Chapter Text
In the Batcave, a shrill klaxon shattered the silence. The cave was bathed in a crimson glow as the Batcomputer’s screen filled with streaming coordinates. “ECTO-ENERGY SURGE – CAULDRON DISTRICT” blazed across the main monitor. Bruce leaned forward, jaw tightening, eyes narrowing at the implication. Gotham, his Gotham, was the breach point. Nightwing’s comm crackled faintly in the cavern, his voice tense: “B, I’m already topside. Do we contain or investigate?” Tim’s chair screeched back as he leaned into his own console, muttering calculations under his breath. Red Hood cursed loudly from somewhere near the weapons rack, already loading magazines. Batman gave no immediate order, his silence more dire than any word could be.
Father’s voice cut through the alarms, sharp and measured: “Gotham is ours. I’ll take the Watchtower and make certain there will be no League interference.” He did not raise his tone, but the order carried a finality that no one questioned.
Assignments followed in quick succession: Red Robin on digital surveillance, fingers already flying across his keyboard; Black Bat and Spoiler to Oracle to coordinate efforts with the Birds of Prey; Red Hood to his territory, his muttered curses promising violence; Nightwing would return to the cave to don the cowl of Batman, then head to the Cauldron District to directly confront the source. Oracle would coordinate all movements from her tower. Each instruction fell with iron weight, precision honed by years of command.
Damian listened to his Father’s words, his spine straight, chin lifted. He caught the unspoken truth beneath his father’s tone: Batman was worried.
And of course—Robin was still benched. Still treated as the boy recovering from wounds, not the soldier he had always been. His jaw ached from clenching, nails biting crescents into his palms. Did his father not realize? Did he not understand that Damian would not sit idly by? Not when Danyal was alive. Here. Somewhere close.
Father had not been satisfied with the tests he’d run on the hair Damian collected. Even with the data saying directly that the boy was Damian’s twin and Bruce Wayne’s blood son. He wanted more—more assurance, more proof . As though Damian’s own instincts and senses were not enough. As though the DNA in the hair was mere coincidence . Batman could never be satisfied.
Never mind that, because there was something more pressing than his father’s subpar family skills—
The portal was showing up in the Cauldron District —exactly where Robin had encountered Nightingale. Coincidence? His gut was telling him no. Was Danyal involved? Or was the timing merely another cruel twist of fate?
As the Batfamily dispersed, Alfred appeared at Damian’s side. The butler’s expression was calm, but his eyes carried the same depth of worry that Father’s had tried to mask. In his hands, Alfred held a small, neatly wrapped package.
“Should you find yourself in the Cauldron, Master Damian,” Alfred said softly, pressing it into his hand, “perhaps you might offer this to Master Danyal. I suspect he will be needing it.”
Damian looked down at the object, something tight and unspoken catching in his chest. Alfred’s words were a benediction, a permission, and a reminder all at once.
Moments later, Batman swept out, cloak snapping behind him, bound for the Watchtower. The weight of his absence filled the cave.
Richard arrived soon after, peeling off his domino mask and moving toward the case where his personal Batsuit waited. Jason, leaning against the weapons rack with his helmet held under his arm, smirked at the man.
“Off to find your second son, huh?” Jason drawled, his tone teasing but edged with something sharp. “Guess that makes you a father of twins.” His grin widened, teeth flashing. “Demon Twins, ha! Funny—thought that was just a Pit hallucination. Didn’t figure it was real.”
The words hung heavy in the air. Richard froze mid-step, cowl clutched in his hand, his expression flickering between surprise and something else—grief, recognition, guilt.
Jason shrugged, as though it didn’t matter, though his eyes betrayed the lingering haze of unreliable memories.
Richard broke the silence, his voice quieter than Damian had expected it to be. “You remember Danyal?” he asked Jason as he started gearing up.
Jason’s smirk faltered, his eyes shadowed. “Yeah,” he said, almost reluctantly. “I remember enough.” He paused, the smirk tugging weakly at his mouth before fading again. “Kid once swapped out every single blade in the training room for dulled practice steel. Left Ra’s fuming when half the League tried to spar and couldn’t cut watermelons, let alone enemies. The little demon just stood there, arms crossed, acting like he was above it all until Talia found out and tanned his hide.”
