Painful cuts littered his hand, ectoplasm welling through the tears. He’d have to bandage it first.

Sitting on the edge of the tub, Danny set the first aid kit on the toilet seat. He pulled off his stained gloves and threw them into the bathtub, paying no mind when the gloves fizzled away into nothing. Danny unzipped his suit and pulled it down to his waist. He hissed as the material caught on the ice covering his wound, tugging at the skin.

The first aid kit was large, stacked to the nines with anything and everything Team Phantom might need for injuries. The kit had a disorganized, mismatched appearance to it. Half of the materials inside were not original to the kit, having been added or replaced over time as they were used.

Rooting through the first aid kit, Danny pulled out his usual arsenal of supplies: disinfectant, ibuprofen, gauze and combine pads, bandaids, bandages, scissors, nylon sutures, and a suture needle.

He set the supplies out in a line along the ridge of the tub. Danny made sure to hold his hand over the edge so it wouldn’t bleed on the tile floor and stain the grout. The echoing plip plip of ectoplasm dripping into the tub’s basin filled the quiet room.

After ripping up the shower mat to make sure it wouldn’t stain, Danny turned on the tap and rinsed his hand under the cool water. A green stream trickled down the drain. 

With the worst of the ectoplasm washed off, Danny cupped a mouthful of water to his lips and took some ibuprofen. Triple the recommended dose, and it still wouldn’t do much. 

Danny kept drinking from his hands, ignoring the sour bite of ectoplasm tanging the water. 

Uncapping the bottle of disinfectant with his teeth, he applied it generously to his hand and the cut on his face. Danny clenched his fist at the sting, but it felt like a tickle compared to the deep, throbbing pain in his side. The longer he ignored the harpoon wound, the more it began to ache. The ice patch only did so much to numb the pain.

He wiped over the cuts with some gauze, tossing the used material into the tub. With his hand clean, Danny finally got a good look at the damage. There weren’t as many cuts as he expected, but a couple of them were deep. A particularly nasty gash ran between his thumb and pointer finger and was responsible for most of the bleeding. Danny decided to take care of that cut first.

It was difficult wrapping his right hand. Between the video games earlier and the strain of holding onto the harpoon, his left hand trembled and throbbed uncomfortably. He braced his hand against his leg to keep it steady.

The bandage over his hand was sloppy, but would hold. With the worst of the bleeding taken care of, Danny covered the rest of the cuts in smaller patches. By the time he placed the last bandaid, Danny’s hand looked partially mummified.

Taking care of his hand was simple. The wound in his side was another story.

Danny repositioned himself so that his right side hung over the tub. He wasn't sure how much blood to expect once he removed the ice. The sickening image of a viscous green waterfall swam in his mind.

The last time Danny was impaled (by Skulker, with an ectoblade longer than his arm), Danny had woken up snug in Tucker’s bed with Sam and Tuck watching over him. He hardly remembered what happened… Just that Sam and Tucker were crying. 

Absently, Danny realized this was the first time his parents impaled him. 

He wasn’t sure what that said about his headspace right now. 

Taking a deep breath, Danny let the ice melt away from his side. He looked away at first, letting his eyes trail along the lichtenberg figures that covered his left arm and torso. They stood out much more whenever he was a ghost, glaring green trees branching across his body. 

A trickling sensation down his hip forced Danny to look at the wound.

He could see four distinct puncture marks: the large entry and exit wounds, and two smaller ones in the back where the hooked barbs had dug in. Each puncture bled a slow, languid trail of ectoplasm. 

Danny couldn’t tell if he was lightheaded or on the verge of another panic attack.

Perhaps both.

They might need more gauze once he was done.

Jaw set with determination, Danny leaned more fully over the tub and turned intangible, letting the worst of the ectoplasm fall into the tub with a great splat . It… was more than he expected. Danny’s stomach turned as he watched the green substance slowly seep towards the drain. 

Fresh ectoplasm trickled down Danny’s side, demanding his attention. Danny grabbed more gauze and started to clean the wound. He had to get it sorted quickly. The last thing Danny needed right now was to faint in Tucker’s bathtub.

He pressed on the wound for a long while, staunching off the worst of the bleeding before grabbing the antiseptic.

Danny hesitated with the bottle in hand. If the cuts on his fingers stung… He braced himself, preparing for the worst.

Applying the antiseptic to a pad of gauze, Danny carefully pressed it to his side.

White, blinding-hot pain. A shaky, whimpering sound tore from Danny’s lips. He grit his teeth and rocked back and forth. Fresh tears welled in his tightly-shut eyes.

Danny shook as the antiseptic seeped into his wounds. Waves of pain washed over him, and he continued to rock like a too-small boat in a too-large sea. 

He gently patted at the wound with more gauze, making sure it was thoroughly cleaned. They would definitely need more. Tucker would only need to glance at the first aid kit to know the severity of Danny's injury.

Yet another reminder that there was no hiding this.

Danny wished he could just throw a bandage over his wounds and call it a night. Succumb to sleep and let his worries drift away. 

(Assuming no nightmares came to call. They probably would.)

Unfortunately, Danny knew a puncture of this size needed stitches. At least his body would handle any internal bleeding. 

Hopefully. 

It had worked out so far.

Danny sighed. He grabbed the sutures and needle, fumbling with both in his trembling hands.

The stitches wouldn’t be pretty. Danny knew as much without even marking the first suture. Between the injury’s location and his unsteady hands, it was a given. Sam and Jazz were the real prodigy surgeons, anyway (self taught, with materials found online by Tucker). 

They had plenty of practice.

Danny could live (so to speak) with ugly stitches. As long as they held his side together, it would have to do.

Stitches never got any easier. Danny was getting better at them, but he had much more practice receiving stitches than applying them. Even Tucker, squeamish as he could be at times, would rather step up with the needle than let Danny handle one. 

The sight of Sam, Tucker, or Jazz injured… Danny’s Obsession never handled it well. He never had hands steady enough for stitches then.

He had sewn his own skin together more often than theirs.

Regardless of who worked the needle, the pain remained the same. The results just as gruesome. Shaking hands made it no easier. 

Danny grit his teeth as he positioned the needle and brought it through his skin. 

He moved slowly, working on the entry wound. Tensing with each glide of the needle. Wincing, breath hitching as he pulled the edges of the wound. Danny focused purely on his task, pushing his emotions to the back of his mind. He could feel when he wasn’t feeling this .

The wound slowly came together, angry flesh pulled by thin threads. Ectoplasm weeping through the narrow lines.

Just one more suture. 

One more before tackling the next hole in his side.

Danny tied off the last suture and sat back, closing his eyes, relaxing his shoulders, letting the tremble in his hands subside. Finding his composure, whatever little left of it there may be.

Fatigue wore at him like wind battering an old tree. Roots too shallow to hold the loose soil. Bark too brittle to stand the onslaught. He desperately yearned to sink down and rest. To let the heavy wind pull him down. To feel the soft caress of grass and the gentle press of the ground. The soil a bed, the wind a blanket. The stars overhead dutifully watching over him.

Danny’s chin dropped to his chest. He let the image of wind and earth and sky carry his mind away…

His phone rang.

Whatever composure Danny found in his waking dreams shattered. The sound pierced the quiet and Danny startled, dropping the needle into the tub and nearly slipping to the floor. He scrambled to keep his balance on the tub, wincing as the sutures in his side tugged. 

The ringtone was familiar; Danny would recognize it anywhere. Ice formed under him, creeping along the rim of the tub as his blood ran just as cold.

Danny had never dreaded speaking to Jazz so much.

He hesitated. Ignoring Jazz’s call would do him no favors. She would worry. She might even call Sam and Tucker.

On the other hand, Danny wasn’t sure he could manage a phone call with a freshly-stitched wound and ectoplasm still dribbling from several more punctures. With his mind addled, fogged by images of dark forests and sharp hooks.

Danny didn't trust his voice not to tremble.

Regardless, Danny fumbled to grab his phone. The ectoplasm covering his hands stained the case and smeared across the cracked screen.

Steeling his nerves, Danny pressed the call button.

“Hey, Danny!” Jazz greeted him merrily.

She sounded exhausted, but happy. The sort of tone someone carried after a long, fulfilling day.

“Hey, Jazz!” Danny returned her greeting. His core fluttered anxiously, doing its best impression of a rabbit’s fragile heartbeat, but he felt proud to keep the quaver from his voice.

At least, he thought he managed it.

“Are you doing okay?” Jazz asked. 

The question seemed innocuous enough, but there was… something there. Something tense. Danny couldn’t be sure if Jazz heard a waver in his voice, or if she just expected something to have happened.

A small, irrational part of Danny’s brain told him she somehow knew. 

He shook the thought away.

“… Everything’s fine,” Danny said. He adjusted his seat as a twinge rang up his side. Teeth clamped shut, he swallowed down a gasp. 

“Are you sure? You sound… Are you out on patrol? I can hear the echo.”

He could tell the echo wasn’t the only thing Jazz caught in his words. Worry practically oozed from the receiver.

“I was just about to head home,” he said, perhaps a bit defensively. “Patrol went well… it was just Cujo.”

Danny stared down at the thermos still clipped to his belt. A few splashes of ectoplasm stained the cap. His ectoplasm. He rubbed his thumb over one of the stains.

Jazz gave a world-weary sigh. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

She wanted to be sure. Danny could tell how much she needed reassurance that he was okay. It lanced through Danny’s core and dug at his unbeating heart with icy talons.

He wanted to tell Jazz the truth. He wanted to shout and cry and break down. 

To tell her about their parents hurting Cujo. About the strike of the harpoon. About breaking their weapon with his hands and feeling a tiny bit sorry that he had.

 His thoughts still lay on that riverbank in a wash of green and shattered metal. 

He could still hear the clink of the chain. Feel the metal rod lodged in his side. The pull of strong hands yanking it downwards…

Maybe when Jazz was home. Not here, not now. It wasn’t fair to make her worry when she was miles away and on vacation.

Danny worked up a quick lie. Sometimes the best lies came with a bit of truth.

“I had a nightmare,” he admitted. “N-not a really bad one— just the portal again.”

At the end of a long hallway, lined with wires, glowing brightly from the inside…

“The portal was bad, Danny,” Jazz said quietly. 

Danny pinched at his wet tear ducts. “I-I know, but that’s just how my dreams are, you know?”

He didn’t need Jazz telling him the portal was bad. She meant well, but Danny felt entirely too close to breaking.

Jazz knew about his nightmares. Most of them, anyway. Perhaps not the frequency and some of the finer details, but enough to know that he had a recurring roster. Nightmares that circled back when he least expected them, digging their fangs and claws into his mind and holding tight.

She probably suspected they were worse than he let on. Jazz was intuitive like that.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Jazz asked, her tone soft and careful.

Danny could tell by the slight echo in her voice that Jazz was in a small space, probably hidden in the hotel bathroom so she could speak freely with him. It was tempting.

The gentle plip plip of ectoplasm falling into the bathtub brought Danny back to where he was. He stared at his side, watching the languid river of green running down his hip. Feeling the deep, gouging ache in his side. He placed more gauze over the wound, holding it firm with his hand, and sighed.

“N-not right now, Jazz,” he said, resenting the way his voice wavered traitorously.

A pause stretched on the line. 

“You’d… tell me if something happened, right Danny?” she asked.

His core thrummed frantically, like a tiny bird trying to escape a cage. He clutched his side a bit too tightly, swallowing a hiss of pain. 

“Yeah, of course,” he bit out. “Jazz, everything is fine. I-it was just a nightmare. We… can we talk when you get home?”

He hoped that placating Jazz with the promise to talk when she returned would be enough. That she’d ignore the rising tremor in his voice and give him space.

She exhaled into the receiver. The wait for her response felt endless.

“Okay,” she said hesitantly. “We’ll talk when I get back.”

Danny resisted the urge to sigh  in relief. He hated lying to Jazz, but it was better than telling her the truth and having her drive back to Amity without sleep. He wouldn’t put it past her to drop everything and do just that.

“Thanks, Jazz,” Danny murmured.

He wanted to ask about her drive to Chicago, and the museum, and how her trip was going, but each moment Danny spent on the phone he felt his composure slipping… dripping— running down the drain. 

“Alright, well…” An awkward pause. “I love you, Danny. Stay safe and get some rest, okay?”

Danny nodded absently, his lip quivering. He pulled the receiver away from his mouth and stared up at the ceiling, taking another deep breath before he felt steady enough to reply.

“I love you too, Jazz. I-I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

Jazz murmured another goodbye before she hung up the phone. The silence she left behind pressed against his ears.

Danny let his phone drop. He dug his hand into his side, pressing tightly against his wounds. He slumped over, his head between his knees. Danny tried to hold back the tears. Eyes clenched tight, lips shut, his free hand balled into a fist. The bathtub rattled from his shaking. Slowly, a keening sound slipped past his lips. Fresh tears streamed down Danny’s face and he could only let loose a steady stream of curses. He felt so weak and powerless. Like he had under rubble and broken pipes. Like he had in a metal tunnel buzzing with electricity.

Jazz would tell him crying was cathartic if she were here. He could almost feel the phantom press of her hand rubbing circles into his back. Hear the way she would talk him through whatever occupied his thoughts.

Maybe crying could be cathartic, but it certainly didn’t feel that way now. His head was pounding, with a deep ache lingering behind his eyes. Danny rubbed at them, wiping away the tears, not caring as he smeared more ectoplasm across his face.

Bile rose in Danny’s throat and his stomach turned. He quickly leaned over the bathtub, emptying the contents of his stomach into the basin.

The bitter aftertaste of ectoplasm coated his mouth. The gauze in the tub gleamed a sickly, lurid green. 

The tears didn’t last long after that. Danny felt like he had nothing left to give. Hollow. Defeated.

He was probably dehydrated, all things considered. Crying, puking– bleeding all over the riverbank.

He still shook. He still felt the chilly, squeezing sensation of panic in his chest. 

Danny turned on the tub’s faucet and drank more water from his hands, splashing some onto his face. The cold water soothed his raw throat, but the acidic tang of ectoplasm remained.

Moving mechanically, Danny returned to his wounds. He fished the old needle from the bathtub and grabbed a new one, putting the dirty one carefully aside. A distant, far off feeling clouded Danny’s mind as he resumed his stitches. It felt like he wasn’t the one sewing his skin together. He flinched with pain, and groaned with ache, but it was like watching someone else work the needle. Hands that weren’t his, moving with practiced ease.

The stitches were even sloppier than usual. The entry wound from the harpoon was easy enough to manage, but the ones closer to his back were another story. Twisting around to sew the farthest hook puncture had Danny panting with the effort. His head swam. It felt as though the entire bathroom was rocking, pitching dangerously to the side. Tying off the last suture, Danny leaned back against the bathroom wall. The cold tile soothed the ache in his skull. He shut his eyes… 

A burning ache kept Danny conscious. He fought against his drooping eyelids, focusing on the pain. 

Bandages first. He couldn’t risk falling asleep in the tub without putting bandages on.

Wrapping bandages around his torso felt like a Herculean task. Each twisting movement, every roll of his shoulders, every rise of his arms. Ancients, Danny wanted nothing more than to sleep…

He wrapped until the combine pad was securely covered, tying the last strip of bandage off into a tight knot. Danny looked over his work with a satisfied nod. 

Nodding was a bad idea. He might as well have driven a knife through his skull.

Danny’s legs trembled as he pulled himself off of the tub and stood. The tub looked… awful. Truly awful. Danny could hardly bring himself to look at it. Ectoplasm, used gauze, and vomit covered the basin of the tub. The thought of cleaning it in his current state…

It would have to be a problem for future Danny. Present Danny could hardly keep his eyes open. His headache had worsened, sharp spikes of pain driving into his temples and the back of his head. Danny realized he might be mildly concussed. 

He ran the shower long enough to wash the worst of the ectoplasm away. The gauze bunched up around the shower drain and he gave up there.

Later. A problem for later, he reminded himself.

Danny stood in the bathroom, staring without seeing. His head full of static, his mind struggling to focus. Everything felt like too much, even the thought of walking.

He still had to go home…

Dragging his feet forward, Danny stumbled back to Tucker’s room, leaving the first aid kit and mess in the tub behind. He staggered to Tucker’s closet and dropped down. Pushing aside a few jackets, Danny found the small chest hidden in the back.

The simple wooden chest had emergency supplies in it. Bottles of water, protein bars, and more ibuprofen. Danny lifted a hidden panel in the bottom of the chest. There was some cash stored there and, most importantly, ectoplasm.

They each had an identical chest hidden in their room, each filled with just enough food and water to get by in an emergency, and cash if they ever had to skip town. Thankfully, they hadn’t had reason to use the money. Not yet.

The ectoplasm saw the most use. They kept two varieties available: bottles of simple filtered ectoplasm, and syringes of ecto-dejecto. Danny tried to avoid taking the ecto-dejecto if he could help it. The energy boost from it could be overwhelming, and the crash afterwards exhausting. The filtered ectoplasm saw much more use. Danny drank it somewhat regularly, particularly when he was injured or lacking in sleep. They still weren't sure how much ectoplasm Danny really needed, between being half-human and the ambient ectoplasm in the air, but he felt more energized with it in his system.

Jazz suspected Danny might not need ectoplasm at all if he ate more, but he never ate enough to test that theory. The ectoplasm was an easier fix.

They lovingly nicknamed the filtered ectoplasm ‘dew’, and the ecto-dejecto ‘baja blast’. It made talking about both in public safer.

Grabbing a bottle, Danny took out the stopper and downed it in one shot. He was used to the taste now, but it still wasn't entirely pleasant. It made Danny think too much of being punched in the face and tasting his own ectoplasm on his tongue. It wasn't quite the same– filtered ectoplasm had more of a bite, a citrus undertone, and was decidedly fresher , but it was similar enough.

Glancing at his side, considering the damage, Danny decided to drink another vial. He stuck out his tongue, making a sour face.

Danny washed the ectoplasm down with water and forced himself to eat a protein bar, hoping it would keep his stomach settled. Ectoplasm was a tad too acidic on its own, and he didn’t need to take chances after getting sick.

He felt better. Raw, sore, and exhausted to the bone– but better. 

Heaving himself off the floor, Danny went over to Tucker’s bed and sat down. 

He still had to go home…

Danny stared absently at the window, wondering if his parents were home yet. How long they'd spend searching before giving up. 

How quickly they’d bounce back from this defeat and onto their next project.

Was it even a defeat? Danny hardly felt like a winner.

Winning shouldn't come with a hole in the side.

Surviving shouldn't be a prize.

Danny ran his hand over the thermos’ cap, tapping at the edges. He was half-tempted to release Cujo, if only to have someone to talk to. The little dog could be a surprisingly good listener.

It was tempting, but a bad idea. Danny felt in no shape to chase after Cujo if he ran off… When he ran off. 

It wasn’t worth the risk for either of them.

He stroked the thermos’ cap as though petting it, hoping Cujo could somehow sense it from inside. (Knowing he couldn’t.)

Sighing wearily, drawing the sound out into a groan, Danny flopped onto the bed. He stared up at Tucker’s starless ceiling, running his eyes along the motionless blades of the ceiling fan. His head was still spinning, and the more Danny stared at the fan, the more the blades began to turn. 

A buzz from his belt made Danny jump, wrenching his side. He hissed in pain, swearing underbreath as he grabbed his phone. It was a text from Tucker in the group chat. How strange, getting a text from his friend while lying in his bed. 

Tuck: how you holdin up without us danny

Danny had a sinking suspicion Jazz texted Tucker and told him about his nightmare. 

Maybe he was being paranoid.

Danny: bored but doing okay

Danny: i just walked around and played pokemon all day

If only the day stayed boring.

Tuck: no ghost trouble then?

Danny was eternally grateful that, if Jazz mentioned any nightmares to Tucker, he didn’t directly ask about them.

Danny: just Cujo 

Danny: but he was no trouble

Danny: which reminds me did you catch the lizard yet?

Texting hurt. Danny’s left hand begged to rest, each tap straining his wrist, and the cuts across his right hand stung.

Tuck: NO

Tuck: at this point the lizard is on vacation w us

Tuck: weve got food n water out for it and everything

Danny: lol

Danny: whats its name

Tuck: i hate that you know it has a name already

Tuck: its george 

Tuck: the room isnt even that big idk where GEORGE goes

Danny: ghost lizard

Tuck: ha ha

Tuck: anyway i cant be up 2 long

Tuck: got the wedding early tmrw but i wanted to check on u

Danny: aww ty

Danny: we can all be bored tomorrow togethr

Danny: u at a wedding and sam at a gala and medoing??? idk playing more pokemon 

Sam: Dont remind me. 

Sam: My parents have been talking about it all day

Tuck: did mention of the gala just summon you lol

Sam: Anything to badmouth this bullshit.

Sam: At least its in the evening so I dont have to be up at ass o clock like Tuck

Tuck: boooooo

Sam: Dont you have a lizard to catch?

Tuck: ive been trying

Tuck: i think id rather deal with boxy than george at this point

Danny: you dont mean that

Sam: Yeah why would you diss George like that

Tuck: he needs to leave hes overstayed his welcome

Danny: its his house now

Tuck: yeah well if i wake up to him on my ears again im goin on the warpath

Tuck: anyway gnight ill text u guys after the wedding

Danny: night tuck 

Sam: Night! 

Sam: Be prepared to get bombarded with texts while Im at this thing tomorrow

Tuck: lookin forward 2 it lol 

Sam: Got anything planned for tonight Danny?

Danny: prob gonna try and cacth up on sleep honestly

Sam: How responsible of you

Sam: Thats good though take care of yourself.

Danny: im trying

Danny: i gotta flyh ome still

Sam: Alright go home and get some sleep

Sam: You need to be wide awake for gala texts.

Danny: sounds good sam lol

Danny: night

Sam: Night Danny

Danny set his phone down on his stomach and rubbed his hands, carefully avoiding the cuts on his right. The hollow feeling in his chest crept back in, grabbing hold of his core. It thrummed with unhappiness, low and resonate. Almost like a purr, but too stilted and uneven to be comforting.

Lying to Jazz, Tucker, and Sam never sat well with Danny. He knew they'd want to know if something happened. That they'd be upset when they came home and discovered he'd been talking to them over the phone as if everything were normal, while nursing a hole in his side.

Nevermind when they learned who caused it.

Danny could spend all night dreading the inevitable and it would solve nothing. Just like the mess in the bathroom, it was a problem for the future. He needed to focus on what he could control now. Tending to his injuries, getting rest. Taking care of himself in whatever way he could.

His phone buzzed again and Danny looked, expecting another message from Sam. 

If he were in human form, Danny's heart would have dropped into his stomach.

Mom: Where are you?

Panic seized Danny. The hollow, listless feeling he’d fallen into was completely swept away by sharp, quick breaths and the angry buzzing of his core.

He sat up and held the phone with shaking hands. The notification blazed tauntingly, each word staring him down. Danny read over the message several times, letting the simple sentence burn into his retinas. 

It took remembering one of their contingency plans for Danny to calm down enough to respond. 

He had to keep retyping his response. His trembling fingers pressed all of the wrong keys.

Danny: at tucks

Danny: sorry i thuoght I told you guysI was staying ovr at his place tonight?

Another lie, but one Danny clung to with all of his might. Maddie and Jack knew Sam’s family were out of town, but it was Jazz’s idea to not tell them Tucker was gone. It gave Danny an alibi in case something went wrong. A place to go if home could no longer provide him safety.

(Like now.) 

There was a chance of Jack and Maddie finding out the Foleys were gone and the plan falling through, but it was a risk worth taking. 

Mom: You must’ve told us when we were in the lab

Mom: Stay safe there’s been some ghost activity tonight. Love you

Love. The word rattled around Danny’s head.

He took his time responding. Each letter felt like writing a novel. Every word a trilogy. He paused on the last three words, his core thrumming uncomfortably. Achingly.

Danny: okay i will. love you too

He tossed his phone down on Tucker’s nightstand, not waiting to see if he got a response. It bounced and landed on the wooden floor with a loud clatter. The panic had left Danny again, letting the hollow feeling creep back in. 

The world around him grew distant. Moonlight through the window cast long shadows across Tucker’s dark bedroom, and those shadows swayed like tall grass in the wind. Blood pounded in Danny's ears. The air grew cold as frost blossomed over Tucker's sheets.

Danny laid down in Tucker’s bed, surrounded by the spreading frost. Reluctantly, he reached for the warmth of his human form. He carefully focused on his bandages and sutures, making sure they would transition with his transformation.

The cold swept away.

Pain. Pain, pain, pain.

It doubled over in crashing waves. Rolled over him like a tsunami falling upon the shore. Tore through his side, as if the harpoon had struck a second time. Sweat rolled down Danny's brow as he turned on his uninjured side and rode through it. His pain tolerance was higher as a ghost, and the act of transforming alone tugged at the wound from the inside.

The pain slowly subsided. Danny buried his face into Tucker's pillow, panting, now caring that he was smearing ectoplasm, tears, and snot into the pillowcase. 

The simple thought that he didn't have to go home right now, that he could just close his eyes and succumb to the overwhelming tiredness weighing him to the mattress, it was a relief beyond measure.

Danny let quiet tears roll down his cheeks. He focused on the familiar scent of Tucker’s shampoo and the feel of the soft pillow beneath his head. Buried his face deeper into the pillow, making the darkness absolute.

Fatigue calmed Danny's racing heart and soothed his anxious mind. Sleep came swift and, mercifully, without dreams.

Chapter Text

Waking up took everything Danny had. His entire body felt like a bruise. A sharp headache pounded between his ears. Scratchy soreness coated his throat. His mouth was as dry as a desert, yet tasted as foul as a swamp. Both of Danny’s arms ached, the muscles overworked and strained. A deep pain throbbed in his side, pulsing in time with his slow heartbeat.

 Sunlight poured through the window, framed by faded blue curtains. Danny stared at the bedsheets rumpled around him, his mind slowly recalling the night before as the memories trickled back.

Yesterday felt like a nightmare. For once, Danny wished it were one.

The languid heat of a boring day, so violently torn apart by piercing shouts and digging barbs. 

A harpoon, of all things.

Danny dropped his head into his hand, groaning as he rubbed at his eyes. He struggled to push the memories aside, but the dull ache in his side served as a constant, nagging reminder. 

As morbid as it may be, Danny was used to being shot at by his parents. The ectoblasts from a Fenton blaster were hardly different from those fired by Skulker. In the chaos of a fight, Danny sometimes couldn't be sure who fired the landing shot.

This was different. It was raw and bloody, with a solid trail anchored to a gun and the hands that fired it. There was no mistaking the intent in that shot.

At least there was some dignity in being shot by ectoplasm. Danny wouldn’t say he preferred it, but it was certainly better than being reeled in like a prey animal.  

Danny still couldn’t believe it. He didn’t want to.

He chastised himself for not being more vigilant.

He should have expected something like this to happen, knowing his luck. Knowing how much his parents hated ghosts… Phantom.

Danny reached for his phone on the nightstand– belatedly remembering that it had fallen to the floor when he felt nothing under his fingers. He carefully maneuvered out of bed, grimacing at the dark smear of ectoplasm on Tucker's pillowcase. 

Reaching down, hissing as it pulled at his stitches, Danny scooped up his phone and checked the time.

One PM. It was already the afternoon. Danny couldn't remember the last time he’d slept so long, let alone in one sitting. 

It figured it took getting stabbed for him to finally get some good sleep.

He certainly needed that sleep. Bruised and battered as he felt, Danny could tell the ectoplasm and rest had done his body good. He experimentally flexed his right hand. It felt like the smaller cuts had already healed, and the large gash between his thumb and forefinger stung much less than the night before.

Danny also realized just how hungry he was. 

If waking up was taxing, standing was another story. Danny shuffled over to the closet, every inch of him stiff and sore. He dropped down in front of the chest, pulling out more supplies. He forced down a couple of protein bars, more ibuprofen, and chugged a bottle of water to wash it all down. After a pause, he took another vial of ectoplasm. 

Danny sat on the floor, surrounded by empty bottles and wrappers. Listless. He had no clue what to do with himself. What he should do. 

He felt numb to it all.

All Danny knew was that Jazz would come home sometime that night and he had to look somewhat presentable by the time she arrived.

Changing his bandages was as good a place to start as any.

The citrus and petrichor scent of ectoplasm hung heavy in the bathroom. Danny had to force himself to look at the tub. There was more gauze than he remembered using piled in the basin, surrounded by streaks of dried ectoplasm. As gruesome as it looked, Danny had plenty experience scrubbing the stuff. A tub was no issue; at least it wasn't carpet or wallpaper. It was near-impossible to get ectoplasm stains out of either.

Danny shucked off his hoodie and shirt, tossing them on the floor. He inspected the bandages wrapping around his torso, frowning when he saw a small red stain blossoming through the layers of bandages.

Danny stared at the gauze in the tub. He really should clean it up…

He sighed, rubbing at his eyes again, wishing his headache would abate. Danny glanced back at the mirror, drawn in by his haggard appearance. 

Up close, Danny’s human form looked worse than Phantom’s. His hair stuck up more than usual in the back with dried blood. Dark smears covered his face. His olive skin looked paler, with dark bags heavy beneath his eyes like shadows. 

Jazz would notice in a heartbeat.

Sighing, Danny grabbed a towel from the linen closet and returned to the tub. He bowed his head over the edge and turned the tap on. A shower with sutures in his side seemed like a bad idea. Danny wasn’t sure he had the energy to stand for one, in any case. The least he could do was wash the dried blood from his hair, face, and arms.

Warm water rolled over his sore head, through his dirty hair, and down his face. Danny hummed a broken tune, watching as blood-tinged water swirled around the basin of the tub, clotting with the gauze blocking the drain. He shut his eyes, relishing in the warmth.

Danny scrubbed until the water ran clear, gently massaging his head where it struck the tree. He took the wet bandages off of his hand, running it beneath the water. Most of the cuts had sealed overnight; only two remained: the large gash and a puncture behind one of his knuckles. Both would likely close up with another night of sleep. For now, he rebandaged them to keep the cuts clean.

Grunting with the effort, Danny hoisted himself up onto the edge of the tub. He carefully unwrapped the bandages circling his waist. Each layer revealed more red staining the combine pad pressed to his side, mottled with green.

Danny tossed the bandages in the tub with the rest and took a deep breath before pulling the combine pad off. He swore underbreath as the pad came away stickily, drying blood keeping it in place. 

The combine pad looked an absolute mess. Ectoplasm stained part of the dressing, but it was overwhelmingly coated in red blood. The colors didn't mix easily, giving it a Christmasy appearance.

Danny always hated Christmas.

The wound itself didn't look much better. Yellowed bruises circled the entry and exit wounds, mottling his flesh. The skin was pink and swollen; a trickle of serous fluid drained from both of the large wounds. A gruesome sight, but Danny could tell it was healing. 

He stared at the wounds for a long while, lost in thought. 

Danny cleaned the area with more antiseptic, wincing and gasping as he patted over the swollen, stitched skin. He applied another combine pad and carefully redid his bandages. Each twist to wrap the gauze brought a painful twinge in his side. He paused several times, stopping to breathe and steady his hands.

Just in case there was a ghost attack at some point during the day, Danny made the bandages thick and secure. The last thing he needed was them unraveling during a fight.

Clean and bandaged, Danny stared at the gauze in the tub. He looked at his hand, realizing if he scrubbed the mess he'd have to rebandage it again. 

Well… the least he could do was toss the gauze and fill the tub with water, soaking off the worst of the stains.

Danny grabbed a trash bag from Tucker’s room. He picked up the sopping-wet gauze with his left hand, grimacing when the soggy material dripped through his fingers. With the gauze gone, Danny stopped the drain and let the tub fill with water until it covered the green stains trailing down the side. 

After pulling his sweatshirt back on, Danny returned to Tucker’s room and tossed the trash bag on top of his overflowing garbage can, making a mental note to take it out when he dealt with the tub.

Later. He was certainly giving himself plenty to do later. Cleaning would give Danny something to occupy his time, but…

The thought of scrubbing his own blood from a bathtub weighed heavily on his mind.

He shook his head, willing the thought away like so many others threatening to grab hold.

Danny sat down on Tucker's bed, staring at his computer. He couldn't touch the thing without Tucker knowing. Tucker probably wouldn't mind as long as he left his tabs open, but… the things his friends would notice upon returning were already piling up. 

His haggard appearance. The missing supplies in the chest and first aid kit. The stained pillow.

Danny glanced down at the bed, running his hand over the wrinkled bedspread. Green and red stains blotted the sheet.

Ancients, everything really was piling up.

He settled on watching TV, laid back on the blood-stained sheet and pillowcase, scrolling mindlessly through his phone. His hands were still too sore to play games anyway.

Danny drifted in and out of consciousness. He didn’t fight it, instead letting sleep roll over him when it came, like gentle waves lapping at a rocky shore. It was better than lying awake, staring listlessly at the television screen, hardly registering when one show ended and bled into the next. 

He buried his face in Tucker's pillow, falling deeper and deeper into sleep…

~*~

Danny flew over town, rolling with the breeze, watching the stars glitter overhead. There were no clouds in the sky. Just an open expanse of black, dotted with endless lights. He flipped onto his back, coasting along with his spectral tail flicking lazily behind him. Danny put his arms behind his head, eyes trailing over the constellations, watching as they shifted and spun. They formed intricate patterns, deconstructing into flowing dots before conjoining and morphing into the shapes they represented. Lions, bears, swans– a menagerie of tall tales galloping across the sky. Danny lost himself to their stampede, hurrying to follow their progress.

A glittering trail of stardust lingered behind the creatures. It swayed and wavered with each turn.

The sky pulsed. One of the great bears roared out in anger, its everbright eyes flashing a dangerous shade of green. It reared up, glowing claws tearing through the sky– before it collapsed. The beast hurtled towards the earth, a shooting star of blazing green, desperately roaring as it fizzled into nothing.

The stampede faltered, the stardust spiraling as the creatures paced nervously.

Another pulse shook the sky. The lion growled, leaping back as if it had been struck. It cried out in agony, its jaws bared to the sky. It fell backwards, falling from the sky with the same blaze of green.

The stardust rippled and darkened, falling like snow beneath stamping hooves, talons, and claws.

The ram. The giraffe. The eagle. Each burned bright as they too fell, leaving searing streaks across the night sky. Danny felt his core thrum with unease. He couldn’t tell what was happening. Couldn’t fathom what ripped those powerful beasts from the sky with such ease.

The bull charged past, its coat of stars glittering against the inky black of space. Danny watched its progress, his eyes stretching wide as a dark, black bolt shot towards the great beast. It struck it in the chest, piercing through. Green erupted from the bull’s heart. 

The beast’s head lolled back, eyes verdant and rolling. It fell with the rest, the sky alight with the last crackling embers from its starry hide. 

Silence pressed in on Danny’s ears. The sky grew dark as the last trails of stardust and green dissipated into the night. The stars themselves blinked out of existence. Danny floated alone, lost in a sea of tall, silhouetted buildings. The more he searched his surroundings, the more the structures stretched and warped. They bent into towering trunks, branches stretching tall overhead. Danny tried to escape the forest that grew around him. Branches sprung up at each turn, gnarled limbs twisting and arching like claws. They closed in around Danny, bracketing him in until he could hardly move.

A clattering sound disturbed the quiet night.

Something sharp and narrow hit him in the side.

~*~

Danny sat up with a shout, frantically kicking at the blanket under him, backpedaling until he slipped off of the bed and fell to the floor with a crash. His leg hit the nightstand on his way down, knocking Tucker’s cups and clock to the ground.

Danny lay on the floor, breathing heavily, staring up at the ceiling. Gulping down air as he took in the familiar, comforting sights of Tucker’s bedroom. It took a moment for Danny to register that he wasn’t back in the forest. That he was safe.

Danny managed to land on his uninjured side, but his wounds still screamed from the fall. The phantom strike of the harpoon, freshly shot through his dreams, pressed against him. Danny clutched his side, groaning. He let his head fall against the floor in frustration– regretting it when the bruised back of his skull knocked against solid wood.

“Ow…”

A buzzing sound came from the bed. Danny pulled himself up off of the ground just enough to reach for his phone, blindly patting at the sheets until he felt the rubber case. He brought his phone down to the floor with him, staring at the latest text messages from Tucker and Sam.

Tuck: wedding was boring but at least the food was good

Tuck: pretty sure were gonna spend the rest of the day on the beach now

Sam: Youre free and my hell is just beginning.

Tuck: what time does the gala start again?

Sam: At 6 

Sam: Its storming so Im still holding out hope itll get canceled

Tuck: doesnt it always rain there

Tuck: and isnt it inside?

Sam: Let me dream.

Danny glanced at the time, frowning. It was almost four in the afternoon. Given the time zone difference, the gala would start in an hour. He had already slept most of the day away.

Sleep had done him good, at least. The dizziness and fog clouding Danny’s mind had dissipated, and his right hand hardly hurt. Even his headache had finally begun to fade. 

Every hour he’d slept was also one less hour to sit around waiting.

His stomach dropped at the thought.

Each hour that ticked by on the clock brought Jazz closer to home. Danny weighed relief with dread. Relief that he wouldn’t be alone– dread that Jazz would take one look into his eyes and see every ounce of fear and pain within them.

A shiver ran up his spine. Recounting the harpoon to Jazz… 

The knowledge that their parents had hurt Danny so viscerally while she was away would break Jazz just as much as him. Perhaps more. 

He resented that the weapon had already pierced its way into his dreams.

At least Sam had promised to keep them entertained with her gala commentary. Danny longed for a steady distraction. Something– anything to keep him from imagining the moment he went home, waited, and watched Jazz step through the front door. 

Until then, Danny could mess with Sam.

Danny: you sound so excited

In response, Sam sent a selfie of herself pulling a face, her middle finger pointed to the camera. She had her makeup half done and Danny could see the collar of her black dress.

Danny: youve never looked happier

Sam: I can and will put you in Soup Time when I get back

Danny: :(

Tuck: speaking of soup time

Tuck: is skulker still in it?

Danny: yep

Tuck: good.

Tuck: still cant believe he threw me off a building

Sam: Why is that such a surprise honestly?

Tuck: i just thought hed know better by now tbh

Tuck: that danny would crush him into a tin can

Sam: You expect too much from Skulker 

Danny: yeah well if it happens again soup time is permanent

An empty threat. There was only one ghost kept permanently in a Fenton Thermos, and Danny tried his best not to think about him.

Sam: I need to finish getting ready 

Tuck: okay dont forget us little people while ur at the wayne gala tho

Sam: I can't soup you but that wont stop me from trying.

Danny laid back on Tucker's bed, propped against the wall. He stared at the group chat, rereading their messages over and over like a mantra in his head. As if he might find something new hidden between the lines. Danny hated how much of his sanity hinged on waiting for the dots to appear, signaling a new message.

He could almost feel the ectoplasm in the tub taunting him, begging him to get up and do something .

Later, Danny thought.

~*~

Sam hated many things. The smell of cooked meat, bright clothes, the popular pop music her dad played on the radio. She could fill a library with all of the things that annoyed her, and still have enough overflow for storage. 

Excessive flaunting of wealth was one of those things.

Lavish was the best word to describe the hotel suite her family stayed in. A massive space with separate rooms. A full kitchen with gleaming appliances that looked as though they'd never been used. Chandeliers dripping with fine crystals. Tall windows with intricate lattice frames and thick velvet curtains. It put the Manson residence to shame with each extravagant detail.

Never ones to be outdone, her parents were going all out for the gala. Sam dreaded the moment she entered the venue to find herself surrounded by a sea of people all seeking the same validation that Pamela and Jeremy Mason desperately sought after. 

Pamela had finished getting ready twenty minutes ago, but she still sat in front of one of the mirrors outside the restroom, fiddling with each and every strand of her red hair. The salon had rolled her hair into gentle curls yesterday evening, and she’d spent a great deal of energy lamenting the bad weather since.

Sam's mom wore an extravagant blue ball gown with lace trimmings and flowing waterfalls of silk. Her dad stood beside her in a matching light blue suit. Between the pair of them, they resembled a cloudless day.

Sam, meanwhile, looked every bit the stormy night. The long purple and black evening dress was not exactly her style, but Sam had modified it enough that she could at least look at the thing without feeling a deep wave of revulsion. The frills on the ends of the sleeves had been the first things to go, shortly followed by a few bows.

At least the length of the dress allowed her to wear combat boots without suspicion. 

The bat pin she purchased from the mall sat clipped to the low neckline of the dress, complimenting a bat necklace draped around her neck.

Sam told her parents the bats fit in perfectly with the Gotham aesthetic, but she dared anyone to ask her about Batman directly. The accessories sat like venus fly traps, waiting for the first foolish Gothamite fly to test its curiosity. 

Sam wasn't about to let some grown man in a fursuit ruin bats for her.

Putting the finishing touches on her makeup, lining her eyes with a purple that complimented the accents on her dress, Sam took one last glance in the mirror and shut her makeup bag. 

The sound tore her mother’s attention from her own mirror. She gave Sam a long, calculating look. Her eyes swept up and down, her mouth drawing into a tight frown.

"Samantha, dear, are you sure you wouldn't prefer–"

"Mom, for the last time I'm not changing. Black fits Gotham. There wouldn't be enough time to change, anyway."

It wasn't as if they'd had this exact conversation at every event her parents dragged her to. And while packing for the trip. And while on the drive to the airport. And while on the plane. And while Sam was putting the damn thing on.

Really, they should know better than to bring her at this point.

Pamela nodded slightly, but kept the tight look about her face, her perfectly-plucked brows drawn together. The mirror distracted her, however, and she quickly returned to prodding at the gentle curls framing her face.

"You both look wonderful," her father said brightly, looking between the two of them with a smile. 

Sam's dad had given up on chastising her outfit some time ago, and instead elected to playing peacekeeper between the two of them. To his credit, he was decent at the job.

Her dad's phone rang and he quickly picked it up to answer. The conversation was brief, with her dad only answering to confirm something.

"Our ride will arrive soon," he warned them.

It snapped Pamela from her stupor at the mirror.

In a whirlwind, Sam found herself whisked out the door, through the hall, down the elevator, across the lobby, and into the back of a limousine. She hardly remembered grabbing her bag.

Sat by the window, watching rain roll down the glass as they left the awning outside the hotel, Sam pulled out her phone. She held it at her side, discreetly texting Danny and Tucker.

Sam: It begins.

Danny: rip

Tuck: rip in peace

Chapter Text

The drive to the gala wasn’t far, but the traffic heading in slowed the trip to a crawl. Rain fell steadily against the windows of the limousine and the glare of headlights cut through the misting rain. Sam stared out the window, watching the tall city buildings pass. It had been raining since they arrived in Gotham, without so much as a brief respite. Water ran along the streets in dark currents. The wind was steadily picking up, battering the signposts and blowing bits of garbage down the sidewalk. It really was a wonder the event wasn’t canceled, though Sam supposed a city used to this gloomy weather must roll with the soggy punches.

Gotham reminded Sam of Amity in that way: the resignation to gloom and chaos. After all, it’s not like Amity canceled events whenever ghost activity was on the rise. 

Were Sam not dreading the gala, she might even feel at home.

Sam craned her neck as Wayne Tower came into view. The building itself was a sight to see. Old white brick broken up by massive windows, each aglow with golden light. It cut through the city skyline like a mountain peak, looming tall against the clouds. Gargoyles hung high overhead, silhouetted against the gray sky. Sam’s eyes lingered on the gargoyle directly over the entrance, its wicked fangs pointed to the street below, as they were ushered inside.

Noise hit Sam like a battering ram against solid oak.

The incessant chatter of too many voices, underscored by the relentless clack of heels on marble. The crowded lobby gleamed with reflected light. Grand statues and magnificent chandeliers decorated the space. The marble floor glistened in a pristine polish. All manner of colors shined in the floor, a bombardment of reflected dresses and suits. 

Sam hardly registered moving through the crowd. She stared fixedly ahead, following after her mom as she dragged her up a towering white staircase and down a wide hall lined with paintings– Portraits, city skylines, and beautiful ocean views set into ornate golden frames.

The hall spit out into a grand ballroom the likes of which Sam had never seen. The ceiling stretched high overhead, dotted with hanging lights and a grand golden chandelier at the heart of the room. Tall windows with parted velvet curtains covered the walls, the sky beyond them dark and stormy. A stage on the far end held an orchestra of finely-dressed musicians. The light classical music they played floated under the dull roar of conversation.

Sam took in the details slowly as her brain caught up with the sheer scale of the event. Busy crowds in Amity were one thing, but the entirety of Amity Park could fit into the Wayne Tower ballroom and still have room for guests.

The sound alone was too much. It pressed on Sam’s ears and made them ring uncomfortably as she adjusted to the clamor.

What Sam wouldn’t give to have her ectocontamination manifest in her eyes instead. She envied Tucker’s quickly developing night vision. Seeing details in the dark appealed to her much more than oversensitive ears.

At least neither of their eyes were glowing like Jazz’s. Yet. Sam wasn’t prepared for that conversation with Danny– not after seeing the way he broke down after Jazz’s eyes began to glow. 

Sam suspected Danny already knew they were changing too, and that he was just as reluctant to talk about it.

Sam had very little time to adjust to the sights and sounds before her parents dragged her into the throng of people. Shoulders squeezed in to avoid crashing into anyone, Sam let herself be dragged along. They didn’t get very far before her mom ground to a stop, waving merrily at a woman standing near the center of the ballroom. Pamela turned and steered them through the crowd. 

Her mom introduced Sam to the woman and her husband. The pair were both doctors of some sort, but their names went in one ear and out the other. Sam hung back, giving her best disinterested glare, refusing to shake the man’s hand when it was offered. Her mom gave a nervous chuckle and quickly swept Sam aside with a firm grip on her shoulder.

“It’s been so long since we’ve seen them, we really should catch up. Samantha, how about you wander and see if you can find any kids your age? Please be on your best behavior. This isn’t Amity, you know.”

Sam didn’t have to be told twice. By the time her mom turned around, she’d already booked it to the nearest wall to escape the worst of the crowd. The sounds, bright colors, and heavy mix of perfume in the air were all combining to form a swift headache behind Sam’s eyes. 

Safe for the time being, sequestered snuggly behind a tall plant with broad leaves, Sam figured it was as good a time as any to fulfill her promise. With one quick check to make sure her parents couldn’t see, Sam pulled out her phone and texted the group chat.

Sam: Too many people. Too much perfume. Already a hellscape.

A woman dressed in a frilly red dress passed close by the plant, her rosy perfume overpowering. The woman fixed Sam with a dubious look and Sam returned it ferociously, shooing her along. 

Her phone buzzed.

Tuck: pics?

Sighing, Sam took several quick pictures of the gala venue, making sure to get a good shot of the stormy windows along the east wall. A few more people glanced at Sam, a couple pointing in her direction. She could just imagine them commenting on the weird kid hidden in the plants, staring at her phone. As long as her parents didn't bother her, Sam was happy to fill the status of gala cryptid.

Sam dropped the pictures in the group chat and leaned against the wall, hiding herself more fully behind the plant.

Danny: agreed. too many people

Tuck: wow that place is massive

Tuck: seen anyone cool

Tuck: bruce wayne?

Looking up from her phone, Sam took in more of the ballroom, focusing on the small groups of people talking business, laughing over tall glasses of wine, and leaning in to compliment dresses and jewelry. She thought she recognized a couple of people from previous events her parents dragged her to, but Sam didn’t know any of their names. She made a point not to remember them. Sam certainly didn’t see anyone she’d call ‘cool’, let alone Bruce Wayne.

Sam: Naw I dont recognize most of the people here

Sam: No wayne spottings yet

Glancing up again, Sam did another sweep of the gala. Most of the people attending were adults, but she did notice a small group of older teens in the far corner by the tall balcony doors. Sam was so focused on watching them put their heads together conspiratorially that she almost missed her mom moving towards her at speed.

Sam quickly stashed her phone into her bag, hoping her mom hadn’t seen it. If Sam had to listen to a lecture on etiquette right now she might just combust.

“Samantha! What are you doing, hiding in the corner? Come over here; there’s someone you’ll recognize.”

Reluctantly, Sam followed her mom, wondering which snobby rich person she was supposed to know. 

Her heart dropped into her stomach when she saw who was standing beside her father.

A tall man with silver hair pulled into a ponytail. A familiar black suit with silver accents and a red tie. Of all the people Sam expected to run into at the gala, she had not expected Vlad. 

Perhaps, in retrospect, Sam should have. Vlad was considerably richer than her parents and had plenty of connections. Still, Sam had not considered running into him in Gotham of all places, far from the Fenton family and his usual schemes. She shot a glare at her mom, furious that she hadn’t bothered to mention Vlad’s attendance. Had Sam known ahead of time, she could have planned. She would have brought more weapons than the small ectogun stashed in her purse. She would have discussed contingency plans with Danny and Tucker. 

Just one word of warning would have been appreciated.

Sam tried to school her expression as she approached Vlad. He fixed her with a devious, knowing grin, as though seeing through her facade to the rattled nerves underneath. Sam could feel the familiar presence of a ghost radiating off of him— warped and subtle, as similar to Danny as it was different. Fickle flames, compared to soothing ice. 

Sam still wasn't used to sensing ghosts. It sent a shiver down her spine, one that had nothing to do with Vlad himself and everything to do with the ectoplasm slowly affecting her system.

“Why hello, Samantha. I was hoping I’d get to chat with your parents at this event,” he said silkily.

Sam clenched her fists, trying her best to keep her emotions in check.

Sam didn’t fear Vlad. There was little left in her heart for the man other than hatred and disgust. Vlad was as unpredictable as he was revolting, however. Sam didn’t fear the man, but she did fear the things he was willing to do. The lows Vlad could and would take to meet his ends. All of the ways he was willing to hurt Danny.

Her dad shook Vlad Masters’ hand as if they were old friends. Bile rose in Sam’s throat.

“Shouldn’t a mayor stay in their town?” she bit out.

Pamela shot Sam a scandalized look, as though she couldn’t believe her daughter would stoop to such a scathing remark so quickly.

She really should know better by now.

The statement didn’t ruffle Vlad, however. He grinned at her, the hint of a fang in his smile, and bounced on the balls of his feet with his arms crossed neatly behind his back.

“While I’m sure the town misses me, Amity Park is a fine city. Everything will run smoothly in my absence.”

Pamela and Jeremy both nodded their heads in firm agreement. Sam wrinkled her nose.

“Really? So what will you do if a ghost–”
“No, no, lets– not here,” Pamela said very quickly, pushing Sam aside. She glanced around nervously, as if worried someone nearby might hear the word ‘ghost’ and take up arms. “Why don’t you leave us to talk for a little while? You can explore the rest of the venue!”

