Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Are you sure about this, B?” Dick checks. “Usually, when you take in more of us, you’ve… met them first.”

The two of them are in the study with the main Batcave entrance, which only happens when someone’s procrastinating going into the cave, or is making sure the room looks reasonably used for how often the family goes inside it. Dick’s lounging in the corner, staring blankly at a random book he pulled off the shelf. Bruce is at the desk, squinting at the computer monitor which is likely too old to be reasonable by now, but nobody’s bothered to replace it.

Bruce’s response is, as always, a few seconds of stiff silence, then a hum, which translates to: I have a bunch of feelings about the current topic which I do not currently feel like discussing. He follows this with, “Considering the boy’s trauma responses, especially in situations such as a Joker attack, it’s reasonable that he is holding valuable information.”

“Mhm,” Dick responds flatly, because Batman has no child informants, and doesn’t plan on gaining any. Down the line, it’d be pretty handy if that turns out to be true, but if Bruce is openly admitting it, it’s at the bottom of his priority list. Not that he can get Bruce to admit that any time soon. “So, how long do you think it’ll take him to find the cave?”

“Dick,” Bruce grumbles.

Victory.

Somehow, Bruce has managed to get attached without even meeting the kid. That’s a new record.

Dick sets his book aside, and moves smoothly to his feet. “I’m going to make sure nobody’s left any gear out,” he announces. “There’s only two hours before the kid shows up, right?”

He leaves the study before Bruce can respond.

⠀

⠀

Duke skips out on his usual after school patrol in favour of coming to the manor early. The city can handle a single afternoon without the Signal (hopefully).

He makes home just in time. The family receives a notification of an unknown vehicle at the manor gate as Duke is toeing off his shoes, and by the time he’s made it into the main hall, the front door is open.

While Bruce greets the social worker and teen, Duke watches from the stairs. He can tell that Bruce is trying to wrap this up as fast as possible – there are a lot of reasons not to trust Gotham social workers, and Bruce doesn’t trust anyone anyways.

Across the hall, Damian mirrors his position, waiting for the social worker to leave so that he can greet their newest foster sibling (read: interrogate an innocent child, as Damian Wayne tends to do).

The pleasant conversation between the two adults takes far too long, and Duke notes with concern that the whole time, the teen (“John Doe” will not be what Duke calls him, for one because it’s rude, and for two because this family already knows approximately 5 million different Johns and Jons and Jhons) does not twitch a muscle, barely even breathing, and possibly not blinking.

As soon as the front door shuts behind the social worker, Damian is ducking out of his hiding spot and rushing down the stairs, Duke following with a more sedate pace. There is no surprise at their appearance, the teen just slowly tilts his head up at them and moves his hands from his pockets to his backpack straps, the only sign that he isn’t completely checked out.

Duke thinks about a handful of possibilities of what could have happened to the guy, realises that those make him too anxious to continue, and decides that once he finds out whoever it was, he will make sure they pay, no matter if that involves some Bat-style justice, or some minor grave desecration.

“I am Damian Wayne,” he declares without prompting, outgoing as always. This is acknowledged with a single blink. “I am Father’s only biological child.”

Silence.

Duke can feel himself becoming awkward, even as he’s more caught up with the creepiness that lies in the teen’s dead-eyed green stare.

Seriously. The guy looks dead. Sure, he’s standing and he’s breathing, but even his eye movements look slow, his skin is pale like he’s cold despite it being late spring, and his grip on his backpack straps looks more habitual than anything.

Thank god, Duke thinks, that someone got him to the manor before someone took advantage of him.

Or… them? Maybe? Should they be assuming pronouns of someone who’s not talking at all?

Well. Everyone else seems to have decided on he/him, so Duke will either find a moment to bring it up to the family so they can make sure they’re not all messing up by mistake, or he’ll just have to adjust so that he doesn’t sound weird by using a different set of pronouns.

Damian frowns at the teen’s lack of reaction, turning to Bruce. Duke watches the Brucie mask fall away, and Bruce goes completely into ‘Dad mode’ as he reaches for the teen’s shoulder, before awkwardly hovering just above touching. He moves his arm back to his side, then asks, “Would you like to be shown to your room?”

The teen does not nod, shake his head, or do anything to indicate how he feels. He turns to look up at Bruce, and continues to silently stare.

It seems that not even Bruce, master of nonverbal communication, knows what to do with this. Alfred swoops in to save everyone from further fumbling. While the teen’s back is turned, he signs, “With Cass,” then verbally prompts, “I’m sure that it has been some time since you had something to eat, Young Master. Could you accompany me to the kitchen?”

There are a few seconds of what could be consideration, but could easily be a mental delay, but then the teen walks towards Alfred with a sedate pace.

Nobody follows, since it seems that Alfred has things handled.

Once they’re alone in the hallway, Damian observes, “He is intentionally not communicating.”

“It doesn’t have to be intentional,” Bruce scolds, “But, yes, there’s certainly something preventing him from expressing himself. According to his file, despite having shown an ability to read, write, and understand videos, he refuses to use this as a way of communication.”

“This isn’t going to turn into a case, is it?” Duke checks. He doesn’t believe that Bruce would do that, but there’s always room for doubt when Jason’s around enough to badmouth Bruce.

“He needs to be safe,” Bruce declares, clearly certain. “This is the safest foster home possible. If this turns into a case, it will be because there are signs of a perpetrator, which I will find while involving him only as much as he wants.”

⠀

⠀

“New brother know ASL,” Batgirl signs to Red Robin that night on patrol, during a lull. “I sign follow, he follow. Name I tell him, he wait. Name sign I show, he close door.”

Red Robin hums thoughtfully. “That could be figured out by someone who doesn’t know the language, but it does show some basic understanding, which we can certainly work with. That’s assuming that he wants to use ASL to communicate, when he’s not even doing easier things like nodding or smiling.”

“Help him,” Batgirl signs with force. Out loud, she adds, “No matter what.”

Batgirl doesn’t like speaking. However, her family knows that when she speaks, it’s because she has something they need to understand, and despite years of practice, ASL isn’t their first language.

Before Red Robin can respond, Oracle’s voice comes over the comms, “Red, Batgirl, there’s a fire alarm a block away from your location, can you go check it out?”