Jason let out a low chuckle, but there was no mirth in it—just the faint ache of remembering something half-lost. “Funny. That’s what sticks. Mischief. Course, back then… I was hallucinating a lot. Sometimes the sky was the color of a Lazarus Pit. Sometimes I thought I was a Flying Robin in a blue cape with some weird friend who had glowing eyes, powers like Kori's, and a tail who called me “Bluejay”. Hard to take anything seriously after memories like that.”
Damian stood silent, fury and confusion churning in his chest. His own memories surfaced: remembered lowering Danyal’s wakizashi into the velvet casket, fingers brushing against the constellation-patterned cloth he had wrapped it in. He remembered grief—raw, private, and bone-deep. He had thought it buried there with the blade, tucked into the Wayne family plot where only those who understood its weight would ever look. The grave had been a confession and a farewell all in one.
Now that grief curdled into suspicion. If Nightingale was truly Danyal… if he was truly Danny Fenton… what did that mean for them? For the family? For Damian himself?
The thought coiled through him like smoke, bitter and sharp. His brother alive. His brother wearing another name, living another life. The possibility was impossible—and yet Damian had seen him. Had felt the tug of recognition down to his marrow. Real.
A strange thrum reverberated in Damian’s chest, low and insistent, like the echo of some buried chord being plucked. His breath caught as his vision swam faintly green, the edges of the cave blurring in unnatural hues before clearing again. His fists clenched, nails biting into his palms.
Stress , he told himself. Only stress. Nothing more.
But deep inside, Damian was no longer sure he believed it.
The night air was heavy as Richard adjusted the Batman cowl, the familiar weight of it settling across his shoulders. Beside him, Damian checked his own gear with brisk efficiency, the silence between them steady rather than strained. Gotham’s skyline yawned before them, crimson light still faintly staining the horizon as the sky turned past dusk into night.
“Stay behind me tonight,” his Batman said, voice deepened by the modulation in the cowl and carrying the weight of command. “No strenuous activity. We don’t know what we’re walking into, and you’re still recovering.”
Robin gave a small huff, sharper than it needed to be. “I am aware,” he replied, a touch of impatience in his tone. But he fell into step without hesitation. Father might have benched him, might have doubted his readiness, but Richard had always trusted him in the field. And Damian trusted Richard. They had made a team, back before Father returned from the timestream, Batman and Robin—partners who had bled and survived together. The very best.
It was gratifying to Damian to feel that partnership again.
The Batmobile purred beneath them as his Batman drove, its engine tuned to a whisper. The city lights blurred past, neon and shadow weaving together as they cut toward the Cauldron District. Robin sat upright in the passenger seat, the small package from Alfred tucked securely into his belt. His mind replayed memories unbidden: the wakizashi, the grave, green light flashing in his vision.
“Your head’s not here,” his Batman said after a long stretch of silence, eyes fixed on the road. “Whatever it is, Robin… you’re going to need it steady.”
Robin’s lips thinned, but his voice was even. “I am steady,” he insisted. “I know what’s at stake.” His gaze shifted to his Batman, a flicker of trust in his eyes. “I will not let you down.”
His Batman glanced at him briefly, the corners of his mouth softening beneath the cowl. “I know, Robin.”
The Cauldron was drawing close, its broken skyline marked by flickering neon lights and the skeletal husks of old industry. And somewhere in that sprawl, a portal to the Infinite Realms awaited.
As the Batmobile slowed, his Batman pulled them into the shadows of an overpass. The Cauldron spread before them like a wound—half-lit buildings, streets buzzing with restless energy, the faint shimmer of something other-worldly staining the air like heat haze. Police scanners crackled with confusion, calls of strange lights and outages already piling up.
His Batman opened their comm line. “Batman and Robin closing in on the site of the portal. Will likely encounter signal interference or jamming. Prepare for radio silence.”
With Oracle’s staticky confirmation, he muted the comm and turned to Robin.
