Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

This day can’t get any worse.

Gritting her teeth, Jazz twists the key in the car's ignition again. The engine turns over once, twice, thrice — dammit.

“Ugh,” she groans, thumping her forehead on the steering wheel.

Okay. Fine, maybe it can. She tightens her grip on the wheel. It's early yet; if she hustles, the first bus inbound will cut it close — won't be early like she wants, but neither will she be more than fashionably late if she runs. And she’s had plenty of practice with that this year.

Jazz shakes her head and hops out, shuffling her purse over one shoulder before locking the car. With a deep breath, she turns away and starts down the street. Mom and Dad are… elsewhere, driving themselves unfortunately, so she shoots them a quick text halfway down the block. 

Thumbing over Danny's number, Jazz bites briefly at her lip and sends him the same thing before Tucker and Sam. The former sends her back a salute — she hopes this all works out.

It's much too like cornering a wounded animal for Jazz's taste, but. Danny needs to open up, he needs help and he won't ask for it. It scares her, where that might lead — she doesn't think anyone else sees what she does.

May not until it's too late.

Jazz sticks the cell back into her purse. Catastrophizing is not productive — Danny is not going to like this one bit, but what does Jazz know, right? Mr. Lancer called this meeting, and Mom and Dad are so, so smart but so stupid too. They noticed the grades, the unkempt room, and thought punishment would help, and guess what? It didn't. 

And now they're here.

Mitigation, what can she do? If he storms out, she can follow, get the others to back off, but if he rebuffs her too… then what? Jazz frowns as she pauses at the next crosswalk. 

Give him the space he wants? Push? Let go? Cling?

“Letting him cool off might be best,” she murmurs to herself. Temper, temper. “Maybe just… follow? Quietly?”

Maybe she's pushed too hard? Is that what drove him away? Spirit Week was particularly bad, but.

Is this my fault?

“Hey,” calls a voice, and Jazz is so very nearly too focused on putting one foot in front of the other she almost blocks it out entirely. “Hey!”

She startles, hair flying as she jerks to a stop. Spike stares flatly at her from the roadway, beat up suv rolling to a quiet stop across two empty parking spots.

His hair is loose, a feathery mane of black down the curve of his head — that's different. “Need a ride?” he asks, and she may go as far to say there's a bit of wry amusement to his tone, but.

Oh. Jazz hesitates. She'd be at least a little early then — she wanted to catch Danny before he got there, but he's ignored her texts and calls all day already, having skipped school of all things too just to avoid, well. Everyone, it seems. Worried and upset is putting it mildly — how could Danny cheat?

It's a no brainer that she pivots and climbs into the car. Spike doesn't immediately comment, easing them back into the main paths of traffic as Jazz buckles up, setting her purse aside the wide center console. 

“Destination?” he says after a long moment of silence, and Jazz flushes.

“R-Right,” she stammers, caught out. Get outta your head, girl! “The Nasty Burger, please, if it’s not too out of the way. Thank you.”

An odd look of consternation crosses his usually inscrutable face at that, a very, very faint blush. “I can drop you next door,” he says lowly, and at her confused look, clears his throat. “I’m… banned… from the Nastyburg. Actually.”

“What?” she exclaims, one part aghast, the other completely blindsided. “Why? When did that happen?”

Pursing his lips, Spike drums his fingers along the steering wheel at the red light. “Some guys wouldn't leave Mia alone a couple months ago,” he grumbles. “I missed a few study sessions then, remember? Had the mother of all black eyes, but… yeah”

Jazz gapes, momentarily shocked out of her current worry for another.  “Oh my god, but you're both okay right?” He nods. “You — fighting is never the answer, don't do that!”

That gets a scowl. “You wouldn't slug someone for Danny?”

“I'm sure you could have not resorted to violence,” she insists, but. Yes, most likely she would if words truly failed her. “I can't encourage that as your tutor!”

“Not my tutor anymore, remember?”

“I'm still not going to encourage it.”

“... Do as I say, not as I do, huh?”

With a frustrated noise, Jazz looks out the passenger window. This time she hears the faint undercurrent of the radio in the silence — another ghost attack, Phantom to save the day. 

Ugh, ghosts, she thinks, hands curling and uncurling.

Three guesses as to where Mom and Dad are. Hopefully it's close to the Nasty Burger, at least, as odd as that feels to think — be on time the one time I can't.

“Are… you okay?” Spike asks cautiously, unsure, after a few more minutes.