“Yes ma’am,” Red Robin chirps, already grabbing his grappling hook and diving off the rooftop. “Address?”

⠀

⠀

Damian has a few theories about his new foster brother, and knows that he will not be allowed to test them without having to justify his thought process to his family members, and thus get them all involved, so instead he simply takes matters into his own hands.

Being the second person to return from patrol, after Signal, the manor is relatively empty. Damian enters the manor’s main library, prints off a handful of bookmarks that allows a reader to mark their progress in pencil, and then goes through the catalogue in search of books with varying subjects.

“Doe” (almost certainly not his name, but the only one that he has been given) has shown the ability to read and regurgitate information, which means that he is willing to read whatever material is provided to him. Using the provided progress trackers, Damian will hopefully be able to learn his preferences in literature, which will allow him to understand more about Doe without it requiring any form of communication.

He avoids Todd’s favourites, which somewhat limits his options, but eventually Damian has a decently sized pile of books sitting outside Doe’s room, which is conveniently across from his own.

Damian leans his phone against his door frame, just in case Doe expresses himself more when he believes he is alone. Then, he carefully creeps out of his room, sets the bookmarks on top of the book pile, knocks, and then ducks into his room before Doe can react.

Later, Doe might learn that Damian never leaves his bedroom door open, but for now Damian can take advantage of his gaps in knowledge.

Across the hall, a door creaks open. After about a minute, it closes.

Damian retrieves his phone.

The video does not reveal anything new. Doe collected the stack of books without hesitation, likely not glancing at any titles aside from whatever had been left on top. Despite his movements remaining robotically slow, there is no frame in the video with an image of his face that would be sufficient for facial recognition, which Gordon has already stated is her priority for this case, as the facial recognition search conducted by CPP garnered no results.

More simply put: he’s gotten nowhere.

Damian understands that he should not expect immediate results, however he still feels disappointed despite all logic.

He breathes in.

Breathes out.

Nothing valuable was built in a day. He must remain patient.

Once Doe begins attending family meals, Damian will have the chance to check for data on the bookmarks. It will only take a day or two.

Nothing valuable was built in a day or two, either.

Chapter Text

It is extremely rare in Wayne manor that someone is completely awake at breakfast. Half the time, Bruce doesn’t even show up until the rest of the house’s residents have gone off to do something else.

Duke is picking at his eggs instead of, y’know, actually eating them, and is focusing extremely hard on not focusing his vision to the point of seeing bacteria that he frankly doesn’t need to be thinking about for anything except an extremely specific kind of case.

Somehow, Damian manages to maintain his proper posture, the only indication of his exhaustion being the occasional slow blink.

They’ve both got their phones on the table, observing and not responding as Steph and Tim lose their singular shared braincell over the fact that it’s not projected to rain at all today. The level of energy involved in the conversation suggests that neither of them have actually gone to bed yet.

He doesn’t process when Cass enters the room. There are more people than usual in the manor in order to greet the new arrival, but knowing that and remembering that are two different things.

Cass pokes him in the forehead, and Duke scrambles, nearly falling out of his chair.

When he collects himself, he’s receiving a smug smile from Damian, and a mischievous smile from Cass. He weakly glares at each of them, then stabs his eggs.

Dick slides into the room on his socks, tries to turn it into a smooth wall lean that really only makes him look cringe, then asks, “Does anyone know if the new kid is up?”

“His bedroom light wasn’t on,” Damian notes, “Though he may be elsewhere in the manor.”

“Cass, did you give him the tour yesterday?” Dick checks.

Cass shakes her head. “He was tired. He wouldn’t remember if I showed him around.”

“Fair enough. I can’t tell where I am in here half the time,” Duke admits.

“You have been here a year, Thomas,” Damian remarks.

Duke crosses his arms. “Time is a lie and we all know it.”

Cass lightly taps the table to draw attention back to her. She declares, “I can go bring him here. Show him that he’s welcome.”

“Good idea,” Dick chirps.

⠀

⠀

Half the time that Jason checks his phone, he wishes that he didn’t. The other half of the time, he’s lucky enough to get a text from anyone other than his adopted siblings.

He feels nothing but disappointment and anger when he checks his phone this morning. He’s resigned to the fact that his family gets into a lot of shit, and unfortunately he’s part of that shit sometimes, but it seems like Bruce has caved and brought in another kid, and this one isn’t even connected to vigilante shit.

Jason can’t even do shit about it. Since he’s legally dead, and had an extremely public grieving period, he can’t exactly show up to the manor without raising questions that will just have to be revised over and over until the kid finally figures out that he’s living with the Bats. It’s more of an annoyance than it is a source of entertainment.

He’s gotta check in on the new kid, though, no question about it. He doesn’t trust Bruce’s parenting skills as far as he can throw the guy, and even if Jason’s a vigilante, he can’t throw people very far.

Looking at the wall of texts on his phone, he observes that getting an ally on the inside is going to be harder than usual. He and Tim are usually on the same page when it comes to Bruce’s parenting, but from the way that he and Steph are texting, he’s indisposed due to exhaustion. Dick’s a decent option, since he’s also got reason to doubt Bruce, but he’d also try to examine Jason’s thoughts from every angle and Jason doesn't need that kind of introspection for what feels like an open and shut issue. Damian’s not an option because he’d defend Bruce, and is likely trying to pretend to hate the new kid for as long as possible.

Good news is, this family is so fucking big that he’s only exhausted about half his options.

Jason calls Cass, and she answers even though she’s in the middle of applying eye liner.

“So, the new kid,” he immediately prompts. “What can you tell me about him?”

“Secretive,” she fingerspells with her free hand. “Closed. Disconnected.”

Great, so yet another extremely traumatised kid for the collection, good to know. “How’d B find him?”

Cass sets down her eye-liner and purses her lips in thought. After a few seconds of waiting, she explains, “He worried CPP. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t sign. Writes, but not to talk. Knows English, won’t use it. Won’t give name. Worried me.”

“Then he’s a case,” Jason deadpans.

She signs a sharp “no,” frowning. “Bruce wants to protect him.”

“He does that by making kids into cases,” Jason argues.