Robin leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “It’s close, Batman. I can sense it.” He didn’t elaborate on what he meant—whether instinct, training, or something deeper stirring in his chest. His Batman didn’t press. He just nodded. He trusted Robin's senses as much as his own.
“Then we move carefully,” his Batman said. He reached for his grapple, the motion practiced, smooth, despite the cumbersome weight of the Batsuit. “Recon first, engagement second. No matter what’s waiting, we don’t go in blind.”
Robin’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. He knew the rhythm of his Batman’s leadership, had fought at his side long enough to recognize the value in patience, even when every muscle in his body screamed to act.
Together they slipped into the night, cape and cloak blending into Gotham’s jagged silhouette. The closer they drew, the stronger the pulse that reminded Robin of Lazarus Pit grew, spilling between broken rooftops, throwing jagged shadows across alley walls. The air itself felt heavier, thick with energy Damian had only ever associated with Grandfather.
Robin’s breath stuttered as he caught sight of him—Nightingale, crouched low near a rooftop’s edge, silver-green light pooling across his hands.
Nightingale worked with steady, deliberate movements, inscribing glowing lines into the rooftop’s surface. Every movement hummed faintly in Robin’s chest, a resonance he couldn’t recognize beyond a faint sense of familiar . Three blob ghosts hovered around him, their forms glowing faintly in the night. One bobbed happily against his shoulder, another twirled lazily around his head like a living halo, while the third nestled into his hair, coiling like an affectionate cat. They hummed, chirped, and occasionally tugged at his curls, utterly at ease in his presence. The sight was so absurdly gentle that Damian’s throat constricted.
“Batman,” Robin whispered, sharper than he meant, “there. On the roof.”
Beside him, his Batman’s white lenses narrowed behind the cowl. “I see him.”
Nightingale immediately turned, as if hearing them. The glow etched his features in green. His body tensed like a cornered animal, and it looked as though he might leap away from them into the night. The blob ghosts hissed softly, pressing closer to him, one tugging at his hair in agitation.
Robin’s hand twitched forward. “Do not let him disappear, Batman.” His voice was low, urgent, almost pleading.
The Batman cowl dipped in acknowledgment, then the man himself stepped into the open, his dark silhouette cutting against the skyline. Robin remained a half-step behind, the package Alfred had entrusted to him weighing heavily in his belt like a physical weight.
Nightingale’s eyes snapped to the figure of Batman, and he froze. His whole body went rigid. Robin saw the faint flicker of fear—and beneath it, suspicion. The way he drew back, shoulders tensed, spoke of too many bad memories. The blob ghosts crowded close, squeaking in alarm. He tensed and prepared to flee.
But something in the air shifted. Robin’s chest ached, a thrum beating beneath bone, something both a heart and not-a-heart pounding against his ribs. He didn’t speak—he couldn’t—but he willed Nightingale to stay. Perhaps the call reached him. Perhaps it was a coincidence. But Nightingale hesitated.
Richard—Batman—was careful not to use the full force of Batman’s growl. His voice was gentler, calmer: “Hello, Nightingale. We don’t want a fight. We are here to learn what is happening and assist. Are you making wards?”
Nightingale’s lips pressed tight, his gaze darting from Batman to Robin and back. He was still far too tense, but there was something else now: confusion. Curiosity. He rocked on the balls of his feet, uncertain.
Robin’s chest went tight, that thing in his chest reaching for Nightingale.
Nightingale edged closer. Each movement was slow, cautious, but undeniable—as though he was being pulled closer against his will. The blob ghosts floated with him, their humming soft, protective. When he was close enough, one of the blobs hesitated, then drifted toward Robin. Robin stiffened as the tiny ghost hovered inches from his face, chirping curiously before zipping back to Nightingale’s hair. Nightingale froze again, eyes sharpening as he studied Batman closely. He cocked his head, leaning forward and tilting his head up as though to peer even closer at the man.
Batman smiled.
It was subtle, small, but undeniably warm. And Robin saw Nightingale flinch at it. His breath caught, his body tensed for retreat. But then something passed across his face—recognition. He relaxed by a fraction, enough to shift from flight to wary stillness.