Sam remembered the last event they went to, a fundraiser a state over. A woman had laughed derisively when her mom offhandedly mentioned a ghost destroying their front gate. The woman then mockingly asked if Pamela truly believed in ghosts. The group around them dissolved into laughter from there, as her mom flushed red with embarrassment. The Manson's hadn't stayed long after that, and it was one of the few times Sam's mom did not scold her for her rude behavior.

It was frustrating enough dealing with the ghosts of Amity– let alone not being taken seriously for it. Sam had enough fire in her to defend against any jeers, but she couldn’t necessarily blame her mom for wanting to avoid the subject.

Normally Sam would jump at the chance to pester Vlad, but she was out of her element here and instead jumped at the chance to slink away again. She hurried off into the outer hall and towards the restrooms.

The restrooms were as grand as everything else. Massive spaces, dripping with filigree, lined with statues and potted flowers, and polished to a fault. Sam sequestered herself in one of the large wooden stalls and pulled out her phone.

Sam: I need to tell you two something but first I need Danny to promise not to freak out

Tuck: concerning

Danny: did something happen is there a ghost

Sam: Everything is fine. Just promise me you wont freak out

Danny: ill promise once you tell me

Sam: I can always not tell you

Danny: and i can always freak out without context

Danny: dont underestimate me

Tuck: dude just promise her this is stressin me out 

Danny: fine 

Danny: i promise ill try not to freak out

She didn’t believe Danny for a moment. Vlad always pressed his buttons in the worst ways, and knowing his enemy was out of reach would drive his anxiety up the wall. 

Sam bit her lip, her finger hovering over her message before she hit send. 

Sam: Vlad is here

Tuck: wait really? you never said anything about him goin

Sam: I didnt know! My parents didnt say shit about him coming 

Sam: But they definitely knew 

Tuck: danny u okay there buddy

Tuck: youve been typing awhile

Sam: I dont think hed try anything here.

Sam: Hes probably just trying to scam some rich people

Danny: why the hell didn your parents tell you?? why didnt i know he was thre my parents didnt say anything either fuck are u sure hes not trying anything has he saidanything weird

Sam: Hes literally just talking to other rich people like my parents Danny I think everything is fine.

Sam: Ill try and keep an eye on him 

Sam: Just Please calm down and dont try to do anything

Danny: if he attacks he could rlly hurt you

Sam: I really dont think Vlad would risk it. Theres too many people

Tuck: that hasnt stopped him before

Sam: Not helping Tuck.

Danny: if anything happens tell me

Sam couldn’t help but roll her eyes. That was rich, coming from Danny, the same person who had hidden an ectogun burn on his leg two weeks ago so he 'wouldn't worry anyone.'

Sam: I can handle myself. I have an ectogun on me 

Danny: i know you can but please 

Danny: i dont trust him

Tuck: no one should. anyone dumb enough to do business with that guy is insane

Sam: Agreed.

Sam: If anything happens Ill text you guys but until then everything is fine

Sam: The gala is just grosser than expected with him here as far as Im concerned

Danny: okay be careful

Danny: dont pick any fights with him

Tuck: even tho i know its tempting

It certainly was tempting, Sam thought as she put her phone back in her bag and returned to the event hall. She hated to know how worried Vlad’s presence made Danny– how worried it made her . While Sam was pretty sure Vlad was only in Gotham for business and wouldn’t risk hurting that business just to mess with her, she couldn’t be sure .

Vlad, like many ghosts, could be unpredictable. His particular Obsession often drove him to do foul, insane things that Sam had trouble wrapping her head around.

Hell, they’d only known the man for a year and he’d already resorted to cloning. Sam wasn’t sure if Vlad had many limits– if any.

With any luck, he’d find some rich sap to do business with, cash in on more undeserved wealth, and leave it at that. At least Gotham had plenty of vigilantes and their Justice League connections. Even Vlad would have to be a fool to draw their ire.

Though Sam wasn’t sure how well the League would fare against a halfa. She wasn’t even sure if they knew ghosts existed, let alone half-ghosts.

They certainly didn’t seem to care about the ones in Amity, in any case.

Returning to the event hall after hiding in the quiet restrooms felt like dunking her head into a sound machine. Conversations, laughter, the clatter of dishes, the endless scuff of shoes on the polished floor. The sounds ping-ponged around Sam's head, cacophonous and unending. Eyes squinted, she slunk along the outer edge of the ballroom, headed towards the buffet tables on the far wall. If Sam was going to be miserable, she might as well be miserable on a full stomach.

At least fancy rich people parties always had plenty of vegetarian options. Sam picked out a few pieces, sticking mostly to desserts and fruits– things she recognized and knew wouldn’t be a textural nightmare. 

“Anything good?” someone asked, making Sam jump.

Sam whipped around to find a pretty blonde girl standing beside her. She hadn’t even heard the girl approach, though she could probably blame that on the constant hum of sound around them.

“Uh… dessert?” Sam said dumbly, completely caught off guard. 

She recognized the girl from the group of teens she’d seen earlier, but Sam didn’t exactly know her. The girl wore a flowing, sleeveless purple dress with sparkling accents. She looked older than Jazz by a few years. 

The girl bobbed her head approvingly as she grabbed a plate and piled it high with cake and strawberries. Sam hoped she would take her food and leave, but the girl seemed keen on a conversation.

“My name’s Steph. I haven’t seen you at one of these before,” she said, completely oblivious to Sam's stormy mood.

Sam leaned on her hip, resisting the urge to sigh. “Sam. My family isn’t from Gotham,” she said simply.

The girl, Steph, nodded her head again. "Well, I hope you're enjoying your visit, even if these galas can be an absolute drag." 

She popped a strawberry into her mouth, humming happily. Sam watched as Steph's eyes darted to her necklace and pin, her smile brightening.

"I like the bats, by the way. Are you a fan of Batman?" she asked brightly.

Sam couldn't help but smile a bit as she said, "Oh? No, I just like bats. Couldn't give less of a shit about Batman. I think he kind of sucks, to be honest."

She didn't think much of the Justice League as a whole, not after their failure to answer their distress signals. Proximity honed Sam's ire more than anything right now, her talons focused on Gotham and its resident League member.

'When in Rome', and all that.

To Sam's surprise, Steph broke out into raucous laughter– so much so that she had to place her plate down on the buffet table.

"Oh I wish Jason was here. He'd love this," she managed to say through her laughter.

Sam couldn't help but laugh as well. She wondered how many people in Gotham actually disliked Batman– or at least enjoyed a good joke at his expense. It couldn't be as divided as Amity was on Phantom, based on the news reports she'd seen.

"Sounds like someone I could be friends with then," Sam said.

Steph just snorted in response, still trying to tamp down her laughter, wiping at the corner of her eye. She turned away from the buffet table and Sam expected their conversation to end there. Steph, however, chimed in again.

"Hey, my family is hanging out on the balcony. Wanna come?" she suddenly asked, pointing over her shoulder.

Sam pursed her lips, unsure. She couldn't really get a read on Steph yet, but she seemed decent enough. Hanging out with her and her family– presumably the other teens Sam saw– was probably better than sitting around, waiting for her mom to spring up and drag her into another conversation. 

"Yeah, sure. Why not?" Sam decided with a shrug. 

Steph bounced a bit on her heels. She piled one last slice of cake onto her plate before setting off into the crowd, gesturing for Sam to follow her.

They stuck close to the wall, avoiding the worst of the crowd. Steph was shorter than Sam, but she had lean muscle to her and easily cut through the groups they passed. 

They were halfway across the ballroom when a familiar voice reached Sam’s ears.

“... in Amity Park? No, I assure you the ghosts are very real.”

Sam froze, whipping her head around, scanning the crowd for a familiar head of silver hair. It didn’t take long to pinpoint the tall man. He stood a ways past the balcony doors, surrounded by a group of men. One of the men looked familiar…

“Sam?” 

Sam completely forgot she was following Steph for a moment. The girl looked back at her with an eyebrow raised, waiting. 

“Shit, uh… sorry, I recognized someone,” Sam said quickly. 

Her eyes trained back on Vlad, doing her best to keep him in her sight. Hearing him talk about Amity and its ghosts put her on edge.

“Oh, do you want to go talk to them?” Steph asked. She craned her neck to follow Sam’s gaze, frowning slightly. “Is it that guy with Bruce?”
“Not talk, but– wait Bruce?” 

Sam did a double-take, glancing between Steph and the black-haired man standing beside Vlad. She faintly heard Steph say the man’s name, just as she recognized him herself– Bruce Wayne.

Of course Vlad would target him.

Too curious to let it go, Sam dropped her plate of food on the windowsill and pushed past Steph, moving towards the group. She kept close to the windows, doing her best to approach Vlad without being seen. With any luck, she might be able to catch snippets of their conversation.

Steph followed close behind her, but remained mercifully quiet. Sam wondered what Steph must make of the situation: following some strange girl she just met, sneaking up on Bruce Wayne and his company. It had to look insane.

Sam stopped at a window close to the group of men, partially hidden behind a large statue. Up close, she saw that Bruce Wayne was tall and wide-shouldered. He cut an impressive figure, but wore a dopey grin that offset his appearance. He looked just the sort of person Vlad would target, even without knowing the true depths of his pockets.

“... no concern, truly. Great precautions have been taken, and any threat the ghosts might post to the public has been contained.” 

Sam’s blood began to boil, hearing Vlad’s carefully chosen words. She grit her teeth and gripped at the windowsill with her black fingernails, digging into the molding. Steph stood still behind her, staring out the window. Sam could tell she was listening just as intently, though she tried to not let it show.

“Threat? What threat would ghosts pose?” a teen with black hair asked. He seemed about Steph’s age and stood next to Bruce Wayne, looking a bit like his tired shadow.

Vlad waved his hand dismissively. “Very little, when you know how to handle them, though none at all now. The ghost hunters of Amity are well-equipped to handle them, and we have outfitted all essential facilities with ghost shields. Even dangerous ghosts such as Phantom no longer pose a threat. Now, DALVco has plans to use ectoplasm for more–”

Something inside Sam snapped on Phantom’s name.

Her feet moved of their own accord. Sam found herself storming over to the group, shouldering past several men, with Steph close on her heels.

She thought very little of the situation. Of where she was, and who Vlad was speaking to. Sam took a deep breath, a thousand bitter words on her tongue as she glared daggers into the back of Vlad’s head.

“That’s a lie,” Sam said with a snarl, malice dripping in her every word. 

Bruce Wayne and the teen beside him turned to look at her. Mr. Wayne’s eyes did not leave Sam, while the teen glanced between her and Steph, a puzzled expression crossing his face. Up close, the boy reminded Sam of Danny– at least in the dark, weighty bags beneath his blue eyes.

Vlad turned more slowly, his hands put together delicately, a placid grin on his face.

“Samantha, surely you should be with your parents right now?” Vlad said carefully.

Sam snorted. “And leave and let you lie about Amity? No thanks,” she hissed.

Danny would be furious if he knew Sam was picking a fight with Vlad. It was precisely the one thing he had asked her not to do. Only… Danny wasn’t here, and Sam felt too much rage spiraling in her belly to back down now. It was because of Danny that she wanted to shout to the heavens and tear Vlad down to the earth.

Hell, if Danny were here he’d do the honors himself.

Vlad opened his mouth to speak again, but Sam turned to look at Bruce Wayne and quickly spoke over him. She wanted nothing more in that moment than to invalidate Vlad’s claims in front of this man. To ruin any chance he had at making a business deal with Gotham’s richest.

“The ghosts are not under control and the town is not safe,” she said simply. Bitterly. 

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Wayne, a lot of the children are afraid of the ghosts and—“

“I am not afraid of ghosts,” Sam said forcefully, taking a step closer so she could better look Vlad in the eye. “Though plenty of people are, and have reason to be.”

Before Vlad could retort, Bruce Wayne stepped in. 

“Who are you, miss?” he asked Sam kindly.

Sam looked Mr. Wayne up and down. He looked every bit the rich, ditzy playboy the magazines painted him as— though he did seem genuinely interested in the conversation. As long as Sam had his attention, taking it away from Vlad’s lies, she would speak her mind.

“Sam Manson. I’m from Amity Park, and have lived there a hell of a lot longer than him.” She jabbed her thumb in Vlad’s direction pointedly.

If Sam’s crass manner of speaking bothered Bruce Wayne, he didn’t let it show. He nodded and introduced himself formally, though unnecessarily.

“And this is my son, Tim,” he then said, clapping a hand on the teen’s shoulder. “We’ve both heard about your town, but it’s interesting to hear word of it from locals. We’re not sure what to believe, based on rumors.”

Tim certainly seemed just as intrigued by the conversation as Bruce. He watched Sam with sharp eyes— though they were slightly squinted with tiredness. She wondered when was the last time he slept.

Steph stood beside Tim, though Sam couldn’t tell when she’d moved. She leaned to whisper something into his ear and Tim made a face, clearly trying to disguise a laugh. 

“Well, as I was telling you—“ Vlad tried to start up his conversation again, but Sam quickly cut across.

She could feel the air around Vlad warm with his anger. Arguing with Vlad was playing with fire in the truest sense of the phrase.

Sam felt too much burning anger of her own to relent.

“Whatever you’ve heard about Amity, it’s not enough,” Sam said. “I know a lot of people are convinced we’re insane, but the ghosts are a problem and Amity isn’t holding its own well, regardless of what Vlad tells you.”

Mr. Wayne’s brows knitted together somewhat. “In what way?” he asked.

“The ghosts cause some property damage, but–”
Bruce Wayne held up his hand to stop Vlad as he once more interjected. Bruce looked remarkably intimidating, staring Vlad down as he said, “I would like to hear what Miss Manson has to say, Mr. Masters.”

Sam watched as Vlad’s face fell into barely-hidden anger. He clenched his fists tightly and Sam could imagine what little sense of control the man had slipping between his fingers.

She was more than happy to knock him down a few more pegs.

“Well, for starters, ghosts attack nearly every day,” Sam said, taking a step closer to the Waynes without taking her eyes off of Vlad. 

While Sam didn’t think Vlad would grab her in front of their esteemed company, she didn’t want to take any chances.

“The ghost hunters aren’t even the ones handling most of the ghosts.” Sam paused, biting her lip before she continued. “Phantom does almost all of the work.”

“Phantom?” Tim asked.

 Sam felt reluctant to bring Phantom's name up, but seeing as Vlad had already tried to paint him as a threat, it couldn’t hurt to correct that image. Tucker had already gone through a great deal of effort erasing any and all information about Phantom from the internet to limit anyone’s ability to trace him back to Danny. It was easier than picking the information with a fine-toothed comb. The chances of these people learning anything about Phantom outside of what she chose to tell them were slim.

“Phantom is a ghost. He protects the town,” she explained. “The ghost hunters do more harm than good. Not only do they cause more property damage, they hunt Phan–”

“Phantom is a nuisance with a known criminal record, who has assaulted–”

“He was framed , and yet he still protects that ungrateful town!”

Sam was close to shouting now. She couldn’t stand it, listening to Vlad downplaying the issues in Amity for his own selfish gain. The people around them were slowly cluing into the conversation, turning to watch, and Sam could care less who heard.

“You know nothing of politics and what it takes to protect and run an entire town, Samantha,” Vlad said coldly.

“I know more than you. Hell, most of the town still isn’t sure how you were even elected mayor. Phantom has done more for Amity Park than you ever will.”
“Phantom, need I remind you, is one small piece in a much bigger puzzle. A very expendable one,” Vlad said icily.

Sam felt her heart drop into her stomach. Her anger stumbled, lanced with dread. “Is that a threat?” she hissed.

Vlad straightened up to his full height, glaring down at Sam. “I would simply advise you to watch your tone,” he answered.

Bruce Wayne slid between Sam and Vlad, blocking him from her view. In the heat of the moment, Sam had forgotten that they weren’t alone. The ballroom had simply faded away, lost to her burning anger. Whispers crashed in around her now, people pressing in as they watched with undisguised interest.

“Enough of this,” Mr. Wayne said pointedly, his focus set on Vlad. “You’re a grown man, are you honestly going to pick a fight with a child here?”

Vlad spluttered at this, a growl rising in his throat. “I am merely trying to disprove the lies this girl–”

“You are picking a fight with a child. Surely, you should be above something so petty, being responsible for an entire town?”

While Sam enjoyed watching someone tear into Vlad, she did not appreciate being called a child in this situation, let alone having someone fight her battle for her.

“I’m perfectly capable of defending myself. I’ve dealt with this man before, I know what he’s like,” Sam said, stepping around Bruce Wayne so she was shoulder to shoulder with Tim. He was a bit shorter than Sam, unaided by the boots hidden under her dress.

Bruce Wayne frowned at that. “You’ve fought like this before?” he asked, glancing between her and Vlad.

A laugh ripped its way past Sam’s lips. “All the time. He likes to harass my friend’s family.”
Sam realized too late that she had said too much. Vlad’s face colored red– almost purple. His eyes bored into hers, a sharp red glint finding its way into his irises.

“You foolish, insolent–”

Someone bumped into Vlad, carrying a tall drink. The entirety of the beverage spilled onto Vlad’s chest, staining the white part of his suit a dark red. The tirade died on his tongue, replaced by a shocked squawk of indignation.

“I’m so sorry!” the man with the wine glass said, stepping back to look at the damage. “It’s been a long day; I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

He was tall with mid-length black hair and tanned skin. Though he spoke with sincerity, there was a humorous gleam in his sharp blue eyes. Behind him, Steph looked a bit constipated as she tried to suppress her laughter, half hiding herself behind Tim.

Vlad stared at the man as if looking at a worm that dared to cross his path. He spluttered, his eyes flicking between Sam and the man, the glint of red still present in his irises.

“How dare you. How dare you, you–”

“Before you say anything you might regret,” Bruce said, stepping forward, placing his hand on the newcomer’s shoulder. “Allow me to introduce you to my eldest, Dick.”

Sam couldn’t even enjoy the humor of the name, she was too busy watching Vlad’s face go through the five stages of grief. Vlad said nothing. He shut his mouth, his jaw flexing uncomfortably, turned on his heel, and tore through the crowd towards the exit hall.

Sam watched him go with a sense of accomplishment and dread. Getting a rise out of Vlad was fun, but… she feared his retaliation. She’d have to warn Danny as soon as possible.

“Well… hope I didn’t interrupt anything,” Dick said with a wide grin. 

Sam was as sure as she could be that he’d spilled his drink on purpose. She was just as thankful for it.

“No, it’s fine,” said Mr. Wayne. “We were just about finished speaking. Besides, he was being rude to one of our guests, Miss Samantha Manson.” He gestured to Sam.

Dick turned to Sam and held out his hand. “Nice to meet you, I’m Dick Grayson,” he said.

Now Sam had a proper chance to laugh at the name. She snorted, taking his hand. Sam normally hated shaking hands, but she would gladly shake hands with someone bold enough to spill wine on Vlad Masters.

“Interesting name. It’s Sam, by the way,” she added, shooting a glare at Mr. Wayne, who didn’t seem to notice. 

It wasn’t lost on Sam that Dick didn’t share Mr. Wayne’s last name. Sam recalled what little she knew about the Wayne family, and that at least several of Bruce Wayne’s children were adopted. It seemed like a strange hobby for a single rich man, and it made her think unpleasantly of Vlad.

“Sam, then,” Dick quickly recovered, flashing her a grin. He seemed completely unphased by the reaction to his own name. “Manson… you’re from Amity Park as well, aren’t you?” he asked.

“Yep,” she said, popping the ‘p’. “Ghosts and all.”

Dick exchanged a glance with his father, Tim, and Steph. It felt like an entire conversation passed between them in that gesture.

“The ghosts are real, then?” Dick asked skeptically.

Their interest in Amity Park put Sam on guard. She knew that Amity had some infamy as a haunted, ghost trap of a town, but she wouldn’t have expected a high profile family such as the Waynes to care. She couldn’t fathom if they were simply humoring her, or if Vlad had said something to peak their interest. Whatever the case, she had their attention now. 

Sam had nothing to prove to these people. She had no reason to tell them about ghosts that they would never see– to try and convince them of the reality they faced in Amity Park. 

Still, something urged her to say more. Maybe it was their interest in the subject, or how swiftly the family had Vlad turning tail. Maybe it was just Sam’s own burning desire to rant– to shout to the world about Amity’s problems and hope someone might pay attention. 

Sam rolled up the right sleeve of her dress, showing the scarring on her wrist. Dick’s face fell, and Mr. Wayne’s mouth drew into a line.

“I got hit with part of a bus on New Years, thanks to one of our local ghosts,” she explained, tracing the twisted scar with her left hand.

“Part of a bus?” Steph asked.

“We’ve got a ghost named Technus that likes to tear apart machines and cannibalize them into new toys.” She rolled her sleeve back down and shrugged her shoulders. “He just happened to pick a bus that day.”

“You talk about it like you’ve seen this… ghost multiple times,” Mr. Wayne observed.

Sam laughed again. “Technus? We see him almost every other week. We’ve got a regular assortment that visit town.”
“Phantom is one of these regulars?”

Sam leveled Tim with a glare. She would not have Phantom lumped in with the troublemakers.

“Yes, and he’s the only reason the town hasn’t fallen apart. It’s not like the Justice League has done anything to help us,” she growled.

The response she got was… interesting. Mr. Wayne and Dick perked up, while Tim and Steph exchanged furtive glances. Tim pulled out his phone and started tapping away on it as if he’d suddenly received a message.

“What do you mean the Justice League hasn’t done anything to help?” Mr. Wayne asked. He sounded… incredulous. 

It filled Sam with anger. Too much anger, so soon after rising to Vlad’s bait.

What did this man know? Gotham had plenty of crime, but they didn’t have ghosts pouring out of a hell portal. They didn’t have a kid covered in scars leading the fight. All Amity had was Danny and a few kids with glowing guns. 

What Sam wouldn’t give to have just one adult she could actually trust to do their job and keep them safe without hurting Danny.

Sam was growing tired of even humoring this conversation. She wanted nothing more than to sink down into a chair, to pull out her phone, and to talk things over with Danny and Tucker.

“Samantha!”

Sam groaned, turning around to see her mom and dad marching towards her. Her mom glanced between Mr. Wayne and her daughter before speeding up, evidently worried Sam might pull something in the few precious moments it took her to clear the room.

Pamela sidled up beside Sam and took her arm, patting it placatingly. She looked at Mr. Wayne with doleful eyes and said, “I’m so sorry, Mr. Wayne. I hope our daughter has been on her best behavior.”
Bruce Wayne fixed his face into a polite smile. “No worries, Mrs. Manson. We were merely discussing your… remarkable town,” he said.

Pamela’s mouth twitched at the corners, her cheeks coloring pink. “O-oh?” she said with a nervous laugh.

Bruce nodded. “Yes, we were discussing the ghosts. It all seems very interesting,” he said kindly.

Pamela hesitated, her expression wavering between surprise and delight. She seemed relieved by Bruce Wayne’s polite interest.

“Tim, how about–” Bruce turned to speak to his son, but the words died on his tongue when he noticed Tim was no longer standing beside him. Steph had disappeared as well, though Sam couldn’t say when they’d gone. Only Dick remained, looking at his father with amusement.

“Dick, how about you show Sam here around while I talk with Mr. and Mrs. Manson?” he said.

Dick nodded. He turned and gestured for Sam to follow. Deciding she’d rather keep moving than stick around and watch her parents schmooze with Bruce Wayne of all people, she followed.

They walked along the edge of the hall, passing the tall windows with their draping green curtains. The sky outside was dark and rain lashed the windows, rattling the glass. Lightning briefly illuminated the darkness, followed shortly after by a low rumble of thunder.

“How many brothers do you have exactly? Are you all adopted?” Sam couldn’t help but ask as they walked. With all she’d said about Amity, she felt owed a few questions herself.

“Uhh,” Dick paused, looking up at the ceiling in thought, as though he genuinely wasn’t sure. “I’ve got three brothers and one sister– though we might as well have a couple more, with how often they're at the house. Most of us are adopted, yes. Only Damian is related to Bruce.”

“Geez, does he just collect kids?” Sam asked.

“That’s the running joke, yes,” Dick said with a laugh. “Oh, speaking of Damian–”

Dick led Sam over to a short boy standing by a nearby window. The boy had his back to them and his arms crossed; he looked to be in a foul mood.

“Damian!” Dick called, waving his arm.

The kid, Damian, turned around.

Sam froze.

She thought her eyes were playing tricks on her. Sure, from behind Damian's short stature and black hair had reminded her of Danny, but as he turned around…

For a moment Sam thought she was looking at Danny. She almost called out to him, but stopped short, remembering where she was. Where Danny was– back in Amity, hundreds of miles away, oblivious to the fact that someone at the gala was walking around with his face. 

Damian’s brow furrowed, the expression hauntingly familiar.

The more Sam looked, the more she saw differences, however. Damian had the same face shape, but his skin, though similarly tanned to Danny’s, had a healthier glow to it. His eyes were green rather than blue, and decidedly not the same green as Phantom’s.

Damian also looked far surlier than Danny— at least on most days.

His expression brightened some upon seeing Dick, but Damian’s face deepened back into a scowl as his eyes snapped on her. Sam knew she was staring. She couldn’t help it, honestly.

Thoughts of Vlad and Dani spiraled in her mind. Cloning tubes and puddles of destabilized ectoplasm. Damian didn’t feel like a halfa, but could she really be sure where Vlad was concerned?

Were they really certain Dani was the only clone to survive?

“Who is this, Richard?” Damian asked.

His tone was so formal for a kid their age. It reminded Sam that Dick (Richard?) had just told her that Damian was his only sibling related to Bruce Wayne by blood. At least that probably ruled out another clone.

Probably.

Bruce Wayne seemed dense, but surely he wasn’t dense enough to mistake a random kid for a blood relation. The man had enough money to run as many under the table paternity tests as possible.

“This is Sam Manson,” Dick said, introducing her to his brother. “Sam, this is my little brother, Damian.”

Damian looked her over, his eyes narrowing. “Why are you staring at me, Manson?” he asked with a sneer.

Definitely surlier than Danny.

Sam wrinkled her nose. “You look like a friend of mine,” she said defensively.

A friend who had been cloned before, by a man who had spoken to this boy's father no more than ten minutes ago.

Damian opened his mouth to say something, but Dick cut him off, raising his hand.

“Hey, I’m going to find where Tim and Steph ran off to. I'll meet you on the balcony later– play nice,” he said.

Neither Sam nor Damian had a chance to protest before he slipped back into the crowd, leaving the two of them to an awkward silence.

Sam watched him go, wishing Dick had stayed as a buffer between them. She couldn’t help but groan. Damian, for what it was worth, seemed just as annoyed to be left in her company.

The air felt tense. Sam fidgeted uncomfortably with the sleeve of her dress, unsure of what to say or how to carry a conversation with this kid without seeing Danny in his every movement.

“So… you look happy to be here,” she said after a while, taking a note from Danny’s book.

Damian shot her a glare, curling his lip. “Tt, I could say the same about you,” he huffed.

Rolling her eyes, Sam leaned against the wall. She kept glancing Damian’s way, still not over the resemblance. She tried to picture him with blue eyes and Danny’s scars. Messier hair and a ratty old hoodie. A smile, rather than a steadfast scowl. The picture it painted was just… Danny.

Pulling out her phone, Sam decided to share the latest development, hoping something this ridiculous would make up for the unpleasantness of Vlad.

Sam waited for an opening. Damian looked away, staring fixedly at some distant point. When she was sure he wasn’t looking, Sam raised her phone until she had the boy positioned behind her in a selfie. Just as she took the picture, Damian noticed and turned to glare at the camera, his sour expression caught with a quick snap. 

Sam dropped the picture into her group chat with Danny and Tucker, quickly writing a message. She decided against using the word clone. With Vlad present at the gala, Danny would probably assume the worst. 

Sam: I think I found your evil twin Danny

Art by Aro_Aizawa!

Chapter Text

Danny lay on Tucker’s bed, his eyelids drooping as he reread the messages in the group chat.

It had been awhile since Sam’s last message and he’d managed to calm down somewhat since then, but… unease still gripped Danny’s mind. It bothered him more than he could say, knowing that his enemy was several states away and yet so close to one of his friends. 

Danny agreed with Sam and Tucker that it was unlikely Vlad would try anything at a high profile event so far from Amity, but that was hardly a guarantee.

As far as Danny was concerned, Vlad could waltz up to his house any time with a new clone named ‘Danielle II' and it would still fall within his expectations for the man.

Danny set his phone down on the nightstand and heaved a frustrated sigh. What little control he had over his life was rapidly slipping through his fingers like fine grains of sand. Danny’s core ached, not knowing if the people he cared about were truly safe. Just being away from all of them, completely untethered to a single person his Obsession focused on, rattled his nerves.

 As if Danny needed the nerve-wracking bullshit that surrounded Vlad to fuel his anxious fidgeting. As if the weekend hadn’t already hit new lows, even for him.

He still had to wait for Jazz…

Danny tapped his fingers restlessly against his knee, trying his best not to think about it. He could do little more than brace himself for that inevitable conversation. Worrying paid him no favors.

Danny glanced around Tucker’s room, searching for something to occupy his thoughts. The disorganized shelves beside Tucker’s desk had plenty to look at. Video game cases, controllers, and various bits of tech lined the shelves, with wires spooling out onto the floor. Tucker had some knick knacks on the topmost shelf, with a red duck candle perched on the end. Danny couldn't remember where he got the thing from, only that it had sat on the shelf for years and Tucker had hugged it protectively when Sam tried to burn it. Tucker claimed it floated, but Danny hadn't seen the proof yet.

He thought of testing it out— maybe even sending Tucker a picture of it in the sink— but Danny didn't need his friends asking him why he was at Tucker’s house instead of his own.

His eyes trailed from the shelf to the overflowing trash can beneath it. The bag of gauze sat perched at the top, taunting him.

Danny took a deep breath and let it go with a huff. If he couldn't mess with Tuck, he might as well clean. 

It was something to do.

Danny hefted the trash bags down the stairs, leaning heavily on the banister. He had taken two painful steps down before realizing that floating would be much easier. Chastising himself, Danny drifted down the rest of the way and phased through the back patio door. 

He walked around the side of the house to where the garbage cans were and tossed Tucker’s trash into the bin. He held onto the bag with the gauze and, after a quick glance to make sure no one was watching, set it alight with a small ectoblast. As soon as the bag stopped smoking, Danny tossed it in with the rest.

Better to hide what he could.

The wind rustled the tree leaves and teased his bangs. Danny took a deep breath— hitching slightly as his side twinged. The fresh air blew soothingly against his dirty skin; it was surprisingly cool for a summer day. He could smell rain distantly on the breeze and hoped they weren't due for a storm.

Danny never liked storms much before the portal; he absolutely hated them now. 

Every flash of lightning drove a bolt of anxiety through his core. His hand would twitch and buzz uncomfortably with the static in the air. On stormy days Danny wanted nothing more than to curl up and sleep.

Knowing his luck, he ought to hunker down for a storm.

Danny headed back inside before any of Tucker’s neighbors could catch a glimpse of him. He doubted anyone would think much of Tucker’s best friend stopping by the Foley house while they were gone, but Danny didn’t need people seeing his haggard appearance. If his hair stuck up at every angle and his shirt had a blood stain on the side, that was between him and Clockwork.

… He still needed to change his shirt.

After phasing back up the stairs and directly into Tucker’s room, Danny rooted through his friend’s dresser and grabbed a black Dumpty Humpty shirt that wouldn’t show stains easily. The shirt fell loosely over Danny’s scrawny frame, but it was at least clean, comfortable, and wouldn't hug his injury. Danny tentatively pressed his hand to his side, hissing as the bruised and battered skin protested. 

Danny wasn't sure what he expected. Even with his advanced healing, a hole in the side didn't exactly heal overnight. The fact that he could even walk through the pain was a testament to the robust biology of something not entirely living.

(And perhaps a bit of a testament to personal experience.)

Danny sank back down onto Tucker’s bed and shut his eyes, rolling on his uninjured side to face the wall. He’d already slept most of the day away, but what were a couple more hours? Sam and Tucker were always telling him he needed more sleep, after all.

As if they were summoned by his thoughts, Danny heard the buzz of a text notification from his phone. For a brief moment he considered ignoring it. Tucker’s pillow was soft; Danny could just sink down and let the ease of sleep claim him, rather than get himself worked up reading about…Vlad.

Right, Vlad.

Danny quickly sat up and snatched his phone off the nightstand, hoping that whatever the text was had nothing to do with the fruitloop. Sleep could wait until he knew Sam was okay.

The phone buzzed in Danny’s hands before he could even unlock it, a new text message popping onto the screen.

Tuck: im still not ruling out clone

His heart skipped a beat.

Danny had never unlocked his phone so quickly. He practically clawed at the screen, jamming in his password with more force than was necessary.

Danny pulled up the group chat and quickly scrolled up. There was an unloaded picture from Sam and above it was a sentence that had his core stuttering uncomfortably alongside his heart.

Sam: I think I found your evil twin Danny

Twin.

The word spun about Danny’s head, circling like a hawk trained on a small animal. Sam didn’t know– she couldn’t know. Danny had never told her, and yet…

His mind leapt from Damian to Dani, honing in on thoughts of shattered cloning tubes and puddles of bubbling ectoplasm.

 Danny stared at the unloaded picture, his finger hovering over it, wondering if it could be as simple as a doppelganger. What were the odds of Vlad trying to clone again—

What were the odds that Sam had somehow seen him?

Anxiety gripping his core, Danny scrolled past the unloaded picture to read what was below it, desperate for context.

Tuck: holy shit

Tuck: u sure that isnt another clone??

Tuck: vlad is there

Sam: Hes Bruce Waynes son so I doubt it?

Sam: I feel like thats something theyd be aware of

Sam: His brother called him Damian Wayne

Damian Wayne. 

Damian.

His hands shaking like branches caught in a powerful storm, Danny scrolled back up to the picture and tapped it.

It loaded slowly.

Time seemed to stutter and grind to a halt, as though Clockwork themself put it on pause.

Danny hardly registered that Sam was in the picture, holding her phone high and taking a selfie. His eyes zeroed in on the background, his vision tunneling until nothing else mattered in the universe but those pixels on the screen.

Glowering jade eyes, the very same ones that shone in his memories and haunted his nightmares. Eyes set in a familiar face that stared back at him every day in the mirror. 

Danny's hands trembled worse than ever, the phone bucking in his unsteady grip. He blinked his eyes rapidly, wet tears clinging to his lashes. He pulled the phone closer, staring.

The eyes. The face. The hair. Even the expression rang a note of familiarity. Danny could imagine that same scowl after a day of particularly rigorous training, when they left the instructors behind and had a moment to relax and let down their guard. Those nights where they snuck out onto the roof and stared up at the sky, forgetting sore bodies and restless thoughts to the stars.

“Damian,” he said in a choked whisper.

Danny’s eyes lingered on the name several texts down, running over each letter with slow, languid reverence. He glanced back at the image, captivated.

Though Danny could always imagine Damian's jade eyes in his reflection, it was a poor substitute to the real thing. The picture reinvigorated Danny’s memories; he was certain the boy behind Sam was his brother, from those lasting reminders to the sure pulse of his core. 

The picture was blissful proof that Damian still lived. He lived and…

Danny knew where to find him.

His breath hitched, his core stuttering, thrumming with energy.

Danny didn’t think; he leapt to his feet. 

Danny raced to Tucker’s closet and tossed aside the hanging jackets. He ripped open the hidden drawer of the supply chest and grabbed a syringe of ecto-dejecto, fumbling with it in his shaking hands. 

Taking a deep breath, Danny stabbed the needle into his upper thigh without a second thought, driving the plunger down.

The ectoplasm rushed through Danny’s veins, a cold surge of fire through his system. The pain in his side subsided almost immediately. Tiredness ebbed away, replaced by boundless energy and the drive to run— to fly.

He grabbed one of Tucker’s bags from the closet and dumped out the contents, books and old school supplies crashing onto the wooden floor. Danny shoved water, more ectoplasm, and a couple of protein bars into the bag. He moved with purpose, only one plan of action running through his mind.

The moment he zipped the bag shut, Danny transformed. He focused on not phasing through his stitches, gritting his teeth as the transformation tugged at the wound. As soon as the rings faded away, staining his eyes with their brilliant light, Danny shot through the window and into the open air.

~*~

What seemed like a lifetime ago— and truly was, in a sense— Danyal stuck his head out of the window and into the night. His breath fogged in the biting cold and snow danced on a light breeze, illuminated by the oil lantern behind him. Danyal looked out over the lower roofs of Nanda Parbat and his stomach lurched uncomfortably at seeing the dark shadows of the ground far below. 

“Danyal— are you coming?” a voice hissed from above.

Glancing up, he could see Damian peeking out from the roof ledge overhead with an impatient scowl, his spiky hair gently blowing in the wind.

“I’m coming, Ahki! It is slippery," Danyal said nervously. 

He had one hand and foot on the windowsill and was nervous to put all of his weight onto it. The snow-slicked stone didn't provide the best footing, and a fall from this height could spell disaster.

Danyal heard a shuffling sound from above. Before he could look to see what Damian was doing, a hand appeared, waving in front of his face.

"Grab my hand. I will not let you fall," his brother said.

Danyal eyed the hand suspiciously for a moment, unsure. "What if I pull you down?" he asked. 

They’d only climbed this high a few times before and never in such inclement weather. 

"You know I have a strong grip," Damian said with a note of pride. "Just grab my hand."

Danyal leaned further out of the window and stretched up, grabbing hold of his brother’s cold hand. His palms were calloused from training, the same as his own.

Carefully, Danyal pulled himself up onto the ledge, leaning against the frame of the window. Damian’s hand provided a safety line as he dug his foot into one of the stones and used his free hand to grab the ledge. Once he was situated, Damian gave a tug, heaving Danyal the rest of the way up. His foot slipped worryingly on the stone where he kicked off, but Damian’s sure grip did not waver.

“Thanks,” Danyal said as he scrambled up onto the roof, kicking up snow.

Damian chuckled, the sound soft and warm. “For someone always staring up at the sky, you should not be this afraid of heights,” he said.

Danyal puffed up indignantly. “I am not afraid of heights! The snow makes it dangerous.”

Damian just shot him a disbelieving look. He scooted up higher on the ridged roof, pulling Danyal along with him. Once they were a safe distance from the edge Damian let go of his hand, brushed away some snow, and reclined back to stare up at the sky.

Danyal swiped away the snow beside his brother, grumbling to himself. It really was slippery with the snow; Danyal was just being cautious . Damian could really take a note from his book.

With the worst of the snow clear, Danyal settled down beside his brother. His thick clothes kept out the worst of the cold, but a chill still seeped into his body from the roof tiles. Danyal tucked his hands into his sleeves and scooted closer to Damian. His brother always seemed much warmer than him, even when he wore thinner clothes. 

Damian leaned closer as well, pressing his shoulder into Danyal’s. They stared up at the night sky, watching the gentle fall of late autumn snow.

Dense clouds hung overhead, the sky pale with scattered light; Danyal could hardly see any stars through the gray. After squinting, searching for the thinnest parts of cloud cover, he could only barely make out part of Pegasus.

“It’s a bad night for stargazing,” Danyal grumbled. He let out a frustrated puff of air that drifted into the wind.

“The snow looks a bit like stars,” Damian pointed out.

Danyal scrunched up his nose but let his eyes focus on the falling snow. The small white flakes whipped and swirled with the unsteady course of the wind; they didn’t have the same glint of starlight, but there was a soft charm to their meandering dance.

Still, Danyal wished he could see the stars. He lifted a hand up to the heavens, wishing he could wipe away the clouds or somehow rise above them.

"I wish I could fly,” he said wistfully, voicing his thoughts aloud. “Then I could go up over the clouds anytime I wanted."

"You would still have to get over your fear of heights," Damian said, nudging his shoulder teasingly.

Danyal let his hand fall to his stomach with a frown.

"I told you, Dami, I'm not afraid of heights," he insisted.

Damian moved beside him; Danyal turned to see what he was doing and squawked indignantly when his brother flicked his bangs.

"Liar."

Danyal scrambled to sit up, fresh snow falling off of his clothes as he dug his hands into the cold tiles of the roof.

"I am not lying! Even if— even if I was though, I would not have to worry about falling if I could fly."

Damian sat up too, propping himself up on his hands. He kept his eyes trained on the sky.

“Birds still fall sometimes,” he said.

Danyal groaned and fell back onto the tiles, dramatically splaying his arms out like wings.

“I just think it would be wonderful to fly. I don’t want to think about falling,” he grumbled.

Damian hummed thoughtfully. “It would be nice,” he mused.

Danyal grinned brightly at his brother acknowledging his dream. He nodded his head, dragging his hair against the slick tile. 

“We could see the stars whenever we wanted to, and we could go anywhere we wanted to,” he said excitedly, his mind filled with bright skies and fluttering wings.

Damian tensed at that. He shuffled uncomfortably and wrapped his arms around his legs, resting his chin on his knees.

“Do not let Mother or Grandfather hear you say that.” he said quietly. “We belong here.”

The fanciful dream in Danyal’s mind crashed, spiraling back down to earth like the falling snow— like a bird with shattered wings.

Danyal stared at his calloused hands. He could still feel the sore ache in his fingers from honing their swordplay, despite the numbing cold. The ache lingered in his legs and arms so often now that he often forgot it was there. 

The chill seeped into his small, weary body and Danyal shivered with the lasting cold. The night sky overhead loomed infinitely large, and below the falling snow Danyal felt crushingly small. 

Damian was right. They had their studies, their duties— each other. Whether he could see them or not, as long as Danyal had the stars above him and Damian to watch them with, he would be happy. Danyal would get stronger, not to fly but to stand. 

To stand beside Damian as he was meant to. 

“It really would be nice, though,” his brother said.

“What?” 

Damian had picked his head up off of his knees, training his eyes once more on the clouds.

“Flying,” Damian clarified without looking at him.

Looking back up at the sky himself, Danyal noticed that the clouds had shifted enough to reveal the entirety of Pegasus. He imagined that grand mythical horse, its broad wings stretched across the sky, carrying it with powerful downward strokes.

“It would be,” Danyal said quietly.

~*~

Wind whipped through Danny’s hair, stinging his eyes as he sped below the gathering clouds. Amity had disappeared in a blink, the river left far behind. The forests beyond Elmerton were little more than a dark smear on the horizon. The landscape blurred below, a tapestry of fields and winding roads. Danny flew faster than he ever had, centering himself with the position of the sun and headed east. 

Damian’s face swam in Danny’s mind. The picture, his name— he could only think of reaching Gotham. Finding his brother. Making sure he was safe and happy. His chest squeezed with anticipation; nothing else mattered in that moment.

The sky darkened as the clouds coalesced overhead, rolling in until the entire sky was a hazy gray. The first drop of rain struck Danny on the nose— swiftly followed by a steady downpour. It soaked through Danny’s hair and suit, quickly drenching him to the skin. Were it not for the ice core thrumming furiously in his chest, Danny would have been chilled to the bone.

He flew on through the wind and rain, watching as the sky yellowed with the setting sun. A large city fell behind Danny and rolling pastures stretched on ahead, broken by a meandering river. 

Danny’s mind wandered, his thoughts as frantic and scattered as the rain lashing his face. He wondered how long it would take to reach Gotham. He wondered how long it would take him to find Damian in the city. He wondered how—

A low rumble was Danny’s only warning before a brilliant bolt of lightning split the sky.

The bright flash of light ripped Danny from his thoughts. He faltered, quickly trying to stop and corkscrewing out of control when his momentum fought the sudden change in speed. A line of tall pine trees sped towards Danny as he hurtled out of control. He barely managed to right himself before careening into the topmost branches. 

Danny’s spectral tail brushed the needles of a tall tree. His breath came quick and heavy, every inch of him shaking. Lightning flashed once more overhead, sending an uncomfortable buzz through his core.

He drank in the scents of petrichor and pine. The rain dripped off of him, a constant patter against his back. Danny stared out over the open farmland he’d just flown over, noticing the gentle roll of distant hills, fogged through the dusky rain. 

He could see the distant lights of a city nestled in those hills, but Danny knew that it wasn’t Amity Park. He’d left Amity far behind him—

Unprotected.

Horror sank into Danny’s chest, a dissonant thrum that buzzed with the low rumble of distant thunder. Danny had left Amity unprotected. His town, his people— an entire city at the mercy of the portal and its hapless visitors.

It ached. His core— his side. How could he have simply left? Just flown away carelessly into the breeze.

He almost thought he deserved the throb in his side now.

Danny grabbed at his hair, shaking his head. Cold washed over him, frosting the tops of the trees and freezing the rain on his suit. His core continued to thrum angrily, buzzing against his ribs, desperate to escape and yank him apart.

He felt torn in two halves. His instincts warred with each other, as desperate to forge on ahead as they were to turn back and keep Amity safe.

Between blood and duty. 

Between a brother and—

A shiver ran down the course of Danny’s spine. 

Jazz, he thought, his stomach twisting into uncomfortable knots. He’d spent all day imagining her return— dreading it even. Now he imagined it again in stark and horrible detail. 

Jazz would open the door and call his name. She’d head up to his room and knock on the door, asking for him. She’d open it when there was no answer and—

Danny hadn’t even left her a note. Not a text, or a call, or any indication that he was okay. 

(Danny felt a far cry from okay.)

Spinning around, Danny started back towards Amity, his side burning as he lurched back into flight, desperate to return home before Jazz found he was gone.

He ground to a stop just as quickly.

His thoughts spiraled, calamitously circling back to Damian— to not knowing if Damian was safe, with Vlad of all people near him.

Guilt gripped Danny’s chest. The burden of choice wore heavy on his shoulders, weighing him down until he sunk deeper into the trees.

Jazz would panic, but… she would be safe. It was the middle of summer and ghost attacks were infrequent. Amity Park had Red and the Fentons, and Jazz herself knew how to wield an ectogun.

Her aim had improved so much over the last several months. 

Danny trusted Jazz in ways he didn’t even trust himself. He knew her in ways he wished he still knew Damian.

Despite the love Danny still held for his brother, he couldn’t be sure what Damian was like now, or if he would even forgive him. What would he think, seeing his long-dead brother, knowing he had lived and breathed and never once tried to return to his side?

(Nevermind explaining that he had lived only to die another way.)

Damian could be anyone now. A stranger wearing his face, with all of the potential to tear him down. Danny knew nothing of the life his brother had lived. He had a new family, a new name—

Wayne . 

“Holy shit,” Danny breathed, sinking several feet below the treetops as he remembered the name Sam had used. 

She had even called him Bruce Wayne’s son. 

The name hadn’t registered in Danny’s mind when he first read it. He had only had eyes for Damian’s first name and the picture above it.

Very little thought went into soaring out that window.

Danny didn't know an awful lot about the billionaire (other than Sam's many complaints about his gala), but he did know that the man had at least a couple of adopted sons. 

And, somehow, Damian was one of them it seemed.

Danny couldn't fathom how or why. Did the League place him there? Did Bruce Wayne know the origins of his young ward? Would Danny endanger his position in the household if he arrived on their doorstep?

The thrumming in his chest increased, almost mimicking a frantic heartbeat. Danny took several deep breaths to calm himself, shutting his eyes tight.

A loud crack of thunder shook the heavens, the sound reverberating in a low rumble. Danny backpedaled into one of the pine trees, falling into the wet needles and shouting as a branch jabbed his side.

Every inch of him shook. Home was a long ways away, and Danny didn’t know whether he should turn back or keep going now. There was no winning, either way. 

The pine trees seemed to close in on him, sharp branches reaching to press in on all sides. The shadows in the woods flickered and wavered, the trunks seeming to bend. Danny could imagine a bolt driving between the trees, a rattling chain dragging beneath it.

Danny shot up high above the pines, breathing shakily. 

He wasn’t in Amity, Danny reminded himself. The harpoon couldn’t hurt him. It lay at the bottom of the river, in as many pieces as his fractured thoughts.

Between the empty farmland and dense forest that surrounded him, he could be anywhere.

 Danny clawed at his belt for his phone, not caring when his arm brushed painfully over his wound. The phone nearly slipped through his rain-soaked gloves and he tore one of them off, letting it fall and disappear into the wind.

His phone screen loaded slowly, struggling to pull up his notifications as the low battery symbol glared red in the top right corner. 

Mercifully, Danny didn’t have any missed calls, and there were no texts from Jazz. There were a couple more messages from Sam and Tucker, but not an alarming amount that told him anything was amiss.

(That they had noticed anything amiss.)

Danny pulled up his maps app, gritting his teeth as it lagged, fighting against the low battery. He quickly set his destination for New Jersey, desperate to pinpoint his location. 

It seemed he was somewhere in Ohio, though getting very close to Pennsylvania now. All he had to do was keep flying east and head for the coast. 

It settled his nerves somewhat, at least knowing where he was.

(Not that it did much against the raging river of his anxiety.)

Danny pointed himself eastward with his phone, staring out over the dense forest that lay ahead. The ecto-dejecto still coursed through his veins, fueling him with an energy that wouldn’t last. Already, some of it had slacked off, losing the electric edge to a growing ache in his body.

His side throbbed.

Despite the pain, Danny had already made it this far; he needed to keep going while he still could. While he still had the energy and could stave off the worst of his pain.

Only one thing kept him from moving straight away.

Danny pulled up his messages and selected Jazz’s name. He quickly typed out a message to her, desperate to get all of the words down before his phone’s battery ran out.

Danny: im okay. needed to go somwhere love you be back soon

The moment he finished typing, Danny hit send. He watched it load, the wheel spinning agonizingly slow…

The screen went dark.

He stared blankly at the black, rain-slicked screen. Green light reflected in the glass from his eyes. He couldn’t say if the message sent before the battery ran out.

Danny clutched the phone tightly in his hand, fighting the urge to crush it. He could give the phone a charge with some of his energy, but it would take awhile, and Danny wasn’t sure if he had anything to spare.

Gotham was still a long ways away.

(Amity Park was just as far.)

Lightning flashed once more overhead, splitting the sky with an almighty boom . Danny shivered and shut his eyes tight. 

He needed to move. 

Whatever worry lingered in Danny’s core for Amity Park was overwhelmed by the drive to keep going. To make it the rest of the way and see this through.

To make sure that his brother was okay.

(To see Damian again, no matter the cost.)

Danny would call Jazz and beg for her forgiveness once he reached Gotham. He didn’t know what to expect from the city, with its tall gothic buildings and the vigilantes that roamed the dark streets. 

All Danny knew was that Damian was there, for whatever reason. 

It was reason enough.

His mind set, Danny braced himself for a long flight, readjusted his course, and flew eastward. 

Chapter Text

Damian despised the galas Father hosted. Dressing up, mingling with a sea of people, surrounded on all sides by noise and senseless chatter. Damian would sooner wait out in the storm on patrol, drenched to the skin, than stomach ten more minutes of it.