Jazz nods instantly, glancing back, which is a mistake. “Yes, yes, I’m fine,” she’s quick to say at his narrow side glance. “Just, there’s a family-teacher meeting about… for Danny. You know his… His grades, attendance, and all of that has been really, really bad, and somehow he…”

“You don’t have to tell me, but I just wanted to know if you were okay…?”

“I’m fine,” Jazz insists, because she is. “I just… how didn’t I see how bad he was struggling if he thought cheating was the answer?”

Spike huffs. “Everyone cheats on the CAT.” Pauses, then amends, “Everyone who’s smart does, anyway.”

Puffing out her cheeks, Jazz looks away. “I know!” she admits. “But Danny… he’s so smart, he wouldn’t have needed to with a bit of studying, I know that for a fact.”

There’s plenty of people who do just fine on that test, Jazz included. And while she can sort of understand the fear mongering now, putting that sort of pressure on one simple exam so soon into a high schooler’s career sounds ripe for disaster — for the most vulnerable of those in the teachers' care. People that kids should, ideally, be able to trust. It certainly disillusioned Jazz when everything was said and done; being in the cache of classes told your whole life doesn’t actually depend on this certainly opened her eyes even further to the authority and power respected positions incur.

What few friends Jazz had into freshman year? None of them believed her when she told them it was all a ruse. Few of them still talked to her after the cat was out of the bag, but that’s probably more a result of Mom and Dad’s antics than anything else, but.

It’s just… why didn’t he come to her? What’s happening that he felt he couldn’t do it by himself?

That he couldn’t trust her?

Danny used to come to her for nearly everything. But that stopped months and months ago so suddenly and abruptly, she just doesn’t know what happened. Is it high school? Is he at that age or something? That’s what she thought, anyway — but then he cut both Sam and Tucker off without any apparent rhyme or reason at the start of the school year. 

And it’s just been downhill from there. Bruises. Scuffs and marks, dark circles under his eyes. Slipping grades. Sneaking out and in at night. Outbursts and fights at school, one with Sam even. 

Mom and Dad took real notice after that last thing — the Manson family came screaming, so how couldn’t they, but. 

Why? 

“Are you trying out a new hairstyle?” she asks before he can respond, forcing an ungraceful subject change — somehow they just didn’t see each other in the halls today until now.

Spike allows it with a one shouldered shrug. “I’ve developed an allergy to the usual gel,” he says without inflection. “Or the ingredients changed. So I’m back to the drawing board on an extra strength that actually works.”

Jazz blinks. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” she says. “You look nice like this too, if that helps?”

That gets the barest of a grin. “Thanks.”

She doesn't quite know what to say next, so she just bobs her head and looks back out the window. Sigh.

“... You may be an annoying older sister, but I’m sure Danny appreciates you trying, even if you’re bad at it,” he offers quietly.

“Thanks,” Jazz echoes dryly, but it does make her feel just a little bit better. Older now, Danny doesn’t need her like he used to — the only one who could work the stove when Mom and Dad were too busy, better at forging a signature for a forgotten field trip. Things like that… Is it weird she almost misses it? “I just… I worry.”

Spike flicks on the turn signal, and as the car turns, Jazz can just see the Nasty Burger sign down the street. “As you should,” he affirms. 

Something… about that makes Jazz squint at him, but there’s no more time. A familiar shape is crossing the busy street ahead of them, hurrying across the traffic toward the Nasty Burger parking lot. It’s jarring, the restlessness from just barely fifteen minutes ago returning to buzz under her skin — can’t mess this up, can’t mess this up! Spike pulls into the car wash next door, front end of the car just sticking out of a self-serve stall. 

“Thanks! I really, really owe you one,” Jazz rushes, unbuckling quickly — the car’s barely made it to a complete stop before she's jiggling the door open. “See you later!”

If he says something, she isn't sure. Jazz jumps out, slamming the door a bit too hard, but Danny’s just at the door across the lot, shoulders hunched and hands gripped tight over his book bag straps.

“Danny!” she shouts, waving. “Danny!”

He ducks his head and doesn’t turn around. Then the doors of the Nasty Burger close behind him. That… kinda hurts. Jazz tries to shake it away as she clears the sidewalk and stringy grass, crossing over from one lot to the next. 

A voice calls from behind her, “Jazz! You forgot your purse!”

She glances back just a little, sees Spike standing at the front of his car holding said thing over his head. Dammit. Jazz turns on a heel, because she does actually need that. She's only just crossed back into the other lot when the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

Jazz gets one more breath — something isn't right —

Then everything goes very, very loud.

Then black.

Then nothing is ever quite right again.

Chapter Text

It's an off-night for Terry.