Cass glares at him through the phone screen. “We did that to ourselves.”

“Just–” Jason pinches the ever-present knot of tension between his brows, and fights to remain in control of his emotions. “Keep an eye on the kid for me, yeah?”

“Of course.”

⠀

⠀

Dick knocks on his new sibling’s door, and does not receive any indication that he’d been heard. Cass will usually knock on the wall or furniture to show that she’s aware someone’s knocking, but either their new sibling – John????? – hasn’t gotten that idea before, or he’s not up.

Right as he’s raising his fist to knock a second time, the door swings open. John – the guy doesn’t look like a John, why is the name they gave him so awkward – is wearing what looks to be the same outfit that he arrived in the day before, based on the picture Cass had snuck, though it’s not at all ruffled by sleep. There’s something dead-looking in his blue eyes that he wants to put up to exhaustion, but an instinct he’s never had a name for insists that it’s different from what he sees in his vigilante friends and family.

He hadn’t gotten the chance to meet John – he’s just going to have to give up, for now – yesterday. Dick had been waiting inside his own bedroom while texting Wally, and by the time he noticed the alert that John had arrived, the kid had already squirrelled away in his room.

That is to say that Dick isn’t at all prepared for how unsettling John really is. He stands completely still, meeting Dick’s eyes impassively, and does not speak a word. It’s only Dick’s hard-earned confidence that saves him from fumbling. “You want to come down to breakfast?”

No known allergies, Dick remembers without really meaning to. Will eat any food given to him, has not indicated any preferences or discomfort.

John blinks. Just blinks, once. He does not nod, shake his head, or do anything else. He blinks, and maybe Dick grew up with Bruce for a guardian, but he still has very little idea what to do with this new person’s nonverbal cues.

Dick takes a step back from the bedroom door, belatedly realising that he might be in John’s personal space, and then adds, “It’s a nice chance to get to know the people who are around the manor the most. A lot of our schedules don’t really line up.”

Aside from patrol, but Dick doubts that they’ll have anyone new joining them over the rooftops of Gotham for a while yet. If he can help it, John won’t get to that point at all.

John steps out of his doorway, reaching back to grab the door but not closing it. He quickly cases the hallway with a precision that turns Dick’s stomach, and then goes back to making unflinching eye contact.

He’s leaving his room, hasn’t ended the conversation, hasn’t frowned or shook his head. Dick’s not really one for physics, but he’s pretty sure that this is a net positive, and he’s clear to lead John to the dining room.

Dick gives a nod down the hall and a soft smile, and starts a mental chant of talk to Cass, talk to Cass, talk to Cass ASAP.

⠀

⠀

DW: Father’s collected yet another stray.

JK: new batkid just dropped?

DW: John.

JK: yeah yeah

JK: wait wtf did you, damian wayne, heir to the bat and the demon’s head and the superior robin, just spell my name wrong?

DW: No, John is the “name” of Father’s newest charge. He has not shared his true name, so his papers refer to him as John Doe.

DW: Also, neither of our fathers would appreciate how many secrets were just disclosed over a public channel, Jonathan.

JK: sorry

JK: so how’d your dad get another one?

DW: I’m uncertain. Likely, it was just to satiate his curiosity about John’s unique case.

JK: idk man, that doesn’t sound like b-man to me. he respects kids too much to use anyone to “satiate his curiosity”

DW: I will take that under consideration.

DW: Whatever the case, there is certainly an investigation to be had. Doe appears to be refusing to communicate for reasons unknown, despite having previously displayed an understanding of English.

JK: i think its UR curiosity that really needs to be satiated lol

JK: but there’s def cause for concern. if u need a lowkey lie detector to help out, just say the word

⠀

⠀

“I’m assembling a file, yeah,” Barbara admits without any fuss. “It’ll be helpful down the line to have everything we know in one place.”

She’s sitting at her at-home setup, nursing a cup of coffee and with a comm line open to Tim.

Tim hums in thought, and lets it drag way longer than is comfortable. Barbara knows that he and Steph have just returned from a steakout which didn’t turn out, and is slightly impressed that he hasn’t collapsed from exhaustion. There was probably caffeine involved. “Can I look at it?”

“Not ‘till you’ve met him,” Barbara insists.

“You haven’t even met him,” Tim argues.

“I’m just putting in what Bruce tells me to,” she tells him, shrugging. “It’s only been one night, anyways. There’s not much to see that wasn’t established before he showed up.”

She hears Tim. “If this has anything to do with a gang in the city—”

“Then we’ll be on top of it.”

“If this has anything to do with a player in the city,” Tim repeats insistently, “and not just the result of some fucked up form of abuse from a previous guardian, we really need to know about it. It’s been a while since I put in any research on the topic, but mutism usually stems from either some sort of brain or vocal cord injury, or is a trauma response, but from how I’ve heard him described, I’m getting a different impression of… refusing. Like in situations where an individual is being tortured, and has been taught not to give their captures anything to go off of, but in a much safer circumstance.”

Barbara purses her lips.

Tim’s not exactly wrong.

“There’s a lot left to rule out,” she replies carefully. “Knowing the Gotham system, there are probably medical examinations that were skipped for him. But I did notice something similar in the reports, yeah.”

⠀

⠀

Cass finds that yet again she does not have the words.

She’s been asked to describe the emotions she noticed in John Doe, but the problem is this: she didn’t notice anything. Nothing that she could call relaxation, surprise, tension, anything she’d expect in his current situation. She’s never met someone capable of completely masking their body language, but there’d been something undeniably wrong in the way that John Doe moved beside her.

There’s no doubt that several members of their family have warned Bruce not to turn this into a case. Yet, Cass still feels the need to watch her newest brother closely.

Chapter Text

Duke’s no visual artist.

He’s a writer, first and foremost, and knows how to weave words into tapestries of literature even though when he speaks, he fumbles as hard as any other teenager. He’s got about seven different documents scattered across three different devices crammed full of quotes that he doesn’t have a use for but wants to, and that’s probably the best metaphor for his day-to-day life that he can come up with.

So, yeah, definitely not a visual artist, unless one can call his half-decent handwriting ‘art.’ Since gaining his powers, though, he’s had to train the skillset to the best of his ability, because otherwise it’s impossible to always convey exactly what he sees in the world.