Even the worst of patrols was more worthwhile than the misery of this social convention. Once upon a time Damian had been almost… excited to attend his first gala. Proud to stand by Father’s side and present himself as Bruce Wayne's son.

The charm quickly wore off. 

Many times over.

It was a predictable formula at this point. Father would drag them to a gala, they would play nice and try to keep their heads down— and when they inevitably failed to do so, Father would sigh in that resigned way of his amidst the ensuing chaos. 

Predictable… and yet it hadn’t been one of their brood to disrupt the gathering this time around.

Damian had positioned himself near the balcony door, removed from the worst of the crowd to quietly observe his father’s interactions with Vladimir Masters. It had not taken long for the tall, silver-haired man to seek Father out. Damian could hear his boisterous business propositions even without the comm link in his ear. Masters practically fought his way to Father’s side, bashing shoulders with the Gotham elite in his haste. Brucie Wayne greeted the man with a practiced jovial air, allowing him to lead the conversation.

Damian wasn’t sure what to expect from the interaction. What he certainly didn’t expect was for a girl dressed in all black, from her makeup to her sturdy boots, to march up to Vladimir Masters with the bravado of someone who had done so before and would do so again.

Vladimir Masters had been discussing the ghosts of his town when the girl stormed over with Stephanie hot on her heels. Damian listened intently to the argument that followed. The ghosts, the town— he quickly realized that the girl was Samantha Manson, one of the other Amity Parkers Father mentioned. The open hostility she showed towards the mayor of her own town raised several red flags.

What raised even more was hearing the middle-aged mayor rise to her challenge. He spoke of ghosts as though they were very real and tangible factors in life, and yet nothing to be concerned about. Vladimir Masters tried to derail and suppress any arguments Manson had to the contrary, his words deviating to thinly-veiled threats.

Damian couldn’t help but roll his eyes when Dick interfered, splashing wine onto the mayor’s suit. It defused the situation effectively, in any case.

Damian listened to the rest of the conversation his family had with the Manson girl. He could hardly see the scar she showed them from his vantage point, but he had to admit it appeared rather large.

Not that it proved the presence of ghosts.

No, Damian wasn’t convinced of any spectral activity in this Amity Park. He was, however, certain that something dark gripped the town. The hostility between a girl his age and the mayor, the conviction she spoke with— the scar. Something was going on in Amity, regardless of the validity of supernatural claims.

Damian could practically see Father planning his next move to investigate. Drake and Brown had already slipped away; he wouldn’t be surprised if his older brother already had his nose shoved into a laptop, if not the larger computer stored beneath the tower.

Damian had no time to consider his own next move before Richard brought the Manson girl to meet him.

Samantha Manson was several inches taller than Damian, though at least a couple of those inches owed to those thick boots beneath her dress. 

Though she’d argued with conviction in the face of her town’s mayor, a man many years her senior, she seemed to blanch when meeting Damian’s gaze.

She froze like a deer caught in the headlights, her eyes wide, her unwavering stare unnerving.

Were the people from Amity Park simply insane?

“Why are you staring at me, Manson?” he asked, curling his lip.

Samantha wrinkled her nose in response as she said, “You look like a friend of mine.”

Damian opened his mouth to retort, unhappy at the implication, but Dick cut him off before he could.

“Hey, I’m going to find where Tim and Steph ran off to. I'll meet you on the balcony later— play nice,” he said.

And just like that, Damian was left alone with Samantha Manson. It did nothing to brighten his sour mood. He would rather keep his distance than try to make small talk with the loud girl.

“So… you look happy to be here,” she said after a long pause, glancing at him with a quirked eyebrow.

Damian bristled; he shot her a dirty glare. “Tt, I could say the same about you.”

She certainly didn’t seem invested in the gala, if her shouting match with Vladimir Masters was anything to go by. At present, Samantha rolled her eyes and leaned against the wall. Damian considered ditching her; he was under no obligation to ‘play nice’ with other children, no matter what Richard said, only…

She wouldn’t stop looking at him.

Samantha thought her glances were subtle, but Damian could see each nervous flicker of her violet eyes and the twitch of her hands. It felt as if she were carefully observing him, taking in every last detail and cataloging what she saw.

Strange behavior from a strange civilian.

Damian forced himself to relax— or to at least give off the appearance of relaxation. He looked away, staring off into the crowd, but kept aware of the Manson girl in his periphery.

It did not take long for her to pull out her phone.

Damian whipped his head around as he saw her raise her arm. He turned in time to see his own scowl reflected in the screen of Samantha’s phone as she took a picture of them both.

Anger curled in his stomach. She tapped a quick message out on her phone as Damian rounded on her.

"Why did you take my picture?" he demanded.

Damian was no stranger to having his picture taken when recognized in public, but he wasn't about to take it lying down when faced with the culprit. She might be able to shout down Vladimir Masters, but Damian would not bend so easily.

Samantha Manson glanced up from her phone with a smirk, looking for all the world unbothered at being caught. 

"Calm down. I told you that you reminded me of my friend and I wanted to show him," she said, as if that explained anything.

Damian huffed indignantly. He stood a foot from her face, glaring up at the girl, wishing he had several more inches of height to properly meet her gaze.

"I do not care if I look like your friend," he said. 

Samantha quirked her eyebrow, fixing him with an amused expression. 

"It’s nothing to be upset about. Here, look." 

Samantha swiped through her phone, her long black nails clicking as they tapped the screen. When she found what she was looking for, she turned the screen around to show Damian.

For the briefest of moments, he thought that Samantha Manson was showing him a picture of himself.

Damian almost laughed. He almost asked her if it was a joke.

He opened his mouth—

His breath caught in his throat.

Damian grabbed the phone, tearing it from her hand. He ignored Samantha’s protests and turned away from her to look closely at the image. His eyes raked over the screen with more scrutiny than he ever gave to his most troubling cases.

The boy in the picture smiled back with far less intensity, but still his ice blue eyes cut Damian through to his core.

He grit his teeth, confusion warring with recognition in his mind. Memories stirred, ones buried deeper than old bones and long lost tales. 

How many times had Damian tried to forget? Shook his head and pushed the thoughts back, refusing to dwell on what could have been. Imagined a box to store his memories in, shutting it tight and turning the key until it snapped.

(Damian never had the strongest imagination. Those thoughts never stayed buried.)

It was hard to forget when his own reflection betrayed him. When he glanced in the mirror and could still remember those icy blue eyes, as clear and bright as the Gotham sky was bleak and hazy.

In his weakest moments, Damian still wondered what Danyal would look like now— how alike they’d be, if only he had lived.

He no longer wondered. 

Danyal stared back at him, his blue eyes crinkled over a warm smile. He looked happy, though possibly ill. Dark bruises that would give Drake a run for his money lay beneath his eyes and his skin had a sickly pallor to it. 

On his right cheekbone was a scar. Damian traced the sloping line with his eyes, remembering how much it bled when he received it during training, caught by a wide strike from Damian’s own blade.

It felt like seeing a ghost.

Damian grappled with the memory of laying awake at night, forcing back tears. Of silently mourning, while the world moved on as if nothing had transpired.

The image remained seared into his vision, even as Samantha snatched her phone back. Damian hardly noticed when it changed hands.

"Why the hell did you grab my phone?” Manson demanded, fixing Damian with a glare. “Are you… okay?”

The edge in her voice softened into a nervous concern. Damian could only stare at her purple phone case, too lost in his own head to properly respond.

“Geez, you're even as scatterbrained as Danny."

The name snapped him from his stupor quicker than the flashes of lightning outside.

"Danny?" he asked, the name sounding hollow in his ears.

Manson quirked her brow. She looked at him as if worried he might fall over and faint.

"My friend," she said, pointing to her phone. "The one you look like? His name is Danny."

The name washed over him. It soaked into his mind. He nodded slowly.

Samantha Manson opened her mouth to say something else, but Damian never heard it. He hardly even heard the hum of the crowd or his own footsteps as he turned on his heel and marched to the entrance doors.

Sights and sounds blurred around Damian, insignificant against the memories threatening to consume him. 

Mountains. Clear, star-studded skies. Blue eyes.

His steps were quick, his heartbeat quicker. Damian hardly even noticed when his shoulder smashed into a tall man in a dark suit.

The man, however, did take notice. He quickly spun around and grabbed Damian by the wrist, digging sharp nails into his skin.

“Daniel? What on earth are you doing in Gotham? Did you—”

Damian tugged his wrist, wrenching his hand free from the man’s strong grip. The name Daniel spun in his head as he came back to the present.

He recognized Vladimir Masters in an instant.

The man still had a light wine stain on his suit below the collar. He had glared at Damian with furrowed brows, but that glare melted into one of shock as their eyes met.

Masters had mistaken Damian for a ‘Daniel’. He had grabbed him. Damian flexed his wrist, finding a deep ache settling into it. He was sure his skin would bruise.

“What is the meaning of this?” Damian demanded. “My Father runs this event; how dare you touch me.” 

His heart pounded furiously in his chest, anger mixing with his shock. To his credit, Vladimir Masters seemed reasonably cowed by the realization that he had not grabbed the person he expected, but the young son of his host.

“My apologies, Mr. Wayne, I merely thought you were someone else.”

His eyes traveled up and down Damian, perhaps taking in his similarities to Bruce. He visibly paled.

“Is there anything I can do for—”

“No,” Damian quickly said, refusing to spend another moment in the presence of this man, who had so willingly grabbed a child.

A man who mistook him for another boy… a Daniel.

Damian didn’t have time to consider the implications of that. He could leave the investigation of the mayor to Father and Drake. 

Before the man could say anything else, Damian stalked away. He couldn’t shake the man’s tight grip out of his mind. Vladimir Masters was much stronger than a man of his size and build should be. 

Glancing down at his sleeve, Damian noticed a dab of blood where Masters’ nails must have nicked him.

He would have to inform Father of that later. 

Not now, not when doing so would put the entire family on alert and dash any hopes he had of quietly slipping away. 

Father already knew how poorly Masters handled his interaction with the Manson girl. That would have to be enough for now.

Damian slipped through the building, sticking to the edges of corridors and blending with the small crowds of people he passed. He carefully made his way down the long hallways on the east side, hurrying to reach one of the smaller employee exits of the building.

As Damian reached the door, he pulled out his phone.

The storm outside had picked up, the wind coming in strong gusts. The awning over the exit provided some shelter, but it did little against the wind-tossed rain.

Tentatively, Damian pulled up the browser on his phone and searched for any Daniels within Amity Park.

It did not take long to find who he was looking for. An article about a rare species of gorilla quickly surfaced, with a Daniel Fenton featured in the headline. 

It was him, the same boy from Samantha Manson's picture. 

The same boy from Damian's memories, older and very much alive.

His hands shook. Bile rose in his throat and it was all Damian could do to swallow down a swear.

He had read a version of the article before.

Damian tried his best to keep up with strides in conservation and news of the near-extinct species of gorilla had reached him. 

There had been no pictures with the piece Damian read, but he remembered reading that name. Ignoring it, because it was not central to the story and was too similar to…

That was over a year ago. An entire year he could have known. Could have—

He knew now. Now would have to be enough.

Every fiber of his being needed to make up for that lost time. 

Damian thumbed through his contacts, holding his phone close to his person so the rain wouldn’t slick the screen. His finger hovered over the name he was searching for, pausing uncertainly before he tapped it and held the phone up to his ear.

Damian paced as it rang, his shoulders tense. It took three rings for it to pick up.

“Why are you calling me?” was the eloquent reply.

“Todd,” Damian began, pausing as he collected his thoughts. “I am cashing in on that favor you owe me.”

Damian expected it, but he still bristled when Jason barked out a laugh on the other end of the line. 

"It’s a bit early for that, demon brat. You do realize the entire point of the favor was so I wouldn't have to go anywhere near that fucking gala, right? I don't care how annoying people are there, I'm not rescuing you and getting B on my ass about it." 

"It is urgent— it's…”

Damian paused, faltering on the name. He couldn’t remember the last time he spoke it aloud.

“It is about Danyal." 

"Urgent my ass. Everything is urgent with..."

Jason trailed off, his breath catching as he seemed to comprehend what was said.

If it had been a long time since Damian spoke that name, it certainly had been much longer since Jason last heard it.

“Danyal? Like— him?” he asked slowly.

Damian swallowed, gripping his phone more tightly.

“Yes.”

Another pause, followed by a quiet curse. Damian could only imagine what was running through Todd’s mind.

“What about him?”

Damian wasn’t sure what Jason would think of his next few words, but he needed to speak them with the same conviction he felt. He thought of those blue eyes and the scar beneath them, willing his brother to understand as he said:

“He is alive.”

Damian could tell even before Jason spoke that he didn’t believe him. The too-long pause, the thoughtful hum as he considered how to reply…

“How can you be sure?” was what he finally settled on.

Damian grit his teeth, forcing down his knee-jerk anger. He knew how it sounded. Jason hadn’t seen the picture. He didn’t know , as Damian did, and he needed to make him understand.

But not here. Not now, with his back still to the doors of Wayne Tower. It would be just his luck for Drake or one of his other numerous siblings to suddenly burst through the door.

“I can explain properly at the manor. Come pick me up; I’m at the east exit of the tower.”

A disbelieving laugh rang in his ear.

“You really expect me to just come at your beck and call like that, huh? I’m not your personal chauffeur, demon brat.”

Damian gripped his phone tightly, the case creaking beneath his fingers.

“I’ll do anything if you just help me with this, Jason.”

Another pause stretched on the line, followed by a muttered swear. 

“I’ll meet you there. I want a full explanation,” he said.

Damian nodded, relieved. He heard the call disconnect and lowered the phone from his ear.

Involving Jason would be tricky. Damian couldn’t be sure that he would follow along, even once he heard the full story. A part of him already regretted it. He could have always stolen a vehicle and made his way to the manor by himself. Perhaps he should have, in hindsight, but if Drake was already preoccupied with the computer below the tower, it would have been difficult to take one of the vehicles stored there without his notice.

Jason offered an easy ride to the manor and his presence would soften the blow once Father and his other adopted siblings noticed his absence. 

Jason was also the only one who knew about Danyal, and the only one Damian could trust to keep quiet if it truly turned out he was mistaken.

(Damian knew he was not mistaken.)

Damian stared out into the rain as he waited for Jason to arrive. He tensed at each passing car, watching as the headlights cut through the rain. At one point a motorbike barreled past and Damian bit back a curse in frustration.

Todd couldn’t arrive quick enough.

Damian still thought of his brother. No matter how much he wanted to forget, he thought of him. On cloudless nights, when the faintest pinpricks of stars shone through the air pollution of Gotham. When he fought beside his siblings and felt his footsteps falling into an old pattern. When someone dared to call him Dami and his heart squeezed a little at the sound.

It had been eight years since Mother brought the fateful news of Danyal's death. He had mourned. Grown stronger. Hardened his hands and his heart— and still he remembered his softer half.

The thought that he might get to know Danyal in more than memory… Damian wondered if he dared to dream it. 

He wondered what circumstances had led to this. What lies Mother might have strung together, or if the Pit had played a role…

He would know soon enough.

~*~

After what felt like ages but was much closer to ten minutes, Damian heard the low rumble of Todd’s motorcycle. He had never been so pleased to see his brother or that loud machine.

Jason waved in greeting, not bothering to get off of the bike as he pulled up as close as he could to the steps. Damian couldn’t see his eyes behind the rain-slicked visor of the helmet. He hurried to meet Jason and jammed a proffered helmet onto his head before swinging a leg over the bike. 

They sped off into the rain. If Damian gripped Jason more tightly than he normally would, he didn’t say anything.

~*~

The cave was quiet once they reached it, with only the echo of their footsteps and the hushed fluttering of bats high overhead. 

“Talk,” was the first thing Jason said.

He turned and gave Damian a suspicious look that would make Father proud. He considered telling him just that, but thought better of the comment.

Damian needed Jason on his side now, not to antagonize him.

He stood up straight, feeling remarkably disheveled in his sopping-wet tux. He didn’t dare try to change before answering Todd’s questions. Instead, he chose to speak the truth. 

“A girl named Samantha Manson claimed I look similar to her friend, Danny. She took my picture without my consent and when pressed showed me a picture of this ‘Danny’. It is… him. Danyal.”

Jason’s expression was difficult to decipher. His mouth drew into a thin line and his brows furrowed as he said, “Damian, are you sure you didn’t, I don’t know…”

His tone was awkward and deflecting. There was some pity there, and Damian bristled at the implication of it.
“I am not mistaken,” Damian said quickly. “Todd, you didn’t see, you did not—”

“I believe you.”

“Then why—”

Jason sighed, the sound world-weary. “I believe that you think it’s him.”

“It is —”

“You’re sure? You’re positive you didn’t just see a picture of someone who looks like him?” he asked skeptically.

Damian narrowed his eyes. “I would recognize him anywhere,” he said with certainty. 

Danyal's eyes always stood out so clearly. The appearance of a near mirror copy of his own face with such sharp blue eyes, icy and bright, stood out strongly in Damian's memories.

"Everything down to the scar below his eye is the same," he whispered.

He pulled out his phone and brought up the image of ‘Daniel Fenton’ that had accompanied the news article on the purple-back gorilla. He thrust the phone towards Todd, shoving it in his face. 

Jason frowned as he took the phone. His eyes widened with surprise; they kept flickering between Damian and the picture on the phone, as if he needed to make sure he was seeing properly.

“I… see the resemblance,” he said. 

Jason shut his eyes and let out a long-suffering sigh as he passed the phone back to him.

“What do you plan to do? If it’s him or not, what is your plan?”

The straightforward question threw Damian off. He froze, thinking carefully of what to say before he spoke.

“I know where he is and I intend to find him.”

Jason stared at Damian as though he had suddenly grown a second head.

“I knew it. You want to steal the jet, don’t you?” Jason pinched at his tear ducts and sighed. “I knew it was going to be something like this. Why not just wait and talk to Bruce? I’m sure he’d love to shove his nose into this.”

“I need to see him and know for certain he is alive and well. If there is any chance I am mistaken and I tell Father… No, I need to see him, Todd.”

Damian was also certain that, if he were to tell Father, he would not act immediately. He would wait and plan, and every minute of it Damian would spend restless and seething.

It was better this way.

Jason’s eyes wandered towards the hangar. Damian could practically hear the gears in his brother’s mind grinding as he decided on a course of action.

“What will you do if it’s not him?” he asked.

Damian curled his lip. “It is him,” he said firmly.

Jason fixed him with an exhausted expression, slowly shaking his head. “And if it’s not?”

“It is him!” Damian said more forcefully, unable to disguise the anger creeping into his voice. 

Jason glared down at him. “You can’t know that for sure. What happens when you go searching for him and everything goes to shit? Even if it is him, can you even trust—”

“Jason,” Damian cut in, his voice icy and stern. Jason paused, his eyes narrowing as he waited for what he had to say.

“There is nothing you can say to stop me. Call Father, try to hold me back— I will fight you. I will get there one way or another. Do not test me with this, or I—”

“I wouldn’t call Bruce over this mess,” Jason cut off his tirade with a hollow laugh. “I might be an asshole, but I won’t be the one to tell Bruce about his darling demon brat the second. That sounds like a fucking nightmare; you can have the honors of that.”

Damian just glowered, silently daring Jason to say more. He watched his brother pace, noticing the nervous way he ran his hand through his curly hair.

“B is going to be pissed when he finds out. You do realize you’re going to be benched until you’re my age, right?”

Damian tensed at that. He knew that Jason was right. No matter what happened, Father would not be pleased. 

“He will already be angered once he learns about Danyal,” was all Damian said.

Jason nodded at that. He ran his hand back through his hair, pushing up the white streak in the front. 

“Where is this brother of yours, anyway?”

“Amity Park, Illinois,” he said.

Damian had assumed as much, after Samantha Manson addressed him as her friend, but the article he found confirmed it.

Jason’s brows furrowed. “Why does that sound familiar?” he asked.

Damian started towards the changing rooms as he answered, desperate to get out of his wet clothes.

“You have likely heard about the town through rumors. The residents of Amity Park claim it is haunted. Enough so that the mayor of the town is sold on this belief,” Damian explained. 

Todd groaned, following after him. "Sounds like a tourist trap nightmare."

"You do not have to travel with me," Damian told him, glancing over his shoulder to find Jason following him with his hands shoved into his pockets.

His brother let out a laugh. "The only thing that could make this situation worse for me is letting you go alone. Dick would never let me hear the end of it, and if something happened… yeah, no."

Damian caught the tension in his voice. He nodded his head solemnly, quietly accepting the support.

Thankful to have it, even.

~*~

Wearing a fresh change of civilian clothes, Damian approached the Batwing. He didn’t allow himself to hesitate. He had done more reckless things in the past for far less worthwhile circumstances. 

If there was even a chance Danyal lived, he would find him. Nothing else mattered more to him in that moment. He would travel to Amity Park and find Danyal, no matter what it took. 

No matter what he found there.

Jason was more hesitant. For all of his bravado, he seemed reluctant to involve himself in Damian’s impromptu trip. He had already made an exasperated call to Roy, explaining the situation, and kept grumbling about missing a quiet evening away from ‘their usual brand of bullshit’.

It was with dragging feet that Jason approached the Batwing, clambering in after Damian. 

“Just be glad that it's been awhile since I've pissed off Bruce. I have a quota to meet,” he said.

~*~

It began to rain on the way back home. Jazz took the wheel for most of the drive back from Chicago. The trip had been fun— until it wasn’t.

Wendi’s little sister, Daphne, slept in the backseat, slumped against the window. She had started to feel sick during the day, and was now only resting comfortably with cough medicine in her system. Wendi, too, was starting to develop a cough and some shivers. She sat in the passenger seat beside Jazz, staring out the window with heavy bags under her eyes that reminded her entirely too much of Danny.

Only Jazz was spared from whatever bug caught the sisters. She silently wondered if she had her ectocontamination to thank for that.

Jazz hated that a small part of her was almost… thankful they were heading home early. She hated that Wendi and Daphne weren’t feeling well, but Jazz could hardly sleep the night before.

There was a bad feeling in her gut. An instinctual, nervous sense that drove her to anxiously tap at the steering wheel. Her mind could only focus on Amity— and more specifically on her little brother.

Jazz couldn’t stop thinking about her conversation on the phone with Danny. Something had been wrong , she just knew it. Danny said it was a nightmare, and while there was a solid chance of that being true— Ancients, how many times had she heard him startle in the night to one?— Jazz couldn’t be sure.

Danny hated to make people worry. Jazz wanted to believe that Danny would confide anything serious with her after everything they’d been through, but he had hidden injuries from her, Sam, and Tucker before. Jazz wanted to respect his privacy, but she feared what her brother might hide while she granted it.

She had tried to call him shortly after they left the hotel, but neither she nor Wendi could get a signal. 

The drive was only a few hours. With any luck, Jazz would come home and find Danny playing games in his room, bored to tears.

…

Her luck had never been good.

…

Danny’s was far worse.

Jazz forced herself not to speed as she drove through the rain, shoulders tense and her hands gripping the steering wheel a little too tightly. 

~*~

By the time Jazz finished helping Wendi and Daphne unload their things, every last nerve in her body was taut with worry. Jazz had tried to call Danny again once they were closer to Amity, but he didn’t pick up his phone.

The bad feeling in her stomach grew, rising within her like a dark wave swelled by the rain.

Jazz wished Wendi and her sister a speedy recovery before she sped off for home. A bit of her father’s influence grabbed the wheel as she took sharp turns and swerved around too-slow vehicles. 

Fenton Works loomed overhead, a dark and massive tower against the gray sky. Jazz peeled into the driveway and shut off the car. She noticed that there were no lights on in the house, so her parents must already be asleep. She paused for a moment, straining her ears to catch any sounds from the house.

She wasn’t entirely sure what she was trying to listen for.

Jazz shut off the car and went inside. She didn’t bother grabbing any of her things except for her purse. The rest could wait until she checked the house.

Her footsteps echoed slightly in the quiet living room. Jazz strode past the lightswitch, her eyes already adjusted to the gloom after driving through the rainy night. She could hear the gentle hum of the AC, but nothing else jumped out at her. 

“Danny?” Jazz called quietly. 

She paused, waiting for an answer, but wasn’t surprised when one never came.

Frowning, Jazz made her way through the kitchen and to the stairs. She climbed them quietly, not wanting to wake her parents if they really were asleep. She had said she wouldn’t be home until very late, so they didn’t have any reason to wait up for her.

Jazz pressed her ear to her parents’ bedroom door. She could hear her dad’s snoring from inside, accompanied by the hum of the fan over their bed. It was a bit early for their usual schedule, though not uncalled for from the pair of them. Jazz wondered if their latest experiments weren’t going well. Her parents had a habit of falling into depressive slumps in the face of failure.

Jazz pushed the thought aside as she went to Danny’s bedroom door. She knocked, quietly calling his name again, and waited for a response.

Nothing. 

That cold sense of dread gripped at Jazz’s chest as she turned the knob and opened the door.

Empty. His bedroom was empty, with Danny nowhere to be seen.

Jazz tried to remind herself that it wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. Danny could be out flying, or even in the Ghost Zone. She didn’t like the idea of him exploring the Zone by himself while she was out of town (or in general), but Jazz couldn’t rule it out as a possibility.

Pulling out her phone, Jazz tried once more to call him. The phone signal was strong now, but…

It rang on until she heard the recording for the answering machine, a default robotic one that her brother had never bothered to change. She waited to leave a message.

“Danny, where are you? Are you okay? Um, I came home a bit early tonight… Please call me when you get this.”

She ended the call and, for good measure, sent him a text as well. 

“Come on, Danny…” Jazz muttered.

She was now hoping that he was in the Ghost Zone, or else otherwise preoccupied with a ghost attack. With that in mind, Jazz hurried back downstairs to grab her bag.

It didn’t take her long to find the green Fenton Phones carefully stashed in the front pocket of her bag. With how spotty reception could be in Amity— and nonexistent, where the Ghost Zone was concerned— she tried to keep the earphones nearby just in case Danny had to slip into the Zone. He was usually good about remembering to bring them (after receiving several tirades from Jazz threatening violence if he disappeared to the Far Frozen one more time without a way to contact him).

Jazz put the earpiece in and headed for the lab doors. She tapped the largest button on the side, waiting for a signal.

Only a crackle of static welcomed her.

Jazz removed the earpiece with a frustrated sigh. She glanced around the lab, searching for clues. Everything appeared normal— as normal as a lab with a rift to the afterlife could be, that is. The work table in the corner was perhaps messier than usual, but that was par for the course whenever Jack and Maddie were working on a new project.

With nothing to go off of, Jazz pulled her phone back out of her pocket and opened the group chat she had with Sam and Tucker. She tried not to use the chat often, not liking to go behind Danny’s back with his friends— even if they had become hers as well— but sometimes they needed space to talk.

Jazz: Just got home.
Jazz: Have either of you heard from Danny? He’s not home and I already tried the fones.

Jazz climbed back upstairs, staring at the group chat and waiting impatiently for a reply as she went. By the time she shut the door at the top, Tucker was already typing.

Tucker: he texted us like ovr 3 hours ago but hasnt replied since

Jazz: Did he say anything about patrol or something?
Tucker: naw nothin

It was exactly the thing Jazz didn’t want to hear. She shut the lab door behind her and sank down into one of the chairs at the kitchen table, rubbing her tired eyes.

Jazz: I haven’t checked town yet but I’m still worried about him

Jazz: He seemed off yesterday and tonight he’s not answering his phone. I don’t like it.

Worried was an understatement. Jazz couldn’t forget how tightly he hugged her before she left, or the quaver that had been in his voice last night.

It was the first time Danny had been alone since the Accident. He tried to put up a front of calm and composure, but Jazz knew that this weekend would be hard on him. She’d expected, even once she came back, for Danny to be restless until Sam and Tucker returned.

It didn’t help that Sam was in Gotham, of all places, which alone had the capacity to bother Danny’s Obsession.

Jazz wouldn’t pretend to know exactly what went on in Danny’s mind where his Obsession was concerned, though she had many good guesses. Danny had explained it before to her, expressing that what he felt came from his core as much as his mind.

Jazz knew those two things were irrevocably intertwined.

Tucker: check the town and tell us if you find him pls

Jazz heaved another sigh. She ran her hand through her hair, massaging her scalp. A headache was swiftly blossoming between her ears, courtesy of poor rest, a long car ride, and anxiety.

Jazz: Will do. Tell me if you hear anything.

Setting her phone down on the table, Jazz rapped her fingers against the back of her case. She stared out the dark kitchen window, imagining that the faint glow of the streetlight outside was her brother coming home.

“Please just be out flying,” Jazz mumbled to herself as she stood up and went to grab her rain jacket from the closet.

Danny didn’t like flying in the rain.

Chapter Text

The flight to Amity Park was spent in near silence. With the autopilot engaged, Jason sat back and watched the night sky blur past. Rain slicked the windows and the jet rocked occasionally with turbulence. Forks of lightning licked the distant dark clouds. It was an awful night to fly, made no more relaxing by the incessant tapping of Damian’s foot against his seat.

The kid stared at his phone for most of the trip, doing what little research he could on Amity Park and his brother. Jason could see frustration creep into the furrow of his brow as he grumbled every so often, tapping at the screen with more force than was necessary.

"Father and Drake were not exaggerating. There is hardly any information on this town," Damian muttered angrily to himself.

"You said it was some sort of ghost town?" Jason asked conversationally, as if anything about this situation was normal. Just some spur of the moment trip, rather than a fool’s errand that would draw Bruce’s ire for months to come.

Damian nodded absently. "I'm not sure what to make of the ghosts, but something is clearly not right with the town."

An understatement, Jason thought. If even Replacement was struggling to research Amity Park, he could only imagine what state the town’s online presence was in. Jason didn’t get along with Tim at the best of times, but the kid was damn smart and should have no trouble digging up every dark secret the Illinois town had to offer.

Jason left Damian to his research, letting the steady patter of the rain and the rock of the jet pull his eyelids low. He was half asleep, his mind beginning to wander on the edges of unconsciousness, when Damian sucked in a sharp breath. It startled Jason awake and he sat up with a jolt, immediately on guard.

“What is it?” 

Damian didn't answer right away. He stared at his phone, his eyes fixed on whatever was on the screen. Annoyed, Jason held out his hand, flexing his fingers in a ‘hand it over’ motion. If it was going to wake him up, Jason wanted to at least know what Damian was looking at. Hesitantly, his brother relinquished the phone. 

"Wow.”

Jason knew that Damian and Danyal were twins. He’d heard it whispered in the League, a passing remark readily swept away, buried with the (supposed) death of the other boy. He’d seen it, too, in the article that Damian showed him before they took off. Still, that knowledge did not prepare Jason for the picture. It was a school photo, much clearer and larger than the newspaper’s had been. It looked like a picture of Damian with deliberate faults, the most deliberate of which were the eyes, sharp and strikingly blue against a familiar face.

The more Jason inspected it, the more differences he saw between Danyal and the boy sat next to him. It showed, all too clearly, dark bags beneath Danyal’s eyes and the old scar on his right cheek that Damian had mentioned. His collarbones were sharp and his shirt hung loosely around a scrawny neck. He did not seem well and Jason knew he didn’t need to voice that aloud for Damian to notice.

“He goes by Danny Fenton now, apparently,” his brother said bitterly, plucking the phone out of Jason’s hands. “I cannot find much about the family, or much else pertaining to the town. Simply the name, a few newspaper articles, and mention of a company titled Fenton Works. They appear to be inventors of some variety, though I cannot find a functional website.”

Jason frowned, staring at the back of Damian’s phone. "How do you expect us to find him when we land?" he asked.

Damian's brows furrowed together in thought. "We will have to ask around, or see what public records we can find within the town itself. We likely won't find much at this hour, but I want to scout the town straight away at the very least, Todd," Damian said.

At least he had some semblance of a plan. If you could call stealing a jet and fucking off to Illinois in the middle of a storm without telling anyone a plan.

The rain came and went as they flew, passing through pockets of clear sky before returning each time to the inevitable downpour of rain. Damian grew increasingly restless as they entered Illinois. More than once, Jason had to shout him back down into his seat when the kid got up to pace.

They could just make out the lights of Amity Park when the plane shuddered violently.

Jason quickly grabbed at the controls, trying to make sense of the warnings flashing on the dash. One moment the jet was flying as usual, the next static was rippling across several of the monitors with a strange, garbled sound carrying through the radio. The blinking lights filled the cabin of the jet and Jason knew that a crash was imminent when the plane began to tip dangerously forward.

“Hold tight,” he warned, yanking desperately on the steering to try and keep the jet from nose diving into the ground. 

It was difficult to see through the rainy night. The dark shadows of trees skirted on their left and it was all Jason could do to steer the jet away from the branches. Still, the vehicle rocked and shook as the tallest branches scraped its belly. Jason braced himself for an impact, gritting his teeth as the nose of the plane rapidly approached a dense cluster of brush.

Jason’s head swam as he was jostled by the rough landing, wrenched forward in his seat. The plane skidded and bounced, the windows darkening as they were obscured by branches and leaves. The controls of the plane still screamed in protest, the blinking continuing for several long moments before the whining static faded and the lights of the plane went out altogether, submerging them in darkness.

Jason’s hands shook as he scrambled out of his seatbelt. He blinked in the gloom of the dark cabin, leaning over to check on Damian in the seat beside him. All things considered, they’d managed a smooth landing. As smooth of one as they could given the circumstances. 

“Are you all right?” Jason asked Damian, groping in the dark to put a hand on his shoulder.

Damian brushed off his hand. There were a few quiet taps as he powered up his phone and the light of the screen filled the cabin, skirting over the dashboard of the jet. Damian held the phone over the faulty controls, his nose wrinkled and his face half-obscured in shadow.
“What happened?” he asked. “Why did the controls fail?”

It was a good question, but not one Jason had any answers to. “Your guess is as good as mine. We’re just lucky we didn’t hit a damn tree,” Jason said. After a pause, he added, “Maybe it was the ghosts.”

Damian scoffed at him. The light of his phone dipped and wavered as he hopped out of his seat and leant over to the side. Rainwater blew into the cabin as he opened the door of the plane and stepped outside. Jason paused, rolling his sore shoulders and taking a deep, steadying breath to calm his already-frayed nerves. He spared one last glance at the controls before following Damian. There wasn't much that could be done for the jet in its current state anyway, and Jason knew from experience that with his mind set on a task it would be hell to try and keep Damian from wandering on his own.

The thick brush around the plane snagged at Jason’s jeans and he patted his pockets down, making sure that he hadn’t lost any supplies in the crash. He’d avoid pulling out a gun unless absolutely necessary, but Jason would rather have it than be caught unarmed in some sketchy town in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. He was sure Damian had more than one knife concealed on his own person.

The dense brush did not carry on for very long, with the sparse trees giving way to open farmland quickly. They had landed on the far side of a field outside of town; a nearby dirt road hugged the treeline, leading towards Amity in a winding trail. Rain fell in a steady patter and the wind came and went in uneven gusts.

Damian set down the path without a second thought. Jason followed after him, hands in his pockets and several regrets in his mind. He couldn't help but glance back at the jet as they went. He could just barely see the sleek metal of the tail through the trees. Hopefully no farmers would stumble across it, though the resulting scandal would at least fall to Bruce, rather than him.

The night was quiet and warm, despite the weather. The dirt path was all mud and puddles beneath their feet, marked by tire tracks and the occasional set of animal prints. It might have even been a relaxing walk if they had an umbrella.

Yet the closer they drew to Amity, its buildings silhouetted against the stormy sky, the more Jason noticed a chill cutting through the rainy summer night. More than that, it was a… feeling, of sorts. An apprehensive shudder with each gust of the wind.

Jason tried to waive it off at first. His own nerves. The wind. He could chock it up to just that and push the feeling down, only… the sensation seemed to grow with each step. It coiled in his chest, squeezing at his center—

 And the Pit stirred.

Jason froze in his steps, his boots sinking into the mud as he stood stock still. He stared at the town’s tallest buildings, that apprehensive feeling morphing into something more. The Pit reared up in his mind, familiar in its intensity but… eerily different.

"Todd?" 

Jason shook his head, noticing that Damian had stopped a ways ahead of him, looking back with one brow raised in silent question.

Jason's heart pounded against his ribs. The Pit never meant anything good. Jason associated it with blinding rage and lingering sorrow. With the worst parts of himself and lurid green waters that dragged him back from the brink.

Yet in all the years since his revival, he had never felt the Pit respond as it did now. A tug, a call—

A greeting.

"Todd," Damian said more forcefully, his expression morphed into a skeptical scowl. "What's wrong?'

Jason shrugged his shoulders, trying to shake off the feeling. It did little to lessen the coiling squeeze in his chest. "Nothing," he said.

Damian leveled Jason with a curious stare, clearly unconvinced. He didn't press for answers, however, and instead turned to keep walking down the trail.

Jason hesitantly followed. 

A morbid curiosity mingled with his caution. The chill swirled around him, the air heavy with it pressing in on his chest alongside the beat of his heart.

The Pit welcomed it like an old friend.

~*~

Damian kept his eyes locked ahead, his pace brisk. Amity Park loomed before them, power lines cutting across the gray clouds. The town was much smaller than Gotham, though seemed fairly large for a town in the middle of nowhere. They approached through a suburban area with widely spaced houses and large yards. The dirt road gave way to pockmarked asphalt and cracked sidewalk.

They hadn't even passed the first couple of houses when Jason caught sight of ghost decorations. 

They were the sort of cheap things that came out every October, plastic bed sheet ghosts in the yards and ragged old cloth ones hanging from the trees. Several of the houses had garish signs and faded decorations in the windows as well. Pumpkins, spiders, and cobwebs mingled with the tacky specters, but the ghosts took up the happy majority.

"Bit early for Halloween," Jason muttered, looking at a plastic gravestone with a ghost peeking out from behind it.

Several months too early, but fitting for a town that laid claim to hauntings he supposed.

They didn't linger in the suburbs for long. Aside from the unseasonal Halloween decorations, there wasn't much to see. They had no way of knowing if Danny lived in one of the houses, and trying to check each one would do them no favors. It certainly wouldn't help them lay low. They stuck out enough as two strangers wandering the streets at night in the rain.

The feeling in the air did not dissipate. It remained a constant pressure, heavy and unabating. Jason regretted coming to the town as much as he yearned to keep going forward and explore. To know what could possibly make the Pit stir so strangely.

They didn't run into any people as they entered the city proper. It seemed like a ghost town, in the opposite sense Amity was going for. A single car rumbled down the street, unassuming and unremarkable. Were it not for the pressure in his chest, Jason could have assumed that Amity Park was a perfectly normal town.

They passed by a fast food restaurant and Jason couldn't help but laugh at the name. 'Nasty Burger' made Batburger sound like a fine dining establishment. Damian paid it little more than a dubious glance before storming past, his eyes sweeping over the street critically.

The Halloween decorations persisted throughout the town, with some businesses completely themed around the aesthetic. They passed by a small coffee shop called ‘The Caffeine Crypt’, and a restaurant called ‘Poltergeist Pizza’. The pizza place didn’t look very old, but the windows were boarded up and there was crushed glass on the sidewalk nearby. The more Jason looked, the more dilapidated the buildings and roads appeared. Potholes, cracks, boarded up windows— the city reminded Jason of some of the more rundown sections of Gotham, though perhaps a bit cleaner. The level of damage might suit an empty sidestreet, but the amount of shops and cars suggested they were on one of the main roads. 

Yet another oddity to pile on the growing list. Something to stack with the foreboding chill that settled on Jason’s skin and continued to squeeze at his chest. 

They were passing what looked like a book shop when Damian paused to stare at the window. Jason stopped as well, noticing several fliers taped up at the center of an autumnal display.

Damian pointed to the largest of the fliers, a rain-soaked sheet with large print at the top and a long, bulleted list below. Jason had to read over the title several times, not believing what his eyes were seeing.

'Ghost Safety Protocol.'

Jason mouthed the words to himself before letting his eyes trail to the wall of text beneath it. 

‘In the event of a ghost attack, it is crucial to remain calm and prepared. The Drs. Fenton urge all citizens to read the cataloged information on the various ghosts native to Amity Park, information which may be located within the local library or distributed directly from the Fentons through Fenton Works. 

Regardless of the threat level of a ghost, it is ill-advised to approach any ectoentity unless in dire circumstances. Ghosts, regardless of their seemingly-human or animal appearances, should not be trusted or taken lightly.’

The sign went on to give a list of further precautions and safety measures. Ghost shields, 'ectoplasm', 'ectoguns'. Half the information went straight over Jason's head, and what he could comprehend raised more questions than it gave answers.

"Fenton Works…" Damian said, pointing to the bottom of the flier.

Jason read the last blurb of text that Damian pointed to. It directed questions and orders to 'Fenton Works', giving a couple of phone numbers, an address, and crediting a Drs. Madeline and Jack Fenton as expert ectobiologists. 

There was one thing he gleaned from that information.

"His parents are ghost hunters… Somehow your brother wound up in a stranger family than you. Impressive." Jason said.

Damian frowned, ignoring the bait. He tore the flier off the window, his eyes darting back and forth as he reread it.

He looked up from the flier just as quickly, glanced around, and focused on a sign at the nearest corner.

"This should be his address. It says to look for the neon sign?"

Damian started down the street, the flier still clutched in his hand. Jason followed behind him, glancing at the windows they passed. His eyes lingered on a sign that said ' Fundraiser this Saturday for repairs to Casper High's gymnasium,’ and a small, brightly-colored flier advertising a ghost repellent.

Well, at least the town seemed consistent.

A couple more cars rumbled down the street and Jason caught sight of his first few pedestrians. He half expected the people of Amity to glow green, but was disappointed to find them as ordinary as anyone. A portly, balding man with an umbrella grumbled as he hurried across the sidewalk. A couple of teens ran through the rain, shouting about being late. A miserable-looking woman with a wet scrap of a dog walked past them, pulling her dog along when it stopped to growl and yap at Jason.

No ghosts, as far as he could see.

Damian glanced at the flier again and directed them around the next corner to a street lined with trees. 

It didn’t take more than a glance to spot their destination.

"That's not subtle…" Damian muttered.

Jason wasn't sure what he was expecting when the paper mentioned a neon sign. He certainly wasn't expecting a giant green sign stretched halfway up the building. The name 'Fenton Works' hung in the center of the building, directly over the door and three times as large as it.

The sign wasn't even the most notable part of the building. On any other structure it would have stolen the show, but it was hard to focus on the neon sign when Jason noticed the colossal structure sat atop the roof.

It looked as if someone had plucked a spaceship from a comic book and stuck satellites and antennas all over it. It cast the entire building in shadow and did not seem at all structurally sound. Jason couldn't fathom how any part of the structure was up to code. Perhaps he was imagining it, but the thing seemed to sway slightly in the wind.

"Hopefully your brother isn't as crazy as the rest of the family," Jason said.

Damian shot him a dirty look. He marched down the street, making a beeline for the strange house and only stopping once he stood in front of the building. Its neon sign cast a wavering green glow over him and a long shadow at his back.

Something more than apprehension filled Jason as he settled beside Damian, looking up at the redbrick building. His chest squeezed tightly and Jason rubbed at the spot. It felt as if something had anchored around his heart, longing to pull him forward. It called to him with something beyond words. Raw. Instinctual.

Damian made to approach the front steps but Jason grabbed his shoulder. Something was off– wrong . That tug pulled at him and the hairs on Jason’s arms stood on end. Alarm bells sounded in his mind, fighting against the pull. The Pit stirred, more eagerness and unrest than anger and sorrow. It wasn’t an awful feeling, but it was too strange to trust.

"What is it, Todd?" Damian asked irritably, trying to wrench his shoulder from Jason's fingers.

Jason just gripped more tightly. 

"There's something off about this entire town, and this house is the worst of it," Jason said.

If there was an anchor seated in Jason’s chest, this house was the ship on the end of the line. 

Damian shot him a furtive look, his eyes steely— before they softened in concern.

"Your eyes…" Damian said warily.

Jason raised his hand to his cheek. The glow of the neon sign dyed his skin and he could imagine a verdant gleam in his eyes precisely the same shade.

"The Pit has been acting up since we got close to this fucking town," Jason admitted through his teeth. He didn’t want to say it, but there was no sense hiding it when his eyes betrayed him.

Damian took a step away, shrugging off his slackened grip. "Why didn't you say something sooner?" he said accusingly.

Jason grit his teeth. "It feels different than usual. It's hard to explain, just… it's stronger here."

He nodded in the direction of the house; beside him, Damian let out a frustrated sigh. Jason glanced down and found his little brother glaring at the building as if scrutinizing it down to the last brick.

"We've come this far and I'm not turning back now. If something is wrong, Danyal might be in danger."

Before Jason could retort, Damian skirted the side of the building, staring up the brick wall and searching the windows. Jason hurried after him with half a mind to grab the kid by the wrist and drag him back to the jet, but Damian was already scaling the building by the time he reached him. He expertly dug his fingers into the brick, finding each tiny foothold to pull himself up the side of the house. He was aiming for a window up on the second story; Jason could see a large crack across the glass and that the window wasn’t fully shut beneath it.

Swearing under his breath, Jason glanced up at the looming structure over the house, a wall of metal and awful contraptions with purposes he couldn't comprehend. Whatever lay inside Fenton Works, he would find it sooner rather than later it seemed. Danyal, ghost hunters— perhaps even the fabled ghosts themselves, for all Jason knew.

Damian tested the window before forcing it open, apparently finding nothing inside to give him pause. He silently shimmied through, kicking water from his boots over Jason as he went.

Jason sighed and put a hand on the warm brick. He tried to ignore how the Pit leapt at the touch.

Chapter Text

It took Jason longer to reach their unconventional entrance. He had to pull the window open wider to accommodate his size and the rain-slicked brick had his boots sliding as he clambered inside.

Jason bumped into Damian as he pulled himself through and into what looked like a bedroom. His brother didn’t even react to being jostled. He simply stood, staring at the ceiling with what Jason could only call awe.

After giving a cursory glance of the bedroom to ensure it was empty, Jason followed Damian’s gaze. He found the bedroom ceiling dotted with glowing green stars; they covered practically every inch of the ceiling, weaving a celestial tapestry that illuminated the room in a faint, verdant glow. Jason first assumed that the stars were placed sporadically, but the more he looked the more he recognized the patterns.

“So… does Danyal like constellations?” Jason asked.

“He loved them,” Damian said quietly, his eyes locked on those little plastic stars. He frowned. “Loves them,” he corrected himself.

Damian always had something of a soft spot for stargazing. Jason first noticed it when he met the kid, when he’d catch him staring up at the sky well past the hour he should have been asleep. 

He still saw it at the manor when he stayed there. Gotham’s skies didn’t offer much in the way of stargazing, but still Jason would catch his little brother staring up at the smog-filled sky.

He thought he understood why now.

Jason tore his eyes from the star-studded ceiling to really take in the bedroom. It was a messy room that bore the hallmark signs of a teenager living there. Posters decorated the walls, most of them of various bands, though several had stylized constellations. A starry blanket covered half of the unmade bed and clothes had been tossed haphazardly around the space. Jason picked up a white t-shirt with red accents and noted the size of it. The shirt would seem small even on Damian.

Perhaps the most interesting detail in the bedroom, however, was the ghosts. No inch of the bedroom was free from them. T-shirts, little figurines on the dresser, a pillow on the bed. Little ghostly knick knacks and trinkets swamped the room as much as the town outside. Between the stars and the ghosts, Danyal’s room could have filled half of a Spirit of Halloween. 

There even seemed to be a chill in the air.

Damian noticed the ghosts as well. He had finally taken his eyes off of the ceiling and was now roaming the room with a critical frown, paying no mind to the rainwater he dripped across the floor. There was clearly no doubt in his mind that this was his brother's space.

Damian paused at the dresser and plucked up a small clay ghost. Turning it over in his hand, he inspected it closely, as though the thing might open its misshapen mouth and offer him the answers the brick facade outside couldn’t.

“Where do you think he is?” Jason asked quietly. 

He tried to shake off the worst of the water by the window before moving to inspect the desk. School supplies littered the surface and there was a raggedy old backpack draped over the back of the desk chair. 

“I don’t know…” Damian said just as quietly.

Jason was  about to unzip the backpack when something on the desk caught his eye.

It was a wooden picture frame propped up in the corner of the desk. Jason snatched it up, his eyes scanning over the three occupants of the picture inside the frame.

Danyal stood between two kids about his age, both of them taller. The kid on the left was a boy with dark skin and a red hat, while the one on the right was a girl with black hair and dark clothing. They seemed close, judging by the bright smiles on all of their faces. 

The picture appeared to be a few years old and Jason frowned when he took in Danyal’s features more closely. The boy looked even more like Damian in this picture; his skin had a healthier tan and there were no dark bruises beneath his eyes. The resemblance was uncanny. Haunting.

“He could be staying with friends,” Jason mused.

Damian turned to look at him, setting down a hoodie he had been searching the pockets of. He held out his hand for the picture frame and Jason passed it over, watching as his brother’s eyes narrowed.

“This is Samantha Manson,” Damian said, nodding at the girl in the picture. “I do not know the other boy…”

He trailed off, not commenting on the state of Danyal’s appearance.

Jason kept searching the room, his movements much more methodical than Damian, who seemed to constantly latch onto the smaller details. The photographs of friends, pieces of paper with Danyal’s flowing handwriting, marks of the life he lived in this strange house. 

Jason said nothing of it, leaving his little brother to his thoughts. He retreated into his own, confused and strange as they were, hazy with the pressure that seemed to radiate from the house itself. Jason faltered in his search when he stepped close to the door. His hand twitched and somewhere in Jason’s mind he longed to turn the knob and delve deeper into the house. To follow whatever threads were pulling him inside, squeezing his chest and clouding the edges of his mind like a fog.

Jason shook his head and moved away from the door. He tried to focus his scattered thoughts, his eyes roving listlessly over the bedroom—

Until he noticed a loose floorboard beside the bed.

Jason knew even before he lifted the edge of the board that there was something beneath the floor.

“Pretty sure there’s a stash under here,” he said, pointing out the spot.

Damian was beside him in an instant, kneeling down to get a closer look. Jason pried up the floorboard, trying to ignore the tense energy practically radiating off of Damian.

He felt enough of that from himself. 

The board splintered as it came away from the floor. The pair of them paused, ears straining for any commotion within the house. Only the constant patter of the rain and a far off rumble of thunder answered the sound.

The contents beneath the floorboard were a strangely familiar sight; Jason couldn’t help but whistle with appreciation. There was a large first aid kit nestled in the hiding space with something metal glinting beneath it.