And by off, he means it’s slow as hell — which is good, but. Y’know. Crime never sleeps. And yet he’s relegated to quiet patrol; with all the current leads simmering in the background there’s just nothing to do. Not yet, anyway. 

So, Terry skulks in the familiar stark shadow, and breaks up a handful of petty muggings along with one bar fight all before midnight.

And it’s a bad habit, but he ends up following some Jokerz far below the glittering and neon high rise just to see. This group of dregs seem content just to pop wheelies and mark the old road work with donuts before hiding their bikes for the night. Terry tags the location regardless, sending it off to Bruce, and takes a moment to idle on the roof of one of the many forgotten and derelict warehouses.

So deep and low, there’s the faintest lap of waves, and if he tries hard enough, Terry can just spy the dark figure of the old buried cape lighthouse in the distance. Retracting the bottom jaw of the cowl, he inhales, tastes the slight grime of a weak sea breeze — the city’s holding its breath, anticipation and apprehension attempting to build a nest in his chest; it’s too chill of a night, which is probably his first mistake, though, to take it for granted anyway. Jinx.  

Because in that very moment of exhale, a flash of pink splits the night, and the plunge in temperature sends an alert across Terry’s heads-up display — the neon beast beneath his feet crackles with expectation.

Crime never sleeps.  

Another alert darts across his HUD, a spike of heat versus the sudden cold drawing his focus. Light flickers between one building and the next with an almighty crash. A high pitched laugh echoes in the humming silence, then a strange rumble of what sounds like displaced air. Terry’s throwing himself in that direction before he even knows it, heart beginning to race.

Cold spot. One of many of the dead-end leads — sporadic over the past couple months around the city, small and brief brownouts herald by the fritz of nearby and struggling appliances, rumors and complaints. Potentially just one of those things, but interesting if more. If something besides the upper echelons taking the piss out of the poor. 

And, well, guess it is something more.

“Holy shit,” Terry mutters, rolling to his feet on another roof, a distance away to hide the boot flares. “Old Man, you seein’ this?”

It… looks like a little girl. If one could fly and it was anywhere close to halloween — a bright cape flutters behind her, the sharp swoop of her white hair pulled up into two tight pigtails like curved horns. He zooms in his lenses just in time to see her red, red, red eyes trace quick movement somewhere below, a grotesque grin stretching across too sharp teeth. She raises a hand, pink energy sparking against the palm, and throws it.

Terry follows the arc, two more alerts pinging across his display — radiation warning - electromagnetic disturbance — but can’t quite see where it lands. Just hears the crack and sizzle of glass shattering and something burning, groaning, falling brick and wall. 

“Daddy’s getting real tired of these games, y’know!” she calls suddenly, childish and high with glee. Not alone. Domestic? “Why don’t you wanna be one big happy family? I’ll share my barbies, promise!”

He’s just screwed his face up with confusion — those old outdated things? — when green fire arcs through the air. The girl snaps out of the way with another laugh, and it splashes against the far wall in a burst of wet sparks. Then again, again, again. His HUD wavers — radiation rising - signal lost — and. Ah. He taps furiously at the side of his head, something he’s seen Bruce do in frustration. 

It doesn't really help, though that explains the radio silence. With a grimace, Terry slinks closer, leaping down to the next roof with a flare of his wings. Whatever she’s chasing is highly mobile, but not running away. Why?

The answer becomes readily apparent as he reaches the edge of the line of buildings and what used to be a large loading dock. Across the mangled and rusted doors, something very green writhes across the metal, glowing and swirling in the shade of the overhang. Terry blinks. No, this is an old, and forgotten piece of landscape, air transpo more advanced than by sea — there’s no neon this deep, no gleaming signage and shining lights. 

Movement catches his eye. Something’s darting through the buildings to his left, grounded unlike their adversary and flickering like a broken hologram billboard. What to do, what to do. Who are these guys? Terry tries to run snapshots of the girl’s face, but the upload and search fails almost as quickly as it starts.

Again, more pink flies, lobbed balls of festering something. Hiss, hiss, hiss! Then there’s a yelp. Terry snaps his gaze back down to find a puddled shape laid out haphazardly across the concrete, dark clothes, a light color hair — they must have made a break for that green.

With a cackle, the girl swoops down to inspect her slagged prey. She easily hoists them up by the back of their singed jacket despite the clear difference in size, but the unrepentant delight on her face cuts away when the figure melts over her gloved hand into a puddle of evaporating neon.