Robin was perplexed by this, but was careful to bite his tongue. Danyal was jumpy enough as it was. His interrogation would have to wait until Damian was certain the boy couldn’t run away.
Nightingale’s throat bobbed with a swallow. “I’m setting up wards to keep ghosts from passing too far from the portal?” he said, his last word tilting up like a question. He waved his hands placatingly. “I mean, it won’t keep out more powerful ghosts, but it’s a quick fix until I can set up more powerful protections.”
Batman’s voice remained gentle. “Show us?”
Nightingale hesitated, glancing at Robin.
Uncertain what his twin was looking for, Robin nodded, hoping that it would be reassurance.
Nightingale smiled tightly then turned, leading them down past the glowing runes into the underground. Down, down, down they went, mostly in silence. The blob ghosts clung close to the boy, chirping anxiously as they descended. At the lowest level, it was clear that a Lazarus pit had once been there. Now it was something else entirely. The surface shimmered green, stretched thin as a mirror, swirling like a whirlpool. Robin’s throat tightened as he stared. A portal, living and dangerous.
Nightingale knelt at the edge, hands brushing glowing runes and odd bits and bobs of tech. His voice was soft, distant. “When ectoplasm is exposed in solid form in the mortal realms, it usually evaporates quickly back to the Infinite. But the sheer amount that was here… I should have known better. Purifying so much so quickly… but if it had gone and been corrupted again… ugh .”
Robin’s ears perked. “Purified? Are you claiming you purified a Lazarus Pit ?”
Nightingale jumped and immediately scrambled. “Oh—uh—obviously not! That’s not—I mean—”
Batman waved away the boy’s scrambling. “It’s alright, Nightingale,” he rumbled. He tilted his head toward the portal. “Can you tell us what you’re doing right now to “contain” the portal?”
Startled, Nightingale flung himself and the blob ghosts clutched to him toward the lines of tech and magic circling the portal. “Yes! Um, so it’s pretty rudimentary right now, due to time constraints—”
Nightingale walked them through the most eldrich and nonsensical mess Robin had ever borne witness to. None of it followed logic—apparently ectoplasm added to tech made anti-ghost tech stronger ? But too much would turn the tech into ghosts themselves ? Same with food, particularly meat, apparently—Nightingale went on a tangent of fighting Thanksgiving turkeys and a fridge war between hotdogs and lunch meats and other such items.
Robin exchanged looks with his Batman, who was looking quite pale and a little green, though that was probably just the portal’s light reflecting off him.
Robin had never been happier to be vegan.
With thinly-veiled queasiness, Robin’s Batman gently guided Nightingale away from the topic of food coming to life via terrible lab safety. “You certainly seem to be an expert on all of this,” he said.
That put an immediate dampener on Nightingale’s enthusiasm. His shoulders tensed. “I don’t know about “expert”,” he demured, cautious. The trio of blobs started purring like little motors, Robin somehow hearing a chant of safe safe safe from them.
Safe , pulsed from Robin’s own chest. Don’t leave. Stay stay stay.
Nightingale looked up at Robin. His brow furrowed, but his shoulders forcibly untensed.
Robin’s Batman was nodding, not noticing the odd exchange. “That’s alright, Nightingale. I’m glad to see someone who knows what they’re doing in this situation. Our only other contact with people who know how the Realms work don’t even refer to it as the Realms—and their research is biased and unreliable at best and dangerous at worst.”
Nightingale frowned. “Drs Fenton and the GIW,” he said.
Batman nodded. “Justice League Dark has a ghost on their roster,” he told the boy, “but Deadman’s not a Realms being, so he cannot help us in this matter. And magic from various others don’t seem to affect Realms ghosts, at least not the protection or summoning magic they’ve attempted.”
“Summoning magic?” Nightingale frowned, fiddling with something tech-adjacent.
Batman grunted. But before he could confirm, Nightingale’s phone buzzed from his belt.
The boy glanced down, thumb flicking across the screen before answering with a quick, “Pharaoh?” His tone was immediately warmed, the edge softening. Robin blinked at the unfamiliar codename until context slid into place: this must be someone Nightingale knew.