The first aid kit was difficult to extract from the floorboards. It took up most of the space and he had to twist it awkwardly and drag it out sideways. Jason set it down carefully on the floor and finally got a good look at what was underneath.

A gun… and a thermos? Both were silvery with strange green accents, as though they were made from the same material and by the same people.

Damian snatched up the gun before Jason could and he didn’t bother to fight for it. The quicker they inspected everything, the sooner they could leave. As his brother turned the weapon over in his hands, Jason chose to focus on the first aid kit instead. He threw open the lid and frowned at the contents within.

The thing could have come from one of their own safehouses. 

“This kit has seen a lot of use,” he said, rifling through the materials. “A lot of the supplies in here aren’t original. He’s also low on antiseptic.” 

Low was an understatement. The bottle was practically empty, the last few drops rolling as Jason held it up.

“It is also hidden under a floorboard,” Damian pointed out without glancing up, too focused on the silver barrel of the gun.

“Whatever your brother is up to, the parents don’t know,” Jason said unnecessarily. They all knew about keeping secrets, just as much as they knew what it would take to deplete the supplies of a med kit. 

Damian kept turning the gun over in his hands. Jason faintly heard him say that the gun had no bullets, but he was too focused on the hiding space to pay him any mind. 

There was a glint of something green reflecting off the metal of the thermos. Shoving the container aside, Jason found several bright tubes nestled under it. Jason snatched them up, hearing the distinct clink of glass as he gathered the vials in his hand.

A cold, eerie calm settled over Jason as soon as his skin brushed the glass. He stared at the vials, a shiver running down his spine. The glass clattered as his hand shook.

The pressure in Jason’s chest practically hummed. It squeezed alongside the frantic beating of his heart, twining with awful, twisted memories Jason did his best to swallow down.

“Why does your brother have Lazarus water?” he managed to croak out.

There was no mistaking what was in those vials. Jason would never forget that lurid glow or the anger it instilled in his being. The hurt that lingered, sickly green and fouler than the grave, pushing aside the strange calm with a simmering malcontent.

Damian slowly shook his head, staring at the vials. He still had the gun in his hands and Jason noticed he’d managed to open a hidden panel on the side. 

The chamber within emitted that same, sickly glow.

“That shit is in the gun even,” he growled. “Why does your baby brother have fucking Lazarus water?”

“Older.” 

Jason’s anger faltered at the flat and unexpected statement. “What?” he asked.
Damian fidgeted with the gun, running his fingers down the ridge of the barrel. “Danyal is not my baby brother. He is older than me by roughly an hour.” He tapped the grip of the gun rhythmically as he explained, not looking Jason in the eye. The quiet, subdued calm was unnerving from the boy.

“It never meant much to us, though it meant a great deal to Grandfather,” Damian continued when Jason did not speak. “… Danyal’s death brought him peace."

Jason stared at Damian, trying to process his words. He had never bothered to ask which of the twins was older. Jason had merely assumed, based on Damian’s behavior and the sure way Ra’s deemed him his sole heir, that the title of eldest simply fell to him.

That hour truly didn’t make much of a difference, Jason knew, but it was still a nugget of Danyal’s identity that Damian had kept snug close to his chest. Something of Damian’s identity, too. The youngest brother always, well before he stepped foot in the manor.

Were Damian not so quiet and pensive, Jason would poke fun at that. Instead, he kept quiet, wondering what else the boy might divulge in his rare moment of vulnerability. 

Damian plucked one of the green vials from Jason’s hand, thumbing over the glass. There was an almost wistful expression on his face.

“Danyal was soft. Weak, Grandfather called him. I… I knew he would fail his first mission alone. Grandfather knew it also. Danyal never had the heart to kill.” Damian spoke quietly, his eyes narrowed and his mouth set in a line. 

Jason let the silence that followed those words stretch out, heavy with the years of mourning Damian endured for his first and only blood brother. He had never seen Damian open up about his life like this. Not even when he first met him beneath the mountains, when Danyal’s loss was still a fresh, gaping wound with no salve.

"Well… looks like he's good at surviving, at least," Jason finally said. “And the others will be glad to know you’re still the baby of the bunch,” he couldn’t help but add, needing something to buffer the somber air.

Damian just nodded stiffly. He pocketed the vial he took and resumed his inspection of the gun with a focused silence.

Jason set the other vial of Lazarus water aside, feeling a strange sort of loss when it parted ways with his hands. He glanced back at the space beneath the floorboards, looking closely at the thermos for the first time. As strange and concerning as it was to find Lazarus water in Danyal’s house, knowing his prior (present?) connections to the League, the thermos confused Jason more than anything else.

He picked the strange object out from its spot nestled in the floor and rolled it in his hands. The metal was strangely cold, much more so than the room. It had the name ‘Fenton’ written in bold green letters on the side. Jason shook the thermos but couldn’t hear anything rattling or sloshing inside. He was just about to pull off the cap when something gave under his fingers.

Though Jason had done his utmost to stay quiet, wary of who or what might lurk in the house, he couldn’t help but shout an expletive as the thermos’ cap rocketed off the top with a cold burst of blue-white light. The thermos fell with a loud clatter as something green burst forth from the light.

The thing coalesced in the air, broadening into a humanoid shape. It floated over the bed, staring down at Damian and Jason with glowing green eyes the same toxic shade as the Lazarus pit. It… looked like a robot. A large, floating, glowing robot with a mane of flaming green hair. The metal of the body was twisted and dented, burnt black in many spots, with part of the head caved in and the left arm completely missing. It blinked at them owlishly, its eyes lingering suspiciously on Damian before landing more fixedly on Jason. 

They stared at each other for a long moment, Jason tensed to flee or fight— unsure what to expect— when the thing flashed him a wicked, crooked grin.

“Another one?” the creature said, its voice an echoing rumble with a metallic click that reminded Jason of his voice modulator. “Not quite as strong as the whelp, but… A fine specimen all the same.”

It held its arm aloft, the metal plates along it receding and lifting away until a large gun barrel formed over the wrist. Jason quickly snatched the gun from Damian’s hand, ignoring his protest as he aimed the weapon at the hulking form above them. Jason didn’t even know what the gun could do, if it would fire, if it—

The bedroom door burst open.

Jason heard a loud whirring sound and leapt back in time to avoid a strange blast of Lazarus green from the doorway. The shot barreled past his arm and hit the robotic creature square in the chest. Its eyes widened as the blast struck true and the being careened backwards through the wall. Jason couldn’t even be grateful. Couldn’t stop to consider what he had just seen. He whipped around to stare at the two figures gathered in the doorway as he heard the weapon whine with another charge.

“Danny, when did you get home? What’s going on?” the smaller figure, a woman asked.

The light switch flicked on, giving Jason his first good look at the two figures. They both seemed… insane. There was a small, powerfully-built woman and a hulking mountain of a man. Both wore vibrantly colored jumpsuits with black accents, one teal and one orange. The woman had a hood pulled low over her head with red-lensed goggles obscuring her eyes.

The moment the light turned on, the people— Danyal’s adoptive parents? The Fentons?— took on a defensive stance. The woman glanced between the pair of them, shock evident in her expression despite the opaque red of her goggles.

“Who are you? What have you done?” she snarled at not just Jason, but both of them.

Jason watched with horror as the woman leveled her gun directly at Damian, her hands steady and her intent clear. She didn’t wait for an answer. There was hardly a pause before she shouted, “Get out of my son, ghost!” and pulled the trigger.

Jason moved on instinct, adrenaline coursing through his veins as another toxic blast issued from the barrel of the woman’s gun. He dove to cover Damian, grabbing him by the arm.

The blast struck his shoulder and Jason let out a sharp cry.

The pain was immediate. It hurt. It hurt as bad as a gunshot, but different in so many ways. It burned and stung and Jason could only groan as he practically dragged Damian towards the window and threw them both through it.

He tucked into a roll as they hit a grassy patch below and it did nothing to stymie the lash of pain that rocketed through his shoulder. The adrenaline was the only thing keeping Jason from crumpling into the dirt. He used his momentum to stagger to his feet, still clutching onto Damian’s arm like a lifeline. He barely managed to dodge another blast shot from the window. He could hear a man shouting and saw more stray shots light up the night even as they hurried out of range from the window.

Jason could hardly breathe. His chest heaved for air and his hands shook. The immense pain in his shoulder had nausea roiling in his belly. Jason was hardly aware of stopping to suck in deep gulps of air. Of Damian pulling his arm hard enough to almost rip it from the socket. He shouted something that could have been miles away for all Jason heard it.

“Jason! We need to keep moving!” Damian snarled, the words drifting slowly to his mind. 

He gave another firm tug on Jason’s hand, dragging him through an alley and down a street lined with parked cars. All he could focus on was Damian’s hand in his and the searing sensation crawling across his back. Jason followed his brother like a lost dog, his senses hazy and indistinct.

A loud siren tore through the air, stirring Jason from his stupor. The distant screech of wheels on asphalt followed, putting more pep into his step as he fought to focus.

They turned the corner down an alley and ran towards an open park, splashing through large puddles gathered on the street. The park was large and densely packed with trees. Damian tugged him towards the center of the park where the trees thickened, old oaks with tangled branches blotting out the rainy sky. The moment they were nestled at the heart of the trees, hidden from prying eyes and the worst of the rain, Jason collapsed into the grass with a swear.

“Let me see,” Damian demanded, stepping around him and kneeling to look more closely at Jason’s back.

His hands skirted over his shoulder, barely touching, and still Jason flinched. Damian made an uncomfortable hiss.

"That bad, huh?" Jason rasped. 

Damian didn’t answer right away. Turning to look at him, Jason saw his brows furrowed with a deep grimace.

“There is a sizable burn and an open wound at its center. You are bleeding; we need to patch it up somehow.”

Damian glanced around, as if expecting gauze and antiseptic to pop up in the middle of the park. His eyes settled on Jason’s hands and he realized for the first time that the silver gun from the Fenton household was still in his grip.

“You had to grab the gun from me and not the first aid kit,” Damian chastised. “When you have your own pocketed, no less.”

Jason laughed, though it came out as more of a cough. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking about it much when I saved you from getting fucking shot at.”

Damian’s frown deepened. “Tt, I won’t thank you for jumping in the way. That was reckless.” 

Jason shook his head, annoyed but unsurprised. The movement had his head spinning and he shut his eyes tight to keep the world still.

He still didn’t necessarily regret it.

“She… that woman believed I was her son and still shot at me,” Damian said quietly.

Jason had heard the woman just as clearly and the depth of her words sent a shiver down his spine. The cold spread until even the earth beneath Jason felt chilled with it. He had the sinking feeling of slipping beneath the earth, swaying unsteadily with his still-hazy head.

Jason jolted, hissing as he wrenched his shoulder. He pulled his legs in front of him, patting at the grass.

Though it was damp with the rain, the earth was as solid as ever. This town was going to drive him insane.

Jason sighed wearily. “I don’t know what’s up with this town or what shit your brother has been up to, but this is a mess,” he grumbled. “What the hell was that thing that came out of the thermos?”

Damian stood up, brushing off his knees. “If the locals are to be believed, it might be what they call a ‘ghost’.”

“I’d say that sounds stupid, but I feel like I’m not one to talk.” 

Jason felt a tug on his arms and hissed as his jacket shifted. He tried to struggle away, but Damian determinedly ripped the leather jacket from his back, pulling it off of his shoulders.

“Fucking hell,” Jason hissed under his breath, shooting his brother a pointed glare.

Damian paid him no mind as he bundled up the wet jacket and pressed it against his back, applying pressure. Jason recoiled at first before settling against it, letting out a groan.

"If we return to the jet, there is a first aid kit there,” Damian suggested.

"How do you suppose we manage that? I can still hear that siren. Those two are probably sweeping the streets and half the fucking town is probably awake by now,” Jason growled.

The siren was far off for now, a distant ringing wail, but they couldn’t rely on the park for safety. The trees offered them some measure of cover, but the wooded area would be an obvious place to search before long.

"Do you have a better plan?"

Rolling his eyes, Jason twisted around and snatched his jacket from Damian. He unbundled it enough to rifle through the pockets and grabbed his phone. His eyes trailed over a burnt hole in the right shoulder and the blood staining the back before he tossed it back to his brother.

Jason took his time pulling up his contacts, dreading the inevitable conversation. It was a testament to their sorry predicament that Damian didn’t stop him. They were out of their element in Amity, more than Jason would have predicted from the sleepy town. Tim might not have much information on Amity, but he had to have something worthwhile that could help. Jason would owe the smartass a favor— probably a couple, at least— but it was hard for him to care with the throbbing ache of his shoulder. 

Besides, it probably wouldn’t be long now until Bruce noticed his youngest’s absence and called them. The fact that he hadn’t already was nothing short of a miracle.

Jason put the phone to his ear, teeth gritted as he waited for Tim to pick up, expecting an incredulous, snarky reply.

Only… the call wouldn't go through. It rang on and on until it went off the hook. Swearing, Jason shot Tim a text instead.

Jason: what the fuck is wrong with amity park

Jason paused, waiting for the text to go through. The loading wheel spun for several long moments… before the message failed to send.

Jason: come the fuck on

The wheel futilely turned again before his second, aggravated message joined the first with an unsent tag. 

“Just fucking great,” Jason groaned, shoving his phone into his pocket.

First the jet, then the mess at Fenton Works, and now he couldn’t even send a damn text. It felt connected, though Jason couldn’t fathom how. He focused miserably on the ache in his back, his entire torso feeling tight and tense between the aching throb and that damned squeeze in his chest.

Jason was beginning to miss the grime of Crime Alley more by the minute.

Damian tried his own phone, but had no more luck. He tried the comms afterwards but ripped the device from his ear when an awful, staticky mess of sound similar to what happened with the jet issued from it. Jason was glad he hadn’t done the same; his hearing didn’t need more damage.

“The jet suddenly doesn’t sound like such a bad idea,” he said.

“And the sirens?” Damian asked, rubbing at his ear.

Jason shrugged his shoulders, immediately regretting the action as it tugged at his wound. He staggered to his feet with a groan and grabbed his jacket from Damian. “We’ve been through worse. Come on, let’s go.”

Jason started to walk through the trees, but paused when he noticed Damian wasn’t following him.

“We are not leaving once we grab the supplies, however, Todd,” he said warningly.

Jason rolled his eyes. “The jet isn’t going anywhere, kid. I’m pretty sure we’re stuck here unless you wanna steal a car and drive back.”

He turned through the trees, relaxing slightly when he heard Damian follow.

Jason’s mind whirled, his thoughts hazy with confusion and the burning ache in his shoulder. The pain came and went like a proper burn, lapsing before mounting in a fiery sting. The rain soothed some of the pain, cooling the fire beneath his skin, but leaving it untreated would do him no favors.

Jason wasn’t sure what sort of weapon the Fentons struck him with, but it had packed one hell of a punch. He inspected the gun he took from Danyal’s room. Judging by the green blast and the Lazarus water in the barrel, it had to be similar in design, despite the much smaller size. Jason couldn’t recall ever seeing Lazarus water utilized in this manner and he shuddered to think what might have happened if the blast had hit its intended target.

The Fentons… Just thinking of them made that uncomfortable squeeze in Jason’s chest coil like a tightly-wound spring. He could still imagine the strange, drawing feeling from within their hell house.

And he could still hear Mrs. Fenton’s words as she fired at Damian.

Fired at Danyal, as far as she knew.

The park thinned out, trees falling way to open grass and paved paths. The park had a similar dilapidated look to much of the town, with random holes and large branches scattered around the treeline. There was a roped-off section of playground equipment that appeared… melted, somehow, and beyond that Jason could see a giant, upturned tree with its thick, tangled roots pointed skyward. 

They kept away from the main path, following along a ditch that ran towards the road. Jason had his jacket slung over his uninjured shoulder and he was soaked to the skin, trudging through the muddy grass with his eyes squinted against the rain. Jason had half a mind to kick back and fall asleep the moment they reached the jet. 

The ditch dipped alongside a row of bushes, a dark line of water resting in the trench. Damian hopped over the water with ease and started to climb the opposite side, while Jason carefully stepped over it. He was halfway up the slope on the opposite side, digging the toes of his boots into the mud, when Jason suddenly pitched forward. He crashed down hard on the slope, barely managing to catch himself. The jolt of his hands bracing on the grass tore a sharp stab of pain through his shoulder and Jason bit back a loud swear.

“Todd, what happened?” Damian said. He stood near the top of the slope, looking down with one hand on his hip. “It is not a steep climb; how did you fall?”

Jason staggered to his feet and took a few wobbly steps up the slope, glowering at Damian. “Shut it. I didn’t drag my ass out here just for you to—”

“Danny!”

Jason stiffened at the sudden shout and almost careened backwards into the bushes along the ditch. He braced himself, ready to fight whatever Amity had to offer.

It was… a girl. 

A girl with fiery red hair and a green rain jacket ran towards them, hopping off the road overlooking the slope and skidding into the grass. Her hair hung in her face, pressed flat by the rain, and the legs of her pants were soaked through with mud. She ran quickly, on course to tackle Damian, but slowed to an abrupt halt when he turned to look at her.

“You’re… not Danny,” she said slowly. Cautiously. 

Her eyes flickered between the pair of them. They paused on Jason for a long moment, narrowing slightly.

Those piercing eyes almost glowed in the darkness. 

The girl put her hand at her side, gripping something concealed in her pocket. A familiar silver thermos hung on her belt and Jason wondered if she had a gun to match it.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

The girl seemed rattled, though to her credit she held her ground. Feet planted firmly at the top of the slope, she glanced between them with a calculating glare, sizing them up. 

Damian tensed and Jason hurried to step in front of his brother before his biting words could escalate the situation. The girl couldn’t be more than a couple of years older than Damian and he didn’t fancy exchanging blows with her, especially if she had one of those strange guns in her pocket.

One shot to the shoulder was enough for the night.

“We’re just passing through,” he said, ignoring Damian’s protest as he pushed him back.

“You didn’t answer my question.” 

Jason laughed, the sound hitching slightly as his shoulder burned. “Why should I?” he grit out.

The girl frowned, her brows furrowed together. She hadn’t moved an inch, her hand still poised to grab the weapon in her pocket. Jason didn’t doubt that she had experience wielding it.

“I haven’t seen either of you around here before and,” her eyes fixed on Jason, her stare sharper than claws, “you’re injured. By what?”

He thought his black t-shirt and the darkness would disguise the injury to his shoulder, but she was perceptive. More than Jason would like.

“What’s it to—” 

Damian pushed his way past Jason, “That is none of your concern. You mistook me for someone. Who?” he demanded.

She shifted uncomfortably, her eyes still flickering between the brothers, never resting for very long on one of them. “You look a lot like my brother,” she said when her sharp eyes at last landed on Damian.

“Danny?”

It wasn’t a subtle approach at all and Jason could hear thinly-veiled excitement in Damian’s voice. He watched the girl carefully, noticing how she tensed at the name. 

“You know him?” she said, her answer no more subtle. Almost desperate.

Damian nodded stiffly and the girl opened her mouth to say something else but paused, turning her head sharply towards the main road.

The siren sound, which had faded into the background beneath the gentle patter of the rain, grew sharper. It barreled closer, a warning whine that split through the night.

“Shit,” Jason said, grabbing Damian by the arm. “We need to go.”

The slope was too close to the road, too exposed. It wouldn’t be difficult for the Fentons to get in another shot if they stayed where they were.

The girl sucked in a sharp breath of air, her eyes widening with alarm.

“Are you running from them?” she asked, her tone a chaotic mixture of fear and accusation. “Why? Why are you here? Why do you—”

She didn’t even finish her own sentence, let alone wait for an answer. The girl swore under her breath and stepped towards the road, looking up and down the street. Damian opened his mouth to comment, but Jason was quick to throw a hand in front of him again, wanting to see what she would do.

“I know of a few safe places to hide,” she said urgently, glancing over her shoulder. “And I can get you some bandages,” she added, nodding to Jason.

He paused and felt Damian stiffen beside him. A crack of lightning shot across the sky, briefly deafening the whine of the siren, but the wailing noise seemed magnified when the thunder rumbled away.

“And why should we trust you?” Damian asked.

The girl regarded him with a strange, unreadable expression.

“I should really be asking you that question.”

She let out a long, drawn out sigh and stepped back onto the road, giving one last glance down the slope. “I don’t know why you’re running from my parents, but I don’t suggest waiting in the park for them to find you.” Her voice was even, but there was a nervous tension in the line of her shoulders and the frown on her face.

The siren rose in a blaring pitch, dangerously close. It had Jason’s heart pounding the more it rattled in his ears, drowning out his thoughts. 

There was no time to stand around and talk. No time for hesitation. He watched the girl turn and begin to walk away, her steps slow and measured, and Jason knew they had to take as much of a risk as her.

Everything they’d done tonight was a risk.

Without a word, with barely more than a glance to see Damian make the same decision, Jason followed her.

Chapter Text

Sam stood there awkwardly, blinking as she stared at where Damian Wayne had slipped away into the crowd. Her phone buzzed with several text pings, vibrating in her slackened grip. 

The boy’s face lingered in her mind’s eye, hauntingly familiar. Sam wasn’t sure what to make of her interaction with the kid. 

It was strange enough running into someone resembling Danny so strongly— even before he grabbed her phone, stared at it as if it held the secrets to the universe, and stormed off without a backwards glance.

Dumbfounded, Sam looked at the texts quickly coming in, unsure what else to do.

Tuck: holy shit

Tuck: u sure that isnt another clone??

Tuck: vlad is there

A jolt of apprehension went through Sam as Tucker echoed her own thoughts. She quickly typed out a response, hoping to nip any fears Danny might have in the bud.

Sam: Hes Bruce Waynes son so I doubt it?

Sam: I feel like thats something theyd be aware of

After a pause, considering what Dick had said, Sam added:

Sam: His brother called him Damian Wayne

Sam scrolled back up to the picture of Damian Wayne, eyes roving over the similarities he shared with Danny. A healthier tan, though similar in tone. The same shape of eyes, though strikingly different in color, missing the brightness that lingered in Danny’s irises even when they weren’t ectoplasmic green.

Thumbing to the picture she’d shown Damian of Danny only highlighted the similarities more. It was like seeing an echo of her friend, one where he never went through the portal and earned the deep, persistent bags beneath his eyes. Sam wondered what Damian thought of the similarities— why he had grabbed the phone. Had he just been surprised? Sam couldn’t be sure. Something felt… off. Off in the way most things were, when used to the haunts and horrors of the supernatural. 

Sam’s phone buzzed again. She looked at the notification, tensely waiting for Danny to weigh in on the picture, but it was another reply from Tucker. Given the time, Sam supposed that Danny might be out on patrol anyway. It would keep his thoughts occupied, if nothing else.

Tuck: well hes definitely bruce waynes kid

Tuck: seems he just sort of turned up 4 years ago?

Something about that niggled at the back of Sam’s mind, but she couldn’t focus on what it was. All she could think of were test tubes and clones, despite what she had been told, and the clarifying details in the Gotham Gazette article that Tucker linked below his message.

It was a piece detailing Damian Wayne’s arrival to the city. Sam quickly scanned over it, still not focused enough to read the entire thing, but gathering the gist. A bastard child turning up on a billionaire’s doorstep, it seemed like just the sort of thing Sam’s parents would have loved to gossip about. They must have, probably four years ago when it first happened. Sam regretted not listening to more of their conversations now.

…

Alright, maybe not, but that information would have been useful.

Sam: Well clone or not hes weird

Tuck: ?

Sam: He yanked my phone out of my hand when I showed him a picture of Danny

Sam: He stormed off after that. No clue where he went

Tuck: he took your phone??

Tuck: does he still have a hand

Sam: Look I was too busy looking at his face to be that mad about it

Sam: You try holding a conversation with a random Danny doppelganger and keep your head

Tuck: dani.

Sam: Dude you know what I mean

Tuck: wheres danny anyway

Sam: Probably on patrol?

Sam hoped he was, in any case. If Danny didn’t respond within the next hour or so, however, she was going to worry.

…Worry more. 

At least Jazz was bound for Amity Park. She’d said to expect her home late, but Sam would bet anything that the blood Jazz shared with Jack Fenton would guide her foot to press the pedal flat, racing home as soon as possible. Things might’ve been different if they were used to leaving Danny alone, if they’d had some practice with it before, but that certainly wasn’t the case now.

On the best of days, Sam hardly liked leaving Danny to his own devices for a few hours. Between his many enemies and his deathtrap of a house, nothing good usually came from it.

Sam had lowered her phone to her side, but picked it back up again when it buzzed, feeling that faint flicker of hope that Danny would respond— if only just to share their incredulity over the picture of Damian Wayne. 

Tuck: i hope so

Sam sighed, reading over her echoed thoughts in Tucker's message. She stuffed her phone back in her purse. Waiting around for an answer would only stress her out.

Damian was long gone, where she couldn’t say, and Dick had disappeared just as effectively. Each of their siblings had, judging by the absence of Tim and Steph around Bruce Wayne. It seemed that another man had roped him into a conversation, dragging the socialite towards the far end of the hall with her parents in tow.

At least they were still preoccupied. 

Sam meandered around the edge of the venue for a while, absently searching for any of Bruce Wayne’s children. A mop of black hair— a too-familiar face— anything she might recognize beyond the sea of attendees.

She searched for Vlad just as much, expecting any moment now to spot his head of silver hair, or to feel his ghoulish presence, but… It was as though he had disappeared.

Given his physiology, Sam was uncomfortably aware of that possibility. As pleasant as it was not to see Vlad, it was something like knowing there was a snake loose in the building. Hiding, waiting somewhere, with all of the potential to bite if she stepped a little too close to where it lay.

Just another thing to set her on edge.

A loud peel of laughter nearby lanced through Sam’s skull. A couple wandered too close, the man carelessly bumping into her shoulder and matching her annoyed glare. The music changed, picking up into something much louder as a trumpet joined the fray. It all pressed on Sam’s overwhelmed senses, her vision tunneling, hardly able to make sense of the crowd mixing around her.

Sam's gaze trailed past the buffet table to the tall balcony doors against the east wall. Dick had mentioned meeting Damian out on the balcony…

A stormy, dark balcony where fine-pressed suits and extravagant ball gowns would hardly tread.

A woman shrieked with delight, another loud burst of laughter following the sound as she warbled excitedly. Sam’s head throbbed, all of her teetering focus now locked on the balcony doors.

Nothing sounded better than the quiet night air, stormy or not.

Sam pressed herself as close as she could to the wall and hurried along it, gripping the strap of her bag tightly. She ducked as low as she could, hopeful that between their focus on Bruce Wayne and the heads of the crowd, her parents wouldn’t spot her.

The balcony doors were as tall as the grand windows, ornately carved with two looping bronze handles. Sam grabbed onto one of them and pulled the door open, hurriedly stepping outside before anyone could stop her.

The sound died away as Sam shut the door behind her, muffling the din to a dull roar when it clicked shut. Some of the anxiety weighing Sam’s shoulders sloughed off with a sigh, feeling that she could at last breathe again. The air that filled her lungs wasn’t perfect, smog-laden and muggy as it was, but Sam would take it any day over the onslaught of a thousand different perfumes and colognes.

Even just the dark gloom of the balcony was a refreshing respite after standing beneath the too-bright lights of the hall. Thick stone pillars and protruding walls sheltered the exit of the balcony, with a lantern hung close to the door. Gusts of wind came and went, whipping a mist of rain around the pillars. The balcony split off in two directions, the space illuminated more by the glow from the windows than the dim lanterns.

Sam stepped out around the first pillar, her boots splashing through shallow puddles as she turned down the left side of the balcony. The wind greeted her at once, whipping her hair back with a spray of mist. Sam winced, raising her arm to block the breeze. She noticed several secluded spots farther down the railing where more stone pillars blocked the worst of the storm.

Sam moved towards the railing, letting her eyes skirt over the weather-worn carved stone. More metal lanterns hung between each curtained window, illuminating the damp stone in golden hues. The storm whipped forcefully enough at times to make the old windows rattle and creak, the sound underscored by the muffle of the crowd within the building.

Something shifted in Sam’s periphery and her eyes snapped to the far end of the balcony. 

She could make out the silhouette of a person near one of the larger pillars, only the dark shape of their head and shoulder in view. Sam tensed as they raised an arm, a hand over her bag, prepared to pull out her ectogun in case they turned a weapon on her.

After her spat with Vlad, knowing full well what city she was in, Sam was prepared for anything.

Yet she couldn’t hear the telltale sound of a weapon cocking, nor see the shadow of one in their grip. Their hand simply moved in a sweeping, methodical gesture, joined by a second.

It took Sam a moment to recognize the familiar pattern: Sign.

Squinting, Sam could make out a cluster of large potted plants and a dark metal table with chairs. The spot was partially nestled into an alcove, tucked away from the rain. Another figure sat at the table, facing the first. Their hands moved in a similar pattern, the light showing their shape more clearly than the first. Sam noticed the sign for the letter N and what looked like the chin-flicking gesture for ‘light’ before the figure pointed in her direction.

Considering the Waynes had mentioned their siblings going out on the balcony, Sam supposed she shouldn’t be surprised to find company waiting there. 

The figure by the pillar shifted, the edge of a dress catching the lantern light and her face swimming into view. Sam thought she recognized her now— not in name, but appearance. One of the older teens— possibly a young adult— that Sam had noticed when her family first arrived at the gala.

And she was gesturing towards Sam now, beckoning her to approach.

With a grimace, Sam reluctantly took a step closer. Maybe if she was lucky, they’d be as easy to talk to as Steph had been. Even Dick hadn’t been terrible company— until he saw fit to leave her with a sorry excuse for a Danny clone.

…Just thinking of the word clone had Sam cringing, unease coiling in her belly. Dani was fine and all, but she’d rather not consider the possibility of more Danny’s running around, all tied to Vlad’s hand.

One step closer. The second figure sat up straighter, their face illuminated by the lantern closest to the table. Not a face Sam recognized, but still someone young.

Another step closer, the wind buffeting Sam’s dress as a gust met the side of the building, rushing through the slats in the railing. She shivered slightly in the chill, feeling it course down her spine—

Culminating in a faint, familiar presence.

It was a subtle feeling, a whispering echo of cold across the skin, a shiver of the strange down the spine. The unnatural presence of a ghost, only… Small— distant. It froze Sam where she stood, her knees stiff and anger grinding her teeth into a grimace as she waited for that sickly aura of Vlad’s to wreath around her.

The wind roared, the windows rattling more fiercely than before. Sam’s heart beat against her ribs in the tense silence.

Sam glanced over her shoulder, expecting another silhouette— anything that might tell her Vlad had made his presence known.

There was nothing. Nothing quite Vlad , at least. The feeling remained, distant, strange… new.

“Are we really that intimidating?” a voice said with a chuckle. Sam glanced back to the pair, finding both of their heads turned, her spine tingling under their gaze.

The sensation came from them— it had to. It drifted on the air, indistinct and faint, but hauntingly there.

It was similar to Vlad, but… diluted. Weak and indistinct in a way Sam wasn’t used to— not that she was used to sensing ghosts at all. It was a newer development for Sam, but even she knew that all ghosts felt different from each other in some way, from the small presence of a blob ghost to the oppressive aura that dripped off of the Fright Knight’s armor. Halfas were no exception to this.

There was no bite of Vlad’s flames. None of Danny’s soothing ice. Nothing even as substantial as a blob ghost, let alone something more dangerous.

They were simply vapor, hardly there at all.

Yet there enough to cast a shadow— there enough to have solid form, hands making quick signs that Sam could hardly distinguish in the gloom.

Sam couldn’t explain it. Couldn’t begin to understand what her senses were telling her. All she could do was take another nervous step forward, hoping she wasn’t making as grievous a mistake as Danny's first stride in black rubber boots.

They seemed normal enough at a glance, just a boy and a girl, both at least several years older than Jazz by the looks of it. The boy had taken off his tux jacket and loosened the golden tie around his neck. His skin was a bit darker than Tuck’s, and his hair cut shorter with gentle fades on the sides.

The girl standing by the pillar had wind-tossed, silky black hair and a long black dress. She was shorter than Sam, though fit with wiry muscle along her arms. 

The boy had a wide, open grin, while the girl offered a closed-lipped smile that crinkled her eyes. The moment Sam’s lavender eyes met the girl’s warm brown, she knew the strange sensation came from her.

Sam did her best not to stare, but it was a difficult thing. She could hardly focus on where she put her feet, all of her senses pinned desperately on the girl and the strange aura emanating from her.

She felt like a ghost— like a halfa, only… not. Wrong. Sam couldn’t wrap her mind around it, particularly not with the pair of them watching her with puzzled expressions.

“Hey,” the boy said, nodding in her direction. He still wore a smile, though it seemed awkward and forced now. Sam supposed she hadn’t done much to ease the tension in the air with her stiff-legged approach.

Sam gave them a friendly wave and a stilted, “H-hey,” which the girl returned in kind. She had her back pressed against the pillar, leaning against it with her legs crossed beneath her long dress.

The boy and girl exchanged a quick look, an entire conversation seeming to pass between them in the few seconds it took Sam to cross the rest of the balcony’s walk and step into the relative shelter at its end.

“Did you get sick of all of the noise inside too?” the boy asked her.

A decent segway into conversation, one Sam could readily get behind. She let out an annoyed huff, shooting a glare towards the balcony doors and all they contained within.

“I didn’t want to be here in the first place,” she mumbled mutinously.

The boy laughed and the girl grinned, this time showing a bit of her bright white teeth.

“Well, there’s plenty of room out here if you don’t mind it being a little wet,” he said, gesturing to the small collection of chairs around the table. “Though it might get a little noisier once the others show up.” 

Others. It seemed her suspicions were correct. “The Wayne brood?” Sam asked.

The boy’s grin widened, “You’ve run into them then?” he asked, leaning back further in his chair, rocking it up on its hind legs.

Sam nodded, feeling some of the tension leave her shoulders. Whoever he was, the boy's laid-back demeanor was certainly easier to talk to than Damian's sharp bite.

“A few of them,” she said.

“Count one more then,” he said, pointing at his companion.

Huh. Sam rolled the confirmation over in her mind as she looked the girl over, wondering what could possibly have a Wayne, of all people, feeling so thoroughly marked by the grave. Sam hadn’t felt it from anyone else in her family… She had to wonder if Danny’s, or even Jazz’s, keener senses would feel something more.

“Cass,” the girl said, pointing to herself in what was clearly a simple introduction. “Duke, a friend— basically family, though,” she added, tipping her head towards the boy. Her words were soft-spoken, voice lilting with a slight rasp.

The boy, Duke, rolled his eyes. “There aren’t any adoption papers with my name on it; legally, I’m exempt from your madness.”

Cass stuck out her tongue at him, receiving the gesture in kind.

To think she had been so wary of them…

Sam took the offer of a seat, pulling out the chair farthest from the pair and sinking down into it. “Sam,” she introduced herself just as simply, jabbing her thumb into her collarbone.

They both nodded, Duke lazily lifting a hand to wave. “I assume your parents dragged you here?” he asked.

Sam groaned, slouching back into the high-backed chair. “Unfortunately,” she said, shaking her head dejectedly. “Full offense, but this gala sucks— they always do.”

Duke laughed, the sound rich and lively. “B dragged us out here too. Something about not wanting us to fight over who would get to stay home,” he said, rolling his eyes.

“You would have lost anyway,” Cass chirped.

Duke made an affronted sound, putting his hand dramatically to his chest. “Weren’t you raised to have more class than that, Miss Cassandra?” he teased.

“Nope,” she said simply. Then, raising her hands, she added in sign, “Call me that again— suffer.” She put sharp exaggeration to the words, both showing how little she appreciated the full name and emphasizing her threat.

Duke laughed. “Fine, fine,” he said, placing his open hand to his chest, thumb facing inward with the gesture. 

Sam couldn't help but laugh. It was practically an exchange she’d have with Tuck and Danny— sign and all. Between Tucker’s hearing and the secretive nature of many of their conversations, sign language often worked in their favor.

It had Sam wondering if they preferred to sign, or if it was maybe easier for one of them.

  “Do you normally fight over who has to attend the events? And, uh, do you normally use Sign?” Sam asked, figuring she ought to bring it up now before learning later that one of them was hard of hearing and struggling.

She made two circling gestures with her pointer fingers to designate the language, hoping they'd get the hint that she knew it herself.

Duke's eyes widened in surprise and Cass positively beamed . She repeated Sam's gesture, pointing to her expectantly and raising her brows, clearly asking, "You know it?"

Sam nodded. "A friend, hard of hearing," she signed, drawing a lowercase N in the air with her first two fingers together, mimicking the gesture Tucker taught her to describe himself. 

Cass nodded along, looking pleased. “Sign is easy,” she expressed, her right hand pointed to her chest as she wound out of the upwards sweeping gesture with it.

Easier for her, Sam understood. For her hearing or speech ability, she couldn’t say— not that it was any of Sam's business.

“The dark makes it harder, but…” she said aloud before trailing off, wiping the palms of her hands across her knuckles and down her fingers: “Comfortable.”

Tucker was the same at times, especially right after the portal. The influx of ghosts in Amity had been hell— was hell— on a lot of forms of technology. It was only after he started mixing Fenton tech with his materials that Tucker was comfortably able to use his hearing aids again without a wall of static in his ears. 

He still had static in his ears at times but, well, Ghostspeak was just like that.

"As for fighting— a gala usually means some sort of war," Duke said. He was leaning completely back in his chair now, sleek black shoes kicked up over the chair in front of him and his arms pillowed behind his head. 

Sam wrinkled her nose, confused. "What?" she asked.

Duke raised a brow at her. "You asked if we usually fight to see who attends," he pointed out.

Cass pointed upwards, her hand facing her as she took it in circles, "Always."

Sam couldn't help but blush, her thoughts a scattered jumble. "Right, sorry," she said, rubbing her fist against her chest in a circle for the word. 

She felt unnerved— out of place. Sam still couldn’t stop focusing on the aura radiating from Cass, gentle ripples flowing over the surface of a disturbed pond. It didn’t help that Sam couldn’t exactly look away from her, not without possibly missing what she had to say. 

Duke chuckled. "I'm guessing you don't have any siblings to take the fall for gala attendance?" 

Sam shook her head. "No. And my parents don't exactly like my friends enough to have them tag along."

Not that Danny or Tucker would want to tag along, but it would probably make these events a little less unbearable if she had someone to sneak off with like these two.

Duke sighed. “I wish I’d get the same treatment,” he said mournfully.

Cass held her hand loose, pulling it away from her face and into a closed gesture, “Leave.” She then made a shooing motion, a playful, open expression on her face.

Duke rolled his eyes at it and just slumped further back into his chair. “I don’t have enough energy for escape plans tonight— not with this shitty weather, anyway,” he said, waving a hand lazily in the air before pointing it out towards the railing.

As if to prove his point, a particularly strong burst of wind came, throwing a cold mist of rain around the pillars and into Sam’s face. Cass laughed, the quiet sound hardly audible over the storm. The pillar she leaned against blocked most of the rain, but Sam could see droplets falling from the tips of her hair.

“See?” Duke both said and signed, forcefully pointing the V-shaped gesture at Cass and then to the dark sky. 

Wars to determine attendance— escape plans. Sam had so many questions for them.

Still, none quite as pressing as why Cass felt two steps closer to the grave than most. Not that she was about to ask.

Sam couldn’t help but jump when the balcony door suddenly opened, the light from the gala hall spilling over the stone. A sharp burst of noise carried through the entrance before the door was quickly shut, reducing it once more to the muted murmur through the window panes.

The tension that had quickly stiffened Sam’s shoulders washed away as she recognized a familiar head of blonde hair.

“Oh, I’m so glad you guys are still out here,” Steph called exasperatedly, throwing back her head dramatically. “I was about ready to yank my hair out in there.”

She stomped on over to the table, carrying a large silver tray of mostly desserts, like the plate she’d abandoned when Sam chased after Vlad. Steph paused briefly when she saw Sam, giving her a wide grin as she set the tray down in the center of the table. It looked as though she’d stolen one of the serving dishes and thrown an eclectic collection of various desserts and fruits onto it.

“Damn, Steph, good haul,” Duke said. He sat up straight, the legs of his chair dragging across the stone as he leaned forward and grabbed what looked like a puff pastry.

“I have my ways,” Steph said, nodding sagely. She pulled up the chair next to Sam, wiping some water off the seat before sitting down, bunching up the long skirt of her purple dress. She grabbed some pastries herself, leaning back in the chair to pass a couple to Cass.

“You mean shoveling everything onto a platter and running the moment B’s too distracted to notice,” Duke said, stuffing the pastry into his mouth.

“Bingo.” She shot Duke a finger gun before turning her attention on Sam, dark blue eyes gleaming mischievously in the pale light.

“I was hoping to run into you again. I see you’ve met some more friends,” she said, pointing back and forth at Duke and Cass.

Sam looked between them, awkward and on the spot. “Uh, yeah. I just wanted out of the hall, honestly,” she admitted, tapping her nails on the metal surface of the table. 

Steph grinned, her eyes following the movement of her fingers. “It can be a lot,” she admitted, nodding. “I like the nails, by the way— they match the pendant,” she then added, flashing a wolfish grin at Cass, an inside joke hidden in the expression. 

Sam stopped drumming her fingers long enough to look more closely at the polish. The light from the lanterns caught a hint of green in the black, a reminder of the ectoplasm she’d dripped into the bottle. It made the polish stronger and, on more than one occasion, had given her the edge she needed to grab an errant ghost.

“Thanks,” she said, resuming her tapping. “I made it myself.”

Steph made an impressed whistle, nodding her head approvingly. “I like you. Hell, after watching that argument with that Vlad guy, I feel like I owe you a standing ovation or something— definitely at least one of these.” She pushed the platter towards Sam, pointing at the assortment of treats on the dish.

“Argument?” Duke asked, leaning forward curiously. 

When Steph did not explain, instead looking at Sam expectantly, she sighed with resignation. Of course she’d bring that up.

“The mayor of my town is here and he was trying to spread some lies. I wanted to set the record straight,” Sam growled, picking her nails along the small divots in the table’s surface.

Steph let out a laugh at that, twisting around to look at Cass. “You guys should have seen it. An argument over ghosts in the middle of the ballroom— until Dick dumped wine on the guy’s suit.” She mimed the action of holding a wine glass and tipping it forwards, following it up with a dramatic jazz hands splash.

Duke snorted, seeming not at all surprised about Dick’s actions. “Ghosts?” he asked, a grin stretching his lips as he looked between Steph and Sam curiously.

The feeling that surrounded Cass remained, soaking through Sam with the same gravity of the word ‘ghost’. She couldn’t help but glance at the girl, wondering if the word had any real meaning to her. Anything that might account for the strange aura, or give any hint that Cass herself was aware of it.

Sam could see nothing, no hint that Cass might know more. She simply smiled with curious interest, eyebrows raised in silent question as she pinched both hands into the sign for F before pulling one away in an upwards spiral, repeating the gesture once, “Ghosts?”

Sam had to bite her tongue, resisting the urge to lay her suspicions bare. Instead, she wheeled her focus back to Vlad, settling once more into the easy anger that came with the man. She’d already been on one rant today; what was another?

“Yeah, ghosts. I don’t care if anyone here believes in them or not,” Sam paused, eyebrows drawn together, waiting for any hint that the three of them doubted her claims. She’d dealt with enough skeptics over the last several months, and the last thing she needed now was their scrutiny.

When none of them interrupted, Steph even waving her hand in a gesture that quite plainly said, ‘go on’, Sam took a deep breath and continued.

  “Amity Park’s as haunted as it gets. We’ve got enough of a problem getting people to take us seriously without that idiot spreading lies. I know Gotham isn’t exactly an easy place to live either, but at least people take your threats seriously .”

Duke tipped his head to the side in thought. "Threats? What kind of damage can a ghost do?” he asked.

Sam could just picture the sort of ghosts Duke had in mind, bedsheets and boos and nothing of real substance. A bit over a year ago, Sam would have just said the town was a bit eccentric. Host to ghost hunters without anything to hunt, and enough folklore to fill several leather-bound tomes. A strange, quiet town that was more boring than anything, with underfunded schools that cared too much about sports.

The portal, its spark an igniting force built upon death, buried that easy facade. 

"They can do more than you’d think. Not all of the ghosts are dangerous, though— they’re like people. A lot of them are people, in their own way,” Sam said defensively, her thoughts lingering not just on Danny, but all of the friendly ghosts they had met over the last several months, needing to preface that fact before saying, “Amity just has a lot of bad eggs— just like Gotham.”

Sam couldn’t keep the bite out of her tone, or soften the steely glare she fixed Duke with. From harmless blobs to the complicated personality of a woman with her anger tied to the claws of a dragon, it wasn’t so simple to categorize and lump ghosts together. 

Duke’s smile turned sheepish, almost a grimace. “Sorry, no offense. It's just… Not every day someone compares their town to Gotham.”

“Or says there’s ghosts running around it,” Steph chimed in, still grinning.
Sam shot her a glare. “Look, I told you I don’t care if anyone believes me or not. I don’t have to prove anything to you. I know I’m going to head home in a couple of days and I’ll probably see another ghost within an hour of landing. If you’re that skeptical about it, go see for yourself.”

Sam wasn’t even sure when she jumped to her feet, hands planted on the table, her nails positively digging into the divots. She was sick of being patronized. It was one thing coming from Vlad, asshole in chief that he was, but a whole other thing coming from someone who had never even laid eyes on Amity Park.

“Woah, hey— I didn’t mean it like that,” Steph said, holding up her hands placatingly, dropping another pastry she’d just picked up. “It’s weird, sure, but Gotham’s plenty weird too. I’m just curious is all.”

She glanced at Cass, as though seeking help, and Sam just barely caught the pointed, chin-stroking sign of, “Unsure.”

Sam huffed, gritting her teeth. She wanted now more than ever to address Cass— to say something of her aura and find out just how these three held ignorance towards ghosts with her in their midst.

But Sam held her tongue, at least in that regard. She directed her anger elsewhere, honed and sharpened on a familiar sore spot.

“Gotham doesn’t know the half of weird ,” she said, nails now dimpling crescents into her skin as she balled them into fists. “Our town disappeared for days and no one gave a shit.”

She was pacing now, Cass pressed closer to the pillar to give her space. The temperature shifted drastically as Sam moved between the pillars and the open railing, the wind biting at her with each pass. Thunder rumbled far off, echoing her anger with its distant growl.

“Disappeared?” Sam heard Duke whisper.

“I know it sounds insane— you don’t think I feel insane talking about this? I’m just…” Sam trailed off, leaning against the railing and letting out a groan. “I’m frustrated. And angry. I didn’t expect to run into Vlad today and now I’m really pissed off… I didn’t even want to be here.” 

Sam twisted around to glare out into the open air, refusing to focus on the three sets of eyes trained on her. She didn’t regret her anger, didn’t regret snapping, but the tension was just one more shitty bullet point to the day. The wind whipped into Sam's face, the rain a constant, steady drum against the balcony roof. It did little to ease her frustration and unease. Ranting about Amity to these three felt like shouting at a wall, expecting it to move. 

“Um,” Steph said nervously, clearly trying to step carefully around the issue. “You mentioned something about the Justice League earlier, after that Vlad guy left?”
Sam curled her lip in anger, glancing back at her. “Yeah, I said they haven’t done anything to help us— you don’t think we tried that already? My friends and I tried sending a message ourselves, but no one ever came. I guess they thought the ghosts were bullshit too.”

Sam had watched Tucker send the message. She’d written most of it, even, with Danny by her side helping her to remember the details she couldn’t. They’d argued before then, with Danny hesitant to seek help, both convinced that he had the ghosts handled and worried interference from the JL would prove dangerous. 

Sam hadn’t given him a choice after he was stabbed in the shoulder by Skulker. Danny was still recovering from that injury when they sent the message, bandages spun beneath his tattered old hoodie and a dejected expression on his face.

A whole lot of good that effort did.

The response Sam’s sour admittance got was just as strange as her first mention of it in the hall, with Steph and Cass exchanging an uncertain look and Duke fidgeting uncomfortably. Tense and confused— disbelieving. Of the ghosts or the Justice League’s failure to help, Sam couldn’t be sure.

She wasn’t sure she wanted to know which.

Light once more spilled out onto the balcony, accompanied by the squeal of the large wooden doors. Sam glowered in their direction, wondering which of the Waynes she could expect. 

It was Dick, one hand shoved into the pocket of his suit and the other held in a wave as he spotted them at the end of the balcony. He hurried over to them, grinning, but the smile slipped from his face when his eyes landed on Sam’s stony expression.

Coming to a halt, he paused, looking between her and his family. “Uh, did I come at a bad time?” he asked.

Steph made an uncomfortable sound in her throat and a so-so gesture with her hand. 

“We were just learning a bit about Amity Park,” Duke said with an awkward chuckle, followed in short order by Cass making the same, spiraling gesture for, “Ghost.”

Dick nodded slowly, his mouth a tight line. “Right…” Then, his mouth pulling into much more of a frown, he asked, “Where’s Damian?”

His eyes landed fixedly on Sam. Considering he’d left her with his little brother, she couldn’t say she blamed him.

“He wasn’t with you?” Duke asked.

Dick shook his head and nodded towards her, “I introduced him to Sam and went to go check on Tim,” he said.

All eyes turned once more to Sam and she fidgeted uncomfortably, gripping the railing behind her more tightly. “Don’t look at me. I said like six words to him and he stormed off; I’ve got no clue where he went.”

It wasn’t altogether a lie. If Damian’s departure had anything to do with her taking a picture of him? Well, Sam decided to keep that to herself. She’d had one too many scrutinizing stares from the Waynes to want to bring Danny into the fold now.

Dick ran a hand through his hair, scratching at his scalp. “I wonder if he went looking for Tim and I missed him…” he said, looking back towards the doors.

Steph hopped up out of her seat, quickly moving towards him. “I can help you look for him,” she said, sounding relieved. “Besides, it’ll give me another excuse to bug Tim.”

Dick just nodded, his gaze far off and absent, roving over the balcony. “Sure… Yeah, sure. That sounds like a good plan.”

Sam couldn’t help but notice how his gaze lingered on her a little too long.

“We’ll catch up in a little bit,” Steph said with a wave. Then, her eyes landing on Sam she added, “I really would like to hear more about that town of yours later, if you wanna talk about it. No hard feelings?”

Sam shifted, relaxing her iron grip on the wet railing. “Yeah, sure,” she said, hoping her parents wouldn’t stick around long enough to live up to those words.

Knowing they most likely would.

A grin and another wave. Steph was at the door in an instant, following behind Dick. The light of the ballroom returned, a brief splash of sound echoing out before it shut once more, leaving Sam, Duke, and Cass in an awkward silence.