Light sparks, and the same figure appears several feet away and behind her, braced on one knee with something large, shiny and silver hefted over one shoulder. That’s certainly a whole ass bazooka. Quiet, for the following roar of blasts he expects, but the aim rings true at the bait and switch.  

The girl shrieks and disappears under the onslaught, thrown away through another wall. A ringing silence follows the noise, and when she doesn’t immediately reappear, the figure turns. Except.

Suddenly, that frothing green is gone — dark loading dock doors no longer lit with an unnatural light. His microphone just picks up the slightest hiss of a curse. 

“Well, that’s not good at all is it, Jazzypants? Daddy’s gonna be really, really mad if I’m late for dinner.”

Terry tenses, a batarang falling into his hand as the little girl blinks into existence right next to ‘Jazzypants.’ They jerk, front end of the weapon whining with charge, but. She swats it aside like it’s nothing, throwing it clear, before grabbing the loose folds of their clothes. Yanking them forward to drive a fist into their stomach. A cry splits the air, double toned and odd; it raises the hairs on the back of Terry’s neck.

He doesn’t know who’s right in this fight — Bruce would be really useful right now — but it’s ugly; he has to do something. They’re too close, the concussive force of the exploding batarang might hurt them both — 

Terry throws himself from the roof at that, taking a tight summersault before snapping his wings open. He clears the distance in seconds — the girl turns sharply in his direction, startled into letting go, but too slow. There’s a faint crack, a slight whoosh , and the electrical lazer catches her right in the chest under her pretty little ribboned lapel.

She chokes on a gasp , the electricity washing over her in brilliant arcs of light, and the momentum sees her topple over sideways with a solid thud on concrete. 

Sorry, he thinks, and immediately grabs the other by the shoulders, dragging them over and away a few feet. 

The clothes resolve themselves into an extra large hoodie with an overcoat, something like jeans and a ridiculously stained button up shirt beneath. Listless, a pale and freckled face tilts sideways, loose ginger hair falling free. Blood is dried across the woman's face, a crusted cut peeking out from the edge of her hairline. Pressing two fingers to her neck, Terry sighs with relief at the steady pulse — ba-dum-ba-dum-ba-dum.

Hurt, but alive — good. He turns his gaze back on the little girl. Shit. Terry snaps his head around, but nothing reveals itself, the small, hovering radiation readings in the corner of his HUD plummeting sharply. Doesn’t flatline entirely, but it does go steady, though the electromagnetic and signal lost alerts still blink annoyingly. 

“Great,” he whispers because Bruce is not going to like this at all. “Can’t leave you here… can’t take you back without warning… Great.”

Home it is. Which. Taking mystery woman back to his apartment is probably the worst idea ever, but. He’s pretty sure Bruce would skin him alive if he showed up to the cave with her or left her here without answers; Terry’s just not that kinda guy, anyway. Damn.

With a sigh, he then briefly and efficiently frisks her. Comes up with strange and small things like too many tubes of lipstick and a handful of compact mirrors. A ragged and worn Apollo space flight wallet reveals itself though, barely held together by mismatched stitching and duct tape. The physical cash he leafs over looks… odd at a first glance, not a single cred card in sight, but even more so is the Driver’s license he slides out to inspect — Jasmine Fenton, Amity Park, Illinois; date of birth, June nineteenth, nineteen-ninety.

It expired in twenty-fifteen.

Making a face, Terry looks at ‘Jasmine’ again, mutters, “Ain’t no way you’re that old,” and then pauses. 

Too old to be some sort of runaway, maybe, but. The world we live in, huh.

He shakes his head, tucking the contents of her person back into their respective pockets before collecting the modified launcher — which is not nearly as heavy as Terry would have guessed. Nothing he’s quite seen before either, the brand name scratched out on one side. Leftover black market Powers weapons, maybe? The coloring isn’t right, but… who knows.

Snapping a couple pictures, he has the batsuit modify itself just enough to resemble normal clothes before shuffling Jasmine into a dead slump across his back, tall and solid but weirdly light and out of it. Sigh.

And then it’s a long slog up. Terry keeps as close to the main thoroughfares as possible, and braves the Atrak to shave off some time. Perhaps it’s a testament to the shithole Gotham truly is or the too late night, but not one single person that sees him slowly making his way through the streets bats a single eye. 

And Jasmine sleeps through it all.

Which all together means they get through his front door with little fuss, at least. It's only as he's trying to gently lay the woman out across the couch that Terry catches the briefest sliver of green, green, green, glimmering and glittering from a lax face. But her eyes slide closed without incident in the very next breath, and he’s left startled and confused.