This “Pharaoh”, whoever they were, spoke too softly for Robin and Batman to hear, since their comm tech was muted to avoid it cutting out completely.
“They’re set up,” Nightingale murmured into the phone. “Sensors and wards. But nothing’ll hold against anything stronger than Cujo. Yeah, I saw the glow too. …What? A scary lady in a golden mask? Signing?” He paused, expression pinching with concern. “Sounds like Strix to me. Don’t worry, she’s nice. Maybe call in Psyche for help translating. Nightshade, head east. Don’t let anyone get too close to the portal until I stabilize this.”
Nightingale listened for a moment. His expression quivered before a small smile played on his mouth.
“Sure thing little sis, your codename can be Sparrow. See if you can’t convince Plasmius to get you your own suit fixed up. Now, I’ve got to go. Talk soon!”
He ended the call with a flick of his thumb, sighing wearily, but still with a warm fondness in his expression. Robin examined him in silence, realization dawning with each moment that passed: Danyal—Nightingale—had built a system of allies for himself. And by the “little sis” comment—a family.
Robin opened his mouth to ask his ahki about them—
The cave around them shuddered.
Robin’s head snapped up as the green shimmer rippled, disrupted by falling debris. Dust cascaded from above, and small stones clattered across the cavern floor. The wards around the portal pulsed weakly, the faint glow flaring as something slammed against them from the other side.
“Get down!” Batman ordered, sweeping both Robin and Nightingale beneath the cover of his cape just as a spray of rocks broke loose from the ceiling. The sound thundered through the chamber, sharp and relentless, the ground vibrating with the impact.
Nightingale’s eyes flashed bright, ectoplasm-green light racing across the ward lines as he flung out a hand. His blobs puffed up, squeaking indignantly, before darting back to cling to his shoulders and hair. Their tiny forms trembled with the force of the intrusion, but they pressed protectively closer.
For a heartbeat, Robin could feel the echo of something vast and terrible pressing against the portal. A weight, like a hand testing the seams of the world, threatening to tear them open. Then, just as suddenly as it began, the pressure relented.
The tremors eased. The portal stilled.
Dust drifted slowly to the floor, the last of the debris settling in uneasy silence. Batman’s cape lowered, revealing the chamber once more. No cave-in—not yet.
Robin and Nightingale peeked out from under Batman’s cape like chicks looking out from under their mother’s wings, their eyes darting to the trembling ceiling. The blob ghosts chirped nervously, only quieting as Nightingale brushed his fingers against them in reassurance.
“Someone on the other side was testing the wards,” muttered Nightingale.
The silence that followed pressed heavily between them, thicker than the dust hanging in the air. Nightingale finally broke the silence, his voice low but firm. “Nightwing, Batman, whoever you are—” because of course Damian’s twin was smart enough to catch on to that “—I need you to understand now that beings of the Infinite Realms are not inherently evil like Drs Fenton and the GIW would have you believe. There are good ghosts and bad ghosts just the same as there are good and bad humans and aliens and gods and everything else in the universes. We— they’re just another race of being, with their own cultures and moral codes. Just because they don’t think the way humans do does not make them unsentient or evil .”
“I understand, Nightingale,” Batman rumbled in reassurance. “The Justice League is aware that the beings of the Infinite Realms aren’t enemies. We’re doing work to repeal the Acts that the government implemented, and we’re working on finding where the King of the Infinite Realms is.”
Nightingale moved to leave the safety of Batman’s cape, but paused. “What do you mean, finding the King?” he asked, puzzled.
Batman tilted his head to look down at the boy still under his arm. “Are you aware of who the High King of the Infinite Realms is?” he asked.
“I mean, sure,” Nightingale admitted with a shrug. “But the guy’s, like, super asleep. Dunno what you’re doing trying to find him.”
Batman’s eyes narrowed. "Have you seen him?”
“Seen, heard, fought, take your pick,” Nightingale replied dryly. “Doesn’t mean he’s answering the door anytime soon. Pretty sure the only thing he’s doing right now is drooling in his sarcophagus.”
The cave above them gave another worrying tremble.