Eyes shifted about the room, Cass and Duke once more conversing in pointed looks. Turning back around, facing the railing, Sam tried to ignore the tense air as she stared out over the city far below. The wind whipped at her face, her black locks already wet with rain. Her mom would have a few choice words about the state of her hair and dress, but Sam had far more pressing worries. 

The streets of Gotham glistened, a thousand street and car lights reflected in the puddles and through the rain. Sam traced over the roadways, wondering if she could spot their hotel if she looked close enough. Sam wished she could head back there now and get some sleep, maybe enough that she’d wake up on the dawn of their departure and get to head back home.

With another sigh, Sam pulled out her phone, shielding it with her hand from the rain as she pulled up her group chat with Danny and Tucker. There were no new messages still. Nothing from Tucker. Nothing from Danny. 

Hand gripping her phone a bit too tightly, Sam clung onto the thin hope that he was still out on patrol. Out flying, maybe, if not hunting down a ghost.

(She refused to look up the weather in Amity. Refused to give herself any more reason to doubt and worry.)

Sam could feel Cass’ eyes on her as she tapped out a text into the group chat. She and Duke were speaking quietly in sign now and Sam didn’t have the energy to look up and see if they were talking about her.

Sam: The Waynes are weirder than expected
Sam: Prepare for a long rant when I get back to the hotel

Sam: and Danny.

Sam: You’d better be on patrol right now.

Sam stared at the chat for a long moment, droplets of rain dotting her screen. Maybe if she looked hard enough she could will a response out of Danny.

If only it could be that easy.

After a minute without anything, even from Tucker, Sam sighed and powered off her screen, shoving her phone back into her purse.

She faced once more into the wind, leant against the railing. Gotham was so unalike Amity— much brighter, louder, and larger. Spiderwebs of streets lit with the bright glare of headlights cutting through the rain. Tall buildings stretching into the clouds, pointed roofs disappearing into the storm above. It was beautiful, in its own strange way, though Sam honestly preferred Amity and its many rough edges. As gorgeous as Gotham’s architecture was, with its tediously carved stone and glowering gargoyles, Sam would take the hush of a foggy Amity night over the clamor of sleepless streets.

Assuming no ghosts came to call, of course. 

A luxury rarely afforded to their town.

Sam supposed Gotham at least had that peace of mind, though their gallery of rogues seemed a comparable substitute, not that she'd admit it to them.

Cass shuffled beside Sam, moving closer and settling next to her, arms hung over the railing. Her eyes occasionally flickered to Sam, sharp and searching, and that ghostly aura pressed against her senses, closer now more than ever before. If Danny felt like a raging storm, Cass was a misting rain. A shadow of ghostly potential, death licking at her heels in a way she didn’t think possible until now.

Sam had to wonder what relationship the girl had with death. How much she knew. If she could feel something from Sam, in the same way that Jazz said her own presence brushed her senses like the gusting wind. 

Sam’s eyes continued to trace over the streets, the motion methodical and relaxing. Something to focus on and let her thoughts wander into careless ease.

Her gaze found an intersection several blocks away, lingering there like a pedestrian waiting to cross. Maybe it was just ghosts on her mind, the tension of the day, but the green glare of the street light seemed to burn. It stood out brightly, reflecting off of the wet asphalt and nearby signs. Sam’s eyelids drooped, her thoughts teetering back to Amity and images of ghosts streaking through the night. A hundred late-night patrols, with the constant glow of ectoguns, ectoblasts, and Phantom’s luminous eyes.

The green shifted— in more than thought.

Unease ghosted across Sam's skin, a stone settling into her stomach. Stiffening, her fingernails digging into the railing, Sam blinked against the wind. She stared at the intersection, her heartbeat picking up as she scanned for any shifting movement.

The traffic light briefly turned yellow before it glowed a steady red, still and unassuming. 

Sam slowly shook her head, trying to dispel the image. The glow staining her eyes surely nothing more than her imagination at play.

After all, how many times had Sam imagined a ghost around the next corner? In the flicker of a fire, the rustle of leaves, or the skittering form of a raccoon— every movement in the night a ghost, every glow a potential enemy.

This was Gotham. There was no portal here, no ghosts other than Vlad and… perhaps Cass, in some small way. Just the pair of them, and even then nothing to account for a green glow. Plasmius’ fire burned magenta, an awful pink that had Sam’s blood boiling as much as the ectoplasm itself. 

“Sam?” Cass’ voice felt distant to her ears, just a drop in the endless buckets of rain falling over the city, blowing into the balcony with each errant gust. The spectral energy that coiled around her seemed to reach out to Sam with the same hesitancy.

“Is everything all right?” Duke asked, concerned. 

Sam didn’t turn to look at either of them, her eyes still locked on the traffic light. It was green again, decidedly not the same green, but there all the same. The color had her heartbeat picking up still, a quickening warning drum as though the light itself might jump into a waiting threat. It turned yellow again as she watched, and Sam was just about to look Cass in the eye, a lie of reassurance on her tongue, when the color snapped—

It blazed a stunning emerald.

Not the green of a traffic light. Something brighter and ethereal— familiar as it was haunting. A shiver ran the course of Sam’s spine as the light twisted into a large mass. It loped across the street on too-long legs, a hulking beast of a ghost.

It was gone a moment later, slipping past one of the buildings on the corner and leaving several swerved cars in its wake.

The traffic light no longer glowed at all.

Sam didn’t know why or how, but there was a ghost in Gotham. Not just any ghost, but a monster of one. A large beast, loose on the streets and many miles away from Phantom’s halting hand.

The ectogun in Sam’s bag practically burned.

She whirled around, her eyes wide and unfocused. The night air had chilled, the pressure of the storm a heavy, looming thing that beat awful blows against the raw edges of her composure. The Waynes were staring at her— staring down at the city streets where her eyes had just been. Sam couldn’t be sure if they saw the ghost, or if they would even be able to give the creature a proper name if they had.

But Sam had a name for it. She knew what sort of damage a ghost that size was capable of. The longer she stood on the balcony, tucked beneath the Waynes’ awkward stares, the longer the ghost had to roam.

Where would it go? What would it do?

Why was it here?

Sam had no answers to her own questions, only the burning need to move. She had to act. She had to help. She needed to—

“Sam, what’s going—”

Duke had barely opened his mouth when the lights on the balcony cut out.

Darkness slammed against Sam’s eyes, accompanied by a far-off rumble of thunder. Sound crashed into her ears just as forcefully as screams issued from the closed balcony doors.

Blinking, adjusting to the gloom, Sam could make out the grainy shapes of Duke, Steph, and Cass in the ambient light of the city. Cass was close beside her, blocking her from the doors almost protectively. Duke faced them as though they were an enemy to fight.

The doors sprang open and he leapt back, knocking over a chair and nearly stumbling into Cass as several people crowded out onto the balcony, shouting too many things for Sam’s sensitive ears to parse out.

The sounds meant very little, a dull roar underscoring the horrifying visual that stained her eyes when a bright flash of green rocketed over the crowd, swooping through the gala hall in a wide arc.

It burned in the nearby windows, bright enough to shine through the thick curtains. A steady glow, as sickly and dead as the thing that prowled the streets below.

Duke was trying to force his way through the crowd, shouting something to Cass about staying with Sam.

That wasn’t right. 

Cass’ hand fell on her arm, her grip gentle but firm, and it wasn’t right. 

Duke managed to disappear through the crowd that gained on the balcony, slipping closer to the green glint of a ghost he couldn’t fight— and it wasn’t right .

Sam tried to wrench her arm free from Cass’ grip. Tried to collect her thoughts into proper words that could even begin to explain that she knew what this was and how to handle it. That she wasn’t the one who needed protection now, and they’d be better off standing back.

More people crowded out onto the balcony, staring transfixed at the lightshow within as that streak of green made another swoop through the darkened hall. Sam and Cass were pushed further into the corner, Sam’s leg knocking aside another one of the chairs as Cass practically corralled her to the furthest edge where a dark puddle pooled along the wall.

Too much. It was all too much: too many people pushing onto the balcony, too many sounds as the screams crescendoed like a rising wave, mercilessly crashing down on her ears. The grip on her arm too tight, the contact like fire against Sam’s skin.

“Let me go,” she said. She might’ve said it already, Sam wasn’t sure. 

She’d never faced ghosts like this before, not without knowing that there was support close at hand. Someone who would have her back, with weapons fit to handle the job.

That backup was miles and miles away, oblivious to the peril gripping Gotham. Completely unaware of Sam’s struggle, between Cass’ iron grip and the hand that hesitated to pull out her ectogun in front of so many prying eyes.

Could she even do anything without spilling every last secret Amity had to offer?

Was it worth the risk?

The Justice League had abandoned them, after all. Gotham too, for all their connections to the League. Why shouldn’t she repay the favor?

“You don’t understand. I can help, I can—”

The words trailed off of her lips without a second thought. Sam couldn’t stand on the sidelines, not when she had the means to do something. She would never forgive herself, even if Danny would.

Knowing him, Danny would blame himself for this. Miles away, with no means to help, but that boy would somehow blame himself.

As if he needed another burden to carry on his scrawny shoulders. They already held mountains more than any person’s should.

The green in the gala venue blazed, a shrill cackle rising over the terrified wails of the attendants. 

A familiar squawk— the beat of wings.

Sam managed to wrench herself free from Cass’ grip when she saw it: the familiar, broad wingspan of a toxic green vulture.

It was just a flash, a brief glimpse of wisping wings as the ghost dove low over a sea of scattered people, but she would know the awful sight anywhere. 

Sam had never seen just one of them. Had never known them not to appear without another close behind.

Without Vlad directing their flight…

Cass grabbed Sam’s shoulder much tighter, her nails digging in—

A familiar cold enveloped her, much sharper and sicklier than anything from Cass. It sent a shudder down Sam’s spine as talons dug in, a matching set finding purchase in her opposite shoulder before a weightlessness lifted the heels of her boots from the stone balcony.

One moment Sam was standing, feet firmly planted and Cass beside her, and the next she was hurtling upwards through the brick and mortar of the building, dragged painfully by her shoulders and flailing her arms. Great green talons dug in on either side and wide wings flapped overhead. Sam hardly dared look down as the roof of Wayne Tower spun away, the building a dark monolith against the night sky with its blackened windows yawning wide.

Sam opened her mouth to swear at the ghost, but all of the air was driven from her lungs as the vulture turned tangible once more. All at once the wind and rain they’d seamlessly glided through beat against Sam in one awful gust. It drenched her to the skin, the wind cold shards of ice against her as the vulture dipped into the draft, gliding along the edge of several towering skyscrapers.

“Let… me… go!” Sam choked out, turning her head and shutting her eyes tight against the battering wind.

“And let you fall to the pavement? The young halfa would have my tailfeathers. No, no. I will take you where you cannot be a problem, and you will go quietly if you know what’s good for you.”

Each thick-accented word had Sam’s teeth on edge, grit with anger and defiance. She opened her eyes a crack, watching as the vulture turned round in a wide arc, its left wing tilting as it soared over what looked like a park far below.

“Let me… down!” Sam demanded, struggling to speak over the wind choking her breath. 

She reached up, muscles strained against the squall until her hand closed around the rough, scaly leg anchored to her right shoulder. Sam dug her own nails in, a small payback to the large hooked talons bruising her flesh.

The vulture let out an awful squawk, faltering as its wings stuttered in pace. “If you fall— you cannot fall!”

“Then put… me down!” Sam bellowed, putting everything she had into the shout— everything into driving her nails in deeper. 

She knew that the vulture was right. If he dropped her now, there would be more than hell to pay for it. Danny would not rest— would tear through every inch of the Ghost Zone to find the ghost responsible and make each miserable second of his afterlife torment if Phantom ever learned who had caused her death.

Sam had to bank on that, hating how surely she could rely on Danny’s Obsession. It was all she had, other than the sure grip of her nails in the ghost’s ectoplasmic flesh, the drops of it in her polish put to good use. Streaks of green ran down her hand, washed away in an instant by both the rain and the vulture flickering intangible, trying desperately to escape the claw of her nails.

The ghost teetered, its broad feathers shadowing Sam’s right side as it dove dangerously into a half-roll.

The wind roared against Sam’s ears. The lights of the city spun, glaring starbursts that streaked across the gloomy sky.

A building rushed towards them, as dark and menacing as an iceberg sitting before a ship at sea.

Sam shut her eyes tight as they met it.

Chapter Text

The first thing Sam noticed were cold drops of rain on her face. 

Hazy thoughts drifted through her mind, indistinct and wavering. A cloud settled over her head and a throbbing ache surrounded it. Groaning, Sam turned her head, hissing when she felt her scalp scrape against loose stones. 

Sam couldn’t say where she was. She couldn’t remember. Disjointed memories filtered through her mind, with no clear connections to bind them together. All as loose and gritty as the stones digging into her skin.

Sam could remember doing her makeup in front of the mirror, feeling dread and annoyance in equal measure. Walking down a long hallway lined with pictures, it ending in a ballroom with too many people and far too much noise. Vlad’s honeyed, lying words and his anger, no less sharp than her own. The strange Wayne siblings, two of them hauntingly familiar…

(Large green bird wings overhead— the wind rushing through her hair— rain pummeling her skin—)

Sam tried to sit up, fear coursing through her as she recalled the cold dig of talons. A sharp pain lanced her skull and her stomach turned at the sudden jolt; it was all Sam could do to clutch her aching head, swallowing down a long list of swears.

The gala had been attacked. Sam had been taken. She… She fell.

(Rushing towards a building, the dark shape coming far too close as those talons dug in—)

Hesitantly, Sam opened her eyes, squinting through the bleariness into the pouring rain. She couldn’t make sense of much at first, the world tilting a little too far to the left as her senses realigned and settled. Visuals floated, slowly snapping into place. The distant twinkle of bright and hazy lights, the dark silhouettes of tall, looming structures, and dark puddles reflecting it all in wavering, murky color…

Sam pulled her hand away from her hair, squinting at her palm. The flesh had been scraped raw, the skin red and peppered with dark bits of stone.

Everything felt just as raw and sore. Not an inch of her was spared, the ache settling in practically every joint from her toes to the base of her skull.

Shifting her legs, Sam was at least grateful that nothing felt broken. She patted her hips and sides experimentally, breath hitching when her ribs throbbed in protest. Hissing, Sam pressed more firmly on her right side where the pain was the worst, gauging the damage there. It hurt, but Sam had broken ribs before and this pain was mercifully not comparable.

Lucky. It felt like a terrible word choice for the day, an awful one from the start, but Sam knew that she was very lucky.

Glancing around, Sam noticed a bed of gray gravel, soaked with the rain still falling in cold, windy sheets. It puddled around her, flecks of water and little stones leaping up with each raindrop. The gravel was familiar, reminding Sam of hanging out on top of Casper High’s roof with Danny and Tucker after late-night patrols. 

Wherever the vulture had dropped her, it was on top of some building. 

(Better a roof than the middle of the street, she supposed.)

As Sam’s vision cleared, the buildings around her sharpened into focus, all sharp angles and darkened windows She was on top of a shorter building, dwarfed by a nearby skyscraper that stretched higher than Sam could see through the cloud cover. The Tower could have been miles away for all Sam knew, though she at least took solace in recognizing the sharp, pointed angles of Gotham’s architecture. She could even see a gargoyle facing into the wind, rainwater rushing off of its cracked beak.

If only Sam knew where she was in the city, and how long she had been out cold.

With shaking hands, Sam groped through the gravel to grab the dark lump of her bag. The purse was positively soaked through, the fabric heavy with water as she dragged it from a large, murky puddle. Sam knew even before she unzipped the top that she’d find a mess inside. The makeup she’d squirreled away into the bag had dissolved, staining the contents black. Her ectogun seemed to fair well, the worst of the makeup sliding off of the silvery metal, but her phone was another story. Spiderwebs of cracks covered the screen, stained black by the makeup that dripped off of the device in dark droplets. The case had cracked along the back, almost breaking in two. 

Sam hardly dared turn it on. She stared at her wavering reflection in the cracks, noticing the unkempt frazzle of her soaked hair and the messy smudge of her eyeliner. 

Sighing, Sam stuffed the phone into her pocket. If she could just dry it off a bit, maybe by some divine luck it would turn on.

The rain fell in a steady patter, strong gusts of wind throwing it every which way. Sam couldn’t help but shiver, feeling the weather sap the warmth from her skin. Summer felt a long way off right now, impossibly far away. As distant as Amity.

Sam could have sat there for hours. Were it not for the rain, she probably could have even lain down on the gravel and fallen asleep, letting that bone-deep exhaustion pull her eyelids low. No amount of griping and dread had prepared Sam for just how monumental of a shitshow the gala became.

 Her mind kept wandering back to the toxic gleam of ghosts and the fiery glint that lingered in Vlad’s eyes. His thinly-veiled threats. Danny’s texts warning her to leave well enough alone…

Sam shut her eyes, fear tangling with her anger in an awful spiral that spread throughout her body until it settled in the ache and tensed her hand as she dug her nails into the gravel.

Sam couldn’t even say she was all that surprised.

The sounds of the city slowly floated to her ears. Beneath the rain and wind she could hear sirens. Nothing all that strange for Gotham, but when Sam let her mind at last wander from the vultures to that massive ghost stalking the streets below, that siren had her blood running cold.

Sitting was a luxury she didn’t feel she could afford. 

With a frustrated groan, Sam dug her hands into the gravel and carefully hoisted herself up onto her feet. Her right leg twinged with pain and her arms shook, but she slowly gained her balance. She ground her boots into the gravel, testing each leg. 

Two intact legs. Shaky and sore, but strong enough to carry.

Sam didn’t bother to grab her waterlogged bag. She had her phone in her pocket and the ectogun in hand. Sam checked the weapon over one last time, noticing that part of the grip was slightly bent, but that the rest of the device had miraculously survived unscathed.

If there was one thing she could give the Fentons credit for, they knew how to build shit meant to last— even if a lot of it probably shouldn’t.

Sam took a few tentative steps, legs wobbling like a newborn deer as the gravel, more silt than anything amidst the puddles, slid underneath her boots. She carefully picked her way across the roof to its lipped edge, kneeling down on it before she dared look over the side. Though the building she was on was much shorter than the ones surrounding it, there was still a dizzying drop into the alleyway below. Sam felt gravity tug at her— both the sickening lurch of the height and the gravity of her situation, each dragging her heart down with the same nauseous fear.

Sam didn’t even know what time it was. She didn’t know how long the ghosts had had to run wild, causing whatever mayhem they could—

And without a soul fit to stop them.

Flights of Fancy of the Justice League swooping in to protect their town were a far, distant pipe dream to Sam now. A fantasy, rudely awoken from. They had never answered their call for help, never once acknowledged the hauntings, let alone extended a hand.

For all Batman’s gadgets, Sam doubted there was a single piece of gear in his arsenal fit to handle a creature who could simply slip through metal and stone. 

Hell, even the Fentons, equipped as they were, weren’t often up for the task. 

Sam grit her teeth. She glanced back and forth down the alleyway, as though one of the ghosts might suddenly appear, giving her a proper target for the anger filling her from top to bottom.

Too much anger at too many people, herself included. For being caught unawares— for getting grabbed so easily— for earning Vlad’s ire in the first place. 

Hot tears pricked at the corners of Sam’s eyes and she roughly wiped them away with the back of her hand, no doubt smearing more of her eyeliner. She shut her eyes tight, willing those tears away with gritted teeth, struggling to swallow the emotion down.

Sam didn’t even know if her parents were safe. If the Waynes were, too. They’d tried to protect her. She’d grouched and glared at them, but when push came to shove Duke and Cass had put themselves between her and the danger… Now, for all she knew, Wayne Tower could be a pile of smoking rubble, heedless of her self-imposed pity party.

Sam ruefully shook her head at the thought— quickly aborting the gesture when a sharp jab of pain went through her skull. All she could do was breathe in deep, trying her best not to catastrophize (as Jazz would probably phrase it).

There was no time for fears and doubts now. No time to sit and wait for help. The cool metal of the ectogun burned in Sam’s hand, begging to fire. 

With one last deep, steadying breath Sam opened her eyes and scanned the side of the building, feeling relief when she found a fire escape anchored to the brick. It didn’t quite reach the roof of the building, missing a top ladder, but the structure appeared stable and mostly clear, except for a couple of chairs and wilting plants. 

She’d scaled worse, though the rain did nothing to boost Sam’s confidence. Not that she had the time to build up more than a fractured Jenga tower of her usual composure.

Slipping the ectogun into the belt of her dress, making sure it and her phone were both secure, Sam carefully lowered herself down over the fire escape. She held onto the edge of the roof for dear life, lowering herself as much as she possibly could to reach the escape landing below. Her hands shook with the effort and it was all Sam could do to hold on, nails digging against the rough brick.

Yet for all her desperate grip, the slick stone slid beneath her fingertips. Sam’s heart leapt into her throat as she slipped, knowing one horrifying, gut-wrenching moment of open air before her back collided roughly with the metal walkway below.

The awful, clanging sound of metal deafened Sam’s ears and the force drove the air from her lungs. She lay dazed for a moment, the rain swirling through her spotty, skittering vision, before she had enough willpower to force herself back up.

There was a window right next to her head, the filthy glass dark against the white brick. Sam stared at it for a long moment, hardly daring to breathe as she tried to see anything through the grime, half-expecting the lights inside to turn on. For all her bravado, Sam didn’t fancy angering any Gothamites. Amity Parkers were their own brand of tenacious, but Sam didn’t fancy her chances in a fight against humans, soaked to the skin, bruised from one too many falls, and lost.

Mercifully, the window remained dark and the night just as silent—

As silent as a Gotham night could be with sirens still echoing through the streets. Sam couldn’t tell if they were closer than before. 

Shaking, still rattled from the fall, Sam grabbed the railing of the fire escape and took a deep breath through her nose.

“Come on, you’ve got this,” she whispered to herself.

She climbed slowly, careful not to slip. Sam had been lucky so far, but she wasn’t about to give her luck anymore chances to run out. 

The rest of the climb down was much easier, maneuvering over each level and down to the next. The structure shook whenever Sam took a step, the wind rattling it dangerously as it picked up, a blustery and never-ending roar. Sam clutched on as tight as she could, hoping beyond hope that the structure would simply hold long enough to carry her to the bottom. It could fall apart all it wanted once her feet were on the ground.

By the time Sam reached the final level, she stared at the alley below with shaking legs that had the fire escape jolting with her unease. It wasn’t that high of a jump— Sam had certainly managed more drastic leaps before— but the temperamental weather and her unsteady legs put doubt in her belly. Still, Sam didn’t have the time to sit around on some fire escape in the middle of Gotham, not with ghosts prowling the streets somewhere.

Sam stared up and down the alleyway she was in, stretching her ears to catch any sounds. Every one of her senses focused, searching for anything that jumped out in the night. One of Gotham’s many dangers, lurking around the corner and prepared to strike.

It looked like any old alley to Sam, nestled between two brick buildings with a large dumpster, a few broken crates, and some garbage strewn in the dirty puddles. The only living being Sam could see was a truly impressive rat nibbling on the edge of a cardboard box. It didn’t quite stack up to some of the ghost rats Sam had seen in Amity, but the thing was still dangerously close to being cat-sized.

(Better a giant rat than some creep hiding in the alley, she supposed.)

The dumpster wasn’t directly beneath the fire escape, but it was close enough that Sam could make a jump for it if she aimed right. The lid was mercifully closed, though it did little to disguise the stench wafting up from the container. 

Crouching down on the edge of the fire escape, Sam aimed for the edge of the dumpster, tensed her muscles, and jumped. She hit it at a bad angle, bruising her leg along the lip of the container with a gasp, but managed to scramble up on top of it.

Sam wasted no time in hopping down from the dumpster, stumbling badly but glad to at last have her feet planted on firm ground. The rat scampered away the moment she stirred the puddles, slipping through a large crack in the bricks.

The wind blew sharply between the buildings, the rain coming and going as it skirted overtop the narrow path. Slowly, Sam made her way to the mouth of the alley, cautious of what she might find on the street outside. Sam had no way of knowing how far the vulture had taken her, or if she had landed in one of the less reputable areas of the city. The alleyway wasn’t a decent gauge of her surroundings but, with any luck, she might be able to recognize a shop or a sign out on the street. Sam’s family had explored a decent bit of the Diamond District and Old Gotham, particularly the shops closest to their hotel and Wayne Tower. Even if Sam couldn’t find anything that stood out, however, she knew that the Tower itself offered a large enough landmark. 

Tall office buildings lined the street closest to the alley, their shadows stretching ominously over the road. Sam’s heart skipped a beat as she took it all in, dwarfed amidst the towering forest of skyscrapers. Too many of their windows were dark, gazing down like wide, empty eyes. A fork of lightning lit up the sky, the glow reflected off of the rain-streaked glass and brick.

Sam took one nervous step out of the alleyway, tensed for whatever may come. Her heart hammered in her throat as she picked a direction at random, turning right and towards where the tall office buildings tapered into shorter apartments and townhouses. Sam could see what looked like a grocery store on the far corner, judging by the sign, though it was hard to tell with its windows just as blackened.

Not for the first time that evening, Sam found herself desperately wishing she had eyes as keenly adjusted to the dark as Danny’s, or even Tucker’s. The city was far darker than it should be, the headlights of cars cutting through the gloom like lighthouses through a foggy sea.

Sam’s focus could hardly stay on the buildings with the shadows of people moving up and down the street, however. There weren’t many, just a few stragglers across the street and several passing cars, but it was more than Sam was comfortable with at the moment. She could feel their eyes on her— knew that she stood out like a sore thumb, dressed as she was and wandering alone in the rain. Sam’s hand wrapped around the grip of her ectogun tightly, prepared to aim it at the slightest hint of trouble. It wouldn’t do drastic harm to a human, maybe leave them with a burn at worst, but it would stun them long enough for her to hopefully get away.

The people remained on the opposite side of the street, shifting shadows that lingered in her peripheral. Sam tried not to look too desperate as she picked up her pace, making long strides towards the corner store.

If she could just get a nice, clear view of the skyline maybe she could spot Wayne Tower and know which direction to take. Even with the storm, that monolith of a building stood out in the clouds.

It was the only thing Sam had to go on. 

Sam found herself wishing more and more with each step that she was back in Amity Park. Neither city was particularly safe, but at least Sam knew the streets there. Knew where she was, and how to get where she needed to be. Every shortcut, every safe place to hide or find help. Amity had backup— people she could rely on, even when the worst reared its ugly head.

Here in Gotham, under the scrutinizing glares of wary civilians and speeding headlights, Sam felt utterly alone.

A truck sped past, its tires throwing water up onto the sidewalk at Sam’s feet and she swore under her breath. She gripped the ectogun so tightly that it felt as though the metal might crack under her fingertips. 

A man quickly turned the corner when Sam reached it and it was all she could do to stare fixedly ahead, not daring to meet his eyes. The man hurried past her, careless of her presence, but Sam didn’t let her guard down for an instant.

There was an intersection at the end of the street with another shop on the opposite side. One of the windows was boarded up, but the shop otherwise seemed in decent condition. Sam still didn’t recognize where she was, but as she let her eyes trail over the building, skipping from one darkened window to the next upwards, she noticed a tall, familiar monolith of a silhouette in the distance.

Wayne Tower. It couldn’t be anything but.

Sam was so fixated on the silhouette that she was startled when another couple of cars sped past, splashing her with water. She leapt back, glaring daggers at the receding headlights.

There were more of them then she noticed before, each peeling down the street at concerning speeds. Sam squinted, looking at where the cars had come from to try and see if she could spot a glint of green. Nothing stood out to her, save for a few precariously-parked cars, one of which had been run into a lamppost and left there with its lights still flickering.

It wasn’t necessarily confirmation of a ghost’s presence, but it was a familiar enough sight to have Sam’s legs carrying her that way.

Besides, the shadow of Wayne Tower lay in that direction. If Sam could just get close enough to find the hotel…

The street was emptier than it should have been. Empty cars, broken glass, forgotten rubbish. Still so dark, with only a few scattered lights and the distant haze of them on the horizon. Sam noticed a few people peeking through the windows of the surrounding buildings, watching her as though she were some strange performer on a stranger stage.

A door slammed nearby, making Sam jump. A man hurried past her, grumbling about the sirens. They continued to blare, a constant assault on Sam’s ears. Now that she paid attention to them, they sounded methodical and alien. The pattern wasn’t like any siren she had heard before, and Sam was sure that it must mean something to the fleeing Gothamites.

Fleeing. That word came a little too readily to mind, watching as another group of people crammed themselves through an open doorway before shutting it tight with a click.

Ignoring the sound— the warning— she pressed on.

Sam was on a nicer residential side street with trees planted along the sidewalk and well-maintained front steps. It should have been something of a relief, winding up lost in one of the nicer neighborhoods of Gotham, but Sam’s teeth were still on edge. Every blare of that siren pulsed with her heartbeat. Every drop of rain burned her skin. Her senses were dialed to an eleven, and Sam knew she wouldn’t feel peace until she had her Fenton thermos in hand. 

It was the only plan she had: getting to her suitcase, grabbing what she could, and making the most of the situation. There were Fenton phones stashed with her gear, and while Sam dreaded letting Danny know what now haunted Gotham’s streets, now more than ever she wanted his advice and support.

Besides, there was no way this wouldn’t leak back to Amity Park.

Sam wondered what the vigilantes would think of her, running into the fray with a soup thermos in one hand, a joke of a gun in the other, and her wet clothes plastered to her skin. 

She wondered what they’d think of ghosts now, with the creatures bearing down on their doorstep and months of ignorant bliss lost to Vlad’s thoughtless retaliation. It wasn’t ideal— it was a mess, if anything. Sam’s throat constricted, hating that their first interaction with the ghosts of Amity Park would come with claws and teeth.

(Not that her town had any better of a reception.)

Sam turned on the corner, passing by a couple who tried to get her attention, ignoring them. It was all static in her ears, nothing more than a murmur beneath the pounding rain and roaring wind. Beneath the awful tattoo of her own heartbeat as Sam realized that, one way or another, she would face not just the ghosts, but Gotham’s vigilantes before the night was out.

That Danny would face their scrutiny soon after.

Sam picked her mind for all of the practiced quips and insults she’d ever thought to toss at the Justice League and their fold. Maybe if she practiced them now, her frustration would be enough to bypass the anxiety creeping cold tendrils through her chest.

The street opened up onto a wider road lined with parked cars. It wasn’t familiar either, though Wayne Tower was still in sight and Sam hoped that she’d recognize the next street over if she just kept on her course. She had to be getting close to where she and her parents went walking. Any minute now Sam would see that Bat Burger on the corner, or the gaudy jewelry store her mom had insisted on visiting. She’d dragged her feet into that store then, but now Sam would give anything to see it, just to have a sure landmark to guide her way.

Just one more turn, Sam thought, crossing the street and skirting the sidewalk. One more turn and she’d know where she was. One more turn and she could make a dash for the hotel.

The siren was closer now more than ever, the sound sharp— almost crunching. It crackled under the rain, distant. Sam ignored it, pushing the noise to the back of her mind with everything else. She focused on where she put her feet, one hurried step at a time.

Another crunch, louder this time. The grind of metal. An odd sort of sizzle. The city made all sorts of strange sounds, the wind and rain playing host to her own fears…

Though not everything lingered in the dark recesses of her mind.

Sam felt it before she saw it. A cold, shivering wave of energy tickled the edges of her senses. She glanced to the far end of the street, feeling a sick sense of dread settle into her stomach as the crunch of metal met her ears and a green glare welcomed her eyes.

The ghost was taller than she expected.

Chapter Text

From the balcony of Wayne Tower, Sam hadn't quite gotten a good look at the ghost prowling the streets. It had appeared animalistic in nature, with long legs and a narrow snout to match, but she couldn't necessarily see what manner of beast it was, or exactly how large.

She need no longer wonder.

It was a wolf, of sorts— if wolves were lime green and could rise above the height of horses. It had two sharp ears above its head, long and spindly legs that stood higher than she was tall, and a smoky, whipping tail. Its jaw was more crocodilian than canine, with three glaring red eyes sat over the crude muzzle.

In its crimson fangs was a motorbike, the metal twisted almost beyond recognition and covered in thick globs of ectoplasm that sizzled and hissed, giving off smoke. Without the bent front tire, Sam might not have recognized it as a bike at all.

That awful crunch of metal sounded once more as the wolf ghost worked its powerful jaw, grinding shreds of metal from the bike. It was close enough for Sam to feel the ghostly chill emanating from its verdant pelt. Close enough for her to smell the rotten stench of its ectoplasmic drool.

Too close.

Sam aimed her ectogun at the great beast. She thought briefly of trying to sneak away, backing into the nearest alley to run or hide… No sooner had the thought crossed Sam’s mind when those lamp-like eyes turned to glower at her, bright white pupils swimming in seas of red. An awful growl issued from the wolf's throat, a rumble deep enough to rattle the glass in the surrounding buildings and practically shake the pavement beneath her.

Sam dug her boots firmly into the asphalt, planting her feet. She didn't dare run. Sam was fast, but there was no outrunning those long legs— even if the ghost chose to stay on the ground. Now, with its eyes already boring into her, three glowing orbs of fire through the rain, Sam knew her only choice was to trust her own aim. She had taken worse shots. Gone up against worse odds, even.

It was only a wolf, Sam told herself as the motorbike fell from its jaws with a tremendous crash , parts of the metal sloughing off in smoking droplets where the saliva appeared to eat through the material. It was only a ghost, and she had faced many more before.

That didn’t stop Sam from uprooting her stance, taking a nervous step back.

The wolf's paws were each bigger than her own head, its claws dug into the pavement where it left furrowed gouges. Sam held the ectogun with both hands, trying to ignore the shake in her arms as her fingers fell over the trigger, ready to fire.

The wolf's growl resonated in Sam’s chest, a sickening rumble so unalike the soothing purr of Danny's core. She aimed for the large eye at the center of the ghost's head, finding a mark in its shining, bone-white pupil.

The wolf opened its maw, a jagged row of razor-sharp teeth framing a revolting purple tongue that lolled to the side. Steam licked at its lips, billowing outwards and disappearing into the curtains of rain. The ghost’s muscles tensed, every indication it was preparing to leap. Sam let out a shaky breath, focusing her aim, determined to make absolutely sure that the shot would count.

Dreading what would happen if it missed.

The wolf let out a bark, the sound a piercing clap that rang bells between Sam’s ears and shook her to the bone. She knew nothing but the ringing, the glare of the wolf’s pelt, the cold chill of the rain. She pulled the trigger— 

The shot went wide, striking a nearby awning in a flurry of green sparks as something— someone— slammed into Sam’s side. 

The breath was knocked from her lungs, the world spinning off kilter as arms wrapped around Sam and pulled her into a roll. The street rushed to meet them in a blur, dirty water splashing up as they landed in a heap. Sam could hardly make sense of the movement, her thoughts shaky and rattled. It took a moment for her to even realize the person had jumped back to their feet and had a hand around her arm. 

Blinking, dazed, Sam tried to scramble backwards, her free hand scrabbling against the wet asphalt as the person grabbed her arm more tightly. They were saying something, their tone urgent as they pulled upwards, yanking Sam unceremoniously to her feet. All Sam could do was follow the motion, her boots kicking at water as she was dragged up onto the curb. Panic coursed through her and Sam desperately tried to twist around and out of their grip.

The stench of the ghost still hung in her nostrils, its bark an echo amidst the lingering tinnitus. 

“—Get out of here!” The words made their way to her ears slowly, as if through a dense fog. 

Sam’s eyes finally landed on the person who had grabbed her, the dark shadow of their form broken by accented stripes.

Nightwing. That name floated languidly into Sam’s mind as she took in the tall, lean man in a black jumpsuit with blue accents. A domino mask with bright white lenses. Black hair, wet and tangled from the rain.

It was one of the Gotham vigilantes: Nightwing.

Something about that snapped Sam’s mind back into focus. Her surroundings returned in a rush, the pounding rain and the howl of the wind doing nothing to disguise the vicious growl of the wolf ghost. Sam could see it, prowling on the edges of her periphery, its green pelt a smear of brightness in the gloom, and those lamp-like crimson eyes boring into her soul. Sam stumbled as Nightwing gave her a shove onto the sidewalk and wheeled around, facing the wolf.

He had two batons in his hand, each crackling with electricity at the tip. The weapons would pose one hell of a threat against Danny, but Sam doubted they would do much to the monstrous wolf. 

“I’ll hold this thing off— run!” Nightwing bellowed. 

It was all wrong. Just like back on the balcony, with Cass protecting Sam when she had the only weapon fit to harm a ghost in her hand. When she was likely the only person in Gotham that really knew what the wolf was, even.

For all his muscle and sure posture, Nightwing looked like little more than a sitting duck before the ghost.

“You can’t fight that thing,” Sam said incredulously, finding her voice— cringing at the nervous squeak to it.

“I have a better chance than you! I said run, ” Nightwing retorted, sidestepping to cover her as the wolf stalked closer, its hackles raised into jagged points. The crackle of the batons had briefly kept it at bay, confused, but now the ghost was regaining its nerve. A sickly growl rumbled in its throat, reverberating through the pavement and climbing Sam’s ribs.

Sam wanted to laugh, she wanted to cry, but most of all she wanted to scream . Weeks of dread, all focused on this one night, and still Sam could never have predicted how horribly the evening would turn. It seemed as if each hour had a sick new twist to drag her further down, the universe conspiring to outshine her worst fears. 

The wolf wouldn’t stay at bay for long. Its red teeth glinted, a promise to bite. Its eyes never wavered from Nightwing, a beast focused on its prey. Sam gripped her hands more tightly and her heart dropped into her stomach when she didn’t feel the cold press of her ectogun against her skin. 

Glancing around, eyes wide with panic, Sam’s gaze skittered over the surrounding puddles. The ghost’s green glow reflected in each, a wavering shape distorted by the falling rain. An object stood out, however: a glint of silver sticking out from one of the puddles. It lay close to the wolf’s front paw, too close, but…

Sam would often chastise Danny for his recklessness. It was easy to judge at times, watching from the sidelines, wishing not for the first time that Danny was a bit better at dodging. He often fought like a raccoon, scrappy and clawing, throwing himself into the fray with reckless abandon. Sam knew he was clever, that he could plan and be stealthy when he needed to, but there were times Danny didn’t care about his own safety— only the quickest route forward and what he needed to do to reach it.

Sam felt she was emulating some of that energy now.

Ducking around Nightwing, she dove for the ectogun.

Sam was beyond thankful Danny wasn’t there to see it. It was bad enough hearing Nightwing’s frantic, “No!” as he tried in vain to grab her. 

Sam’s knuckles smashed into the pavement and she felt the hem of her dress tear under her scraped knees as her hand closed over the barrel of the ectogun. The wolf barked again, the sound more earsplitting than any siren, and Sam fumbled with the device in her hands, turning just in time to witness a brilliant lightshow of sparks.

Nightwing was between her and the wolf again, one of his batons thrust into the ghost’s gaping maw, braced against the top row of teeth. White-hot sparks danced along the stick, crackling loudly as forks of electricity spread over the wolf’s snout. The ghost’s white pupils retracted, its entire image warping and wavering along the edges as the volts coursed through its ectoplasm. The sound buzzed through Sam’s skull, the scent of burning ectoplasm a haunting memory.

How many times had Sam heard Danny scream, his voice echoing through time— through the portal, through his dying breath— at the mere memory of electricity?

The wolf wasn’t Danny. Though its image rippled like a disturbed pond and its eyes each winced, the wolf simply spat out the baton and reeled back, its verdant fur standing on end as its growls redoubled. 

If Nightwing noticed how easily the wolf shrugged off his attack, it did nothing to shake his nerve. He moved light on his feet, poised to strike at the wolf or leap aside if it lunged. The ghost reeled back, its eyes flickering between Nightwing and Sam before landing more fixedly on her.

Sam didn’t give it time to move any closer.

The moment those eyes turned on her, red beacons against a wall of green, Sam took the shot.

It wasn’t a clean shot, striking the wolf’s cheek rather than its eye, but it was the best Sam could manage with Nightwing trying to steal the ghost’s attention. Still, the wolf howled as the blast connected, its teeth making an awful, grinding chatter as it snarled.

“What are you doing?” Nightwing shouted, sparing a quick glance before his focus returned to the ghost. The beast was already on the prowl again, the fur along its back flickering like the wispy end of its tail, rising high with rage. A dark burn smoked across its cheek, joining the steam still emanating from its open maw. 

"Shooting it!" Sam spat out.

Steadying her hands, spinning to follow the wolf’s movement, she squeezed the trigger once more. Her heart skipped a beat as the blast nearly struck Nightwing, just barely sailing over his shoulder, but this time the shot hit true. It struck the wolf in its leftmost eye with a bright flash, causing the beast to recoil.

The effect was instantaneous.

An awful, wavering yowl of pain escaped the wolf as it tossed its head to and fro, eyes shut tight. The glass of a nearby car shattered at the sound, the alarm joining the constant wail of distant sirens. Nightwing had to leap back as the wolf blindly stamped around, snapping aimlessly at where he had last been. Sam, too, started to scramble to her feet and was this time thankful when Nightwing's hand clasped hers and she was pulled up.

Sam did not dare lower her gun, not even when the wolf blinked out of sight, earning a surprised gasp from Nightwing. The dark redoubled in its absence as the green glow disappeared, leaving an inverted imprint of the wolf on Sam's vision.

Nightwing spun on his heel, batons raised defensively. The one he had lodged in the wolf’s maw was bent beyond recognition, the metal melted and twisted downwards. It no longer sparked like its companion.

Several long moments stretched by, the sirens a persistent note beneath the hard patter of the rain and the tinnitus wailing in Sam's ears. When the wolf did not resurface, some of the tension in Nightwing’s shoulders eased, though he did not lower either of his batons. The man gave one last, sweeping look over the street before turning to Sam. Though the domino mask hid his eyes, she still noticed how the fabric scrunched up in what was clearly a raised brow.

“Why didn’t you run?” were the first words out of his mouth.

Sam stared at him, unable to articulate anything beyond an incredulous, “What?” She didn’t know what to say— how to even begin to explain. Sam could hardly even focus on her own emotions with the wolf still so close at hand.

It lurked nearby, waiting…

Sam tried to pinpoint where the aura originated from, but it could have come from any crack in the asphalt or any of the darkened windows down the street for how thoroughly it wreathed around them. Just the press of cold death, nothing more solid than gusts of wind over graveyards. Sam’s senses weren’t nearly as keen as Danny’s, and even if they were, her aching head made focusing a bit of a chore. The ringing had died down, replaced by the steady thud of blood pumping in her ears.

“Are you alright?” Nightwing’s tone had softened, as if he were speaking to a small child. With the ectogun gripped tightly in Sam’s hand and the wolf’s presence cloying at her senses, every instinct telling her to fight or flee, she felt rage at the notion.

“I’m fine,” Sam snapped, the grip on her ectogun tightening as she took a step away from Nightwing. “It’s not over yet. The ghost isn’t gone.”

She wasn’t trembling. Sam would deny it in a heartbeat.

“Ghost?” Whatever Nightwing had been expecting, it clearly wasn’t that. His tone was incredulous, the word drawn out in a disbelieving question. He did seem more warry, at least, his eyes sweeping up and down the street with renewed apprehension.
“Ghost— ghost wolf. Whatever,” Sam said, mumbling more to herself as she tried to strain her senses. 

She didn’t bother watching Nightwing’s reaction, too focused on the ghoulish sensation creeping down her back with the steady drops of rain. The cold shiver of a large ghost at bay, hiding just out of sight. Sam was sure she must look insane, soaked to the skin with a torn up dress, spinning on the spot to aim at nothing but air.

“I don’t think—”
The words were hardly off of his tongue when a burst of green exploded in Sam’s periphery, knocking Nightwing into her shoulder as the wolf surged upwards through the pavement, a blurred wall of teeth and fur that snapped at the air. It twisted around, long legs pouncing towards the vigilante with claws outstretched. Only Nightwing’s quick feet kept him from being tackled, and even then he hissed as one of the claws raked his right leg.

Sam almost dropped the ectogun when the vigilante bumped into her. Her knuckles were white with the force of her grip, her nails leaving deep crescents in her palm. Following the wolf’s movement, she aimed once more at its eyes. The ectogun wouldn’t do much against a ghost of its size— she’d need a thermos to be rid of the thing— but if Sam could just blind it, the wolf would hopefully slink away.

Its left eye was squinted shut, watering with thick green tears. The other two eyes had stretched wider to compensate, the white pupils so small and retracted that the red of the sclera seemed absolute.

It had been awhile since Sam saw a ghost look so wild, all blazing eyes, rippling fur, and frothing jaws. The last few summer nights had been kinder, with Skulker being the worst they had seen in a couple of days. There were always plenty of animal ghosts— rats and cats in the alleys, birds flitting on the edges of the woods, glowing carp to light the ponds— but it was not often they saw an animal as twisted and large as this one outside of the Zone. 

It was times like this when the chill of the Zone ran down Sam's spine and she knew fear. 

It didn't stop her from pulling the trigger once again.

Sam's third shot hit the wolf in the shoulder as it darted away, skirting around Nightwing to try and flank them. Sam had one sickeningly close view of the wolf's dripping red fangs as it lunged at her, before Nightwing smashed his intact baton into the side of its head.

The wolf roared, its lips drawn back in a ferocious snarl as they snapped shut on the baton. The ghost winced as electricity once more coursed through its ectoplasm in a skittering buzz, but the shock died down with a hiss as the metal rod groaned, splintered, and snapped between the ghost's teeth.

"Come on," Sam muttered to herself, aiming once more for the large target of the wolf’s central eye. 

The eyes flicked to her, the pupils seeming to shake with intensity as the wolf’s jaws parted and steam rolled from its maw. The saliva that dripped down sizzled as it hit the pavement, leaving pockmarks behind.

Sam squeezed the trigger—

The wolf's yowl of pain shattered several windows, the sound striking another wave of vertigo through Sam’s system in a dizzying swell as the shot connected.

The wolf's claws left deep, furrowed gouges in the asphalt as it howled, tossing its head and scrabbling at its wounded eyes with great swipes of its massive paws. The ghost could barely see now, the red lamps of its eyes reduced to watering slits. The wolf let out something between a growl and a whimper, teetering back up onto its long legs. It wavered there for a moment, blindly tossing its head to and fro as if to shake away flies before the wolf ghost seemed to think better of its situation and turned tail. Its claws tore two long lines into the pavement as it bounded into the air. In one blink, its massive body disappeared, the press of its aura retreating with just as much speed.

Sam wasn't aware of how much pressure the ghost wolf emitted until it was gone, dragging that sickly aura into the night. It was as though a tight band around her ribs had finally loosened, letting Sam truly breathe for the first time that evening. The world echoed around her, the rain much louder, the sirens more persistent—

Nightwing's presence difficult to ignore.

Sam was glad that her dress hid the worst of the shake in her knees. Though the wolf had gone, the marks of its path lay all around them— shattered glass, torn up pavement, drops of ectoplasm still smoking, biting holes through the asphalt. All Sam could do was ignore the mess, meeting Nightwing’s gaze unflinchingly as she expected a thousand questions.

"Are you alright?" was not what she expected to hear first.

Nightwing looked worse for wear, now that Sam saw him more clearly. The right leg of his suit was torn and bloody and his knee shook with a bounce. The man was still glancing warily around, as though he expected the wolf to burst forth through the pavement at any moment.

A reasonable fear. 

"Y-yeah," Sam said, trying to convince herself just as much as him. Her eyes wandered to where the wolf had disappeared, wondering how far the ghost had flown and where it would go. What it would do.

Nightwing followed her gaze, his expression difficult to read, half-hidden in shadow. "Why didn't you run?" he asked her again. "You had no business fighting that thing."

Sam’s heart sank into her belly. No business … as if anyone had left them a choice back in Amity. Anger coiled in Sam's stomach; she wheeled around to glare up at the vigilante, holding the ectogun so tightly that the metal creaked in her grip.

"That thing was a ghost, and if I'd run away you'd probably have a hell of a lot more wrong with you right now than a torn-up leg."

Sam gesticulated with the ectogun as she spoke, not realizing until Nightwing’s eyes locked onto it, his frown deepening, that she'd just pointed a weapon at a vigilante.

Sam quickly lowered the gun, but did not slacken her grip or soften her glare. Sam Manson might not be fool enough to aim a weapon at this man, but she was just fool enough to give him a piece of her mind.

“What makes you certain it was a ghost?” Nightwing asked, for all the world sounding like a man asking a kid to describe an animal they’d just seen out the window.
Sam grit her teeth, biting back a swear. “It was bright green, glowing, and disappeared through the ground. What more do you need to see?” she asked, her voice cracking on the words. For all the rain falling around them, gathering in long channels down the street, it had been a long time since Sam had anything to drink.

Nightwing simply stared at her, his head tilting as he surveyed the weapon in Sam’s hand. She had to resist the urge to hide it behind her back, like a child caught with something they shouldn’t have.

(Sam tried to ignore the fact that she was, technically, a child, and that, just as technically, the thing was stolen.)

“You seem familiar with that gun,” he said, nodding at her hand. “What sort of weapon is it that it can hit a… ghost.”

Nightwing’s interest was clear, the ectogun a curiosity he wouldn’t ignore. Sam didn’t like how his eyes lingered on it, the whites of his mask narrowed in thought. She was suddenly very aware of how tall Nightwing was, and how if he wanted to try and take her ectogun she might not be able to stop him.

Sam found herself taking a step back, her balance wavering as the heel of her boot dipped into one of the furrows left by the wolf’s claws.

“It’s an ectogun; it’s supposed to hit ghosts,” she said lamely, the description feeling hollow and worthless on her tongue. 

How many times had she wished that someone from the Justice League would help them? Fantasized about having someone swoop in and assist in Amity’s troubles— of being the person to teach them about how to navigate all things ghostly, with her team by her side.

Now, alone in Gotham and faced with a vigilante many years her senior, all of those dreams felt far off and small. Wistful little ideas that had no real merit. Smoke and mirrors, no more believable than the word of a kid bringing ghosts to a city with more doubts than haunts.

Nightwing continued to speak, heedless of Sam’s turmoil. “It was brave of you to stand your ground and help, though you really shouldn’t be out here— not in this city, not with that creature, and not with those cuts and bruises,” he said with far too much concern. “Are you sure you’re alright? Where are your parents?”

Each word had Sam bristling, anger filling her front top to bottom. This man knew nothing. Nightwing might know this city better than her, he might be older, but all of that experience meant nothing when it came to ghosts. “Someone has to fight the ghosts and I can do it,” she said bitterly. “I know how to do it. I can help .”

Nightwing frowned, slowly shaking his head. "I can't let you get hurt over this. If you get hurt—"

He took a step forward and Sam took another back. She glanced once more at his bloody leg, noticing how the black fabric of his suit hung loose around his calf. Absently, Sam tested her own legs, digging the heel of her boot into the curb. 