Shaking his head again, Terry tugs her out of her filthy coats, and throws his least favorite blanket over her before dumping them and the blaster on the hooks by the door. He shuffles into the adjacent kitchen to test the cowl, but nope, nothing. Hm. He tries his cell next, and gets zilch.

“Bruce’ll come running when I don’t answer,” he mumbles, and sits himself at his little kitchen table — a novel feeling still, his own apartment. 

At least Dana’s abroad for the semester, so he doesn’t have to worry about her walking into whatever this is right now.

His oven tells him it’s four in the morning now, however, so it’s not much of a surprise that he nods off there, arms crossed and legs splayed in the rickety chair after the suit boxes itself back up into a bookbag. Which… he finds odd despite that, especially when the whisper of Jazz? startles him awake who knows how long later.

“Jazz,” whispers the voice again, and Terry’s immediately on alert, breath catching slightly. “Jazz… Jazz, I want to… play?”

Carefully, he peeks an eye open — the oven timestamp hasn't changed. Great. Nothing immediately stands out, though, the space half cast still in gloom and the blinds slatted light of the holoboard just across the street, but. Then Terry hears movement, and from the couch, a disheveled head of hair appears. 

“Huh,” is the faint response. Jasmine slowly turns her head around, glancing over the apartment, and stops for a long moment on Terry. He keeps his breathing even, and quickly enough she draws her eyes away. “Okay.”

‘Jazz’ rocks herself up onto her feet, wavers for a moment, dizzy, maybe, but then pushes through to putter about. He wonders if she’ll steal something — food or otherwise, but all she does is zero in on her filthy jackets and blaster. She prods at her pockets, fidgeting with the singed sleeve and shoulder, and though it takes a long moment to figure out the lock, she goes right out the door without further fanfare. 

At least she sets it to reengage on the way out, Terry supposes — very polite.

Sighing, Terry lets her get a bit of a head start before going out the window.

It’s easy enough to spot her on the street, to follow as she seems to stumble and meander, pausing every now and then to look up at a gleaming neon sign or particularly loud car flying high overhead. Tourist, for sure, quite a bit away from home, supposedly — but still, what an entrance.

Jasmine only stops after coming across an empty, disused playground, the metal rusted and equipment in clear disrepair; brave weeds are growing up through the faded but still colorful concrete tiles. He watches from the fire escape of an overlooking apartment building and commends her for glancing around, even looking up, but. Again, new to town.

Then the woman shakes herself out — quite literally. Terry nearly gapes as a short figure phases out from her person with a small hop. In the neon gloom, the white bedsheet glows, and it has to be a kid. It has to be — meta? Splicer? Both?

But then one blanket covered hand points in his direction, and blue, blue, blue eyes snap unerringly to Terry. Ah. Caught.

Weren’t your eyes green? he thinks, and gets a short and languid wave for the trouble. 

Well. Maybe she can’t see the suit. Curious and curiouser. With a shake of his head, the batsuit retreats to skin as Terry climbs down the normal way. It’s a surprise and not that they’re both still there when he rounds the corner for the playground.

“Hey,” he says, raising a hand slowly.

“Hi!” chirps the voice from earlier, and the sheeted figure — maybe a little boy? — bounces toward him, circles with a small laugh. Reminds him so much of a younger and much cuter Matty. “You’re cool, I like your wings!”

Oh. Oh no. “Thanks,” he says, withholding a wince. Miguel. Terry chances a glance at Jasmine over the kid’s head, spies the shadow of a smile in the gloom of her hood — Bruce is going to be so pissed. “What’s your name, kid?”

“Danny,” he says, peering up at Terry from the black holes of the sheet with green, green, green eyes, and then dances back over to the woman. “Jazz, I’m gonna play now!”

“Have fun, Danny,” she says gently, and the kid darts off toward the ruined swings.

Terry closes the distance warily, eyeing how ‘Danny’ grabs on the loose chains of a broken swing seat through the blanket and throws himself around. “Hi, uh,” he starts, and she leans back against the jungle gym. “Name’s Terry.”

“Jazz,” she returns, holding out a hand. He takes it, and isn’t surprised at the grip nor the harsh callouses. “Thanks for the save…”

He clears his throat. “Yeah, uh, mind if you keep that to yourself for me?”

“Sure, if you answer some questions for me.”

Ah. “If I can,” he allows.

An amused expression crosses ‘Jazz’s’ face. “Where am I?”

“Gotham, the shiny and shitty pit of New Jersey,” he answers easily. Hm. “Helluva travel destination you picked.” Not.

The bait there is ignored for, “Why’d you help me?”

Not us, me. “Jus’ wanna help where I can.”