Shrimp colours? Yeah, they’re funky things. (And technically not shrimp colours, according to Tim, but Duke refuses to call them anything else). Skin stripes? Complete bullshit, thanks for nothing internet.

Okay– not the point.

The point is that sometimes, he loses touch with what exactly is weird, or simply doesn’t notice because he doesn’t have a way of comparing what he sees to what everyone else sees.

The point is that Duke and Damian are in one of the lesser used rooms in the manor, enjoying some much-needed quiet time. Damian has his fancy pencils and markers next to him on the couch, while Duke is on the floor surrounded by a mix of supplies from different brands, and a couple highlighters that Damian sneers at but Duke uses to portray the aforementioned shrimp colours.

Does he think that there’s anything secret to see with their new foster sibling? Nah, not really. The guy looked pretty average, from Duke’s perspective, but often times with magic users or metas, normal doesn’t necessarily mean nothing. (For example, the absolute shitshow that was Duke meeting John Constantine).

With no photo to use for reference, Duke has to wing his drawing. Once or twice he discreetly pulls up the file on his phone, but otherwise there’s no reference, and it shows.

Certainly a bad sketch for a case, but when they need something like that, it’s usually Damian’s job first. What matters more is making him look human enough to get the point across, and Duke manages that just fine. Pale skin, distractingly green eyes, and a monotonous expression make the drawing recognisably their newest foster sibling.

… Okay, yeah, he doesn’t look as human on paper, but that’s probably just Duke’s mediocre art skills. Maybe he should try again.

“Who are you drawing?” Damian asks, glancing down at Duke’s sketch.

⠀

⠀

Cass, in the cave and about to go through some exercises to work out her energy, is not at all amused when she unlocks her phone to see herself logged into the secure JL app that is password locked to oblivion.

There sits a not-so-innocent file, entitled Not A Case: The Case. The folder icon is Oracle’s signature shade of green, in case Cass thought about wondering who made the new file. Clicking around, it seems to be shared with about half of the Bats.

Will it be helpful to gather information? Yes. Is it unfairly invasive? Yes. Is Cass going to complain?

… No.

This is how the Bats show their love, as other heroes tell them over and over (and over, and over).

She flicks out of the JL files and starts up her music. The fight for not turning their new brother into a case has already been lost, but Cass isn’t here to do work.

⠀

⠀

The front entryway of the manor is bugged. This is not considered an invasion of privacy, since Babs warned the family in advance, but maybe it’s a bit of an invasion of privacy now that there’s someone present who doesn’t know about the bugs.

Ehn. She can apologise once John Doe inevitably finds out about the Bat business. In comparison, Barbara’s constant monitoring doesn’t seem as stifling and unnecessary.

To the point – she uses high quality bugs in the manor. It’s the Bats’ safest of safehouses, and she will never take the risk of infiltration.

She zooms in on the scene of the social worker and Brucie chatting in the entry way. Despite being at an angle, the social worker is in crisp quality, while in comparison the teen beside him is completely out of focus, despite the fact that he’s practically angled straight at the camera.

Barbara has been stuck on this oddity all day. None of the footage was modified in any way, and there’s no smudge in any other footage. This, combined with the fact that all attempts at putting him through facial recognition have failed, begins to paint an intriguing picture.

Either he has some impressive masking tech, which has gone undetected by both the Bats and the government, or he may be a meta with some sort of ability to disrupt technology. Barbara is leaning towards the meta theory on account of his odd behavior. Metas are enough to be somewhat of a scientific mystery, and have a wide variety of possible hardships and genetic manifestations that could lead to an unpleasant collection of trauma responses, especially in a city as volatile as Gotham.

She places her current evidence into the slowly growing folder. So far, she’s only drawn Cass’ attention to it, but she knows that the rest of the Bats will come across it in time, and they will all draw their own conclusions. Barbara feels like she’s gotten somewhere, but she’s also a gal with a terrible sleep schedule, and is usually working on at least three cases at a time. It’s always helpful to get a second opinion.

Barbara reaches for her coffee mug, and finds to her dismay that there’s barely a sip left. She figures that’s a good a sign as any to take a break before starting on another case.

⠀

⠀

“Must I have father reduce your patrol lengths?”

Thomas groans, as though Damian’s scepticism is somehow unwarranted, despite the fact his memory is clearly failing him. “Damian, I’m fine.”

Damian raises the supposed drawing of Doe close to Thomas’ face. It’s likely too close, but the motion is mostly for emphasis, and Thomas surely knows what his own drawing looks like. “This hardly looks like him.”

“If you think my art is shit, you can say so.”

“It’s not that,” Damian snaps, dropping the sketchbook to the ground. Thomas’ art may not meet the standards that Damian sets for himself, but the progress he has made in only a few months has been admirable. “You’ve drawn Doe with green eyes, despite the fact that it is clearly stated in his file, as well as extremely evident when looking at him, that his eyes are blue.”

Thomas raises a finger into Damian’s face. “Counterpoint.” Damian swats the finger away, sneering. “His eyes are extremely green. Even greener than yours, and they definitely can’t be confused like Babs’ can.”

Damian scoffs. “Did you pay any attention to him?”

“Did you?”

“If I may,” Alfred’s voice cuts in from the doorway, causing the two to spin around and face the butler. “Could it be possible this odd illusion has something to do with Master Duke’s abilities?”

Hm.

Yes, it very well could be.

“God bless Alfred,” Thomas mutters.

Damian sighs.

⠀

⠀

JT: Looked at the new file.

JT: I’m assuming you wouldn’t have left us the bait if it was just a technical error?

BG: yeah thanks for noticing

BG: congrats on being first

JT: I got nothing better to do during daylight.

JT: So are we thinking android, storable tech, or meta?

JT: I know what I’m leaning towards.

BG: Is android even an answer?

JT: With some pieces of evidence? Yeah. With everything we have? Fuck no.

JT: Just trying to lighten the atmosphere. I don’t like that shit happened to a kid without us picking up on it.

BG: We can’t save everyone, Jay.

JT: Don’t I know it.