"Please, if you'll come with me we can get you somewhere safe. Did you come from the gala at Wayne Tower? We could find your parents and—"

Time seemed to freeze for a moment. Sam’s heart dropped as the vigilante held out his hand, promising to take her somewhere safe. To the Tower— to her parents— away from the gear stashed in her suitcase back at the hotel. Sam wondered if they’d even listen to her if she told them what to grab from there. Would they figure out how to operate the thermos? Would they listen to her if she tried to help them? Would they even trust her and the device enough to give it a chance?

There were too many what-ifs clashing around in Sam’s head, each of them dreading Nightwing’s approach. 

Without thinking much about the consequences— without thinking much at all, other than of the thermos stashed in her suitcase and the wolf still prowling the streets— Sam turned on her heel and ran .

"Shit," she heard Nightwing swear behind her, followed by the pounding steps of his boots.

Sam threw everything she had into the sprint, springing over the gouges in the asphalt and peeling down the street. She ignored the smashed cars, the bits of melted metal, and the crunch of glass beneath her boots. She ignored the ache in her knee and the shouts ringing behind her, Nightwing ordering her to stop as he pursued.

All Sam could think about was getting to the hotel— to the thermos. If Nightwing wouldn't even trust her with the ectogun, why would he trust her with anything else? She didn't have time to follow him around like a lost little puppy, or to appease his worries about a lost civilian. The sooner she got to the thermos, the sooner all of this could be over.

Sam ducked into an alley, thankful when it wasn't a dead end. The last thing she needed right now was to be cornered, running from a vigilante on his home turf. Sam was already making a risky enough move, already unsure that she could get away.

That didn't stop her from trying.

Nightwing’s steps still echoed behind her, his pace faltering for a moment as he must have skidded to turn before picking up speed once more. Sam could tell that his leg was bothering him, and it was only that injury that gave her any confidence she might outpace him. 

Even then, Sam knew she wouldn't be able to outrun him forever. Nightwing knew her face, and with his ties to Batman Sam had no doubt that her entire family tree would be under his scrutiny before the night was out (if it wasn’t already).

She'd deal with that then. Now, Sam just needed to get away. Better to beg for forgiveness than to beg for permission and all that.

Not that she'd beg.

Sam threw herself down another alleyway, keeping to the wall to avoid a woman standing at its end. She took a sharp turn left, away from the woman, and Sam’s heart could have soared with relief when her eyes finally landed on something familiar. 

She was on a street lined with shops now, that awful jewelry store halfway down the road, its sign hanging askew. A few people milled around the shattered storefronts, while others hurried up and down the sidewalk, looking harried. The road was choked with abandoned cars and a few vehicles still trying to navigate around the wreckage. A couple of police officers were doing their damndest to try and guide a van around the corner, where the blue and red lights of a police car illuminated the puddles. Familiar long gouges tore up the asphalt and sidewalk in places, with several of the cars bent and twisted into odd shapes, crumpled together like a mismatched jigsaw puzzle.

The wolf had clearly been here.

The smashed glass of storefronts covered the pavement and a tree lay across the road, its tangled branches obscuring part of the sidewalk and its roots blocking traffic. Sam could see globs of ectoplasm here and there, clumps of it hanging from where the ghost wolf had chewed chunks out of signs and bent light poles. The tree hadn’t been spared, judging by the blackened trunk.

Sam couldn't tell if the thing was playing or simply trying its best to tear the place apart; there was no time to stop and consider, in any case. Moving on instinct more than anything, Sam hurried for the branches of the tree and dove under the nearest limb, thankful that the area was clear of people. She slotted herself deep in the canopy, hoping that the leaves and shadows would obscure her shape. The branches swayed and rustled in the wind, and the rain fell in uneven patches through the leaves. Sam could hardly see the street from her vantage point, though she didn't dare move out of her hiding spot to get a better look. 

Sam kept waiting for the sound of Nightwing's footsteps. Kept waiting to see the shadow of his form, hurrying down the street. Sam craned her neck the best she could, leaning her head against a twisted branch to try and get a view of the alley she'd come from.

The warning siren continued, low rolling pitches broken every so often by the sharper shrill of police. Shouts, just as distant, echoed down the street. Lightning flashed once more, lighting up the leaves in bright contrast before a deep rumble of thunder followed.

There was no sign of Nightwing amidst it all.

Sam's breathing slowly calmed as she crouched beneath the branches. She hissed, leaning forward on her scraped knee, and a shiver ran the course of Sam’s spine as she accidentally submerged her leg into a puddle of cold water. Her legs shook— her entire body shook. From nerves, from her haphazard sprint, from one too many falls. 

With a moment to breathe, however claustrophobic it felt between the twisted branches, Sam allowed herself to think. She had one hand clutching a branch, and her other still holding the ectogun, laying the weapon across her bent knee. It was too dark to see much in the shadow of the leaves, but Sam could see the glint of the ectogun’s silver barrel and the green energy pulsing within. The bright shots that had hit the wolf replayed over and over in her mind, accompanied by the ghost’s shrill barks. She could still see the glare of its eyes, feel a shudder of its ectoplasm. Not just the wolf, Sam could still hear Nightwing’s patronizing voice and the sound of his hurried footsteps, nerve-wracking even in memory. 

She’d just challenged a ghost in front of a Gotham vigilante…

She’d just run from that very same vigilante.

“Fuck,” Sam whispered, pressing her forehead against the branch. “Fuck.”

What Sam wouldn’t give to just return to the gala at this point. She’d gladly trade this fool’s errand for a stuffy banquet hall and all of the racket contained within. Just the chance to fall into her stiff hotel bed with a migraine, annoyed but safe, would be a blessing in disguise. 

A pipedream, one she ought not focus on now. 

Peering between the branches, Sam squinted. She remembered how close the hotel was to the jewelry store, maybe a block down and recessed between a tall office building and a parking garage, with a tree at the end of its driveway. The rain and gloom did nothing to help, though Sam was pretty sure she could see the corner of the parking garage’s roof. 

Glancing back, Sam did one last search for any sign of Nightwing. Nothing stood out in the dark, no hint of blue in the endless curtain of rain, but she knew not to underestimate the man. Sam wouldn’t be surprised to find him lurking behind the next corner, hiding with almost as much skill as the wolf, and with no pressing aura to give away his presence. 

If the ectogun hadn’t put a target on her back, running surely must have.

Shaking her head— wincing as it throbbed with a dull ache— Sam grabbed onto one of the steadier branches and hoisted herself up. Her legs were wobbling blades of grass in the wind, more bruise than skin and bone. She leaned heavily against the wood for a moment to regain her balance. A balance Sam hardly felt in body, let alone in mind.

At least the hotel was closeby.

There were more people on the sidewalk than Sam had first noticed, many of them congregated near her destination, hunkered under umbrellas with the lights of cellphones and flashlights casting odd shadows. Reluctantly, Sam shoved the ectogun into her pocket, pulling the fabric of her dress skirt in a way that would conceal the weapon. The risk of having it confiscated was not worth the comfort of it in her grip.

Though Sam had spent all of yesterday resenting the ritzy hotel building with its long sloping driveway and grand polished doors, she could have cried now as she picked her way down the messy sidewalk, past the crowd congregated near the stone fence, and up the drive. There were people milling about the entrance, tucked under the green awning over the doors, and through the gaps in the curtains Sam could see the shadows of many more people moving through the lobby. She wasted no time in hurrying for the doors, sliding past the group stationed there and ducking inside.

A cacophony of chatter, almost enough to rival the gala venue, hit Sam's ears. There were staff and guests crowded throughout the lobby, all moving about in the dark, talking frantically. Candles had been lit along the counter and end tables, and the glow of cell phone flashlights left uneven spots of light. 

Sam didn’t have to fight her way through the crowd much, as most people had congregated along the walls and points of light, and those that she got too close to looked at her with scrunched noses and stepped aside. Sam could only imagine what a mess she looked, soaked with dirty water, wearing a torn dress and bloody with several scrapes. Sam hadn’t even had time yet to fully take stock of her cuts and bruises, though the aches were settling in, one after another. 

Not that she was the only one. 

Sam could tell that several groups had come straight from the gala or similar social events, while others seemed to be trying desperately to get in contact with their loved ones. The poor receptionist behind the counter had three people shouting at her, including a woman who was holding up her sopping-wet strapless dress with her hands, and a man who was missing the left sleeve of his tux jacket.

Sam wasted no time in crossing to the far hall where the elevators were hidden, though she didn’t bother to stop and try any of the buttons. The lights were all off, the hum of the air conditioner nonexistent. Sam could only imagine how much damage the wolf ghost had done to the power lines— assuming the vultures didn’t help.

Sam pushed past a small group lingering beside the elevators and walked into the stairwell. The steps rose up into the dark, with only the intermittent light of cell phones and a single ground floor window to guide the way. Sam grabbed onto the railing tightly, ignoring the burn in her knee as she raced up the stairs, almost knocking over a woman heading down. In no time, Sam made her way up to the fifth floor. She staggered out onto the landing, her knees shaking from the effort as she took deep gulps of air to catch her breath.

 The stairwell let out right beside the elevators, with a large nearby window illuminating part of the hallway with dim ambient light. An end table between the elevator doors had been knocked over, throwing soil from two potted plants across the carpet. If anyone had noticed the mess, no one had come to try and clean it just yet. While the lobby had been crowded, buzzing with activity, the landing of the fifth floor was positively deserted, empty as far as she could see. The quiet murmur of voices drifted from the nearest rooms, but only Sam’s lone footsteps echoed down the darkened hallway.

Their room wasn’t far from the stairwell, just tucked around the corner from the window where the light faded into shadow. Sam marched purposefully towards it, her heartbeat more timorous than a chased rabbit’s as she squinted at the gold-plated number over the doorframe just to be sure.

The number did nothing to settle her nerves. Sam raised her arm to knock, but she hardly dared bring her fist against the wood. With the state of the roads, Sam doubted that everyone had made it from Wayne Tower to their lodgings, but there was still a chance that her parents were waiting on the other side of the door. If they were, well…

Sam had already run from one well-meaning adult tonight.

Reluctantly, swallowing down a lump in her throat, Sam knocked. The sound echoed down the empty hallway, no less loud than the frantic drum of her own heartbeat as she waited for any sounds on the other side of the door. The scrape of chairs, the tell-tale shuffle of someone racing to answer the door, the turn of the handle—

Only silence answered her knock.

Tentatively, her hand trembling, Sam knocked a second time. She glanced down the hall as she did so, as though worried her parents might suddenly turn the corner.

(If not a familiar vigilante…)

Still, nothing changed. Nothing appeared. The window in the hall kept rattling with the wind, the rain just as steady and persistent, but nothing dared break the tense silence of the hall. It was perhaps the only bit of luck the day had granted her, and even then Sam was loath to enjoy it. Though she’d been prepared to fight her parents tooth and nail to grab her things and run off, ever the rebellious teen to their expectations, their absence gave her no solace. It made things easier, for now, but Sam could only hope that they were still at Wayne Tower.

(That they were alright.)

Sam dug into her pocket that she’d shoved her phone into, feeling the thin edge of the keycard she’d squirreled away earlier in the evening. Her dirty phone case had stained the plastic card with some black makeup, and it was slightly bent into a curve, but Sam hoped beyond hope that the thing would still work. Out of everything that had happened tonight, Sam needed this one little thing to work in her favor.

Mercifully, it did the trick. Sam’s parents had fought with the lock each time they entered the room, but this time it simply clicked open on the first swipe, as though it was intended to work with a bent card. Sam sighed with bone-deep relief as she turned the handle and quickly stepped inside, wasting no time in slamming it shut behind her and setting the bolt so that no one could follow. She allowed herself one moment of peace, leant against the cold wood of the door with her head thrown back and her eyes shut tight. One moment to just breathe. A moment to feel safe, however brief.

It couldn’t last.

Only a sliver of light lit the hotel room, filtering through the shut curtains on the opposite end. The room was stuffy without the flow of AC, and the windows rattled with the wind and rain still bearing down outside. Sam’s wet dress clung to her knees, dripping cold water down her legs and into the carpet. Her boots left dark, soggy footsteps as Sam crossed the living space and headed straight for the kitchen. The pristine countertop reflected some of the light, with the small fridge below the counter just in view. Sam beelined for the thing, throwing the door open to grab several of the small water bottles inside. Expensive, wasteful little bottles that she despised on the best of days, but right now no water source meant more to her.

Despite the storm lashing the city with rain, Sam's throat was drier than any desert. She quickly twisted the cap off of one of the bottles and downed the contents in one long sip. The water was still cold, a revitalizing stream as it rolled down her cracked throat and settled poorly in her empty belly.

Sam leaned on the counter, coughing and gulping in deep lungfuls of air. The cold water sat like a glacier in her stomach, rolling with waves of hunger and nausea in equal measure. Her hand holding the bottle shook, yet another sorry reminder that she had no fuel in her tank. Those pastries Steph had left on the table felt worlds away.

Now, just the thought of eating turned her stomach.

Groaning, Sam dropped her empty bottle on the counter and opened a second. Her hands stung as she twisted the cap, the scraped skin over her knuckles protesting with the movement, though just holding the cold bottle gave her some comfort. Sam clutched it with both hands like a small child, forcing herself to take slow, measured sips this time. The last thing she needed was to make herself sick chugging water, of all things.

With the water still clutched in her hands, Sam crossed the main room of their hotel to the door of her own separate bedroom. Just as with the front door, Sam set the lock the moment she slipped inside. 

It was funny, in a way. Locks usually never meant much when it came to ghosts.

The bedroom was much darker than the main room, with the curtains pulled over each other in a way that blocked out most of the light. Sam stood in the darkness, staring into it as though something might stare back. Her mind spun, thoughts scattered like windblown clouds as she fought to organize a plan of action. It was all loose droplets of rain in her mind, each sliding down channels to rest minutely on one worry before trickling down to the next. Sam kept thinking of the gala’s roaring chatter, of the dig of vulture talons, of the bark of a wolf much too large—

Sam raised the bottle to her brow, pressing the cold against her aching head. She let out a slow, measured breath, resisting the urge to sink down onto the mattress and rest for a long while. There were so many occasions tonight when Sam could have simply stopped moving— just sat and waited for whatever may come. Let someone else handle the ghosts, however ill-fit they were to the task. 

Perhaps some people had that luxury, but Sam knew the merit in picking herself back up again. 

In moving forward, even when everything in her screamed to stop and rest.

Sam walked around the edge of the bed and grabbed the curtains, pulling them aside just enough to let more light into the room, though not enough that someone could easily watch her from outside. The pale light cast long shadows across the room, rippling as water droplets cascaded down the glass. It was just enough for Sam to see her suitcase lying where she’d left it at the foot of the bed. 

Kneeling down, ignoring the protest of her knee, Sam quickly undid the zipper and shoved her hands into the bag, rifling through the clothes piled on top and tossing them helter skelter. Sam groped at the bottom for the contents hidden there, her nails digging for the edge of the lumpy back pocket, tugging it up by the corner. Sam ran over a list of supplies in her head like a mantra, feeling some measure of relief when her hands closed around each piece in turn.

A wrist ray. Another ectogun. A specter deflector. Fenton phones…

The thermos.

The cool metal of the thermos had never felt so comforting, like having some measure of Danny’s icy core nearby. The ectoplasm in all of the devices let off a faint glow, casting a green tinge over Sam’s skin. Pulling the thermos close to her chest, feeling the faint hum of the ectoplasm within, charged with Danny’s own familiar signature, Sam wished that she’d brought more to the gala. Bringing the thermos hadn’t seemed imperative at the time, hours ago when the ghosts were states away and more memory than hindrance, but it would have saved her a lot of grief in the long run.

In the faint green glow, Sam noticed a dark cut near her elbow. Twisting her arm around, she looked more closely at the knick for the first time, finally taking in the state of her battered skin. A nasty scrape went across part of her elbow, and a worse one across each bump of her knuckles. Neither scrape bled anymore, though the skin was red and torn at the edges, irritated and slightly swollen. With the throb in her right knee, Sam could only imagine her legs were in a worse state. Sam moved the wet skirt of her dress aside to see, grimacing at the gritty feel of the water soaked into the fabric. Her legs were just as filthy, streaked with dirt and several dark bruises blossoming down her right leg.

Sam didn’t even want to know what her face looked like right now.

There was one last item stashed into the suitcase, hidden in the bottom of the frontmost pocket. Sam reached for it now, closing her hand over the first aid kit she usually kept in her school bag. It wasn’t as large as the ones they kept in their bedrooms— and in several hidden spots around town— but the pack had plenty of bandages, gauze, ibuprofen, and antiseptic to handle minor injuries. Between Danny’s constant war against the ghosts of Amity Park, and her and Tucker’s reluctance to let him go it alone, the three of them often accrued plenty of dings throughout the school week to warrant preparedness. 

Sam’s eyes trailed back over her various scrapes, the raw skin on her knuckles shiny in the pale light. There were more injuries she wasn’t seeing, she knew. A sting across her cheek, a bruised ache along her side, the persistent pinch where the vulture had dug its talons against her skin. Sam felt more bruise than person at the moment, hardly knowing where to even start.

Even without the uproarious cacophony of the gala or the turmoil in the streets, Sam’s head forged its own brand of chaos. She liked to think of herself as organized and thoughtful, and perhaps beside Tucker and Danny she fit the bill accordingly, but that didn’t stop Sam from freezing as she tried to plan just how to track down a ghost in a city as large as Gotham without Danny to guide the way.

She needed to clean and bandage her scrapes. She needed to collect the weapons into a suitable spare bag. She needed to try the Fenton phones. She needed to hurry, before anything outside grew worse or someone came to call. She needed to—

Sam’s fingers grit the dirty hem of her dress, her trail of thought crashing and burning as she shivered with disgust, hating how the cold, wet fabric clung to her body. 

First, before anything, Sam needed to change her clothes.

Sam’s eyes kept flickering to the sliver of window as she quickly maneuvered out of her wet dress, hissing when her hands brushed the sore spots at her shoulders. Sam craned her neck to look, seeing dark, yellowing bruises where each of the vulture’s talons had been, with the pinprick of punctures at the heart of each. Sam could only blame adrenaline, and the all-encompassing nature of the aches in her body for how she hadn’t noticed the punctures until now. 

Sam paused long enough to dab some antiseptic on each of the punctures before she grabbed a black Ember t-shirt and pulled it on. After running across the city in a soaking dress, the soft fabric of her well-worn shirt felt almost as comforting as a hug. It was certainly more practical, particularly with shorts instead of the long, dragging tail of a dress. Sam doubted she’d feel truly comfortable until she managed a very long, very hot shower, but for now it was an improvement.

The weapons Sam had grabbed from her bag still lay on the floor, all silver metal and gleaming green accents. Her eyes ran over each in turn, itemizing her list as though something might have slipped through the floor without her notice. One item in particular had Sam’s focus, the bulky green earpiece that she hated with a passion, despising the crackle of its static in her ears. She reached out to pluck up the device, turning it over in her hand. Sam had brought the phones just in case Danny had to go into the Zone. He rarely wore them otherwise— they were much too obtrusive to his parents for that, and their team often relied on cell phones much more often— but with her phone a water-logged brick in her dress pocket and the power completely out, the Fenton phones were Sam’s only hope of communication. 

Sam staggered up to her feet as she shoved the earpiece into the shell of her ear, adjusting the mic. Her finger tapped against the button on the side as she started to pace, taking slow, sore steps across the dark bedroom in a wavering line around the clothes and devices covering her floor. With one press to the button on the side, a loud crackle of static burst in Sam’s ears. She shut her eyes tight, listening intently to the awful, grating sound, hoping that something might break through.

“H–hello?” Sam said quietly into the dark, her voice a cracked mess, almost as rough against her ears as the static. “Danny? Tuck?” 

If Sam was being perfectly honest with herself, she hadn’t expected an answer through the phones. She had hoped— Ancients, how wonderful would it have been to just hear a familiar voice on the other end of the line— but Sam knew. The static roared in her ears, unbroken, and even knowing didn’t stop the crushing weight of disappointment and fear that dragged Sam’s pacing steps to an abrupt halt.

The endless crackle had every last one of her thoughts jumbled, confused and lost. It was the only lifeline she felt she had, and right now that line was fluttering in the wind, utterly cut.

Sam ripped the device out of her ear, her teeth gritted with frustration and tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. It was all a mess. She was a mess— raw, from the frayed edges of her nerves to the swollen skin protesting the tight clench of her fists. She still had to bandage that. It was just one more worry, one more stacked on top of a teetering tower that was doing its best to tip over.

Sam doubted that tower started with Gotham, but she was trying her damndest to make sure it didn’t end with it. Maybe with enough bandages and force of will, she might stave off a breakdown long enough to cap the thermos with several ghosts snug inside. 

Still, Sam couldn’t help the silent roll of tears down her cheeks as she sat down on the edge of her bed with the first aid kit and picked through the contents with shaking fingers. 

Her bandage work was abysmal, more like a shitty mummy costume than anything, but Sam managed to cover the scrapes and cuts the best she could. Tucker would probably laugh if he could see the knotted mess around her right wrist. Danny might too, if he ignored what lay underneath. Sam couldn’t ignore it, however, not when she wiped her wet eyes with the back of her hand and winced at the ache under the bandages. 

All in all, Sam knew she was still lucky. She couldn’t help but think of Nightwing’s bloody leg as she wound the roll of bandages around her knee. That could have just as easily been her. For all the confidence Sam had in her own aim, she didn’t know for sure what would have happened if Nightwing didn’t interfere with the wolf. With a little less luck and a lot less help, Sam might have found herself with those caustic fangs sinking into her flesh. With the damage its claws had done to Nightwing’s legs, she hated to think what that biting saliva would do to skin.

Sam’s hands shook throughout the process— the mark of stress, of fatigue, of running on empty. Something was going to give sooner or later, and with her stomach too unsettled to even consider eating, Sam refused to let that be the straw that broke the camel’s back. 

No amount of sitting and waiting would pay Sam any favors, not with the ghosts still on the loose. She'd come to the hotel for gear, not to get lost in her own head, waiting for an answer over the phones that might never come and resting until the shake left her hands. Every minute she spent dawdling was another the wolf had to prowl the streets, with the vultures soaring overhead and Vlad… Sam didn’t even want to consider where that man might be, and what he had planned.

Sam's eyes fell onto the thermos still lying on the ground and she felt some of her resolve snap back into place.

Dragging herself back to her feet, Sam grabbed a spare bag she left on the end table and knelt to snatch up one of the ectoguns. She stuffed everything into the bag, placing the thermos on top with much more care than the rest. Sam left out only the specter deflector and the phones, opting to snap the belt around her waist and to shove the earpiece back into her ear.

The low hum of static it still emitted, even powered down, crawled down her back in awful prickles, but Sam did her best to ignore the sensation. If she could put up with the static for Danny’s excursions into the Zone, Sam could handle it on the off chance someone might answer, however slim.

(She’d stuffed her phone into the bag with everything else but, after tentatively testing the power button, knew it was little more than a comforting brick.)

The weight of the bag on her shoulder and the knowledge of the thermos within it gave Sam something bordering on hope for the first time that evening. She finally felt prepared— at least… as prepared as she was going to be under the circumstances. 

Sam took a moment to splash some water over her face and to drain the rest of her bottle before she hiked her bag higher up onto her shoulder and turned to face the door. Sam still wasn’t really sure what her plan of action was. The wolf ghost was large, but Gotham City was far larger, with far too many things for a creature of its size to sink its teeth into. She supposed she would just have to follow the wreckage, hoping that it led to only smashed cars and torn-up asphalt, rather than injury or… worse.

Sam had no doubt, however, that she’d find the vigilantes wherever she went. Gripping the strap of her bag more tightly, finding some anger there still, Sam only hoped that Nightwing might forgive her running just long enough to see the thermos’ bright beam.

With a steadying breath, the crackle of static humming discordantly in her ear like Danny’s core whenever storms flared overhead, Sam pressed on. 

Chapter Text

Sam wasn’t one to feel small. She liked to think of herself as a big person— loud, passionate, strong in all the ways that mattered. There were few challenges Sam Manson backed down from, even when arguing seemed pointless and fighting a risk not worth taking.

She felt some of that bravado leave her as she wound back down the stairs to the lobby of the hotel, her knees wobbling and aching with each step. 

The crowd of people hadn't dispersed at all, groups still shuffling around and shouting up a terrible racket. The hotel staff were doing what they could to corral people back to their rooms, and as Sam tried to sneak away from the stairwell and towards the door one of the security guards took notice and tried to block her path.

“Miss, you have to stay inside the building. There’s a stay in place order throughout the city—”

He tried to sidestep in her way, but Sam ducked down and made a mad dash for the door. She felt the man’s fingers bounce off of her arm as he tried to grab her, shouting once more, but Sam was already out the door and back into the rain, her clean clothes soaked in mere moments. She made a hard left, pointing herself towards Wayne Tower as she pounded down the sidewalk, kicking up the puddles pooling along the beat-up concrete.

It all felt wrong. The streets were too empty, the sirens too persistent, and the storm too heavy. Gotham itself was a strange place, but now the city felt truly haunted— and was, Sam had to remind herself. Not as haunted as Amity, but far more than the average town with its lingering shades.

The end of the street had visible damage to it, with a couple of crushed cars and a storefront that had been barreled into by something with enough force to leave an indentation in the brickwork. The police lights were still there, dying the wet stone red and blue in an endless flicker. Sam could see a few people milling about on the corner now and she ducked under the shadows of the awnings, hoping no one would see her. A security guard in the hotel was one thing, but Sam didn’t fancy her chances with the police.

The first chance she had, Sam took a turn away from the police lights, still hugging close to the wall as she went down an adjacent street with a pharmacy on the corner and several tall office buildings. Sam couldn’t see hide nor hair of the ghost wolf; though it had torn up the previous street a great deal, the damages to this one were minor in comparison, with only a couple of signs by the pharmacy knocked over and a few of its windows smashed. Even without the wolf’s telling green glow, Sam had no doubt that it was still lurking around. Her only hope was that the vigilantes would be able to keep it distracted. If there was anyone that could dodge around that ghost for a while and keep it busy, it was probably them.

Sam tried to ignore the fact that Nightwing was already injured. That it would only take one good bite from the wolf to put any of them out of commission— perhaps permanently.

Sam picked up her pace, ignoring the protest in her own leg as she wove around a knocked over trash can and towards the end of the street. Wayne Tower wasn’t far now, maybe a couple of blocks, but Sam did her best not to focus on the looming shape. It was her best landmark in the city, and she had to hope that at least the vultures would still be near it.

There were more people on the street now, some peeking out from windows and doorways to inspect the damages, while others were already walking down the street without a care. It reminded Sam too much of Amity Park, and how quickly people would return to their business the moment Phantom flew off with a problematic ghost in his thermos.

Sam hated how much the city was reminding her of home.

As if thoughts of Amity Park had conjured it, bright wings swept through the sky. Sam couldn’t help but duck closer to the pavement as she watched one of Vlad’s vultures soar overhead. If the ghost saw her at all, he paid no mind. The vulture flew northwards, in the opposite direction Sam was heading in, and moved with clear purpose… As though targeting something or someone.

“Shit,” Sam swore under her breath, turning on her heel.

The vulture rose up higher into the air, gliding over the rooftop of an office building, between two tall gargoyles nestled on its corner. It disappeared just as quickly, dipping out of sight and leaving a splotch of light on Sam’s vision, a bright streak through the sheets of rain. Sam gritted her teeth in frustration, her eyes flickering between the row of buildings to try and figure out the quickest route to follow the ghost. 

Sam spared one last, nervous glance back to Wayne Tower before she threw herself forward, racing along the sidewalk towards the nearest alleyway.

Sam did her best to follow the trajectory the vulture had been heading in. She skirted the left side of the street, keeping her eyes glued to the sky and her ears open for any sounds beyond the patter of the rain. She glanced around every so often, paranoid that someone might sneak up out of the dark.

Sam had to keep reminding herself that she was in Gotham. Despite the ghosts, she was in Gotham, not Amity. 

The ectogun was in her hand again. At this point, Sam was prepared to fire it at anything that moved, human and ghost alike.

She felt like a Fenton.

The alley she crossed through was narrow and filled with dark rivers of rainwater. Sam stepped around the puddles the best she could, sticking close to the brick. The alley was short and let out into a street that branched off into an intersection. Sam went right, hugging the sidewalk as a car barreled down the street, kicking up water onto the curb.

A flicker caught Sam’s attention. It was a burst of green light over a roof across the street, a brilliant bolt of an ectoblast if she had ever seen one. Sam adjusted her course and picked up her pace, ignoring the strain in her knee as she raced towards it.

Cars sped past and Sam waited impatiently to cross. She kept glancing to the side, wary of a man on the corner who was giving her a nasty look. Sam raised the ectogun slightly, just enough that it would be better in view. He stayed where he was and, once the traffic finally cleared, she went unaccosted.

When Sam rounded the corner, the first thing she noticed was the trees. Plenty of the nicer streets in Gotham had thin lines of trees planted along the sidewalks, and there were some islands near the fancier buildings with perfectly-trimmed shrubs and topiaries, but these trees were the first real spot of nature that Sam had seen in the city. The trees were taller, older, with branches tangled together and reaching high towards the sky. The leaves glowed brightly, standing out in sharp contrast against the gray sky as another shot of ectoplasm burst nearby. It was a park, nestled amidst the neighborhoods, not unlike the one at the heart of Amity Park— ghosts and all.

Sam slowed for a moment as she approached, her nerves a tight band around her chest. She watched another stray bolt strike a nearby tree, licking the wet leaves with an ethereal flame that immediately quieted into a smoking sizzle as the rain fell against it. A blur of ghostly wings broke through the leaves in a rush, flapping once before diving back down and out of sight with a raucous call.

A couple of people had stopped to watch the lightshow, warily sticking to the opposite side of the street. They were pointing at the park, wondering aloud if a new rogue had entered the city. It was familiar. Too familiar, with the glare of ectoplasm green striking the sky, a perfect parallel to the bright forks of lightning falling to the earth.

Sam crossed the last street to the park, running up along a stone wall that hugged the edge of the park with sharp metal posts along the top. Sam considered climbing for a moment, wondering just how worth it it would be to risk dragging her bruised legs over the sharp points, when she caught sight of a proper entrance further down the street. With the nasty falls she’d already taken tonight, it was a far safer bet.

The stone wall opened up into a tall archway at the entrance, with ivy climbing up the structure in a spiral. The top of the arch had been damaged, broken almost enough to splinter it entirely, though Sam couldn’t say whether or not a ghost had done the damage. She hurried for the arch, holding her ectogun higher as she saw the path winding into the park clearly for the first time, a green glow sliding over the concrete. Sam could just see the vulture again, turning in a wide arc through the sky as she crossed below the arch—

“Stop!” 

Sam faltered, nearly tripping over her own boots as a voice shouted from nearby. It came from the opposite wall, obscured by the archway itself. Sam couldn’t help but take a step back, her heart skipping a beat at the sight of a shadow crouched on the edge of the wall like a grotesque. A person— a man, judging by the voice. 

The person leapt off of the stone, landing right in front of Sam, blocking her path. She stumbled backwards into the archway, her arm pressed against the slick stone with her ectogun trained on the figure. They wore a black jumpsuit with blue accents. A now-familiar domino mask. It was Nightwing again, with his hands held up placatingly and his brows furrowed.

“I had a feeling you’d just run back out into this mess,” he said, his voice even and tense.

Sam grit her teeth, refusing to lower her ectogun this time around. She’d expected to be followed— had known, in some way, that the vigilantes would come after her sooner rather than later— but it still did nothing to settle her nerves as she met Nightwing’s masked gaze once more.

“How long have you been following me for?” she spat out.

Nightwing let out a small, hollow laugh. “Before or after you stopped to make a costume change?” he asked, gesturing to her outfit.

Sam narrowed her eyes, refusing to acknowledge the joke. “I had to get a few things. The ghosts—”

The words died on her tongue as a bolt of green hurtled dangerously close, striking the stone beside them. The vigilante leapt back, throwing himself protectively in front of Sam, and turned to stare at where the blast had come from.

“Damn,” Nightwing muttered, panicked.

Sam followed his gaze, her eyes widening as she watched the flurry of green before her. There were two vultures circling the park, taking turns to swoop and dive low in a hollow mockery of real world scavengers. The roles had reversed, with the dead striking at the living with brutish talons, a far cry from circling the carcasses they’d long since vacated.

Sam watched as one of the birds hurtled downwards, her heart sinking just as surely with the motion as she noticed a figure below the trees. A lone person stood in the path of the swooping vulture, their head tilted towards the sky. The vulture came dangerously close to snapping its beak across their shoulder, before the person ducked out of the way in a graceful roll and bounced back to their feet.

Beneath the shadows of the trees, with the rain still falling heavily, Sam could hardly make out the person’s features. They wore a black suit not unlike Nightwing’s with only a few bright accents to break up their silhouette. It was only when one of the vultures drew close to them that Sam could spot the sharp ears at the top of their head. 

They couldn’t be anything but one of the vigilantes. The ears and cape put her in mind of Batman, but the person’s build did not suit the man at all. This vigilante was much smaller, vaguely feminine, and appeared agile in a way Sam had not seen of Batman from the various shaky clips she, Tucker, and Danny used to watch. The vigilante moved quick on her feet, every motion purposeful and smooth. She spun around as one of the vultures returned in a steep swoop, ducking into a roll to avoid its sharp talons.

“Are these more ghosts?”

Sam’s eyes snapped to Nightwing as he suddenly spoke. The man was standing to the side, the whites of his mask turned to face her, though he was poised to dash in and help his friend at a moment’s notice.

“Y–yes,” Sam said, bewildered at his acknowledgement. “Yes— they’re both ghosts.” Conviction found its way into her words, eyes steely as she dared Nightwing to call them anything but.

Yet if the vigilante had any more doubts in what they were facing, he did not voice them. His head tilted towards her, considering, and she could feel the moment his eyes landed firmly on the bag at her side. 

“You have more weapons to fight these things,” he said— a statement hiding a question. She had weaponry, the means to fight back… For all the tools in his arsenal, Sam doubted anything compared to the ectogun in her hand.

Sam hesitated for only a moment. Her eyes flicked to the ectogun, teeth gritted with frustration. Sam had known from the moment she stuffed the weapons into her bag that she would wind up sharing them with the vigilantes…

It didn’t make it any easier when she pointed the barrel to the ground and thrust it towards Nightwing.

The vigilante leant back in surprise, hand hovering for a moment in the air before he hesitantly took it from her, turning the gun over in his hands. He opened his mouth to say something, but Sam was quick to talk over him, determined to avoid an argument. 

“It won’t kill the ghost, and it won’t do much damage against a human,” she quickly explained. “It runs on ectoplasm— just aim and pull the trigger.”

Before Nightwing could even properly adjust the ectogun in his grip, Sam had dug into her bag and grabbed her wrist ray. She preferred the comfortable weight of an ectogun these days, but Fenton wrist rays had served her well more times than she cared to admit. Snapping the device to her wrist, pausing just long enough to make sure it was secure, Sam turned and sprinted into the park. She heard Nightwing shout after her but paid no mind, instead focusing back on the vultures and their target.

The other vigilante was holding her own, managing to dodge both of the birds with practiced ease, but the vultures were starting to play dirty. One of them dove through the earth nearby, disappearing from sight, while the second distracted the vigilante with an ectoblast from the air. Sam aimed her wrist ray towards the scene, waiting for the first vulture to reappear from the ground. It would be all too easy for the ghost to catch the vigilante unawares from that vantage point, though to her credit the vigilante seemed aware of this as well. It looked as though she were dancing, moving gracefully across the grass with her feet hardly making contact with the ground between each stride. 

Still, her focus was diverted between the vulture swooping low and the one she couldn’t see. 

Sam tensed as a bolt of ectoplasm shot past her, almost striking the vulture in the air. Nightwing was beside her, his borrowed ectogun in hand (and there was no doubt in Sam’s mind that she wouldn’t be getting the weapon back). He was already preparing another shot and Sam quickly returned her focus to the ground, tensed and prepared for the first vulture to make its presence known.

“Duck, Black Bat!” Nightwing shouted, and with his call the second vigilante ducked down in an instant, allowing him to get a proper shot on the vulture before it could grab the vigilante with its sharp, outstretched talons.

Black Bat… The name echoed in Sam’s mind as she watched the vulture careen backwards, its wings stuttering frantically in the air as it tried to right itself once more. Sam recognized the name, though she knew very little about the vigilante herself. There was plenty of information online about Batman and Robin and several of the other more flashy vigilantes that frequented Gotham, but there was very little about the likes of Black Bat. Just a name, just her affiliation with Batman and his brood, and some measure of her skill.

Sam had very little time to ruminate on that when a glint of green appeared at Black Bat’s right ankle. She quickly adjusted her aim towards the grass, her finger pressed to the wrist ray—

Sam’s shot went wide, aim faltering as she watched Black Bat spin on her heel and punch the vulture in the neck.

She expected the hit to miss, for the vulture to glide through her fist as though it simply weren’t there, but Sam’s jaw practically dropped to the ground when the vulture instead let out a loud swear, its neck bowing as it took the full brunt of the punch and was knocked back to the ground, sliding in a heap of feathers.

If Black Bat was at all surprised that the hit connected, she didn't let it show. The vigilante simply followed through with a kick, her heel landing in the dirt as the vulture recovered enough to make a few short flaps with its wings and leap into the air.

Some of Sam's focus returned, watching the vulture climb. She readjusted her aim, squinting through the rain until she felt confident enough to fire the ray once more. The device whirred with her shot, the laser missing the mark of the vulture’s chest but managing to clip its right wing. The ghost dropped several feet in the air, staggering to remain above the grass as its head snapped to glare at her with beady red eyes. It let out an angry squawk, a string of profanities tipping from its beak as it regained its balance and hurtled in her direction, taking a wide sweep over the treetops to avoid Black Bat.

Sam braced herself, readjusting her aim. The vulture drew close, the wet grass below illuminated by its ghostly glow. She pressed the wrist ray, letting loose another shot, but the vulture’s ectoplasm warped, the green bolt sailing harmlessly through a hole formed in its chest. Sam pivoted, barely dodging its first swoop as her feet skidded on the wet grass. The vulture had every inch of her tense, its ectoplasmic energy choking the air, radiating through the rain in a strengthening pulse. Its beak and talons were thrown forward, outstretched in preparation for another attack. Ectoplasm gathered in its beak in warning— but stuttered and died out when a shot of green came from below, singeing the bird’s tail feathers. Nightwing stood, gun aimed to track the vulture as it veered away with an indignant squawk.

 Sam ducked low, giving the vulture no reprieve with a third shot fired in quick succession. The blast missed, though it pushed the vulture to climb higher into the sky, abandoning its pursuit.

 Another squawk broke through the pounding of rain and Sam whipped around, wiping wet hair out of her face. The other vulture had remained close to Black Bat, and Sam watched with renewed fascination as the vigilante landed another devastating blow, spinning in an arc to strike the bird with a roundhouse kick. The ghost was completely caught off guard, sent flying into a tree— through it, as the vulture recovered enough to phase through the bark. 

Sam could have watched Black Bat fight forever. The grace, the agility— the sheer ability to strike at ectoplasm as though it lingered in the stitches of her gloves, or thrummed beneath her skin. She wanted to examine every move, to catalog every punch and turn as though she might be able to replicate a modicum of her skill. 

It took one of the vultures snapping too close, unsteadying Black Bat’s sure footing, for Sam to remember why she was even there.

Sam fumbled for the strap of her bag, thrusting her hand inside and feeling her nails hit the cold metal of the thermos. It wasn’t the best one they had, an old beat-up model that had seen far too much use, being the first that Danny acquired. The pull on it wasn’t what it used to be, and it was difficult to suck up a ghost at full energy. Even with Danny’s newer thermos, it paid to weaken a ghost before trying, both to ensure the capture and to avoid exhausting the ectoplasmic battery of the thermos itself.

As though they sensed it, the vultures’ heads snapped to look at Sam the moment she pulled the thermos free from her bag. Malice lingered in the glint of their eyes and Sam could only imagine their disdain for the device.

Danny had once explained what being in the thermos felt like. According to him, there was a sense of drifting weightlessness while inside— an incoherence of time and space. He’d said that it wasn’t so much the feeling of being trapped within, so much as the squeezing force of entering the thermos that he hated most.

That and not knowing how much time had passed while trapped inside.

Yet none of that information gave Sam pause, not with one of the vultures peeling towards her, its wings splayed in a menacing arc and its talons thrown forward, prepared to grab the thermos with everything it had. If the ghost didn’t want to experience the tug of the thermos’ vacuum, it ought to have learned by now to align with someone other than Vlad.

Nightwing shouted in warning, and Sam was reminded of being thrown to the ground earlier that evening as his good intentions tore her out of the wolf’s path. She’d had an ectogun trained on the ghost then, and Sam couldn’t imagine that she seemed much safer now, holding a soup thermos before waiting talons. 

Not that Nightwing could do much to help her with one vulture swooping low over his head, abandoning Black Bat’s dangerous strikes for a more neutral target.

Sam had the cap off of the thermos in an instant, not caring where it fell into the grass as she turned the barrel of the device onto the ghost and slammed her fingers against the large button on the side. There was a surprised gasp from Nightwing as the thermos activated, cutting a bright bolt of light through the rain. It threw long shadows between the trees and illuminated the puddles in a blue-white glow. The yellow accents of Black Bat’s suit stood out, bright strikes through the dark.

The vulture veered sharply and Sam tracked it with the beam, dragging the light down to the grass with a swear when it managed to resist the pull just long enough to sink below the earth and out of sight. Sam spun on her heel, eyes fixed on the muddy prints beneath her boots, waiting for the ghost to resurface. She could feel it lingering, waiting—

Sam had one quick glance of sharp crimson eyes rocketing towards her before the second vulture slammed into her shoulder at speed. The air was driven from her lungs and Sam fell back, landing roughly in the mud with the thermos bouncing from her shaken grip. 

Though the thermos fell from her hands, its beam persisted, roving over the grass in a wavering arc as it bounced, rolled, and landed against a stone, pointed skyward. The vulture that had careened into Sam began to distort, its ectoplasm stretching and pulling as it drew a hair too close to the beam. With one pitiful, shrill squawk the ghost was pulled inside.

Sam watched the vulture’s green fade into the blue, her vision a doubled mess of bright after-images where the vulture had been. She pulled herself up onto her hands as the beam died down, and the darkness pressed against her eyes in bright, colorful blotches. 

A thrill of satisfaction went through Sam at seeing the ghost disappear into the thermos, though it was short-lived with one more vulture still lingering out of sight.

Nevermind the third, wherever it may be.

All of Sam’s focus was on the thermos— on the ground it lay on, knowing that the second vulture waited in the soil beneath. She struggled up onto her knees, trying desperately to get to the thermos when the vulture reemerged, a burst of green shooting from the ground close to Black Bat, who barely managed to jump out of the way of its beak. The vulture’s focus did not stay on Black Bat, however. Sam watched with a sickening sense of dread as its head tilted, eyes training on the thermos lying in the grass.

The hush of the rain seemed to die away, lost to the blood pounding in Sam’s ears. She tried to struggle to her feet, boots slipping in the mud. She wouldn’t be quick enough; her feet were too unsteady, the thermos too far, the vulture too close.

A croak broke over Sam’s tongue, her first word a strangled mess as she bellowed one desperate plea into the night: “Get the thermos!”

Black Bat turned, the eyeless face of her mask cocking to the side before it pointed towards the ground. There was no hesitation; she moved in an instant, legs driving forward in long, purposeful strides. The vigilante had no way of knowing exactly what the thermos was— if she could trust it— but Sam hoped that witnessing one vulture being sucked inside would be enough to convey its purpose. 

The vulture flew beside the vigilante, ignoring his previous quarry in lieu of focusing on the thermos with squinted, ruby eyes. It moved a hair faster than Black Bat, its weightless body and strong wings gliding over the grass with swift ease. 

Sam hardly bothered to aim this time before firing another ectoblast at the vulture, if anything hoping that she might throw it off course. Nightwing seemed to have the same idea as a twin jet of green collided in a burst, the stray sparks of the shot striking the vulture’s wing.

It was hardly more than a glancing blow, but it was enough. The vulture stuttered in the air, veering sharply to twist to the side as its injured wing struggled to match its flight. In that moment, Black Bat closed what little distance there was between herself and the thermos, both hands grabbing the device before she pulled it to her chest in a roll. She landed close to Sam, tearing up grass as she skidded across the mud. 

Something else tore through the air, drawing a gasp from Sam’s throat.

It was there again, the sensation no more alarming now than it had been back on the balcony. That strange ghostly sense, so alike and yet so different from Danny’s own. That hint of something more, a misting rain amidst the pummeling storm. 

Familiar. Familiar in a way it shouldn’t be.

Black Bat turned, sparing one moment to look over the thermos. The logo on its side, nearly worn off from use, spun as she rolled it over to locate the button. If the vigilante had any reservations or doubts about the thermos and its capabilities, she showed none of them as she pressed down firmly on the button and turned it onto the vulture.

The beam shot forth once more, slices of rain glinting in the light that snagged the vulture in midair. This time Sam did not watch it pull and constrict into the thermos, however. Her eyes were locked on Black Bat, staring, unseeing as she tried to make sense of what the weak ectoplasm in her own system was recognizing.

Even once the beam subsided, the vulture securely stored within, Sam found herself no closer to understanding the situation than she had been hours before.

There was only one thing Sam knew for certain. She knew it with the same certainty that she knew the difference between Danny and Vlad, and any of the other ghosts that visited Amity Park. Their energy was uniquely their own, a fingerprint of sorts. An ectosignature. Danny was the only one of them who could trace those signatures from afar, though the more attuned Sam became to the faint hum of ectoplasm in her own system, the more she was starting to understand those invisible lines and ties.

It was always so much easier between Danny and the other ghosts. So different, yet an echo of the same.

That hum of ectoplasm, the odd sixth sense that lingered more at her center than her head, recognized Black Bat. That mist, echoing unseen back to the stone balcony and the quiet, warm smile that the dark mask could no longer hide.

It was someone familiar. Someone she knew.

It was Cass.

~*~

A shadow slid over her and Sam tensed, her nerves only settling once her eyes landed on Nightwing’s masked face. The man approached slowly with a hand held out; reluctantly, still badly shaken, Sam accepted the gesture. She held on tight, scrambling to get her legs beneath her on the muddy ground as Nightwing hoisted her up. The man hardly looked at her, his head turned warily to sweep the park for any additional threats. The ectogun was still clutched a little too tightly in his other hand.

Black Bat crossed the grass, stooping for a moment to pick up the cap of the thermos. Sam couldn’t help but stare, transfixed. She could see it now— could see Cass . In Black bat’s build, in her sure strides, and even in the quiet way she turned to approach without a single word. The vigilante tipped her head slightly to the side in curiosity. Even with the dark expanse of her mask, Sam could practically see the young woman’s soft eyes underneath. She could imagine Black Bat’s gloves moving to form the signs that Sam had exchanged with her earlier that night. For one fleeting moment Sam even considered signing her a greeting, anything to let her know that she understood .

The thought dissolved just as quickly, chased away by the prickling feeling down Sam’s spine when Black Bat’s mask refused to turn from her.

Sam felt remarkably small in that moment, struggling to meet her hidden gaze. A thousand questions teetered on her tongue, and she felt comfortable with letting none of them loose. Sam’s thoughts were already so scattered tonight, her nerves too frayed. Black Bat’s secret weighed a thousand tons on her shoulders, and Sam hardly knew how to carry it amidst everything else.

She knew who Black Bat was. She knew, and she could do absolutely nothing with the information.

Sam couldn’t stop thinking of the balcony, of Cass. Of everything surrounding her, from the regal festivities of the Wayne gala to her eclectic group of siblings. What did it mean for Cass, a Wayne, to be affiliated with the bats? Was it just her? Her family? 

Sam’s eyes slid from Black Bat to Nightwing, each of the Wayne siblings rotating in her mind’s eye as she took in his appearance. Duke, Tim, Steph, Damian…

Dick.

His hair was not as well-maintained as it had been back at the gala, disheveled and rain-soaked as it was, but there were too many similarities that Sam could see. The mid-length black hair was about right. His build, which had seemed much less athletic beneath the tux, fit all too well now that Sam was looking more closely at the man’s height and the width of his shoulders.

After watching Danny transform so many times, seeing the relatively minute changes that fell between Phantom and Fenton, it did not take much to imagine Nightwing’s face without the domino mask.

Sam wondered, if she were to pull up a list of the vigilantes and compare them to the Waynes and their associates, just how many of them would fall together like the missing pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. One leading to the next, the secret hidden beneath layers of fine dining, makeup, and tailored suits.

So easily undone by a trace of ectoplasm.

“...Are you alright?” 

Tension dripped in Nightwing’s voice, heavy as the rain. He was staring at Sam in confusion, a frown tugging his lips, and she realized with a drop in her gut that she must have been staring at them for far too long.

“Y–yeah,” Sam said a little too quickly. “I’m fine.”

She didn't feel fine. Not in body, and certainly not in mind now, with all of her thoughts drifting and colliding with one another in a frantic race to make sense of things.

Nightwing did not seem at all convinced, though his focus diverted to the thermos when Black Bat stepped up beside him, holding the device up. He took it gingerly, inspecting every inch of the cylinder with narrowed eyes. 

It was difficult to tell with the mask, though Sam could practically feel his gaze flickering to her every so often. 

“What is this thing?” he asked. Then, holding the ectogun higher with his other hand, regarding it with the same scrutiny, he said, “Where did you get these devices?”

Any vague assumptions Sam had of receiving a thank you were quickly dashed, lost to Nightwing's skepticism. Though, considering her flight from Nightwing earlier in the evening, she supposed it was par for the course. Still, a small, temperamental part of Sam wanted to throw Dick’s name in his face and watch both of the vigilantes squirm as they tried to rationalize how she might have connected the dots.

A more rational part of her mind told Sam to hold her cards close to her chest. She had already relinquished one of her weapons, and now the thermos was out of her hands. Sam’s stomach twisted uncomfortably at the thought, wondering just where the wolf had disappeared into the city and what destruction it had wrought. 

"It catches ghosts," Sam said a bit petulantly, crossing her arms. "As you could probably see with your own eyes."

Sam couldn’t help her gaze trailing back to Black Bat, senses focused on the ghostly aura wrapping around the vigilante. Part of her was glad that she couldn't actually see Cass's eyes; Sam wasn't certain that she could comfortably meet them without letting something slip.

…Assuming she hadn’t already let something slip. 