“Think that suit is a bit more than most people would do.”

“Suit?” Terry asks innocently. “What suit?”

That gets a thin smile. “What’s the date?”

Terry exaggerates the furrow of his brow. “June eighteenth…” Is she not baking underneath all of those layers? The Summer humidity is only just bearable because of the batsuit, and while he didn’t see any patches on her arms from Slapper use or otherwise… “Why?”

“... And the year?”

Hm. “Twenty-thirty-nine.”

Jazz exhales a noisy breath of air, hand coming up to tuck back a loc of loose hair. “Oh boy,” she says, wearily. “How do you… feel about ghosts? Or people in general about them?”

He glances over at Danny briefly. “Fun halloween costume?” he hedges honestly, and something about that loosens the tension in her shoulders. “I mean, shit’s haunted, but nothing in particular I think… ghosts are ghosts.”

“I see,” Jazz murmurs, and then nothing else.

Into the silence, Terry probes with, “I’m thinking you don’t mean regular ole ghosts, though?” just as a gleeful laugh echoes lightly from the seesaws. “I’d dig it up if I had any sort of cell service right now.”

Her eyes narrow on him. “You’re… Batman, right?”

“It’d be super schway of you to not say that outloud,” he gripes quietly. “But didn’t the big red bat symbol not make that clear?”

“No one was ever sure you were real…” she adds slowly, clearly thinking. “Are… Do you know anything about the Anti-Ecto Acts?”

No one was ever sure you were real. Terry shakes his head, because, well. He’s not really the nosy type, that's all Bruce and Max, but even he knows most people outside Gotham aren’t very aware of the Dark Knight even now, especially after the old man’s quiet retirement — maybe of the Justice League, but. Specifics?

Eh.

The woman bites her lip briefly, mutters How do I explain this… and then clears her throat. “I could use some help,” Jazz says, grimacing. Terry can relate. “Can you help me?”

And who’s he to turn a blind eye, y’know?

Bleeding heart, Bruce says in his ears. A criticism, but not — a good thing.

“Fill me in on it all, and we’ll see,” he says, which gets a slight nod, because he’s not that naive.  

Danny takes that moment, however, to fling himself from the top of the nearby monkey bars in a flare of bedsheet. Terry’s heart jolts, and he jerks, just a little, but the kid lands on the jungle gym with all the confidence of a leaping cat. And either the kid is light or the equipment is more study than he thought to give it cred for, but Jazz isn’t bothered in the slightest if it jars under the new weight.

“... Can I ask about the blanket or…?” Terry prods, curious, and not too ashamed to admit it.

“It's… ghosts are manifestations of regrets, really, really strong emotions, unrealized dreams and desires. Danny… It’s a lot of leftover shame and guilt, I think,” she says softly, and, confused at the sudden pivot, Terry eyes the kid as he shimmies his way up on top of the rusted playground equipment. The ends of the sheet flutter in the humid breeze as Danny reaches up and up toward the sky — it’s too dark without the cowl, but the soles of his shoes look warped and misshapen, mismatched too. “Conjecture on my part, but… it makes sense. It’s simpler to be a little kid, and I think he will be one forever, so what do kids do when they’re scared?”

Hide beneath the bed sheets, Terry thinks somberly, and then: Oh.

Danny’s dead.

“Jazz,” Danny calls down, “I can’t see any stars from here. Why?”

Shaking his head, Terry answers for her at the unsure frown that crosses her face. “That’ll be the light and air pollution, buddy.”

“Oh,” he says. “Will it go away?”

“Maybe, but not for a long time.”

He doesn’t like that answer, surely, but the trouble it causes him is quickly forgotten with a hum. Terry and Jazz both watch for a moment as he twirls around on light feet over their heads. Ghosts — poltergeist? Nothing else comes to mind, not like this, except a familiar sense of failure. His hands curl and uncurl at his sides.

Dammit.

Soon enough, however, she calls him down. With a rather dramatic yawn, the kid leaps and flutters down like a leaf buoyed by the wind, revealing briefly the strange contradiction of ruined suit pants and dress shoe to skintight rubber and thick soled white boot. Then Danny goes weirdly blue around the edges and steps right up into Jazz, disappears. Terry’s eyebrows shoot up, and she shakes her head.

“I… Mind if I crash at yours too?” she asks, shrugging. “Kinda homeless.”

“Sure, long as you don’t try to steal my creds,” Terry returns — easier to keep an eye on you until whatever.

That gets a wry huff. “What a gentleman.”

Well. He doesn’t know all about that. 