Chapter Text

She should really be used to being alone by now.

When she’d finally been settled enough in her own skin, the first thing she’d wanted to do was fly far, far away from Amity, explore the world that she’s just been given the opportunity to experience. She was twelve, simultaneously in weeks and months, and the thought of being tied to a person or place made her skin crawl and bile threaten to spill from her throat.

It’d been good, too, is the thing. Nothing was stopping her from being who she wants to be, and there was no need to look over her shoulder. It was interesting, and it was exhilarating.

Ellie spins on her heel just to feel the pressure, and restarts her circuit of the hallway.

Somehow, the most fucked up part of it all, to her, is that her entire half-life got rearranged by a single phone call. She remembers Sam’s voice, quivering and threatening to give out, and Danny’s roaring anger. She remembers “Vlad fucking snapped” and she remembers “you need to get to a portal now” and she remembers running, but she doesn’t remember the explanation for arriving back in Amity to find the Ops Centre as a crushed heap of metal in the street, and a hole in the roof peering into the Dr’s bedroom.

The air had reeked of fear and despair, that’s the most distinct thing to her, now. Danny, Sam, and Tucker were all in the lab. Danny had a thermos suspended in midair using an ectoshield, and it was jerking with the strength of Vlad’s pounding on the walls.

Taking Vlad to Walker’s prison had been long overdue, and had then turned into a two person job. Danny had left as soon as the transfer was completed, but Ellie stayed as long as she could, not trusting Vlad not to break out as soon as he was left unattended.

By the time she’d tried to go back to Amity, all the artificial portals had been barricaded.

She reaches the other end of the hallway. She turns sharply again on her heel. Logic dictates that these are the highest security cells in the Infinite Realms (at least, the part that could be travelled to in a reasonable amount of time), but Danny once broke out of this prison, which means that Vlad could do the same at any moment.

Ellie cannot falter. She doesn’t know why the portals had to be blockaded, but she knows that the barriers have not been disturbed since. What she knows is that it happened after Vlad’s attack, which means that it’s crucial that he not be let back into Amity.

No matter how much it hurts. No matter how much her silent Fentonphone taunts her.

⠀

⠀

“Hey, girlypop,” Ember greets, gliding in like she owns the place, despite Walker glaring her down.

Ellie still remembers the moment where Ember had discovered girlypop as being a fairly common bit of living slang. Based on her initial reaction, it won’t be leaving her vocabulary for at least a decade or two.

She tries her best to manage a grin in response, but she knows that it’s weaker than her usual. Growing up sucks. She can see the concern in Ember’s eyes, even as she rushes forward to give Ellie a tight embrace that she gratefully leans into.

When they part, she gives Ellie a smirk, and then glances to Walker standing stiffly at her side. “Wanna get outta here before the old man skins me to double-death?” She prompts.

She looks at the door leading to Vlad’s maximum security cell. Ellie doesn’t know if she can leave him unguarded.

Gruff as always, but with a feeling of caring that slips out the longer Ellie knows him, Walker says, “I’ll take up your shift, kid. You need a break.”

Walker… well, he can’t be trusted, but his prison has been the only fully functional one in the realms for a long, long time, and he still commits a sizeable portion of his afterlife to improving it.

And right now, catching up with Ember sounds really, really nice.

So the two allow themselves to be led out of the prison, and don’t stop their forward momentum until they’re flying through the Realms, presumably in the direction of Ember’s lair.

She spins so she’s flying upside down, because while there’s not really a sense of up or down in the realms aside from the one you’re currently following, allowing herself a bit of silliness is always a comfort. “You heard from D?” Ellie asks, unable to make the question sound hopeful. She doesn’t have hope, because if Ember was contacted and not Ellie, that probably means he didn’t have time to contact everyone he usually would.

She’d worry that Danny simply forgot about her, but she knows that he isn’t like that. They don’t call often, but without fail, he’ll know what country, and even sometimes what city, she was visiting when she last checked in. She doesn’t think she’s capable of doubting him anymore.

They don’t have lungs to sigh from, but Ember manages a similar effect. “Nah, I’m pretty sure everyone on the other side are too freaked to use any ghost tech, even in Amity.”

She flips back around. “Woah, woah, what? Why!?”

Ember stops her forward momentum, and Ellie does the same, tail lashing. “Shit, girlypop, you haven’t heard?”

Ellie can feel an ectobeam charging around her clenched fists, so all she can do is hope that it doesn’t hit anyone or anything when she has to release it. “Heard what?”

For a moment, Ember looks like she’s trying to offer comfort, but it vanishes behind her mask. “The ghost hunters ‘been cracking down. Nobody’s allowed to go through the portal, and the whole Phantom squad had to skip town. Me ‘n Syd have been working our asses off to keep people from breaking the barriers.”

As she speaks, Ellie can feel everything in her grow progressively colder and colder, until her entire body goes numb.

Unceremoniously, she drops her flight, falling for ancients-know-how-long before dropping onto patchy blue grass. She stretches her arms so that they both wrap all the way around her, and she’s half-aware of her body becoming more malleable as she fights to control the breaths from the phantom lungs of her ghost form.

⠀

⠀

It takes far too long for things to begin feeling real again.

She finds Ember’s tail tightly curled around one of her legs, and can feel the hum of someone transferring ecto in order to help her stabilise.

“I’m sorry,” she croaks, because it’s all she can find the words for.

Ember gives a soft pat before backing away. “It’s fine. It’s a real shit situation to be in, and we don’t got a way to help.”

No shit.

That’s not a very productive thing to say, so instead, Ellie asks, “Do you know if they all made it out of Amity okay?”

Ember purses her lips.

⠀

⠀

“Skinwalker!” the figment of Pamela Manson cries. “Monster!” added Jeremy Manson. “Spectral scum!” Cried the GIW agents who’d chased her down the streets.

Bubbie had slept through the whole thing. Sam doesn’t know who she would have sided with, and doesn’t know whether or not she wants to find out.

Sam runs a hand through her hair, and turns up the volume on her phone. She forces herself to breathe in, breathe out, and focus on the music. If she focuses on anything else, then they’ll have to waste another hour on the road before they can finally stop for dinner.