Sam’s thoughts spiraled, circling back to everything she had said in front of Cass and her siblings— all of the concerning stories she had told them of home, without realizing the people she was speaking to had all of the resources to know of Amity’s situation… and yet seemingly none of the knowledge attached. 

Why had they seemed so surprised? Why were ghosts— why was Amity— so new to them? It put anger in Sam's belly, an anger she couldn't even act on. All she could do was swallow it down, forcing her attention back to the vigilantes in front of her, waiting for questions that she was loath to give answers to.
Sam was so focused on her own turbulent thoughts that it took her a moment to notice that Nightwing had a finger to his ear, clearly listening to something. It had to be some form of communication device, not unlike the Fenton phone she was wearing. If Sam strained her senses, ignoring the interference in her own ear, she could hear a more distant crackle of static, underlaid by a small, tinny voice.

Sam couldn't make out anything that was being said. It was all a garbled mess, too much static and rain for anything coherent to break through. Sam simply narrowed her eyes, trying to read Nightwing's expressions as he listened to the voice. By the furrow of his brow, she couldn’t assume anything good. 

"We were able to neutralize two of the creatures with the help of a civilian… yes," Nightwing finally answered, his finger still to his ear. "Keep the wolf busy and hopefully we can manage the same with it." He looked at Sam meaningfully, clearly asking if that plan of action would work, to which Sam nodded quickly. Though the wolf was much bigger than either of the vultures, the thermos would be able to hold it all the same.

Sam only hoped that the vigilantes dealing with the wolf ghost could hold their own until then. Nightwing's face had pinched with concern, his voice clipped, and Sam understood his worry far too intimately. Were she in their situation, completely unable to harm a destructive ghost bearing down on her or her friends, Sam would have panicked. She was only thankful to have the foresight to bring supplies, and that while Nightwing and Black Bat might not necessarily trust her, they seemed to at least trust in the weapons she had shown them and their ability to fight back in ways they could not.

Nightwing’s chest heaved with a deep breath, seeming to collect himself. He finally took his hand away from his ear, mouth hardening into a thin line as he addressed his companion. 

"We can't stand around here. That wolf’s giving the others trouble; nothing they have is hitting it.” Black Bat nodded in agreement and Nightwing’s focus shifted back to Sam, his voice taking on a stern edge. “I can’t have you involved directly in this fight, but I think we might need your help. Whatever you know, whatever else you might have—”

Sam had expected it even before he spoke. It did nothing to stymie her anger.

"I'm not going to just sit back and do nothing,” she interrupted, throwing her hands wide in indignation at the suggestion. "You saw me shoot those vultures— that wolf ! You know I can handle this. I don't need you to—"

The man raised a gloved hand, the palm the same blue as the accents along his arms. "I don't care what you're used to doing. I know you have experience, I can see it, but you’re already injured and it's our responsibility to keep civilians safe,” he said, the whites of his mask narrowing. “Let us handle this fight, and let us get you somewhere safe. We can discuss more when you’re not in danger.”

Sam’s chest heaved with pent-up fury. Her eyes roved down to Nightwing's leg, lingering on the wrap of bandages beneath his knee. "I'm injured?” she challenged, unable to swallow down a laugh of contempt. “Your leg is still covered in bandages. You can't tell me that when you—"

"Please just listen to me for once,” he insisted, tone urgent and teeth gritted. “I need you to trust me and stay put. Black Bat will keep you safe and can relay any information we might need. Black Bat, can you—"

He turned to address his ally, anger in the stiff line of his shoulders— but froze. It didn’t take Sam long to see why. Though she’d spent entirely too much time staring at Black Bat, focusing on the aura about her… Sam somehow had not noticed the vigilante slip away. 

To her credit, Nightwing seemed just as blindsided by Black Bat’s sudden disappearance. He spun around on the spot, cursing under his breath. When he finally stopped, the man let out a world-weary sigh, staring out into the rain as if it held the abyss.

Despite everything, Sam almost laughed. She might have, were she not so tired. After everything the night had thrown at her, it was hard to find much humor in anything, even the dejected slump of Nightwing’s shoulders as his half-cocked plan went up in smoke.

So much for leaving them both behind. Sam knew she liked Cass.

The mask on Nightwing’s face did nothing to hide the emotions warring beneath it, unaided by the nervous way he began to pace, the thermos and ectogun swaying in his clenched fists. Sam could practically see the wheels turning in his head, options quickly weighed with new plans of action.

Part of Sam hoped the man would leave regardless, but nothing in his behavior or mannerisms told Sam he would ever willingly leave a teenager to their own devices in Gotham City— not after her first stunt running back to the hotel. Not when this vigilante— Dick, she reminded herself— seemed far too invested in her safety to risk it.

He had to know that she’d follow him into danger, in any case. That no amount of shoving Sam Manson to the sidelines and telling her to stay back would be enough to keep her at bay.

As far as Sam could see, Nightwing only really had one of two options. Either the man could throw his morals to the wayside and abandon her, or…

“I can’t just leave you here,” he said, more to himself than Sam. Nightwing looked at her, brows furrowed with fatigue, and Sam had to force down a devilish grin as she practically watched his facade of control crumble and crack.

“If you do, I’m just going to find that wolf myself. I’m not letting some ghost run rampant here when I can help,” Sam said, abandoning any humor to give Nightwing the fiercest glare she had. 

To his credit, Dick met the glare admirably with one of his own— as much of one as he could manage with the mask in the way, though the facsimile quickly fractured. His face turned downwards into a frown as he focused on the thermos still clutched in his left hand.

"Besides," Sam continued when he hesitated, "I know you're going to question me about this anyway, and I have a lot of shit to say."

And a lot more that she wouldn’t. Not yet, at least. Not until she knew that the information would be well-spent. Not until Sam knew she could speak without her voice quavering nervously. 

And certainly not before the wolf had been caught.

Every line in Nightwing’s posture held resentment, his head shaking with disbelief. He turned without a word, nodding towards the entrance of the park, and Sam hastened to follow after him. He maneuvered the thermos onto a clip on his belt, attaching it by the cap, before prodding at something metal concealed along his wrist. He didn’t look at Sam once, eyes focused ahead and feet moving until they reached the archway he’d perched on not too long ago.

As Sam sidled up beside him, nervously watching Nightwing’s body language with her wrist ray at the ready just in case, she couldn’t help but flinch when his arm suddenly moved to hold something out. It was the ectogun, grip first, with the barrel pointed to the sidewalk. Sam raised her eyebrow questioningly, for a moment wondering if it was a trick. She’d been sure the ectogun was a lost cause from the moment it left her hands— that the vigilante would never relinquish such vital evidence so freely.

“I’ll want it back— I’ll want to investigate all of this— but I trust it will be safe with you for the time being?” he asked, head tilted to glance down at her.

With the same hesitance that she’d passed the weapon on with, Sam closed a shaking hand around the grip of the gun. Its weight felt comforting in her palm, the hum of ectoplasm just as familiar. 

"Better than in yours," she couldn't help but snark.

Despite the tension, Nightwing laughed. It was a hollow, uncomfortable thing, but there was a distinct bark to the laugh that was all Dick Grayson. Now that Sam knew the common thread between the pair of them, she knew there was no unseeing it.

She wondered if Jazz felt the same way when she first saw Danny transform. 

“You’re sure you feel alright?” Nightwing asked suddenly, much quieter. Sam wasn’t sure what they were waiting for, but he seemed content to just stand there on the edge of the sidewalk for a moment, regarding her with a quirked brow. 

“I told you, I’m fine,” Sam groused. She’d leant on her left hip, knees locked like tree roots gripping at loose soil. It was taking everything in her not to sink to the ground for a moment and rest. 

Nightwing hummed with a nod, sounding wholly unconvinced. Another retort sat on Sam’s tongue, begging to contradict his assumptions, but she paused when a rumbling sound cut through the hush of rain, followed in short order by a beam of light. Her eyes snapped to it, watching with fascination as a sleek motorbike rolled towards the entrance of the park. It was a dark, nondescript vehicle without anyone manning it. It wasn’t until it stopped right in front of them and Nightwing stepped up to it that she noticed blue accents racing along the rims of the tires and the side of the body.

“It’s not ideal with the rain, but the others are too far for on foot and I don’t trust you with a grapnel,” he said, throwing a leg over the motorcycle. 

Sam couldn’t help but notice the buckle in his knee as he did so.

For all her determination, for all her bluster, Sam found herself pausing as she stared at the sleek black metal of the bike. It rumbled softly, a far cry from the monster of a machine that Johnny rode. Nightwing was looking at her expectantly, impatiently waiting for her to follow.

With a shaky sigh, Sam climbed onto the back of the bike and awkwardly grabbed his sides. She hoped he was a better driver than Johnny, at least.

Nightwing waited for her to settle before he coaxed the bike forward. It moved slowly at first, testing the waters, before he said, “Hold on tight,” and gave it more gas. The park was gone in short order, the wind and rain tearing at Sam’s face as Nightwing turned the first corner and headed down a long, narrow street. Her arms had wrapped around him with enough force to bruise.

As the houses blurred passed, dark and dismal in the gloom, Sam wondered what she was doing. Of all of the places she could have wound up, of all the possible situations, she never would have expected to land herself on the back of a Gotham vigilante’s motorcycle. If Sam had told herself just a couple of hours ago that she would be putting this much blind faith into any one of the vigilantes, she would have laughed in her own face.

Yet here she was now, clutching Nightwing and the sides of the bike a little too tightly. Sam squeezed her eyes shut just as tight, trying to block out the worst of the wind as they dipped around cars and took sharp corners. The breeze tore at her ears, her wet hair a tangled mess. Her heart thudded against her ribs, fear in every nervous beat.  

Sam let her thoughts wander as they sped through Gotham, not knowing where exactly the vigilante was taking them or how long the ride may be. The lack of control scared her more than she was willing to admit; it felt as if any certainty she had died somewhere between the plane ride to Gotham and the conversation with Vlad, his sly grin the catalyst for one too many missteps. 

If only Sam had known to punch him then. It wouldn’t have helped the fallout, but it would have made her smile at least. 

Sam knew there wouldn’t be much to smile about anytime soon. Even once the wolf ghost was secure, she dreaded the questions that would follow its green hide. The ghosts, the weapons— where they came from, why. Sam wanted time to think and plan, to talk to Danny and Tucker, but all of the arguments she’d gathered in her head were slipping away with each sharp turn of Nightwing’s bike. 

Approaching the Justice League had felt a lot less daunting from a distance, when she hardly knew their personas, let alone the faces beneath the masks.

Sam couldn’t help but squeeze Nightwing a little tighter as she considered Dick, Cass, and the common thread between them. The man that brought them together— all of his children, adopted one by one. There was no way he wasn’t involved, not with his kids leaping on high from the rooftops of the very buildings he owned. 

Considering his age and status, Sam thought she knew which mask fit the bill worth billions. 

Lights flashed across her shut eyelids and she squeezed them tighter, focusing on the sharp drops of rain against her face and the wind whipping her hair. Sam tried to ground herself in the present, to settle her unease. She needed to prepare herself to stand, to fight— to face the wolf with enough of a facade that she might carry it into the interrogation waiting for her in the wings. 

(Bat wings, stretching across the city…)

It was easier said than done. Sam could hear the garble of Nightwing’s communication device again, the sounds distorted by the wind. It had Sam’s thoughts cycling endlessly back to the network of vigilantes, to everything she’d said to them. Everything they might already know. Had she said anything incriminating? Anything that could harm Danny or jeopardize Amity Park?

Could she trust them to keep it secret if she had?

To think she had her own blackmail now, and blackmail Sam was more than willing to utilize if push came to shove. If the Justice League and its network of vigilantes weren’t willing to help Amity Park— to help Danny— out of the kindness of their hearts, then perhaps they could be reasoned with in other ways.

…Sam wondered if she had perhaps hit her head a little harder than she first thought.

A louder crackle of static, voices drifting in and out. The words were much more distinct with her close proximity, but the buffet of wind against Sam’s ears stole away too many words, and there was too much interference to make out the full message. The words ghost and wolf and Batman floated through the interference, spoken by at least two distinct voices. There was tension there, as bone-deep and weary as Sam felt. 

They turned down another street, winding between several cars, and Sam noticed when the crackle of static deepened and splintered, grating on her ears. There was an odd echo to it, one she thought she recognized. One airing a little too on the side of ghostly to be anything but. It reminded Sam of that first phone call they’d tried after the portal accident, when a shrill wall of interference had accompanied Danny’s nervous, “Hello?”

There were still too many devices in Amity not used to the ectoplasm saturating the air. Things had improved, slowly, surely, as the Fentons worked their tech into anything with a signal, but… Well, Nightwing had already proven to Sam that they didn’t have much in the way of combating ghosts. 

Still, she hated to think how close the other vigilantes must be to the wolf to cause so much interference. 

The voices on the comm link died down and Nightwing took another sharp turn into a narrow alleyway, kicking up a wall of water behind his tires. “Not much farther!” he bellowed over the wind, hardly audible. 

“...Another one,” a frantic voice suddenly spoke up from the link, seemingly in answer. 

Nightwing’s muscles stiffened and he sped up. Sam thought she heard the vigilante swear, but it was difficult to tell beneath the screech of tires and the staticky crescendo of more worried voices talking over each other—

Over the sounds of shattering glass and deep snarls, far too close. 

Nightwing took one more turn before slamming on the brakes, jolting Sam’s chin into his shoulder with the sudden stop. She blinked blearily, eyes irritated from the wind, and tried to focus on her surroundings.

A smudge of green came into focus, the wolf all lanky limbs and raised hackles. The fire of its tail had grown, wisps licking across a shattered street as it lashed about. Waves of ghostly energy rolled off of its pelt, distinct now after spending too much time staring a little too closely at its scarlet fangs.

It wasn’t the only ectosignature she recognized. 

Chest heaving, her ears ringing, Sam felt every drop of blood in her body run cold. She didn’t have to see what ghost accompanied the wolf to know who it was merely by feel. The aura was familiar, far more distinct than any misting rain that dogged Cass’ heels. 

Sam wasn’t sure if she’d ever forget the sight before her eyes. If not for the giant monster of a wolf, its snout too long and the glare of its pelt too bright as it lashed out at a vigilante dressed in purple, then she would at least remember the hurtling blur of white streaking over it.

She’d remember the storm even more clearly, the pressure of it just as tight at her center as it was heavy in the air.

Sam wasn’t sure how, she wasn’t sure why, but Phantom had come to Gotham.

Chapter Text

The girl— the daughter of the Fentons, if she was to be believed— was a silent presence as she led them through the park, taking a roundabout route through the densest bit of trees. She would glance back every so often, her brows knitted together in thought and her hand still hovering warningly over where her weapon was concealed.

The trees thinned as they came to a wall of tall hedges. The girl guided them through a gap in the bushes that opened onto a long side street lined with cars. After a glance down either side of the road, she led them across and down a narrow alley, their footsteps splashing through a channel of water that ran through it. Damian never once let his eyes leave her as he followed. There was no trust.

After the shot fired by Mrs. Fenton, Damian wasn’t sure he could trust anyone familiar with Danyal. He had no way of knowing yet what life his brother had led in Amity Park, or what odd forces might be at play beneath the surface of the town to have tales of ghosts bubbling to the surface. Regardless of the oddities, Damian could see nothing that warranted a mother aiming and firing a weapon at who she perceived to be her son. 

Even if that son had been keeping a weapon— among other things— in the floorboards of his bedroom.

Todd kept pace, his head held high, but Damian could see the strain in his movements. They hadn’t had a chance to properly rest since Todd took the shot meant for him, and the blood soaking into his wet t-shirt spoke of an injury that required first aid.

Though Damian still thought it was rather foolish of Todd to use himself as a human shield, a part of him couldn’t help but be thankful. After all, Todd hadn’t asked to come to Amity Park in the first place. He never asked to climb into that window. Damian wouldn’t admit it out loud, certainly not in front of present company, let alone Jason himself, but there was guilt there. 

Something he could reflect on later, when they weren’t rain-soaked and following behind an unknown civilian like lost dogs.

The rain pattered constantly, blowing across the darkened streets with each errant gust of wind. The girl never paused once, her footsteps quick and deliberate as she led them down another flooded alley. They passed very few civilians, with only a couple of cars rolling quietly through the stormy night. They paused for one of the vehicles, half-hidden in the shadow of a tree, and as the headlights receded into the distance the Fenton girl pointed towards a building on the next corner, nestled between several tall apartments. It was a shop of sorts, judging by the wide windows and colorful awnings, though it appeared to be abandoned. The frontmost windows were covered in boards and there were divots in the red-brick facade, as though something large had slammed into it and knocked the brickwork loose. 

The girl glanced conspicuously down either side of the street before she walked over to one of the boarded-up windows and grabbed it by the corner. With a slight tug, the wood came loose and lifted in a swivel as she pushed it up and out of the way, revealing a glassless opening on the other side.

“In here,” she said quietly, gesturing for them to follow as she lifted a leg to clamber inside. 

Damian paused to assess the situation, his boots kicking up loose gravel as he came to a halt. The shop window yawned before them, a dark entrance with only the girl’s sharp eyes visible inside, glaring like a cat waiting in the shadows. He could see nothing past her, no indication why she would lead them to such a location, short of her promise to get them somewhere safe. It didn’t seem like a particularly safe location— not at all structurally sound, in fact. 

Damian wasn’t sure if they could trust her, not knowing any motives. For all her apparent relationship with Danyal, the girl was an unknown element with all of the capacity to take another shot at them, just as her mother had done.

And yet…

Damian could still hear the blasted siren cutting through the night, a prowling beast circling the town. The sound was distant now, a faint ringing under the heavy drops of rain, but there was no telling when the Fentons would circle back next, or just how long they would continue to patrol the streets.

The Fenton girl was their only credible lead. All Damian could do was trust that this act of defiance, hiding them away from her parents with the promise of first aid, would be enough.

That it would be genuine.

Still, Damian was never one to trust easily. He approached the window with slow, cautious footsteps, offering the girl a fixed, suspicious glare as he put a hand on the wood of the windowsill and pulled himself inside. Jason wasn’t far behind, muttering something quietly under his breath that Damian couldn’t quite catch.

Darkness pressed on his eyes as the board slid shut behind them, with hardly any light reaching through the planks. Damian quickly pulled out his phone, turning on the flashlight so that he could get a sense of their surroundings. He swept the device in an arc, letting the light fall over torn-up wooden boards, weathered tables and chairs, and the dark puddles scattered in between.

A restaurant must have occupied the space at some point, though it had certainly seen better days. Every inch of the building appeared to have some degree of damage, with even the ceiling partially caved in, a shattered light fixture dangling precariously overhead. Judging by the lack of dust or mold, Damian would hazard that the damage occurred rather recently.

A great deal of the mess had been swept to the right-hand wall and under a wooden staircase with several missing steps. On the far end of the building, a couple of booths had been pulled together near a splintered counter bar.

“What is this place?” Damian asked quietly. Old restaurant or not, he wanted to know what the space meant to the Fenton girl personally. 

There was no answer. The girl picked her way around several holes in the floorboards and towards the bar in the back. She knelt behind it, only the shadow of the top of her head visible as something shifted with a grinding noise and a sudden clack.

The girl stood back up just as quickly, a large white box clutched in her hands. She gestured to the booths and Damian stepped around the splintered floor towards them, his wet clothes dripping a line across the wood. He paused, a hand on the torn cushion of the bench closest. Todd followed, shifting his feet awkwardly, before sinking down with a barely-concealed groan. 

The girl came back around, juggling a couple of bottles of water with the white box. It was a first aid kit, just like the one hidden beneath Danyal’s floorboards, and the hundreds Damian’s family had stashed throughout Gotham City. She set the bottles down on the bench beside Todd but kept the medical supplies snug in her grasp, frowning.

There was a pause where she bit her lip, setting Damian on edge for whatever half-concocted tale would spill from her mouth. “What sort of injury do you have?” she asked Todd, her voice echoing strangely in the abandoned building.

Jason sat stiffly on the bench, one hand bracing himself and the other awkwardly held at his side. He turned to glare at the girl, his tone clipped as he said, “That’s really none of your business.”

She straightened up, her eyes narrowing coldly. “I’m offering you help and a first aid kit. The least you can do is tell me what you’re trying to bandage,” she said flatly.
Todd’s lip curled. “A burn,” he said, just as curt.

The girl sighed, unimpressed. She made no motion to move, let alone to hand Damian the medical supplies she lauded over them. “What caused it?” she asked.

Todd stiffened, his teeth grit. “I fell on a stove— what’s it matter?” 

Damian could practically see the questions burning behind his glare. Had plenty himself, all of them centered resolutely around the star-studded bedroom in the Fenton home. The girl was much too forward, much too bold for a mere civilian.

(Not that anything Fenton seemed ordinary.)

She brushed off the sarcasm, pressing on. “Was it from a ghost? Can I see it?” she asked, leaning forward. 

Ghost . She threw the word around casually, as if discussing something as common as a bad turn of the weather. Her tone held even, in a practiced manner that belied excitement and unease. Her readiness to tie a burn to paranormal entities, of all things, put Damian in mind of the robotic being that erupted from the thermos just a short while ago.

Todd let out a small, derisive laugh. “Sure, it was a ghost,” he said. “Casper himself.”

His humor received a withering look and a slow shake of the head. “How obvious do I need to make it that I’m trying to help you?” the Fenton girl said with a huff. “Do you even know how to do first aid?”

Damian couldn’t help but curl his lip, annoyed. He had learned how to sanitize and stitch wounds from a young age, his and Danyal’s bodies canvases to practice the skill. Managing a burn was far from difficult, far from new. From the training grounds of Nanda Parbat, to long nights spent beneath the gloomy skies of Gotham, Damian had plenty of experience mending.

He grabbed the kit from her with more force than was necessary, the contents rattling noisily. “Of course I do,” he said. It might be useful to play dumb and allow the Fenton girl to handle things on her own, but he neither trusted her to bandage Todd’s wound, nor wanted to duck his head in her company. 

Her parentage sat at the forefront of his mind. The daughter of the Fentons… a sister. 

(Damian had so many siblings himself. Adopted. The same, yet…)

The Fenton girl nodded stiffly, sitting down on the bench positioned across from Todd’s. She couldn’t have been much older than Damian— perhaps a couple of years at most— yet the girl watched him pick up the water bottle and first aid kit with the air of someone supervising. He seethed at being treated like a helpless child, but Damian bit back a retort. 

He sat down beside the girl, tenser than he ought to be.

His thoughts kept spinning back, endlessly circling the drain around the word sister . He wondered if Danyal had ever raised his blade against her. Wondered if his steps into her household were as tenuous as his own into Wayne Manor. Wondered how long it took to ease the tension, if it ever quite did, if she—

Damian shook his head, forcing his mind to clear. To settle. He had a task at hand, a wound that needed attention. 

(He could worry about one brother just as soon as he knew the other was safe.)

Placing the first aid kit down beside Todd, Damian popped open the lid and ran his cellphone’s flashlight over the contents within. The kit was better stocked than the one in Danyal’s room, with very little out of place. It was clear to Damian that while the first kit had seen regular use, this one was most likely a reserve. 

It begged the question why.

The light brightened suddenly and Damian lifted his head, finding that the girl had turned her own flashlight on. It cast a dark shadow across her face, exaggerating the bright glint to her eyes. The girl squinted as though seeing the pair of them for the first time, though Damian had the sense she’d been seeing just fine until then. After all, she’d managed to navigate the broken fixtures of the building well enough in the dark.

He still felt there was more than a reflection glowing in her irises.

Damian gave Todd a nudge, making him turn so he could get a better look at the wound. He complied stiffly, leaning against the back of the booth with his injured shoulder facing out. It looked much the same as it had in the park, though the rain had washed a dark streak of blood down his shirt.

The Fenton girl hissed in sympathy. “That looks like an ectoblast wound…” she said quietly, her mouth pulled into a pensive frown.

“An ectoblast?” Damian asked, hearing Todd mutter the word underbreath. 

The booth creaked as she shuffled uncomfortably. “A green bolt of energy; does that sound familiar?” she asked. Then, without waiting for a response, she added, “I didn’t see any ghosts around tonight, though with my parents running around…”

She trailed off, her right hand falling to her hip, almost absently. It wasn’t difficult to see the outline of the weapon hidden under her green jacket.

“You have experience with this,” Damian observed, nodding his head pointedly at it.

She jolted slightly, pulling her hand away from the weapon. The Fenton girl didn’t quite meet Damian’s gaze, her eyes locked on the mess of Todd’s back as she said, “Comes with the territory of the most haunted town in the US.”

Damian huffed, unimpressed by the moniker. So far, the most haunted thing he’d seen in Amity Park was the ghost decor in Danyal’s bedroom…

No matter.

Damian wiped the wet bangs from his eyes. He plucked a small pair of scissors from the med kit and moved to cut away Todd’s ruined shirt, but while his brother had allowed him to prod at the wound until now, he seemed to draw the line there. Todd shrugged off his help and sat up straight. He pulled the shirt up and over his head with some difficulty, hissing as the wet fabric slid over his shoulder.

Of course Todd would risk aggravating the injury to spare a shirt with a gaping hole in it. Damian clicked his tongue disapprovingly, but let the action slide with no remark.

Without the shirt clinging to the edges of the wound, it appeared much larger than before. A nasty, angry starburst, still weeping a faint trickle of blood down Todd’s back. The skin at the center had tattered, raw like the middle of a canker sore. 

Damian undid the cap on the water bottle and grabbed an antiseptic wipe to clean his hands. As he did so the Fenton girl leaned forward, fishing through the kit for some gauze. Damian wrinkled his nose, resisting the urge to slap her hand away as she held it out to him. He took it instead, without thanks, and carefully poured water onto the gauze. He pressed the material against the ‘ectoblast’ wound. Todd tensed, breath drawn sharp into his lungs. His hands were balled into fists, knuckles bone-white against the booth seat. He trembled slightly, more felt than seen. The reaction worried Damian more than he cared to admit aloud. He’d seen Jason slashed, stabbed, shot, and concussed, and yet very few injuries had rattled his brother so thoroughly.

Damian refused to let the reaction rattle him the same way. He kept the gauze pressed, moving his hand slightly to see if the material had bled through. There was a spot of blood at the center, negligible in size. Still, the material warmed with the heat of Todd’s injury, and all Damian could do was press more damp gauze against it. The burn concerned him much more than the spot of red.

“Um, I’m Jasmine Fenton— Jazz.” Damian shifted to look up as the girl suddenly spoke. She was fidgeting with the hem of her jacket now, frowning. “I suspect you’ve met my parents already," she said with a hollow chuckle.

Todd met it with a derisive laugh, the sound a disjointed hum beneath Damian’s hands. “If you call getting shot at a meeting. Do your parents make a habit of shooting people?” he asked.

His voice wavered as he spoke, sweat beading on his brow. Damian knew it had nothing to do with the muggy summer night. 

The girl, Jasmine, stiffened. She might have already guessed that her parents were responsible for Todd’s injury. Damian suspected that she did not expect them to share the full story.

A smile quirked across her lips, nervous and uncertain. “Ectoblasts don’t normally cause this much damage…”

She opened her mouth, as though to say something else, but stopped, slowly shaking her head. Jasmine stared at Todd’s back, her expression difficult to read. 

“Then explain how that damn thing tore up my shoulder,” Todd growled. He shuffled stiffly, trying to look at the wound, and Damian let out a disapproving tut, pressing down a little more firmly.

Out of the corner of his sight, Damian noticed Jasmine’s shoulders hike up uncomfortably to her ears. Her eyes were downcast, focused on her hands. 

“How do you know my brother?” she asked quietly, the change in subject as swift as a sudden shift in the wind.

Damian grit his teeth, his heart skipping a beat. He couldn’t even be annoyed by the deflection. For all her avoidance, Jasmine had touched on the very thing that had driven Damian from the gala in the first place. He could forget the lightshow of Lazarus for now.

Staring Jasmine dead in the eye, determined to make his point as clear as his resolve, Damian said, “He is my brother."

Jasmine stared back, her jaw slackened with surprise. She opened her mouth, closed it, and shook her head. Her phone had sunken in her grip, the light reflecting off of the white knuckles on her opposite hand.

“Your… brother,” she said slowly, more a statement than a question.

Damian held her gaze. “Yes.” 

He said the word with defiance, fire burning hot in his chest. It took everything in him to maintain pressure on Todd’s back without digging his nails in. Something in Jasmine’s question felt like a challenge, and Damian met it with stubborn rivalry. It didn’t sit well, knowing that Jasmine knew Danyal— claimed to be his sibling— yet knew nothing of his twin.

Damian tried to ignore that he had left his own family in a similar darkness.

A tense pause stretched between them, cold and pressing. Todd’s muscles were tense coils beneath Damian’s hands; he could tell his brother was listening with everything he had, waiting just as impatiently for Jasmine to speak. 

The boards over the windows rattled, the rain a loud drum against the silence. “Does the name Vlad Masters mean anything to you?” she finally said, breaking it.

A cold wind raced down Damian’s spine. He flexed his wrist, remembering Masters’ powerful grip. Remembering how he spoke to Samantha Manson, venom laced in his words.

“I know of him,” he said. “Why?”

Jasmine's eyes narrowed, calculating. Measuring. Damian could practically see her weighing the conversation, a balance of carefully-chosen words against uncertainty. 

“... He and my brother don’t get along,” she said slowly, carefully. “I thought he might put you up to this.”

Damian clenched his hand into a fist, bunching the gauze under his hands. “A wealthy, middle-aged man picks fights with Danyal?” he said.

“Danyal?”

The name was clunky on her tongue, unfamiliar, and Damian huffed with annoyance at the sound. “Danny. Danyal. That is his name, are you not aware of that?” he challenged.

Jasmine’s eyes had gone to Todd’s shoulder again, dutifully avoiding his own. “Well, he’s always gone by Daniel on paper…” she said.
“He doesn’t like it when people call him that aloud. Just Danny.”

The name was Americanized, simple. Damian had to wonder if it was Danyal’s choice that softened the syllables. He opened his mouth to ask, but Todd spoke first. “How long have you known him?” his brother asked, twisting to look at Jasmine. Wincing as he did.

Jasmine’s fingers tapped at her phone case, her nails picking nervously at the edge of the plastic. She seemed to mull the question over, deciding. “About eight years now, I think? I… you said you’re his brother… Do you mean that?”

Her eyes shifted to rest on Damian once more, a brightness in the gloom. Superman himself could not offer a more piercing glare.

Damian owed her no answers, no reassurances, but still something brittle in his chest leapt at the chance to answer. “Yes,” he said with defiance, feeling that brittle thing crack and splinter into something much sharper. “He has lived with your family this entire time and has not mentioned his birth family?”

Jason frowned over his shoulder and Damian struggled not to press too forcefully against his brother’s back at the sick swoop of… not quite grief, but close enough. It was hypocritical, Damian knew. He had hidden Danyal from his own family, burying the memories as deep as any grave. He was just as guilty, just as avoidant, and yet Damian would protest any comparison Todd might make.

After all, Danyal had done so knowing Damian still lived and breathed. 

Flesh and bone, however distant. Far from the mere memory Danyal's departure had left him with.

Jasmine’s expression pinched, pitying. Damian bristled, that not-quite-grief biting at his tongue. It took everything to swallow it down and wait for an explanation— knowing that whatever might come wouldn’t soften it.

She held his gaze this time, a determined glint to her eyes (still too bright, still too strange). 

“I found Danny, well— in that park, actually.” A small, wistful smile quirked her lips. Her eyes trailed back to her hands absently before snapping back to Damian’s face, resolute. “He was hurt pretty bad— he’s fine. He’s fine,” she quickly amended when Damian opened his mouth. “I won’t go into details, but he was in bad shape for a while. He… Danny told us he couldn’t remember where he came from. I always thought he might be lying about that, but that his old family might have been…” 

“Abusive?” Todd supplied when she trailed off.

Her shoulders hunched, stiff. She gave a shaky nod, eyes slipping closed. “Y-yeah. That.”

The words rang in Damian’s ears, disquieting. He grit his teeth, a simmering anger burning white-hot through his veins, his face hot with it. “And what home has Danya— Danny had here?” he demanded, his voice a cold chill against that anger. “What family has he had? A mother who mistakes a stranger for her own son and still aims her weapon freely.”

Damian knew that their upbringing was… unconventional. Cruel. He knew that now, as surely as Father had instructed, and his siblings had shown him the softness of a family that did not weigh purpose with affection. He knew all of this and still hated the implication of abuse— the assumption that Danyal had come from something worse and that it had included him.

(After all, perhaps more than fear and circumstance had kept his brother from ever returning home.)

Damian expected his words to cut and dig, for Jasmine to meet his anger in kind, but— her eyes simply widened with alarm. Rather than a defensive outburst, Jasmine balked. 

“She shot at you?” the girl demanded, glancing between the two brothers, frantic.

Damian paused, suddenly unsure. Todd twisted under his hands, glancing between them. “She aimed at him. I took the shot,” his brother supplied.

In one quick movement, Jasmine stood up. Damian slowly lowered the gauze from Todd’s back— it had stopped bleeding by now. He watched warily as the Fenton girl began to pace back and forth in front of the benches. The weather-worn floorboards creaked beneath her steps, the rubber of her shoes squeaking on each turn. She wrung her hands, staring blankly ahead. “Oh, this is bad. This is bad,” she repeated in a steady mantra under her breath.

Just as quickly as the strange behavior began, she ground to an abrupt halt and whipped around. She seemed to search Damian’s face, letting out a stuttering breath.

“She thought you were overshadowed,” Jasmine said, breathless. Her eyes dropped to the ground, voice dropping just as surely to a whisper. “This is bad.”

“Overshadowed?” Damian asked, unsure of the word. “She mentioned a ghost.”

Jasmine nodded absently. She ran a hand through her wet hair, digging her nails against her scalp. “Ghosts can overshadow people— think possession. A person’s eyes change when they’re overshadowed.” She waved a hand in front of her face demonstratively. “I think Mom saw your eye color on Danny’s face and…”
“Took a shot at her own son,” Todd growled lowly, the sound seeming to reverberate in the dark.

Jason tried to get up, but Damian was quick to place a hand on his shoulder. It was something to do, something constructive to focus on as his mind whirled with new information.

“Your mother is willing to take a shot at her son on the off chance a ghost might be involved?” Todd continued, disgust evident in his every word. “She could kill him.”

Jasmine’s hand stilled. She stood partly in shadow, the red hair tangled around her fingers dark with water.

“Ectoblasts don’t normally cause this much damage to a living person,” she repeated quietly, defensive. 

“That—”

“Forget the weapon.” Now it was Damian’s turn to interrupt. He stood, the bloody gauze from Todd’s back clutched tightly in his left hand. Where even is Danny,” he demanded. “Your mother seemed to think Danyal was away. She was surprised to see me— you seemed relieved also, before realizing I was not him.”

Jasmine turned, her eyes flickering warily between the two brothers. “Danny… runs off sometimes. He’ll turn up,” she explained with a wavering breath.

It was hardly an explanation at all. That fiery anger in Damian roiled, hot and heavy.

“You’re not worried about him? Danny could be injured. Perhaps your mother—”

“You don’t think I worry about him?” Jasmine snapped. She’d turned completely to face them now, her eyes flaring brightly in the gloom. “In a town like this?” She let out a mirthless laugh and gestured to the damage in the restaurant; the light from her phone slid over a wall with a giant crack racing up it. “Where have you even been ? What changed suddenly to make you finally come looking for him?”

Damian rose to her bait, his vision practically red as a snarl of outrage tore from his throat. “I thought he was dead until tonight!” he bellowed, not caring to mince his words after spending so many years living with that grim truth. “And now, for all I know, he truly might be.”

Jasmine’s anger fled, sinking with a downwards droop of her shoulders. “D–Danny is alive,” she quickly stammered.

There was no mistaking the glow to Jasmine’s eyes now. It colored her cheeks, underlining pinched brows. Her flagging confidence did nothing to stymie Damian’s rage, however. He took a step closer.

“Then where is—”

“Damian. Stop shouting, please,” Jason groaned.

He stopped short. Jasmine stood her ground, tense and guarded. Damian held her gaze for a long moment, fists clenched tight. It took the sticky feeling of his brother’s blood on his hand to ground him back to the moment. With a deep breath, steadying himself, Damian turned back to the booth.

Todd had twisted around to watch the pair of them, doing his best to sit upright, but there was a slouch to his posture that spoke of pain. His eyes drooped, half-lidded with fatigue. 

Damian hadn’t even sterilized the wound.

With one last glare thrown Jasmine’s way, Damian sat down across from Todd. “I can’t see your back,” he groused, nudging him to turn as he dropped the bloodied gauze and picked up the half-empty bottle of water.

He felt more than saw Jasmine settle down onto the bench beside him. Her cell phone’s flashlight washed over Todd’s back, and in its unsteady light Damian began to sanitize the wound in earnest. He worked as gently as he could, washing the blood and grit away. Todd relaxed slightly, sighing with relief as it rushed over his inflamed skin without pressure— a relief short-lived when Damian set the empty bottle aside to pat at the wound with an antiseptic ointment. His brother flinched, let out a sharp breath underlaid with swears. Damian could imagine the sort of passionate tirade Todd might embark on, had he more energy—

Were there not a stranger sitting beside them, watching with uncanny eyes.

Damian wanted to speak to her, to demand answers, but he forced his jaw to shut and his hands to move. Some things could wait, however much they grated at every last one of his senses. He grabbed a hydrogel pad and a roll of bandages—

“You’ve cleaned wounds like this before,” Jasmine said suddenly, her voice a hammer upon Damian’s composure.

He should have expected nothing less. 

“It’s a worthwhile skill to have,” he remarked with gritted teeth. “One I expect you are just as familiar with.”

An observation for an observation— a dig, however plain. 

Jasmine hummed in assent, the light from her phone jerking slightly in her grip. Damian knew he’d touched a nerve. 

“Accidents happen,” she said, so quietly that he almost didn’t hear.

It settled badly in the air, the words echoing strangely in Damian’s ears. Jasmine had ducked her head, looking far away at something he couldn’t quite see.

“Accidents. Sure,” he said, hating how it felt on his tongue.

He unrolled the bandages, running his fingers along the texture of the material. Tactile, familiar.

With Todd’s help, Damian pressed the pad down gently and wound the bandages around his torso, wrapping it securely under his left arm. It wasn’t as neat and perfect as Pennyworth could manage, but serviceable all the same. At the very least, it would keep the wound clean. The last thing they needed was an infection this far from home.

“Thanks,” Todd mumbled when Damian set the rest of the bandages aside and opened the second bottle of water, passing it to him. He drank from it greedily, his hand shaking slightly.

“How does it feel now?” Damian asked, wondering how the pain might manifest. The wound resembled a burn more than anything, and the heat that radiated off of Todd’s skin seemed to promise the same sort of ache, but it was hard to be sure. 

“Hurts like— like shit,” his brother mumbled, coughing on a mouthful of water. “I think I’d rather toss myself in a fucking fireplace.”

Worse than a burn, then. “At least you’ll know better than to get hit a second time,” Damian said.

Todd bristled. “You know damn well I only got hit because—”

“Ectoblasts really shouldn’t cause this much damage.”

The same phrase, spoken quickly. Jasmine tossed the words out as though they might burn if she held them for too long. Her phone had dipped low, the light from her camera shining brightly against her muddy sneakers. Damian could still see the glint of her eyes, like a cat’s waiting in the dark.

“So you’ve said,” Todd replied with a brittle laugh. “How lucky for me to be in the minority.”

Jasmine shook her head, ginger hair cascading over her shoulder. “No, no, it— ectoblasts shouldn’t hurt this… well. They’re meant to hurt ghosts…”

Her words jumbled together until they trailed off so quietly that Damian could barely hear her over the rain still pounding on the roof, trickling through holes in the brickwork. There was emphasis on the last word, ghosts echoing with the same, uneasy air of accidents.

Jason seemed to catch it as well, if Damian could judge at all by the dangerous flash of green in his eyes.

“What are you saying?” his brother growled.

Jasmine shifted uncomfortably, taking a deep breath. Her hands were wrapped over her phone case, the light illuminating the tips of tapping fingers. 

“You feel a bit like a ghost,” she said. 

The air seemed to leave the room in a rush. Teal eyes met green, each too bright.

Todd leaned heavily on the edge of the bench— tipping forwards precariously, before righting himself with a hiss. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he demanded.

Jasmine flinched back at the sharp bite to his tone, but did not look away. She stared him down, back straight and eyes focused.

“Ghosts have a certain energy to them… you feel similar,” she said gently, as though explaining a difficult subject to an upset child.

“Well I’m clearly not see-through or saying ‘boo’, so I think we can rule that out,” Todd snapped back.

Jasmine didn’t seem as convinced. She shifted her weight onto her hip, rubbing her arm uncomfortably. “You… I’m sorry, but you’ve had a… brush with death before— haven’t you?” 

It was more a statement than anything, the question tacked on hastily. She spoke it with a certainty she shouldn’t have, and ice cascaded down Damian’s spine at the notion.

He knew Jason’s death far too well— a haunting memory that dogged the family. A topic that lingered, undiscussed except for in hostile jabs and poorly-timed jokes. It was danced around, known but untouched. 

A secret Jasmine Fenton had no business knowing, far beyond the family’s inner circle and Gotham’s darkened streets.

Damian couldn’t begin to imagine what tipped her off— what ‘feeling like a ghost’ might even begin to entail. 

It conjured images of empty graves, pools of Lazarus, and eyes just as green— glowing… glowing, not unalike…

“You don’t know shit about me,” Todd said coldly, the fury in his voice tense and brittle, a branch about to snap.

Jasmine sighed. “I’ve been around enough ghosts,” she said. “You pick up things in a town like this and, well… There’s ectoplasm in your system. I can see it in your eyes.” 

Pity lingered in her tone, her eyes— no less luminous than the green edging Todd’s irises— pinched with the emotion. 

Todd rebelled in the face of it.

With a growl of frustration, Todd grabbed his bloodied shirt from the booth and leapt to his feet. He wobbled, falling a step forward. His shadow loomed over Jasmine and Damian, eyes blazing with pitfire. 

“I’ve heard enough of this shit,” Todd spat. “A town full of ‘ghosts’. Getting shot by lunatics aiming at a kid they think is their son. Getting called a ghost, and told I’m full up of some— some weird ecto shit. I’m done, that’s it— I’m out .”

He lashed out his hands, pulling on his shirt with far more aggression than his recently-bandaged injury deserved. Damian had no doubt that, were Jasmine not a child— and had she not just helped them— his brother might have struck her down. He staggered forwards, turned towards the window. Damian hurried to his feet, having half a mind to stop him, between the dangerous tilt to Todd’s step and his own reluctance to leave a worthwhile lead behind. 

(More than a lead— Danyal’s sister, whatever that might mean to him.) 

“Wait!” Jasmine called, hurrying to step in front of Todd. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to offend you, you just… reminded me of a friend.”

Todd’s fists clenched, his shoulders tense. “A dead friend? A ghost?” he challenged with a derisive laugh.

Jasmine didn’t answer. She stood in his way, defiant, and Todd shoved past her, heading for the window.

“Damian, let’s get out of here,” he ordered over his shoulder.

Damian dug his heels in, rooted. He didn’t trust Jasmine, couldn’t be sure of her intentions, but leaving now was simply not an option. They needed answers. A lead. A concrete path forward.

Jasmine had answers. She knew Amity Park— knew Danyal. Damian didn’t trust for a moment that his brother had simply wandered off, nor that Jasmine lacked any knowledge of his whereabouts. No, the girl couldn’t more plainly be hiding something in the nervous quaver of her voice and the restless fidgeting of her hands.

Whatever it may be, Damian would find his answers. He would find Danyal.

“I’m not leaving without my brother,” he said to Todd and Jasmine in kind.

“Your brother clearly isn’t here. It was a mistake coming here,” Todd said, voice a warbling growl. He continued to the window, tearing at the wooden board roughly, pushing it aside.

Jasmine hurried after, calling for him to stop. “My parents are still patrolling around— can’t you hear that siren?” she said hurriedly.

 Her words fell on deaf ears. Jason slipped through the window, the board slamming back down with a thunk behind him. 

Jasmine turned on Damian then, her eyes wide with panic. “My parents can’t find him— if they see how much that ectoblast hurt him, they’re going to think he’s a ghost.”

“I thought you said he was one,” Damian bit back.

The girl groaned with frustration. Ignoring him, she shoved the board away and quickly climbed through. 

All Damian could do was follow after them. 

The windowsill was slick under his hands, the rain still falling in heavy sheets. Damian scrambled out the window, but slipped, cursing as his boot caught on a sharp bit of wood. He struggled for a moment to pull it free, hopping to correct his balance once he did.

Todd, despite his injury, had already managed to cross the street and hurried to the next corner. Damian broke into a run, watching the Fenton girl follow after his brother. She shouted something, her words swallowed into the wind and rain— the siren a distant, constant echo. He’d almost forgotten it was there, the sound bleeding away into the background with the rolling thunder.  

Puddles splashed underfoot as Damian picked up his pace, turning the corner at speed. He needed to keep the pair in sight. Couldn’t let Jasmine slip away. Couldn’t let Todd get hurt again.

They hurried along a row of tall trees, the edge of a small wooded area. Jasmine was on Todd’s heels, trying to get him to stop. His brother kept walking, his shoulders hunched and his head resolutely facing forward—

A burst of green erupted from the woods, knocking Todd down.

He cried out in surprise and pain, sprawling onto his hands and knees with cords of toxic green tangled around his legs. He kicked out at the dirty puddles, hands scrabbling against the wet asphalt. 

The net had come from the air, shot from the trees. Damian followed the trajectory, eyes widening—

Something just as green as the net slipped from the shadows.

The strange robotic being from the thermos floated overhead. It held an arm aloft, pointed at where Todd lay on the sidewalk. A wicked grin twisted its plated face, neon-green eyes agleam.

“Thank you for letting me out, halfa,” the being said in its deep, mechanical voice, drifting closer to Todd. “I’ll have to give credit where credit is due the next time I see the whelp.”

Jasmine had ground to a halt, the weapon she’d concealed so resolutely in her pocket now clutched in her hands. It was another silver gun, identical to the one stashed in Danyal’s floorboards. She aimed it high at the robot, her finger over the trigger.

“You let him out of the thermos?” she shouted.

Todd struck out his legs, kicking up water as he attempted to wriggle out of the netting. “How was I supposed to know that thing was in a fucking soup thermos? ” he called incredulously. 

“Why were you even touching it? Wait— were you in my house?”

Damian kept his eyes locked on the target as he pulled the knife hidden on his belt. The robot glanced between Jasmine and Todd, a look of amusement curling the surprisingly expressive metal of his face. The robot seemed content to watch the pair argue, like witnessing a play—

Until his sharp green eyes landed on Damian.

In a blink, the robot drew close, slashing a magenta afterimage across Damian’s vision. Up close, he could see dents and stains along the rain-streaked metal, wires sticking out from where the left arm ought to be. The eyes blazed deep within the sockets, twin emerald flames.

Damian raised his knife and took on a defensive stance, glaring. He wished he had a proper sword to face it, but he had challenged much larger enemies with less.

The robot laughed, eyes crinkled. “You really expect that twig to do anything?” he said.

If Damian was being honest with himself, he wasn’t sure. The being glowed, ethereal. His body was made of metal, with fire and light seeming to hem the seams, heedless of the rain. Still, that didn’t stop Damian from lashing out, aiming for the weaker side where the arm was missing. 

A shiver ran the course of his spine as the blade slashed harmlessly through the metal without any resistance. The robot let out a laugh, just as cold and biting.

“You can’t harm a ghost so easily,” he said with a sharpened sneer, twisting around. Damian couldn’t back away fast enough. The being— ghost?— grabbed his knife by the blade and ripped it from his hand, crushing it with an iron grip. 

“Get back!” Jasmine shouted. 

A beam of green shot out, nearly missing the ghost’s face. It rippled through the fire dancing over his head, close. The ghost didn’t seem rattled in the least. He didn’t even turn to look at where the shot had come from.

“Where have you hidden the welp?” the ghost challenged, the fire racing up along his skull-like helm as it loomed in closer. “I won’t be distracted by two new specimens, interesting as you may be. I’ll have two halfas for my collection by the end of this night.”

 The ghost raised a gloved fist high, the twisted knife falling from his hand. Damian stepped back, prepared to dodge—

Another bolt of green hit its mark in the ghost’s left eye.

The ghost howled with pain, reeling back. Damian took his chance, closing the distance between himself and where Todd still lay on the asphalt. His brother had managed to get up into a sitting position, but didn’t seem capable of untying the knots tangling his feet together. Damian dropped down to grab the net, but quickly shifted gears when he noticed the ectogun stashed in Todd’s pocket.

“What are you— hey!” Jason shouted indignantly as Damian grabbed the weapon and swept around to aim it at the ghost. It was no sword, but Damian knew well enough how to use a pistol— or something close enough to one.

Jasmine stood facing the ghost. It swept through the air in an arc as she shot two more blasts, grazing the armored shoulder. “Why you little—” the ghost bellowed, only to sputter and reel back when a third shot connected with his jaw. 

The Fenton girl exhibited surprisingly good aim, but she faltered and tripped as the ghost came too close, swiping at her with sharpened claws. For all her bravery, the girl was untrained, unsure in her footing. It was all Jasmine could do to dodge— and all Damian could do to take his own aim and draw the ghost’s fire.

“Over here!” Damian bellowed, targeting the ghost’s head where Jasmine’s aim had been focused. The gun sat oddly in his hands, top-heavy and far too light for its size, but the trigger fired all the same.

The ghost whipped around at his voice, ducking away from the shot. It growled, a low and menacing note that reverberated through the air. He opened his fanged mouth to shout—

Damian’s second shot hit the ghost in the cavity of what was meant to be a nose.

A splintering crack of metal sounded as the ghost’s face buckled, parts of the metal flying loose. The rest of the suit darkened, the green fire ebbing away as it fell to the pavement in a crashing heap, splashing rainwater up over the sidewalk. 

Damian didn’t lower his weapon. He kept it trained on the suit, eyes narrowing as a blob of green bubbled up from the open neck of the robot. He squeezed at the trigger, prepared to fire once more—

A familiar beam of light, identical to the one that had let the ghost free, burst into view. Damian wheeled around to face it, watching with surprise as he found Jasmine holding another thermos in her hands. She had it aimed at the robot, the beam a bright bolt through the rain. It connected with the green blob, which seemed to bend and twist, constricting. All at once it pulled loose, dragging the lower jaw off of the robot with a shrill scream.

Damian could have sworn he saw a pair of beady red eyes as the thing was sucked into the thermos.