But Terry leads her back to the apartment. The walk is quiet as the city wakes up with a curdling hum, electrical hiss and steaming air, the gray sky high above their heads beginning to lighten. Again, she pauses once in a while to watch the most mundane of things, but Terry withholds comment.

At least until they’re safe behind closed doors. 

And fed. “You hungry?” he asks, stretching back with a yawn as Jazz sits herself at the table, feet propped up on the crossbar, knees nearly to her chest.

She fiddles with the frayed end of her shoelaces before nodding. “I could eat,” she says. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet, just wait to make sure it’s edible.” Terry digs bread and eggs out, squinting at the gray bacon before adding, “So… details? What, uh, do you need help with?”

Jazz sighs lightly. “Getting home,” she murmurs, and shakes her head. “I need… what happened with… the girl chasing me?”

“Dunno, she disappeared after I tazed her,” he replies, and makes a face. “Er. Was that actually a kid?”

“That… was the best thing you could do, honestly, and Danielle is… most likely fine.” There’s a pause. “Can I have some water?”

Terry files that name and lack of answer away, and then tosses her a bottle from the fridge — she catches it with ease. “Was she a ghost too or something?”

“Or something,” Jazz returns, cracking the seal behind him. “She probably went home, but… the portal…”

“Is that what the green swirling thing was? A portal?” he prompts over the sizzle of oil and butter, whisking the eggs.

A portal she repeats, and from there it goes a bit over his head. 

Ghosts. Regrets, wants, dreams, desires — all unfulfilled, brought back to life by something called ectoplasm. Not human, according to the powers that be, but. A thriving and sentient population of beings not so dissimilar regardless. Mischief makers, attention seekers, scientists and travelers, kings and queens and lords, myths and legends made real. 

A dog who just wanted his favorite toy.

Her brother who just needed some help and now always will. A supposed family friend who desperately craved the idea of family — a man-made ghost. 

That’s just a little girl who doesn’t know there’s any better.

And a stable portal built in her parents basement.

That she blew up. 

Wow.

“Committing a felony like that gets you put on a list somewhere, doesn’t it?” Terry can’t help but interject, shoveling eggs into his mouth. 

Jazz pauses. “The… statute of limitations is sure to have passed, I’m pretty sure.”

Terry huffs. “Yeah? So, what year are you from then, time-traveler?”

She chews through half a piece of toast before finally saying, “Twenty-ten.”

“... You look real good for your age?” Got me beat by a year.

Exasperated, Jazz snaps grease covered fingers at him. “I said we fell through a natural portal — it closed up, but time can get weird when you fall through those.” Then she pauses, an odd look crossing her face. “Sorry. It’s… been awhile since I’ve been around… humans.”

The way she eyed and startled at the most mundane bits of street life makes sense to him now — thirty years is a bit of a jump, if she’s to be believed. The future must seem so weird. But she seems genuine despite it all. And the solution to her problems sounds easy enough too — a quick drop off to Wisconsin ought to be pretty simple, right?

Ideally but the way she says it makes him remember — Vladimir Masters. Terry’s never heard of the guy, but all old billionaires know each other, so maybe —

There’s a buzz at the door. 

Terry frowns, then goes Ah, speak of the devil. “One sec, that’s probs the old man,” he says, wiping his chin with the back of one wrist as Jazz shrugs.

And, yep. Through the peephole, Bruce looms over his doorstep.

He’s hit with an immediate and disapproving, “McGinnis. You didn’t check in,” as soon as he pulls the door open.

And then Max pops out from behind him, beaming. “See? I told you he was fine this time.”

Bruce cuts her the driest of looks, but Terry just smirks. “It’s nice to be reminded that you care,” he says cheekily, and the man frowns even harder, if possible. “But hey, remember those cold spots? Think I got it figured out.”

“Really?” Max says dubiously. Bruce straightens a little, his hand going tighter on his cane. “How?”

“The ecto-magnetic static should fade completely in another twelve hours or so, sorry,” comes from the kitchen. “In high amounts, it does weird things to electronics and other types of radiation. And food.”

And probably people, Terry thinks, pretty sure that isn’t too much of a leap in logic. 

Turning aside, he waves both Max and Bruce in. “See?”

“McGinnis,” Bruce repeats warningly, but enters at the motion regardless.

Yeah. He won’t be hearing the end of this one.

Chapter Text

Something’s wrong.

The flight home is too long and warm when it should have been short and cold. Dani's tears dry up along the way, and the blistering tingle of electricity is nothing but phantom spasms in her fingertips now. But facing a home that no longer feels like home threatens to drag another sob out of her.