Tucker presses against her side. Despite there being a perfectly usable window seat, he consistently takes the middle seat in order to stick to Sam’s side. He and Val have been playing digital battleship since the last stop, not bothering to tally up their wins. Currently, this round is looking like a win for Tuck.

Jazz slightly tweaks the temperature, so slight that it’s likely not noticeable. Sam can’t hear much past her music, but there’s a speaker on the car door next to her, and she can feel the hum of Jazz’s audiobook.

In movies, being on the run involves much more adrenaline and car chases.

In movies, ghosts aren’t the good guys.

In movies, it’s not a bunch of kids who haven’t even done anything wrong.

Unfortunately, this isn’t a movie, and Sam tries hard to remain calm as she switches from Panic at the Disco to Avril Lavigne, because in real life, letting herself yell or cry could put them all in jeopardy.

She cannot think about Pamela and Jeremy, the hatred they aimed at her based purely on the GIW’s word. She cannot think about Bubbie, waking up to find out that Sam had been kicked out of her home. She cannot think about Danny, who’d been a shell of himself when they’d set out on the road, and who broke off a month ago with barely a goodbye.

Chapter Text

“Signal,” greets Oracle the moment he steps out of the locker room and all his gear automatically activates. “I’m going to need your full description of the John Doe. I’ve already prepared a file.”

“Okay?” he responds a little dumbly. He hooks his grapple on a railing, then leaps off and uses the cord to slow his descent to the vehicle platform. “I don’t really mind, but uh. How’d you already hear about that?”

Oracle huffs. Signal swings a leg over his bike and takes a second to make sure that his mask is secure. “I know everything,” she says ominously.

With a petty instinct born of still being a teenager, Signal immediately prompts, “Square root of 22.1, go.”

She responds with exaggeratedly loud typing, and then begins reciting whatever number her calculator gave to her. Then she quickly settles back into a more serious tone and adds, “Even if the eyes are the only difference, it’s a starting point. It’s a sign that points to something involving aliens, metas, or magic. After a certain point, those issues require some outside assistance.”

“You got theories?” Signal checks.

Oracle hums. “Nothing concrete enough to spread to the entire team. I’m working on pushing everyone towards next steps, though. Even if everyone’s attempts at emotional awareness is making this a bit like pulling teeth.”

“Is it bad to not want to make him into another case?” Signal asks.

“I think you’re underestimating B’s ability to investigate someone while also caring about them,” Barbara responds. “Examples include all of his close friends in the Justice League, Dick, Tim, and so on. I think that we’re associating a case with a level of emotional detachment because we don’t always know the people involved in a case, but that’s not what this is.”

“Point taken,” Signal acknowledges. “So, what are next steps?”

“I’m trying to get a hit on facial recognition, but so far I’ve had no luck,” Oracle admits. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it has something to do with you seeing him differently with your powers, or just him not photographing well. Getting a name from the guy would go a long way.”

Being able to hide from Oracle’s facial recognition software is a huge feat on its own, Signal knows. Especially when John’s living in one of her HQ’s, or technically right above it.

Oracle continues, “After that, I’ve been thinking about getting Manhunter down here for a couple of hours, see if he can read the kid in any way that the rest of us can’t. It’s a little invasive, but the mental aspect is a whole other ballpark that’s probably suited for a telepath. Plus, if the issue is something involving commuting with words and signs, he’d be able to break that barrier. First, though, we gotta figure out what the heck is actually the problem.”

“You really think it’s that big?” Signal asks.

“I think that he’s a kid, and he doesn’t deserve people taking their time to help him when we have the resources at our disposal to do things quickly. He’s already been in the foster system for a couple of months now, and that sure as hell can’t’ve been pretty in a place like Gotham.”

Signal sure as hell can’t argue with that.

“Whatever you need from me, I’ll do,” Signal promises as the cave opens up into daylight. “Just say the word.”

⠀

⠀

Damian takes his first opportunity to check the status of Doe’s reading materials.

The pile of books sits on his nightstand, each with a bookmark sticking out, most on the first page. The top book has been read about halfway through, so Damian quickly takes a photo of the thankfully filled out bookmark, as well as the title.

While he doubts he’s on a time crunch, he’d rather not be caught snooping around Doe’s room.

Right as he’s beginning to leave, he notices something interesting.

A book is missing. One on astronomy, if he is recalling his choices correctly.

He is unsure what this indicates. Has it already been finished and put away, or was it removed from the pile without ever having been read?

Further data required.

⠀

⠀

He’s like a zombie, Dick notes within the privacy of his own mind.

John follows him to a living room on what seems like autopilot, and he only stares at the TV with half-lidded eyes when Dick asks him what he wants to watch, barely glancing over when he holds out the remote as an offer.

With a lot of experience under his belt, Dick can say with certainty that teenagers are usually pretty opinionated. Every time that Doe does not express himself, Dick can feel himself growing more and more concerned.

It should be easy as breaking John out of his shell, shouldn’t it? Dick’s handled shells of propriety, anger, moodiness, and more, but never this unsettling blankness. There must be an astounding number of layers dedicated to preventing him from cracking, but how does he fix that without even knowing where to start?

Well.

“Last night, I dreamed I was swimming in an ocean of orange soda,” Dick says conversationally, fighting off a smile. “But it was just a Fanta sea.”

No response. The kid’s not even looking his direction.

“A friend of mine annoyed me with bird puns,” Dick continues. “But toucan play at that game.”

He remembers when he first memorised a long list of bird puns, and had gotten Tim to smother his face in a pillow while he pretended to be annoyed and hide how hard he’d been smiling.

John just… blinks.

This sounds like Dick just overestimating his puns, but again things just seem to be getting more and more unsettling.

“Why did the ghost go to the doctor?” Dick prompts. No response, not that he’s really expecting one. “He couldn’t stop coffin!”

John’s blinks is notably slower. It’s such a small thing, but Dick thinks that this might just be progress.

Ghost puns? Dick can totally do ghost puns. He’s got ghost puns that are haunting.

… That one was bad.

“Ghost’s are so bad at driving,” Dick sighs dramatically. “They keep passing through stop signs!”

The next time he glances at John, the kid’s staring back at him. His stare is a little wider than normal, like he’s awake and listening.