Just as soon as the beam had appeared, Jasmine slammed a white cap over it, cutting the light off abruptly. The rainy night pressed in on them, now lit only by a distant flash of lightning that echoed and boomed.

“Is everyone alright?” Jasmine quickly asked, panting. 

“I’ve been better,” Todd bit out, still kicking at the netting. He’d managed to free one of his legs and was trying to extricate his right boot from the green wires. 

With one last dubious glance at what remained of the robot, a twisted scrap of a torso with limbs bent like a dead spider, Damian stooped down to help Todd free from the net. He grabbed it, noting an odd, cold bite to the cables that buzzed beneath his fingertips. 

The netting came loose with some difficulty, a tangled mess that Todd had only made worse with his struggling. The moment he was freed, Todd kicked away the netting, annoyed. He put his legs under him and stuck out his hand. Damian grabbed it and, with a huff, lifted his brother to his feet.

“Thanks,” Todd grunted, wincing. “Why the hell did that thing net me?”

There was a splash as Jasmine shifted her foot in the puddles. Her rain jacket was disheveled, the gun shoved haphazardly back into her pocket and the thermos clutched in both of her hands. She gripped it tightly, as though worried one of them might grab it. “I could tell you why he attacked, but you probably wouldn’t like the answer,” she said quietly, looking at the suit of armor with a frown.

Todd snorted, unamused. The rain had soaked through his clothes with dark streaks of muddy water that he wiped at with annoyance. He’d managed to keep his upper body out of the puddles, but Damian knew that the bandages would need to be changed before long.

“I’m getting real sick of this town,” Jason grumbled.

Damian rolled his eyes. “The town is just as sick of you.”

Todd opened his mouth to retort, but Jasmine beat him to it. “We need to keep moving,” she said, glancing up and down the street. “I’m not sure where my parents are, but they’re not the only thing to keep an eye out for. I… really don’t want V–Plasmius to see you.”

She tripped on the name, plain to see. There had been another one on the tip of her tongue. 

“Who is Plasmius?” Damian asked, eyes narrowed with suspicion, choosing to ignore the sound that superseded the name. It sounded like a moniker he’d hear in the back alleys of Gotham, in crime rings or far underground.

Jasmine bit her lip, avoiding his eyes as she clipped the thermos onto a loop inside her jacket. “You… really don’t want to find out. He’s bad news,” she said.

Todd glared down, giving another annoyed kick to the twisted ball of netting, tossing it into a deeper puddle. “Par for the fucking course with this town,” he grumbled.

Jasmine laughed at that, the sound flinty and hollow. She smiled, tired and worn. “Welcome to Amity.”

Chapter Text

Jazz had no idea what she was doing. Nothing had changed in Amity while she was gone, and yet it felt as if everything in the world had been turned on its head.

She glanced behind her at the two strangers— brothers, equally odd. Just one of them would give Jazz  pause, but together…

Vlad’s laugh seemed to ring in her ears. 

She’d found it difficult to meet Damian’s eyes while they talked. Had found it difficult not to trace the shape of his nose and the line of his jaw, each detail far too similar to Danny’s own. It reminded Jazz uncomfortably of her first meeting with Danielle, seeing a mirror image of her brother and knowing the unethical science that dogged her heels.

She had to keep reminding herself that the rest of the clones had… melted. 

Something colder than Danny’s core lodged itself in Jazz’s chest at the thought and the wind whipped up, just as biting. The rain came down in lashes, lines of it petering across the road and sidewalk. A summer storm, far colder than it ought to be. Another oddity to Amity’s growing list.

Jazz didn’t need to look back to make sure that the brothers were following her, but she did so anyway. Just a quick glance, her eyes finding the older brother’s face crumpled into a tired scowl.

She didn’t need to see the ectoplasm rounding his irises to know that it coursed through his veins.

Jazz’s mind raced with the implications. She tried to make sense of her own senses, conflicted. The ectoplasm in the man’s system practically curdled— wrong, wrong, wrong. It squeezed at her belly, sickly. Traces of it seemed to linger around Damian, echoes of rot and wrong that didn’t quite settle, but his brother swam in it. It made him up, tip to toe, the worst of it pooled at his center. The man was alive, he was dead—

A halfa, her instincts whispered.

Something wrong, they whispered louder.

Jazz let out a low, shaky breath. She wished now more than ever that she could find Danny. Her senses had grown much keener over the last couple of months, new reason settling under her skin that buzzed and hummed, but for all her exposure to ectoplasm, there was no core to anchor it in her system.

(Not yet, in any case.)

Between Damian’s proclamation of brotherhood, the echoes of a sickly core, and her own gnawing, ravenous worry— Jazz couldn’t find Danny soon enough.

She sighed, a world of frustration hanging on her breath. 

It was going to be a long night.

~*~

The town buzzed with far too much activity for the late hour, with people out on their porches and peeking out from behind closed curtains. The GAV’s siren blared, a constant affront to Jazz’s sensitive ears. The shrill sound came from the opposite end of town now, cutting through the rain like a foghorn on the coast. It wasn’t uncommon for the Fentons to blast alarms at all hours of the day, but the volume and length of the siren would give anyone pause.

Jazz kept her pace brisk, hopeful that the inclement weather would be enough to stave off anyone’s curiosity. 

They were on the north side of town now, approaching the suburbs where Tucker’s family lived. The houses here were older, with large yards and old, towering trees. The sidewalk pitted and the road wavered in places where ghosts had fought. The main roads were always the first to be repaired— anything that had a lot of traffic and business. Jazz could see muddy dirt trails through the grass where people had already taken to sidestepping around the most cracked portions of concrete and asphalt.

Tucker’s own house sat near the end of Magpie Lane, hugging the bend of a cul-de-sac. It was difficult to see the house from afar, the brick obscured by two large bushes near the end of the drive and a large maple tree that stretched over the roof, but Jazz knew the moment she saw the windows that Danny wouldn’t be there. She felt it in the silence of his replies, and in the tense crackle of ectoplasm that lingered in the air. Tucker’s dark bedroom window taunted her, empty.

“This is the place,” she whispered all the same. There was hardly anyone around to overhear them, but Jazz wasn’t sure she could speak above more than a croak. Her chest had constricted, the worry gnawing at her center leading her hands to shake.

The two brothers paused for a moment on the sidewalk, but did not question the location as Jazz strode purposefully across the lawn, picking around the puddles and towards the backyard. They followed her cautiously, eyes sweeping over the building and surrounding houses as though searching for threats.

They reminded her too much of Danny, in too many ways.

“You’re sneaking in,” Damian said when Jazz put her hands on the fence dividing the front yard from the back, poised to climb over it.

“No one is home, it’s fine,” Jazz said simply. She tensed, muscles straining as she pulled herself up over the fence and smoothed out her rain-slicked jacket on the other side. “Besides, you shouldn’t have too much of a problem anyway, given that you’ve already broken into my house.”

She said it as casually as she could manage, but the fact still unnerved her. Whoever these brothers were, their sudden arrival in Amity had been marked by nothing but suspicious behavior. 

Damian said nothing to the jab. He followed after her with ease, his legs sliding easily over the fence. He pushed his wet bangs out of his eyes, glaring petulantly at Jazz. The expression reminded her so much of Danny that it ached.

She wondered how much of FentonWorks they’d seen. Wondered where they’d gone. She knew they’d been in Danny’s room, Skulker’s presence proved that much, but she couldn’t say if they’d managed to access the lab or any of its contents.

What would they have thought of the portal if they had?

Damian’s brother had more trouble getting over the fence, and Jazz had to clench her hands into fists, resisting the urge to help. She watched as he stumbled over, leaning on his left arm where the shoulder wasn’t injured. Though he seemed to manage it, Jazz couldn’t help but notice the way his knee slipped through the top of the fence.

She doubted he noticed.

“I hope you’re fine with climbing” Jazz warned them, dutifully ignoring how the man doubled over on the other side of the fence, taking a few deep, hissing breaths before he straightened back up. The man groaned, a swear audible in the mix as she led them to a tree on the side of Tucker’s house.

It was an old oak with gnarled, twisted branches that bent so close to the house that they scraped against the brick. The leaves rustled in the wind and rain, the wet bark slick under Jazz’s hands. She didn’t make a habit of climbing trees, but in the last couple of months she had clambered up this particular oak enough to remember each foothold.

She took the climb slow, knuckles white with the force of her grip. The last thing Jazz needed right now was to fall and injure herself. 

By the time she reached the window, Damian was already halfway up the tree, moving as though he lived to climb. Jazz filed that information away, a profile forming in her mind of the strange boy with a sure aim, deft reflexes, and Danny’s face.

A flash of lightning split the sky, the light reflecting off of the window. It was cracked open at the bottom, unlocked as usual. Jazz dug her fingertips under the lip, pulling it open with a creak. All of them kept their windows unlocked these days. None of their usual enemies were so easily turned away by a shut latch.

Jazz clambered inside, careful not to get water on Tucker’s bed. The floorboards squeaked under her wet sneakers as she shuffled away from the window to give Damian more room. He followed after her in a heartbeat, eyes raking once over Tucker’s room before he dared to even set foot on the floor.

Damian remained by the window, turning to look out and check on his brother. Jazz couldn’t see it, but she could imagine him struggling his way up the trunk. She strained her ears to listen, worried that he might phase through one of the branches. A fall from this height wouldn’t kill him, but a nasty fall would do no favors to his injured shoulder.

A hand suddenly appeared, rough fingers gripping the edge of the windowsill. Damian quickly grabbed it, pulling his brother up with some difficulty. The man was much broader than either of them, and though he tried to hide it, she could see a subtle tremor as he struggled through the window. Sweat beaded on his brow, and Tucker’s bedsheet darkened with water as the man stumbled inside and slumped against the end of the bed.

“Are you doing okay?” Jazz tentatively asked.

He took a deep, shuddering breath. He clenched his hands, digging at the bedsheet. “Just peachy,” he grit out.

‘Far from it,’ she surmised. 

Jazz's eyes ran over the bedroom, taking in the usual mess. Tucker was just as bad as Danny when it came to organization— sometimes worse. The only things he ever kept in proper order were the various files and programs across his devices. Even then, his sorting system was a chaotic puzzle that only he knew the solution to.

She took in the messy desk and the full trashcan beside it. The clothes scattered across the floor, spilling from a nearby hamper. The unmade bed, blanket thrown aside with sheets… 

The sheets.

Jazz stared, her eyes wide, blood running cold. She wasn't sure when she started moving. She was at the head of the bed in an instant, her hand shakily sliding over the rumpled sheets on Tucker's bed.

"What is it?" Damian asked, the words at the far end of a tunnel— a thousand miles away and then some.

Jazz didn't answer— wasn't sure if she could. Her breath came quick, fear settling hollow in her stomach.

At the center of the rumpled blue sheets lay a green stain.

It was an ugly thing, dark and dangerous. Far too familiar. Jazz's hand stopped just short, her eyes flickering up and down the bed as though it might provide her with more answers. Finger prints. Tears. Anything that might help explain.

The pillow— the pillow had its own damning streak of ectoplasm.

Ectoplasm. Blood — one in the same.

Jazz stumbled back, spinning on her heel. Frantic. Damian was speaking to her, she could see him hovering in her periphery, but the world had closed around her, all minute details and bone-crushing worry.

The closet door hung open and Jazz hurried towards it, slamming the half-open door back with a splintering sound. The coats and bags inside had been shoved aside, with a familiar wooden chest pulled to the forefront. She dropped down to inspect it, hands numb and shaking as they laid against the wood.

Someone had bled ectoplasm on Tucker's sheets.

Someone had opened his supply chest.

She didn't need to know that Tucker was in Florida to have her answer.

Jazz thumbed through the supplies in the chest, but she honestly couldn't remember how much was meant to be there. Logic didn't exist in her mind. There was no place for it, amidst the monolith of anxiety making a home in her head.

"What is going on?" someone demanded. Damian, his brother— Jazz couldn't say which. It could have been her own thoughts, loud and clamorous against the pound of blood in her ears.

Jazz's hand closed around a vial of ectoplasm, the chill biting a shiver into her skin. She staggered up onto her feet, staring blankly ahead as she weighed the clues together. Tried to imagine what could have happened.

Danny was injured. How bad, she couldn't say, but he had been hurt. He'd come to the Foley residence to patch himself up, he must have…

Jazz spun around, startling when she found Damian standing behind her. His brother still sat on the bed, looking at the ectoplasm stain with a calculating eye.

"What are you doing?" Damian demanded, his eyes flicking between Jazz and the vial clutched in her hand. 

"I…" the words died on her tongue, throat dry and barren of explanation. She shut it, swallowed. "I need to check…"

She took a step, flinching when Damian matched it, but Jazz pushed on. She shoved past the boy, heading for Tucker's bedroom door and slamming it open.

Danny was injured. He'd been injured… 

Jazz thought of her phone call with Danny and how his voice had wavered. Something had been wrong— something was wrong.

Her legs carried her shakily down the hall. One foot after the other, unsure and unsteady. She could see the bathroom door, open ajar.

Jazz's hand stilled on the doorknob, unpleasant memories surfacing to the top. She could still remember, far too clearly, the first time she helped patch Danny up. It has been after a particularly bad fight with Skulker, maybe a week after Danny learned she knew his secret. She’d woken to a nervous knock on her bedroom door, quiet and hesitant. Jazz remembered opening the door, bleary-eyed and yawning, annoyed. 

How quickly her tiredness had fled at the sight of Danny's white t-shirt bloodied at the shoulder, his hand clamped tight over a gash.

She'd panicked, honestly. Jazz had tried to prepare herself for any injury. She'd spent a lot of time digging through medical journals even before Danny's accident, making sure she'd know what to do if anything ever went wrong. She knew how to patch up burns, cuts, scrapes. Knew where all of the first aid supplies were and, in theory, how to use them.

There was nothing she could do to turn back the hands of time and drag her brother from the portal, to patch the wounds he'd hidden under hoodies and jeans, but Jazz was prepared for the worst going forward.

Yet she'd panicked. She'd panicked, fumbling the gauze, and it had ultimately been Danny's words guiding the needle through his own skin. She could hardly see through her tears and, for all the comfort she tried to warble out to ease Danny's discomfort, he'd managed a far steadier tone.

She'd panicked then… 

She panicked now.

Jazz stood in the doorway of Tucker's bathroom. She stared. The tub was filled with water, dirty and green. A first aid kit sat on the toilet, open, supplies scattered. Needles. Sutures. Gauze.

The scent of petrichor hung in the air, thicker than any storm.

The world spun, a sick swoop churning Jazz’s stomach. She barely made it to the toilet in time, swiping the supplies from its rim to the floor without care. In one foul retch she emptied the contents of her stomach into the bowl.

Jazz felt Danny’s absence more keenly now than ever. Her worst fears realized in a trail of ectoplasm with an uncertain end.

She retched again, her eyes stinging with tears.

There was the clack of a footstep on tile, the sound startling Jazz’s heart into her throat. She whipped around to stare at the door, not sure who or what to expect.

Danny— no. Jazz felt hope swell and then swiftly die in her chest as she saw Damian standing in the doorway of the bathroom. He held one hand on the doorframe, his other clutching a large knife. His eyes stretched wide, the dull green a far cry from Phantom’s toxic irises. 

“What is all of this?” the boy asked in a whisper that echoed hauntingly against the tile.

Chapter Text

Damian’s words echoed in Jazz’s ears. She couldn’t read his tone. The words shuddered, her thoughts a discordant haze as she tentatively rose to her feet. Her legs shook beneath her; she nearly slipped—

With one nervous glance down, Jazz noticed a streak of ectoplasm across the floor, smudged beneath her shoe.

Her stomach twisted.

“Answer me.” 

Jazz flinched, focus snapping back to Damian. His expression had set with defiance, eyes blazing. She could only imagine what she looked like, a deer caught in the headlights, face pallid and bile trailing her chin.

“I…” She hesitated. Damian’s brother had gathered in the doorway behind him, and for the first time that night Jazz truly took in the looming height and width of his shoulders. A tank of a man, even injured.

“Well?” Damian pressed. He took a step forward, boot clacking on the tile.

Jazz took a step back, feeling her heel bump into the edge of the tub. She could hear the water slosh inside. Could imagine the sickly churn of ectoplasm mixed in.

“S–stay back,” she said, unable to keep the tremor out of her voice. The shake out of her hands. She was cornered with Danny’s blood underfoot, his secret pressing down on her shoulders, a thousand tons.

“Wait.” The brother spoke as he grabbed Damian by the shoulder. There was no room— no air— in the bathroom with them blocking the only exit.

“Wait?” Damian spun around to glare at his brother, lip curled. “Todd, you were the one to storm out earlier— I have been patient. I have tried conversing. I have played along. I want answers , now.” He turned back to Jazz, eyes narrowed. “What is—”

“Stop.” Todd— and, oh, it was a small relief to finally have a name for him— gripped Damian’s shoulder more tightly, pulling him back. “This mess has her freaked out. Let her talk.”

His tone was not necessarily kind— his gaze still sharp, calculating— but something in Damian’s anger seemed to have tempered Todd’s own. His eyes swept over the mess of the bathroom, lingering a little too long on a roll of bandages that had unraveled across the floor.

“This room— the needles. The… ectoplasm.” The word stuck on his tongue, foreign in a way Jazz wished it was to her. “Do you know who did this?”

Who . The word felt decisive, an understanding. Of friendship, family— connection , in some way, to whoever had been injured enough to require a needle and thread. 

Jazz nodded, feeling her throat run dry.

Todd nodded too, almost absently. His gaze remained on the stains of ectoplasm, as though rooted. “Who are they?” he asked.

“Does this have anything to do with Danyal?” Damian cut in and Todd shot him a glare, tightening the grip on his brother’s shoulder.

Jazz bit back a reactive, ‘no’, considering her choice of words. Considering the two people before her and all she knew about them.

Two strangers, from where she couldn’t quite say. They each had a bit of an accent, Todd’s something that sounded distinctly east coast, and Damian’s… 

Jazz sucked in a sharp breath, for the first time noticing a ring of familiarity.

An echo of a voice she’d heard eight years ago.

The night Jazz found Danny in the park, he had been in no state to speak. He’d been burned, covered in blood. He had stared at her, eyes already drooping with exhaustion, before he finally collapsed.

They barely managed to get him to the hospital in time.

Jazz couldn’t remember much of the hospital proceedings— it was all background chatter, adults talking of matters she couldn’t quite grasp, and didn’t want to. Her focus had only been on Danny, asking endless questions about his care. His progress. 

How long it would be until they could take him home.

Danny hadn’t protested when asked if he wanted to stay with the Fentons when they were cleared to foster. He went with a nod, a quiet yes. 

On the drive back to FentonWorks, Jazz had prattled on about how they were already setting up a room for him. About how he could sleep in her room until it was finished. 

Danny listened, absorbing it all with wide, focused eyes. 

All she knew of him then was his name.

The first week with Danny home had been quiet. His footsteps hardly made a sound, featherlight. He hardly spoke above a whisper, answering in clipped yeses and nos. It felt more like having a stray cat in the house than a brother.

She still remembered the first time he really spoke.

They’d been in the backyard for a couple of hours, watching the fireflies light up as the sun set over the horizon. Mom and Dad were down in the lab and had trusted Jazz with keeping an eye on Danny. The house was a bit of a mess then, with scrap parts scattered all over.

Bits and pieces they would hammer and solder into place, the steel skeleton of the portal, before the fibrous veinwork of wires wove through it.

(Before a spark of electricity awoke in it a beating heart with the stuttering stop of a mortal one.) 

Jazz had been prattling along about something— she couldn’t remember what— all she remembered was stopping when she realized that Danny wasn’t looking at her and had instead fixed his eyes up on the night sky.

There had been a look on his face, a longing . He often stared off, lost in his head, but it felt different then.

She followed his gaze, taking in the clear stretch of sky. It had been rainy for a few days, heavy clouds scattered overhead, but the wind had finally blown them astray, leaving an unbroken blanket of the cosmos.

“Uh, do you like the stars?” she asked, glancing back at him. She shuffled her feet, a little nervous to dispel his trance.

Danny blinked. He glanced at her, eyes settling for only a moment before wandering back to the sky.

She thought she saw a smile then, but it was too quick to say for sure.

“Yes,” he said, quiet. “I… I enjoy stargazing. The lights of this… place do not offer the best conditions, but it pleases me to see the sky so clear.”

Jazz had never heard another kid speak so cautiously before, rounding the formal dictation of his speech like a deer carefully picking its way through the woods, wary of what lay in the underbrush. His accent was just as odd, like the perfect English he spoke didn’t really belong on his tongue. 

Jazz was so caught up in her observations that she almost didn’t notice when he shuffled uncomfortably, moving away.

“Um— do you know the constellations?” she quickly asked. She raised her hand reflexively to grab his, but let it drop. Jazz was very tactile, but she had already seen him flinch away from physical contact more than once.

Danny stilled. “Yes,” he said, the word teetering on a question.

“Could you tell me about them?” Jazz had asked, hopeful to hear more of his voice. 

He smiled again, the expression brief but certainly there.

Danny had launched into describing the various constellations visible from their backyard, but Jazz couldn’t quite remember which ones he pointed out. All she remembered was watching a smile ghost across her new brother’s face as he spoke in words that were a little too big for a boy that was a little too small.
Damian’s voice was something of a ghost, an echo of how Danny had sounded, using big words in an accent she’d never been able to place before it disappeared altogether. 

Did this have anything to do with Danny? Everything. Everything , Jazz thought with bitter acid churning her belly. She was simply standing, lost in her own head, while Danny… Danny was hurt. She had no idea where her brother was, only that he was hurt .

Damian shifted, brushing Todd’s hand off of his shoulder. Jazz felt what little time she had to think swiftly shrivel away, brushed aside by the hands of a ticking clock ( an annoying bastard of one , Danny would say).

“It— I think Phantom was here,” she spat out, needing something to fill the quiet before Damian did so.

A beat of silence, her heart hammering too loudly. “Phantom?” Damian asked, glancing down at the ectoplasm underfoot. “A ghost?”

More than that , Jazz’s mind screamed. “Yes,” her voice said, the word hollow on her tongue. It took everything not to shuffle her feet, feeling she might be sick again if she smeared anymore ectoplasm across the tile.

Blood, not just ectoplasm, her mind screeched, the thought leading her fists to clench. 

“He’s— he fights the ghosts— the other ghosts. Phantom keeps Amity safe.” Her heart positively hammered against her ribs, adrenaline coursing through each nerve like a livewire.

Todd snorted and Jazz couldn’t help but balk. She knew it sounded insane, that anyone outside of Amity might doubt , but after watching her brother fight tooth and nail for months, Jazz could find no humor in their outsider perspective.

(The petrichor scent hung heavy in the air, laced with an undercurrent of citrus. Sickly. Familiar .)

“I’ve heard of a lot of different vigilantes, but never one named Phantom— never a ghost ,” Todd said with far too much disbelief.

Jazz’s fists shook at her sides and she felt some of Sam’s passionate fury swell in her chest. Their discussions, their theories— hushed words in the dark, far from adults that never cared to hear them. “It doesn’t matter what you’ve heard, or what you think. Phantom protects this town and he… and he...” Her eyes trailed back to the tub, the sick swirl of green water nearly as taunting as the portal’s endless vortex. “He’s hurt— bad, I think.”

She knew.

“You said this was a friend’s house. If your hero is truly a ghost, what business would he have here?” Damian pressed, as persistent as ever. 

Jazz felt she could tell a lot about Damian at a glance. His stiff posture, his tone— how he needled, determination woven into every fiber of his being. He was not as easygoing as Danny, had next to nothing of her brother’s poor self confidence, but that headstrong determination rang true, a mirror.

“He’s our friend,” she said, giving him something of the truth. “He knows he can come to us for help.”

Not that any of us were here to help.

“Danyal also helps this ghost?” Direct and to the point, circling back to his goal like a hound on the scent. 

Jazz didn’t miss the suspicion in his tone. 

“He’s our friend,” she repeated, careful. “We all help him.”

“Where is this ghost, then? You can’t contact him?” Todd asked, crossing his arms.

“You think I haven’t tried?” Jazz said with an exasperated huff. She tore her eyes away from the two brothers, tracing the grout between the tiles even as her thoughts wandered far past the walls of the Foley bathroom. She reached into her pocket, hand closing around the Fenton phones. 

“Then what is your plan?”

Jazz blinked. She looked up, finding Todd’s eyes locked on her own, steady. She opened her mouth to give an answer— closed it, swallowing thickly.

“I… I don't know,” she admitted, voice dropping into a whisper. “I didn't see him in town, and he's not here, and he could be anywhere in the Zone, and I…” She trailed off, eyes sliding back to the door.

A thought struck Jazz, slim but possible. Her brother wasn’t one to plan well, but there was at least a chance he might have left a note in Tucker’s bedroom to explain the mess.

She stepped around Damian, making for the door. 

“Where do you think you're going?” Damian challenged expectantly, and Jazz was glad when Todd grabbed him by the arm, shaking his head.

“I just need to think for a moment,” she said, nodding pointedly at the hall before stepping out of the bathroom and making her way back to Tucker’s bedroom.

She could hear the brothers behind her, Damian growling something sharp to Todd before storming after her. Jazz ignored them, keeping her focus locked ahead, her eyes sharp for any details she might have missed.

Tucker’s room appeared much the same as always, cluttered with scraps of tech hanging from the shelves, and books and clothes thrown haphazardly on the floor. Jazz’s eyes slid over the mess, snapping to the ectoplasm staining his bed, before trailing back to the open closet door and the chest of supplies.

She’d noticed the empty vials of ectoplasm before, but it was only now that Jazz caught sight of something else. She stooped down, closing her hand around a long vial with a plunger on one end and a sharp needle on the other. A syringe, with little more than a drop  left of what must have been a full dose. 

Ecto-dejecto, Jazz thought with sinking dread. She’d only seen Danny use it once before, when an injury had his energy flagging and there was still Skulker left to toss back into the Zone. The effect had been immediate, a dose of adrenaline that put a spark back in Phantom’s eye and enough energy in his hands to have Skulker quaking in his tin boots.

The crash afterwards had been just as spectacular.

If Danny was using ecto-dejecto now, he was still in motion. Fighting, pushing himself to the brink. Jazz wondered if a fight had dragged him back to the portal, or if there was any chance he’d set his course for the Far Frozen and Frostbite’s healing hands.

Something clacked noisily and Jazz couldn't help but jump, spinning around with the syringe gripped tight in her fist like a weapon. The brothers had moved across Tucker’s room to his desk, fiddling with what they found there. Damian pulled out the desk chair to sit down, while Todd leaned across the desk to grab something off of the top shelf. He came away with what looked like a red duck candle, turning it over in his hands before moving over to Tucker’s bed. Todd gave the ectoplasm stains on the sheets one dubious glance before plopping down. 

His eyes slid to Jazz and she quickly looked away. 

Jazz stared at the empty vials of ectoplasm, unseeing. She listened to the telltale clickclack of keys, and a murmured conversation between the brothers as Damian fiddled with Tucker’s computer.

Strange… Trust… Danyal… Ghosts… 

She caught snippets of words, a conversation that Jazz tried her best to ignore. The longer the pair of them were distracted, the more time she had to think and plan.

There was no note, that much Jazz was sure of. Nothing stood out from the supplies, and the brothers would have said something if they found anything left on Tucker’s desk or nightstand. The odds of Danny leaving a note were already slim, let alone him hiding one anywhere that she, Tucker, or Sam wouldn’t be able to find it. 

Without a note, and with no sign of Phantom in town, Jazz could practically hear the portal calling her name. She let herself imagine Danny striking out towards the Far Frozen, with enough sense to get help somewhere if he really needed it.

Jazz hated that it felt more like a pipedream than a possibility. 

Still, she might as well start there. All it would take would be

 hurrying back to FentonWorks, grabbing the speeder, and striking out for tall, familiar mountains in a sea of green. 

If they could even get to FentonWorks without any trouble…

Silence pressed in on Jazz’s ears at the thought. The hairs rose along her arms, her heartbeat quickening as she strained her ears.

The GAV’s siren… When had it stopped? It had been blaring just a few minutes ago, close enough to warrant wariness, but now…

Thunk. The sound of a car door shutting, soft but there. Jazz glanced warily at the brothers, but neither showed any signs of having heard it. Damian was too focused on Tucker’s computer, and Todd had laid down on his back, tossing the duck candle in his hands like a baseball. 

Their distraction wouldn’t last. This reprieve wouldn’t last, not if her parents had anything to say about it.

As carefully as Jazz could, she moved towards the door. It took everything in her not to rush, making her steps slow and deliberate in a way that did not immediately scream ‘prepared to run’. She let her mind work, desperate to put a barrier between her parents and the two brothers.

Jazz tensed, a foot from the door—

Felt her heart leap into her throat at the sound of a distant knock.

The wheels on Tucker’s desk chair squealed as Damian jolted, and there was a thunk when Todd tossed the candle a little too high and it ricocheted off of the ceiling. Damian was scrambling to his feet as the ring of the doorbell echoed throughout the house. 

Jazz caught one last glance of furious green eyes before she slammed the door shut behind her.

Jazz held the doorknob firm, bracing her feet against the wood when Damian yanked from the other side with a shout. The world seemed to still, her movements jerky and disjointed as Jazz reached for her ectogun and aimed at the metal of the lock. 

Jazz remembered a trip to the hardware store, looking for a replacement lock after Dad fired a shot at the front door and fused it shut. Between the goop of ectoplasm, and the heat chewing at the metal, nothing short of a battering ram had managed to get the door open. 

It was just the same now. One quick fire of ecto-energy from point-blank, the metal of the lock heating, melting, coalescing into an acrid mess that curled her nose. Jazz still didn’t let go, hissing as the proximity burned her hands. She felt one last tug from the other side, then heard a surprised swear when the heat reached Damian and he let go. A fist pounded against the wood instead, bowing the door with each strike. She could hear both brothers calling her name, demanding answers.

Jazz let it all wash over her, tensing when a rush of footsteps joined the chorus.

Jazz’s heart stuttered. She froze, a deer staring down the headlights of a freight train.

She met her mom’s eyes through the red tint of her goggles and swallowed a lump in her throat.

~*~

The window on the GAV’s passenger side was broken— had been for some time. Rain lashed through the opening, the breeze whipping Maddie’s hair helter-skelter as her husband rocketed down the street, taking the turns without slowing down. She gripped the edge of the seat with one hand to keep her balance, her other clutching her ectogun a little too tightly. The barrel of it bounced against the window frame, bucking in her grip.

She stared outside, the stormy night dark and bloody through her red-tinted goggles. Drops of rain hammered the lenses, making odd, rippling shadows of the night. 

“We’ll find him, Mads,” Jack said in that self-assured tone of his. “Both of them.”

Both . The word jolted, sank heavy in her stomach. Both of their children were missing. Jazz’s car was home— she’d left them a message saying she arrived— but her bedroom door had been left ajar, her bed empty.

And Danny…

Maddie gripped the ectogun a little more tightly, taking a deep, shaky breath. “I just hope we find them soon,” she said quietly, hardly sure that Jack could hear it over the roar of the wind.

His hand patted her knee, as sure a sign as any that he understood. She offered her husband a small smile before drawing her focus back to the window.

Maddie couldn’t stop replaying what she saw in Danny’s room. Couldn’t stop retracing her steps, imagining what she could have done better— how she might have stopped the ghosts from taking her boy.

There had been three ghosts there, she was sure. The robotic ghost that often chased Phantom. One that wore the guise of a man, with eyes that flashed too green.

And whatever ghost had dared to take her boy, puppeting his body, dyeing his beautiful blue eyes green.

She’d focused on that more than anything in the moment. Nothing had mattered more than expelling the ghost from her son, before it could spirit him away. 

She regretted that now. The other ghost had taken her shot— she saw it burn , knew the man was nothing mortal— and taken Danny all the same. Pulled him through the window and into the night.

They’d circled town since then, calling for their son, their daughter— receiving no answers. Maddie’s phone still lay in her lap, flecked with raindrops and hosting a wall of unanswered calls and texts. 

They’d find them, she was sure. She only hoped they’d find them in time.

Panic gripped Maddie’s chest as they approached the Foley residence. They’d avoided it for a short while, lapping the city. Certain Danny wouldn’t be there. With no other leads, however, the house seemed their best bet. They pulled into the suburbs and down Magpie Lane, a familiar route traveled many times. 

Her heart sank. The windows were all dark, the driveway void of any cars. There was a stillness to the place that only came with an empty house.

It made no sense. They weren’t exactly close with the Foleys, but Angela and Maurice had never taken Danny anywhere without their permission…

Not that ghosts cared for such formalities. 

They pulled up the drive, the GAV’s engine rumbling quietly before cutting to a still. 

“I don’t like this, Mads,” Jack muttered. He glanced up at the windows, frowning.

“I don’t either,” Maddie admitted. There was nothing to like. Nothing grand or wonderful about waking up to shouting in their home, and ghosts at the heart of it all.

Jack worried his bottom lip. He nodded. The GAV shifted, tilting to the left as he got up and stepped out. She could see an ectogun cocked in his grip, ready to fire. As Maddie left the GAV, she swiped her wet bangs out of her eyes and readjusted her own grip.

The front door was shut, locked as expected. Jack knocked on it and the sound boomed like the far-off thunder. They waited, Jack’s knuckles still hovering over the wood.

…No answer came.

Jack shifted his feet, craning to look through the window along the door before trying the bell. Maddie could hear the ring of it echo throughout the house…

…Still, no answer came.

Jack glanced over his shoulder, brows furrowed. Maddie gave him a nod, knowing they’d have another bill on their hands once they found wherever the Foleys had gone.

Considering what was at stake, property damage was the least of their concerns.

With practiced ease, Jack used his immense bulk to shoulder the door. It took three tries, but the door bent with a splintering groan and a resounding crash, bursting open onto a darkened hall.

Jack stepped inside, Maddie close on his heels. Compared to the storm outside, the house was as silent as a tomb, and just as dark. There wasn’t a single light on, no signs of anyone home. She supposed the family could be sleeping, but Maddie doubted they would find anyone in their beds.

It didn’t make any sense. The ghosts, the empty house— the texts she still had from Danny, telling her he was staying over at Tucker’s.

Maddie stared up the steps to the second floor, unease stirring her gut.

She took the stairs first, weapon pointed to the landing and her ears straining for any sound. Jack followed along behind her, trying his best to be silent, but the steps creaked loudly beneath his weight. 

Maddie threw caution to the wind, racing up the last few steps two at a time when she heard a door slam. There was a shout, what sounded like a fist pounding on a door. She raised her ectogun as she alighted onto the landing.

Maddie turned on her heel, ready to face whatever waited down the hall— ready to break down any door in their way.

She froze, heart skipping a beat. 

Jazz stood in the center of the hall with an ectogun clutched in her hands. Maddie’s heels dug into the carpet, and she heard Jack skid behind her. He sucked in a sharp breath. Dread settled in Maddie's gut, a heavy thing.

Something wasn’t right.

Jazz stood rigid, the grip on her ectogun white-knuckled. She held the weapon at her side, and the metal rattled slightly with a tremor shaking through her hands. Her eyes were wide, bright, and red-rimmed with emotion.

The door beside her shook as someone— something — bore down on the other side. Its lock smoked slightly, the wood scorched and the metal twisted.

Maddie’s eyes darted back to her daughter. “Jazz? What is going on? Where is your brother?” she asked, wary.

The ectogun’s muzzle smoked slightly in Jazz’s hands. She must’ve fired it at the lock, if Maddie had to hazard a guess. A quick and clever move, but it wouldn’t be enough to keep a ghost on the other side of the door.

Jazz’s eyes flicked to the lock. “I don’t know where Danny is,” was all she said, tone clipped. Brittle.
Something shuffled on the other side of the door, shadows sliding under the gap, and Maddie grit her teeth.

“Jazz, what is in there?” Maddie demanded. Most ghosts would have burst through the wall by now, but she wouldn’t put it past one to linger. To wait. 

When Jazz didn’t answer right away, Maddie glanced around the hallway, searching for the answers her daughter wouldn’t give. Anything that might place Jazz’s odd behavior, or clue her into what lay beyond the door. There were drops of ectoplasm on the floor, either leading to or from Tucker’s bedroom. Messy footsteps crossed through it, smudging a trail of green beneath Jazz’s heel.

Maddie took a step forward, wanting a closer look…

Jazz shifted and Maddie froze. She stared down the barrel of Jazz’s ectogun, a sick swoop of cold dread filling her from the ground up.

“Jazzerincess?” Jack asked, his tone dancing somewhere between hurt and surprise. 

“Don’t come any closer,” Jazz warned, keeping the ectogun high. Her voice trembled. Her hands shook.

Maddie dared a glance at her husband. His eyes were wide, brows furrowed. Shock and concern. Fear, maybe. 

Nothing about this was right. Tucker’s family gone. The house empty. Her son gone, whisked away by some ghost…

And now this.

“Jazz, lower the blaster,” Maddie said. “Now,” she added, when her daughter made no motion to follow through.

She searched Jazz’s eyes, half expecting the same green that had overtaken Danny’s, but they were as teal as the day she was born. Jazz opened her mouth— hesitated. Maddie tensed, waiting for her to speak.

It did nothing to prepare her for the words that left her daughter’s mouth. The ridiculous question of, “Did you hurt Phantom?” that fell from her tongue with a chilling bite. 

Maddie blinked. She reflexively gripped her ectogun more tightly at the ghost boy’s name. “What does that have to do with anything? Did that ghost—”

“ Did you hurt Phantom?” Jazz repeated more loudly, close to shouting.

Maddie’s teeth clicked together. Her ears roared, blood pounding as her heart began to race. Her mind whirled, dots tracing from the trail of ectoplasm that snaked through the woods to the damning smear beneath her daughter’s foot. 

It painted a picture, foolish and wrong. The trickery of a ghost that hid fangs beneath the mask of a child. 

He’d always been clever, had always floated too close to the school…

Always seemed to have access to whatever he needed from their lab.

“Phantom is dangerous ,” Maddie said, needing Jazz to understand.  

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Jazz bit back.

Maddie exchanged another look with her husband, feeling the tentative ground they were stepping on splinter and crack. The ectogun in Jazz’s hands wouldn’t do much damage, wouldn’t burn her like a ghost, but it would still hurt at close range. Could do worse damage if it hit her face.

Nevermind the threat waiting behind the door. The footsteps had quieted, the banging stopped, but Maddie was no fool to assume the ghost had gone.

“Jazz,” Jack started carefully, his playful nicknames abandoned for a tone that neighbored on pleading. “I don’t know what that ghost has told you, but—”

“Answer my question,” Jazz cut him off, unswayed. 

Their children were always obstinate— resolute. It was a trait Maddie admired in them— took pride in, even.

It worked against her now.

“Yes,” Maddie said, throwing caution to the wind. She didn’t regret her husband taking the shot, no matter what that ghost had fooled her children and their friends into believing. She would take pride in their work. Always. 

Jazz’s lip trembled. The ectogun kicked in her unsteady hands. “What did you hurt Phantom with?” she asked quietly, almost reluctant.

Maddie hesitated, unsure if she should tell the truth. They hadn’t discussed their latest invention with their children. They had planned to do so after testing— before Phantom had flown off with the prototype. 

“The Fenton Whaler,” Jack said, showing no such reservations. He took pride in the names he gave their inventions; she couldn’t fault him for that.

Jazz sucked in a sharp breath of air. “W–what is that? What does that do?” she demanded. Her eyes flicked between them. She took a step back, smearing the ectoplasm beneath her foot.

Maddie sighed. Anger coiled up her ribs as she thought of all their late nights spent in the lab, now gone to waste. It would take them at least a week to find new parts, and another to go over the blueprints and see what could be improved upon.

That didn't include the time to rebuild. To test.

“A harpoon of sorts,” she said, and it came out in a bitter bite.

A blast cut through the air with a bright jet of green that barely missed Maddie’s shoulder. She staggered, eyes blown wide as the ectoblast hit the door at the end of the hall with a rattling thud. 

“Jasmine!” Jack shouted.

The hallway seemed to narrow, squeezing the air from Maddie’s lungs. She stared, open-mouthed at the ectogun in Jazz's hand, still aimed high.

~*~

The hallway swam, distorted by the tears welling in Jazz’s eyes. She took another step back, unsteady. Her knees trembled. Her hands shook. The ectogun rattled in her grip as she stared down the barrel.

“You shot him,” Jazz whispered. The words rolled over her, a cold wave. She didn't want to believe it. She didn't want to, but—

The ectoplasm. The blood. Danny had been here. He’d bled.

“That ghost is dangerous, Jazz. I don't know how many times we need to tell you, but—”

“You shot a harpoon at my— at Phantom.” At Danny. At her brother— their son. “What has he ever done to deserve that?” Her voice had gone shrill, more a wail than anything. Close enough to Danny’s own that it made her heart ache.

Dad took another step closer and Jazz took a step back to match it, feeling the empty end of the hallway yawn at her back. 

Cornered. Nowhere to run. The brothers had gone quiet on the other side of the door, leaving her alone to face this. To face her parents and the trail of ectoplasm that skirted down the hall and to her feet. 

“Phantom has never hurt you. H–he has never hurt you. Why? Why would you—”

“Phantom is a ghost, ” Mom snapped back, her anger pulling Jazz to a stuttering stop. “You’ve never understood, Jazz, but everything we do— everything we have done is for this town and this family .” She spoke quickly, tone rising when Jazz opened her mouth to retort. She said it with all of the authority of a mother scolding their child for a lesson misunderstood. 

Jazz laughed and it felt like a cold, wicked thing. 

“What family ? We haven’t been a family since the portal,” Jazz said, feeling the hollow truth run through her bones, through the earth— through a hole lined with metal and wire.

Mom’s face crumpled, hurt, before twisting into something much darker. Her eyes narrowed, her posture stiffened. She readjusted the grip on her ectogun, and Jazz felt something shift.

“You—You’re overshadowed,” Mom grit out. Her fingers slid more firmly over the trigger. Dad stiffened beside her, following her lead.

Jazz’s heart skipped a beat, terror twisting a sick path through her chest. She felt it coil up her trunk, her throat, and settle somewhere around her eyes. Jazz didn’t need to see her reflection to feel it then. The burn behind her eyes, more substantial than any tears. 

Ectoplasm, green and glowing. 

Jazz took another step back, her foot bumping into a table at the end of the hall. “St–stay back!” she stammered, fear in every syllable. Every fiber of every nerve.

If Mom saw her fear, she only rose to meet it. Maddie’s lip curled, anger morphing the soft features of her face. “First my son, and now my daughter?” she spat.

Jazz’s head swam, blood roaring in her ears. Dad closed in, his own weapon raised aloft. Mom wouldn’t hesitate, not like this. Jazz had to fight back, to run, to do something— anything—

Pounding footsteps. A flash of movement. The errant shot of an ectoblast, meeting drywall with a sickening crack . 

It took a long, tremulous moment before Jazz’s mind caught up with what she was seeing. Her heart beat too quickly, her hands shaking enough to rattle the ectogun lodged in her grip. 

All she could do was stare, watching in disbelief as Damian rushed up the stairs and, with one broad stroke of his arm, struck her father down and into the wall.

The ectogun in Dad’s hands went off, just barely missing Mom. She’d turned to try and grab him as he went down, fumbling with her own weapon. Maddie’s eyes landed on Damian, hesitating . Jack braced, pushing himself upright when another set of steps thundered up the stairs. 

“You!” Maddie snarled at Todd, her anger sharp and pointed. She moved to make space between them, readjusted her aim—

Swore when Damian closed the distance and struck the weapon from her grip.

“Mads—” Dad scrambled to get to her side, but let out a roar of outrage when Todd kicked the back of his knee and sent him stumbling.

Jack spun around, squeezing the trigger on his ectogun. A blast of green shot from the barrel, just barely missing Todd’s head. It struck the carpet with a sizzle and left a scorch mark just inches from Damian’s feet.

Damian leapt back, moving with far more speed and ease than Jazz would have anticipated. He left Jack to his brother, pinning all of his focus on Maddie. Mom dropped into a fighting stance and grabbed at a weapon on her belt, something with sharp prongs that reminded Jazz of a taser. Mom lunged, aiming for Damian's side, but met only open air. Damian ducked to the side, coming in low, before sliding close. Jazz caught a flash of something silver. It followed Damian’s hand in an arc, sharp, and silver met red as a knife sunk into Mom’s arm. She dropped her ectogun with a shout. Blood sprayed across the carpet, and Damian let out a surprised grunt when Mom twisted, slamming his shoulder into the wall. Damian kept moving, pulling his own ectogun from his belt, aiming—

“No!,” Jazz called out.

Maddie froze and Damian was quick to take advantage of her hesitation. He twisted her injured arm, pulling it back into a lock that Mom ducked out of with a roll. Her momentum carried her a little too close to the wall, her feet slamming against the molding, and she kicked out to regain her footing just in time to avoid another swipe of Damian’s blade.

“Stop it!” Jazz screamed. She aimed her own ectogun, but couldn't find a target to settle on. Blood dripped freely down Mom’s arm as she attempted to unsteady Damian’s footing. Todd was on the ground with Dad, grappling with his arms locked around Jack’s throat. Her dad managed to shift his bulk, slamming Todd into the wall with a crack of drywall, but Todd refused to let go. Maddie let out another shout of pain as Damian used her momentum to send her over his shoulder and back into the wall head-first. It knocked Maddie’s goggles loose, smashing the lense of the left eye, and Jazz caught a flash of wide, terrified eyes.

“I said— STOP!” Jazz cried out with everything she had, aiming a shot of the ectogun over their heads. Todd jolted in alarm, going still. Jack slumped out of his grip, unconscious.

Damian spared her only a curled lip and a snarl. “They aimed a gun at you— at their own child. Twice now!” He had Maddie’s injured arm in one hand, fingers dug against the stab wound. He had his other on the knife, blade pointed at her throat.

It looked much more like a dagger, now that Jazz had a proper look.

Jazz opened her mouth to retort, hesitating when Maddie spoke. “Danny? You—you’re still overshadowed,” her mother said, a weak warble.

Damian stiffened. His grip tightened on her arm, dragging another pained gasp from Maddie.

“You have no right to say that name,” Damian spat, pushing the dagger a little closer to her throat.

Maddie’s eyes blazed with fury, but she went quiet. Her eyes darted back and forth— from Damian, to Todd, to her unconscious husband, until they landed on Jazz.

Jazz’s heart skipped a beat. She found her feet moving of their own accord, carrying her close. A jolt of red dragged her gaze down, sending a sick swoop of nausea through Jazz’s belly when she saw that a bloody stain had joined the ectoplasm underfoot. The colors didn't mix well. They never did.

“Where is Danny?” Damian asked her mother in a cold hiss. “Where is Phantom?” 

Maddie's eyes snapped back to him, narrowing. “You're not my son,” she said with finality. It sounded less like a revelation, and more like a determination.

She saw only green. Only a ghost.

“No,” Damian agreed easily. Then, with all of the steadfast focus of a wolf on the hunt, “Where is my brother?”

Maddie shook her head, confused, but it did nothing to settle her anger. “I don't know who you think you are, ghost, but—”

“Stop,” Jazz said, cutting Maddie’s tirade short. She stepped in close, tentatively putting a hand on Damian’s elbow. “Let me talk to her,” Jazz said, her words steady in a way she wasn’t. “I need to talk to her.” 

Damian searched her face, eyes flitting back and forth. Whatever he was looking for, the boy seemed to find it. He gave a curt nod and took a step back. He still held the dagger in his hands, ready to use it. Todd sidled in beside him like a bodyguard. He’d picked up Jack’s discarded weapon, holding it tight.

“Make it quick,” Todd muttered, with a shake of his head. ”This is a fucking mess. We need to get out of here.”

Jazz ignored him. She readjusted the grip on her own ectogun, ready to use it if push came to shove. She stepped in front of Maddie. Met her eyes, trying her best not to flinch at the betrayal she saw there. Maddie had every muscle tensed, her back pushed up against the wall. She held her arm tightly, bloody palm clasped over the wound.

They'd have to bandage it soon.

“Mom,” Jazz started. “Mom,” she said louder when Maddie opened her mouth, ready to deny it. To call her a ghost. “Where is Phantom?”

Maddie let out a hollow, derisive laugh that would echo in Jazz's dreams. “Why don't you and your friend tell me? I'm sure it's easier for a ghost to track down their own.”

The response was hardly unexpected, but it still stung. Jazz’s heart sank, her throat constricting with a tempest of hurt and frustration. “I'm not a ghost,” she murmured. “Mom, why can’t you…” A shaky sigh. An attempt to swallow down her anger. “It–it’s me, Jazz.”

That laugh came again, higher and hysteric. “My daughter doesn't have glowing eyes. My daughter would never point a weapon at her family.”

“Hypocrite…” Todd muttered. 

Jazz shut her eyes, feeling tears roll down her cheeks. She counted, measuring her breaths. Tried to center herself the best that she could. To put rationality above her feelings. To get answers now and break down later. 

Jazz let out a shaky breath and opened her eyes. They trailed back to the ectoplasm. The smell still clung to her nostrils, sharp notes of petrichor and citrus. Thunder rolled, the rain a heavy tattoo on the roof. All of it a forceful reminder of Danny. Of her parents. Of the weapon they hurt him with.

“I need you to tell me where Phantom is,” Jazz choked out. Forceful now, a demand. 

Mom’s jaw flexed, her teeth grinding. “If I knew where the ghost boy was, we’d already have him contained,” she bit out.

A spark of anger shot through Jazz, whitehot, but it came unexpectedly with a surge of relief. It was something, at least, knowing that her parents didn’t have their hands on Phantom.

The ectogun sagged in her grip.

Jazz had so much more that she wanted to say. So much she wanted to ask. Why do you and Dad shoot first and ask questions never? Why do ghosts always come first? Why can’t you see that Phantom has always meant well? 

Why can’t you trust me?

Jazz was good at talking, at debating, at arguing what she knew and felt with every ounce of passion and energy that she had to spare. But that energy flagged now, sorrow drenching the fires of her anger. 

Screaming in Maddie’s face, begging her to see what was in front of her eyes wouldn’t put the ectoplasm back in Danny’s veins. It wouldn’t find him. It wouldn’t help anyone.

Jazz turned away, meeting Damian’s eyes.

“I think I know where to look for… Danny,” Jazz said, choosing the name carefully. Half sure that Damian had already pieced together a connection between the two. 

The boy nodded, eyes narrowing. “What do you want to do with them?” 

Jazz’s heart leapt into her throat. Maddie hadn’t moved, and neither had Damian. The dagger’s red tip gleamed, the edge razorsharp. Not for the first time, Jazz wondered just who this boy was.

Who Danny was— or, rather, who he had been.