Batman exhaled slowly, keeping his cape carefully over the both of them. “Very well. We can touch on that later. For now, we need to regroup. Outside of this cave.”
Nightingale gave a nervous chuckle and skittered out from under Batman’s cape. Robin was honestly surprised it had taken the boy that long. But, from Robin’s own experience, being under Richard’s Batman cape felt deeply safe and comforting. Robin could not begrudge his brother from feeling similarly.
“That’s okay, I’m good,” Nightingale said. He threw a thumb over his shoulder. “I need to finish these wards, then make some more to keep humans from trying to get into the portal, you know? I can handle the cave no problem!”
Batman and Robin rose as one to their feet. “Nightingale,” Batman began in a gentle tone. “Do you understand why I would be hesitant to leave you after that near cave-in?”
Nightingale huffed and crossed his arms, stirring the blobs that were currently purring against his chest. “I’m fine! That was just someone testing the wards. It’ll stop being an issue as soon as I finish setting things up!”
“Nightingale,” Batman’s voice softened even further, turning practically paternal. “Please.”
That…made Robin’s twin hesitate. But he shook his head. “We’re just wasting time,” he insisted. “The faster I get this done, the faster the portal’s secure.”
The cave shudders threateningly again.
Batman grunted. “Alright, how about this: we go topside now, you focus on the wards up there, and Robin and I return in half an hour with a personal force field that will protect you in the event of a cave-in, and a comm for you to contact one of us if something happens. Deal?”
“Ugh, fine !” Nightingale scoffs and throws out his arms wide. “Not like you’re even listening to me, Ancients! Let’s just go !”
“Thank you, Nightingale.”
Batman ushered the two of them out the way they came, the shadows swallowing them whole as the cave’s echoes faded behind. His cape swept forward, a barrier and a guide both, and neither boy argued the pace he set.
As they made their way up, Robin discreetly—he thought, anyway—observed his twin. He noted the thin, wiry frame, skin too pale and almost sickly. Noted the soft scuff of a footstep that tried too hard not to be a limp. He watched, too, how the strange blob ghosts continued to practically smother the boy in affection. Safe safe safe, they chirped to him. They were assurances Robin didn’t know how to reconcile.
By the time they finally hit topside, the night air hit cool and heavy.
They paused in the mouth of the hidden exit, Gotham’s skyline fractured in neon beyond.
They were about to part ways—Batman already angling away from the Cauldron District—when Robin remembered the package Alfred had pressed into his hand earlier.
Robin’s hands curled into fists. The weight of it pressed into his side like it was burning straight through the fabric. He could feel words clawing up his throat, raw and uncoordinated, refusing to stay caged.
As Nightingale turned to leave, shadows already licking at the edges of his figure, Robin’s voice broke free—cracked out, too raw, too loud for the quiet rooftop:
“Nightingale!”
The boy froze. His blobs squeaked, jittering nervously around his head.
Robin took a step forward, yanked the package free of his belt, and hurled it at his brother. The small box spun through the dim light, catching a silver-green glow before Nightingale snatched it deftly from the air.
Frowning at them, Nightingale opened the box, took a peek inside, and froze. He tipped the box into an open palm, and an odd-looking pocketwatch tumbled out.
His brother’s voice cracked. “Where—where did you get this?”
Robin’s heart lurched. He saw the weakness, the crack in his twin’s armor. He stepped forward, voice low but firm, blade-sharp with intent. “If you wish to know, then you will meet with me again. Swear it to me, Nightingale.”
Nightingale’s grip tightened around the watch, his knuckles white. The blob ghosts pressed close to his hair and shoulders, their tiny forms buzzing faintly with worry. For a long moment, silence stretched between them—silent, aching recognition.
Please please please —pulsed from Robin’s chest, pouring from him like blood from a wound.
Nightingale shuddered. He staggered back a step. Scared worried guilty—so so so sorry, Brother . Seemed to echo from Nightingale himself. “Yeah, okay,” he croaked back.
With a flick of his cape, Nightingale spun on his heel and fled.
Robin clenched his teeth and met his Batman’s solemn gaze.
He hoped he wouldn’t end up regretting that.