Maybe it wasn’t the ghosts that did it, specifically, but just the buildup of puns. Testing can come later, however, Dick’s just going to stick to what seems to be working and push his luck.

“Why did the ghost bring a ladder? To raise some spirits!”

Keep going.

“How do ghosts stay in shape? They exorcise regularly!”

Keep going.

“What do you call a haunted chicken coop? A poultry-geist!”

Keep. Going.

“Spirits love social media; they’re all about ghosting.”

John abruptly sits up.

With silent footsteps created from experience, he leaves Dick sitting alone on the couch.

Dick has no idea if his random ghost puns were getting him anywhere. If he’d annoyed John into leaving, or if he hadn’t wanted to be seen laughing. He doesn’t even know if the ghosts were a factor, just that they seemed to have a stronger effect than other puns he’d tried.

It’s a start, though.

⠀

⠀

1, 2, 3, 4

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8

In for four.

Hold for seven.

Release for eight.

In for four.

Hold for seven.

Release for eight.

Don’t let them make you falter.

In for four.

Hold four seven.

Release for eight.

Chapter Text

It’s not quite a rhythm that they reach with John, more of an understanding. Even though they try to poke and prod, this is how it remains: John is always silent, seeming unobtrusive without effort. They constantly reach out for him and he, in his own silent way, sprints in the other direction.

So yeah, not a rhythm, not an understanding. Kind of a fucked up game of emotional cat and mouse, but hey, that’s kind of the Bat standard.

⠀

⠀

He picks things strategically.

With each visit back to the library, Damian picks books based on John’s interests (though, unfortunately, the only indicator of this is how fast he gets through each book, rather than him simply not reading one) as well as another test to see if a book would disappear.

Each time, the stack will eventually find its way outside of Doe’s door in their silent exchange, and each time, exactly one book will have vanished.

Damian’s unsure why books about science (more specifically astronomy) seem to be pattern-breakers, but he’s going to keep nagging until he reaches an answer. Persistence so far has not seemed to be a solution with Doe, but maybe that’s just because his family hasn’t been trying hard enough.

Does Doe know that Damian’s the one leaving him books? No. Is Damian still going to call this building a rapport?

… Possibly.

However, Doe’s oddities are not the only things that he has to focus on. Damian makes his way into the cave at 9pm sharp, and clicks through recent datamaps and case files with practised speed.

Recent incidents in the city have been minimal, but the cycle of a building underlying tension will as always inevitably lead to a spike in criminal activity, usually accompanied by the resurgence of at least one Gotham rogue despite Arkham and Blackgates… efforts.

There also seems to be some sort of new Justice League investigation, as someone has left encrypted files on the desktop, but those tend to be a dime a dozen and may very well just be father being interrupted while micromanaging his team.

All in all, it seems like it will be an average patrol. Average, however, does not always mean simple or dull, so Damian will not let his guard down for a second. The citizens of this city deserve Robin at his best.

⠀

⠀

Dick: jay

Dick: jay

Dick: jay

Dick: jay

Dick: jay

Dick: jay

Dick: cmon man you gotta meet the new kid at some point

Jason: Why do you think I haven’t? You’re not the one staying in Gotham.

Dick: i asked

Dick: but srsly, i think it’s going to be the sooner the better with the kid. right now we’re not really getting anywhere trying to get him to open up

Jason: Ii don’t think i’m the guy who’s going to help with that

Dick: yes but you can TRY oh my god

Dick: part of your Thing is helping out kids. You’re the best one of us for the job

Jason: Cool

⠀

⠀

Dick: i tried

Tim: did you succeed???

Dick: he said “cool”

Tim: lol

Dick: i may be giving up for the morning

Tim: you tried

Dick: i did!!

Tim: that’s not a compliment

⠀

⠀

“He looks like a corpse,” Cass explains. “When he sits, when he blinks, every pause, there is nothing from him, barely any breathing.”

She grew up not speaking, but observing through body language, if anyone could get a read on their silent foster, it’s Cass.

And yet she can’t even find the words to explain just how unsettling Doe is. If she had to compare it to anything, it’d be dissociation, but the concept of someone dissociating for apparent weeks on end doesn’t bring any comfort.

“You can’t figure out why,” Duke guesses.

“Does there need to be a reason?” she returns.

“Being able to feel is a pretty basic thing for him to deserve. A reason is a pretty good start to figure out how to help him”

“We start with getting him to feel safe,” Cass tells him. “Help can come once he wants it.”

It takes a moment, but Duke concedes to her point.

⠀

⠀

“Sleep,” Doe says out of the blue, staring across the table at Tim.

Tim’s head is halfway to falling on his plate, which on any other day would be a more important concern, but the table’s attention is focused on Doe, who’s gone back to eating as though he hasn’t said a thing.

He had, though, and it’s the first bit of progress that they’ve made.

Doe ignores the looks being sent his way, continuing to chip away at his meal.

Cass quickly signs an order for nobody to push him, glaring around the table at her family. Then she picks up her own fork and goes back to eating just as casually.

Clearly awkward, Duke says, “Yeah, Tim, you look just about ready to pass out.”

“He always does,” Damian mutters.

⠀

⠀

“You get good grades,” Bruce comments, looking over John’s school work.

This statement would usually pull pride or doubt out of his kids, but John does not give him any indicators, as always. He just nods, as though whether he’s smart or not is of no concern to him, and as always he does not speak.

His handwriting, so far, has been the largest indicator as to John’s personality, which is telling on its own. There isn’t any cursive influence in his letters, but the writing loops together in a way that means he doesn’t bother to take his pencil off the page. The lines on the page are thick, implying a strong grip.

Bruce might be grasping at straws, but it has been a long time since he was given a case which could not be tackled from a digital angle.

Notably, John has left the box for his name blank.

Asking for his identity is a bust, and facial recognition isn’t getting any matches. Bugs have been installed in the kitchen on the off chance that John speaks again, but they can’t put recorders in many communal spaces of the manor, not with the risk of something incriminating them as the Bats being picked up.

Bruce passes John’s work back to him with a soft smile that he’s learned to fake through years of raising stubborn children. He scans the kid’s features and wishes that he could pick out anything more unique about him.