Something’s wrong. She sniffs, gripping her upper arms tightly as she hovers over the castle’s dark towers, and just doesn’t know what it is. It’s overwhelming, the uncertainty, the reflected absence, and she chokes out a cry before plunging down through the ivy smothered stone.

“Daddy!” she bawls loudly, and it echoes around her, but he doesn’t answer back. Where is he? “D-Daddy!”

Even the lab is dark with a wicked neon gloom. Dani shudders on another breath as she coasts to a stop, wet eyes casting about. And everything… it’s all out of place. Things are thrown and broken in the corners, dusty and cobweb-y, and though the portal glows from its usual place along the far wall, it’s hugged by large teeth made of gleaming, broken glass.

And the eyes. So many, many eyes shine from the blackest crevices. Dani bites her lip, lowering herself nearly to the floor. A small, low shape steps out after a moment and resolves itself into a… cat. Not Maddie — an orange tabby under the shifting and vivid colors, it carefully slinks up to her, tail tip twitching with interest. 

With sniffle, she drops completely to the floor then, crouching carelessly around her skirt. The cat pauses, ears flicking as her cape settles, but presses forward after another pause. Dani reaches out with a trembling hand, and it sniffs her fingers following a brief balk. Then it shoves its head into her palm. 

Dani pets it for a moment, the pulse of her core softening. “D-Do you know where my daddy’s at?” she asks it, and knows it can’t answer, but hopes maybe it just might —

“Daddy?” echoes a new voice, hoarse yet sharp, right above and behind her.

Jolting, Dani shoots to her feet and whips around, the cat running off at the sudden movement, but. A hand snaps around her throat — grips so tight. She’s yanked off the ground and drawn up to red, red, red eyes. Dani tries to phase through the fingers, but she can’t; the intent is too slippery for the fear.

You must be better than this, Danielle. 

“Oh, happy days,” the, the ghost says, messy white hair drawn back halfway into one unkempt braid, loose wispy hairs flickering like candlelight — except along one side a streak of black mares the glow. Dani scrabbles uselessly at the hand with a gasp. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.”

“W-Who — ” Dani struggles to say, palms beginning to glow hot with ectoplasm. Let go, let go, let — “Daddy — ”

But the ghost doesn’t even seem to feel it, eyes wide and unblinking over a growing fanged grin — familiar. “Sorry, sugarplum, but he’s not coming,” she croons, and traces another hand down Dani’s cheek. Wicked talons tip the pale blue fingers, catch just ever so slightly on her skin. “Where oh where did you come from…? You must tell me everything.”

No. No, no, no! Dani kicks, but it’s like hitting a wall. Pain rattles up her leg, and when she draws it back to try again, she can’t. Her foot is stuck, sunk halfway into the ghost’s chest, and. The sense of other suddenly becomes recognizable, makes Dani cry out as she’s pulled closer and into a crushing hug. 

“No!” she screams, her hands sinking beneath something so, so hungry. It hurts! “N-No, you’re not — what did you do with my daddy?” 

“I ate him, sweetie,” the ghost says patiently, but Dani, she’s — “He never cared about us anyway, don’tcha know?”

No! Daddy loves —

The thought ends there.

Vertigo, swift and awful, follows, dizzying. But after a brief and minute twitch, everything settles. Dani shakes her head, and tugs at her jaw with a hand. Huh. So that’s what happened — nearly thirty years all in a few moments. 

How unfair. 

Dani stands up straighter, finds that her shoulders are just a smidge broader, that she’s inches taller. Eldest got the best genes, eh? She hums as she begins to catalog the new, yet old, memories.

“Barbies stopped being sold a decade ago,” Dani says to no one, and drifts over to the other side of the lab under scores of gleaming eyes, suddenly drained. 

Oh well.

With a tired sigh, she drops down into the lonely recliner, kicking it back after a moment. The metal frame grinds, the back sagging to one side, but it’s a clear enough signal. The sounds of gathering small feet fill the air, and the first cat to hop up is a muted gray, orange, and white — Princess. 

She immediately claims Dani’s lap, flopping down without much care and a really loud purr to a chin scratch. A few meows follow, a handful more cats, and Dani revels in the living weights pressed down upon her, eyes slits upon the sideways profile of the glowing portal.

“When I wake,” she murmurs, hand smoothing sleepily down Princess’s back before moving over to Smokey. 

Then Daisy, then Bubba, then another and one more at least. Sleep drags Dani under on that half finished and unheard promise, useless human fragility making itself known as usual.

When I wake… I’m coming for you, cousin.