There’s a height and weight in his medical file, which limits the range of possible matches, but there’s no way for them to tell what age John entered the system. Blue eyes, black hair, freckles, all things that might narrow down the search, but with millions of children on the planet, it likely won’t be much use.

He’s stuck.

Bruce doesn’t want to admit that he’s stuck, but he’s stuck.

He waits for John to leave the room, then leans back in his chair with a sigh. He opens up his laptop and asks Barbara whether or not it’d be useful to ask a member of the Justice League to help them along. Dinah or J’onn would likely have more insight than Bruce, and his only other option is asking Harley for help with a situation that seems slightly too delicate for her MO.

It takes Barbara a long moment to respond.

Chapter Text

Valerie sleeps with the white noise of Tucker’s keyboard, and blinks to find several hours have passed her by.

Tucker’s still working, the blue light of his laptop casting odd shadows across his face. She can smell coffee far too distinctly for this hour, and it’s that invasive sense that leads to her getting up.

She rolls out of bed, careful not to jostle Sam and wincing as the hotel pullout creeks with her weight. Tucker doesn’t acknowledge her as she makes her way to the kitchenette, but then lets out a yelp when she opens the fridge.

“Hey,” she greets tiredly. “Thirsty.”

“I feel like I’m looking god in the eyes right now, and she wants me to go blind.”

“I feel like you need to sleep before we go back on the road.”

“I feel like I haven’t driven a car before and definitely don’t have a licence.”

“Oh, really? I had no idea.”

Valerie decides that being up at this hour means she deserves nice things, so she grabs a juice box and idly squeezes the pouch while trying to not focus too hard on the taste.

Teaching Tucker and Sam to drive would have a lot of benefits. For the most part, it’s just been Valerie and Jazz trading off, and past a certain point the exhaustion stops being helpful and becomes annoying. The only issue would be getting the two of them behind the wheel on a real street without their panic pinging of the GIW’s radars.

Maybe it’s not that viable, but Val’s still going to dream for dreaming’s sake. It’s not like she has a lot else to do.

“How goes it?” She asks.

Tucker shrugs, which has become an all-too familiar indicator for there being a lot of feelings that they’re trying not to focus on. “Haven’t found any sign of him, yet. I’m still trying.”

“You think he made it into the zone?” She asks, instead of what if he got captured or what if he’s dead in a ditch somewhere because those thoughts aren’t really productive.

“Not based off the readings I’m getting, but you never know.”

There’s no proof that he’s still alive, but no proof that he’s dead, either.

Every option for Danny seems like a bad one.

Valerie likes to think that she’s already come to terms with this, but lying to herself is apparently easier than it sounds.

“And still no contact from anyone in the zone,” Valerie guesses.

Tucker huffs. “There better not be.”

⠀

⠀

Sam’s been listening to Avril Lavigne the entire car ride, which Jazz knows because Sam’s volume is high enough to be heard from the front seat, as well as the fact that Avril Lavigne is a large portion of Sam’s playlists.

Tucker’s in the front seat with Jazz, halfway through a book of sudokus. She’s not sure what Valerie is doing to keep herself occupied, but it involves her staring intently at her phone screen.

The road they’re on is practically empty, so Jazz is staring up at the moon while waiting for anything interesting to talk about. The plan is to visit a couple of museums to keep themselves occupied while they wait for word from Danny, and then have a minor crying session before getting back on the road and avoiding the GIW.

It sucks.

She’s trying not to think about it, but even objectively, this is all very bleak. They should be trying to take more risks, to live, but they don’t know where the line lies between casual emotion and emotion that the GIW can track, so they’ve elected to play it safe. Jazz understands that this will be extremely damaging to her mental health, and has resigned herself to it.

At least she can get along with everyone in this car. The neverending road trip would be a lot worse if they were trying not to bicker the whole time.

⠀

⠀

Tucker hasn’t told anyone, but he’s been closely following Dalv Co. ever since everything went to shit. Since, of course, nobody knows about the connection between Vlad Masters and Vlad Plasmius, it’s appeared to the public that an important CEO has vanished off the face of the planet, leaving the company in shambles thanks to Vlad’s refusal to make a committee.

There’s no heir in his will, of course. The fact that he has a will is probably just thanks to the fact that he has lawyers, or maybe he thought far enough ahead to consider the reality of being found out by the GIW. In either case, the only options, in his eyes, for heir would be Danny or Ellie, and both of them want as little to do with Vlad and his company as possible, so he must have been banking on the idea that he’d convince Danny of his fucked up concept of the future before any plans had to be put into motion.

It’s an odd artifact of justice that his company will go down in flames while he is useless to come back and attempt to restore it, and by the time he escapes (he will, someday, because there’s on reliable and humane of holding a halfa)s, his face will be just recognisable enough to make it a challenge to make a new identity, or the world will have moved on enough that he’ll have issues getting a foothold in the new system.

Either way, Vlad’s done for. It’s a minor relief in the… everything, recently.

(He already did Danny the favour of reinvesting his Dalv stock into a company that Danny has faith in. By the time it’s noticed, it won’t be a worthwhile investment to move the money back to Dalv, even if it was originally a gift.)

Danny, though… ugh. The plan they’d created as they set out had been left with a metric shit ton of wiggle room, and was not at all made for the inarguably most unstable member of their ragtag group of escapees to set off on his own. And searching the system for Danny without knowing even what part of it he’s wound up in, if at all? Ha.

No.

God fucking speed to whoever has the processing power and money for the electricity bill to pull that shit off, but Tucker’s only got a laptop, his PDA, a couple flashdrives, and one of two burner phones with the number for the one that hopefully has remained stuffed in Danny’s thigh.

He’ll just have to have faith in his friend (the friend who barely would speak ten words a day, who’d stare with eyes as dead as the corpse he used to claim to be, the friend who was hurtling towards system failure with how little he was releasing his ghost half, or even feeding it emotion) and stay steady in the meantime.

Staying steady.

Just–

Hoo, okay. They’re not too far out from a museum, they can have their meltdowns amongst the crowd, and leave before the GIW can even get feet on the ground. He just has to last a bit longer.