Chapter Text
The air in Gotham City did not smell like the air in Amity Park. Amity had smelled of ozone and suburban cut grass; Gotham smelled of salt-heavy rain, old exhaust, and the sharp, metallic tang of industrial grease.
Danny Fenton, or the entity the world now knew only as ‘Phantom,’ huddled in the corner of a cavernous, abandoned warehouse. He was pressed so tightly into the junction of two brick walls that he felt as if he might vibrate right through them, but his core was too damaged, too fractured, to allow him the luxury of staying intangible for long. He was stuck. He was stuck in this form—the white hair, the muted green skin, the glowing eyes that saw nothing but a hazy, shifting blur of emerald light and shadow.
He was blind. The Guys in White had made sure of that before he escaped. They had used anti-ecto weaponry directly on his retinas because they hadn't liked the way he looked at them—with defiance, then with silent pleading, then with a hollowed-out despair. Now, the world was a terrifying cacophony of sounds he couldn't decipher and vibrations he couldn't understand.
Danny shivered, the dark, heavy cloak he wore wrapped tightly around his frail frame. It was his only shield. Underneath, his body was a roadmap of agony. The 'Y' shaped incision on his chest, never stitched, only allowed to sluggishly knit itself back together with his failing healing factor, throbbed with every shallow breath. The lichenburg scar, a jagged branch of lightning marking where he had first died and half-returned, felt like it was still burning his skin from his back to his right arm.
His hearing was the worst part. Because his core was trying to heal, every sound was amplified and distorted. The rain hitting the corrugated metal roof above sounded like a barrage of gunfire. The scurrying of a rat across the floorboards sounded like a giant monster approaching.
Then, a new sound cut through the chaos.
Thump.
A heavy, deliberate landing. A weight that wasn't a rat or the wind. Danny’s ears twitched under his hood. He couldn't see the dark silhouette that had just dropped from the rafters, but he felt the shift in the air. He felt a presence—heavy, cold, and radiating a terrifying authority.
"Phantom."
The voice was a low growl, but to Danny’s sensitive, distorted hearing, it sounded like a tectonic plate grinding against another. It was a roar of pure, unfiltered aggression. Danny flinched, a small, choked sound dying in his throat. He didn't know who this was. He didn't know he was in Gotham. He only knew that someone was standing in the dark with him, and they sounded exactly like the men who had kept him in a cage for two years.
In the shadows, Batman narrowed his eyes. He had received the briefing from the Justice League, who had received it from the GIW. Phantom: A Class-V Ecto-Entity. High threat level. Responsible for the total annihilation of the Fenton family and the destruction of Amity Park. Extremist. Murderer. Batman didn’t usually take government agencies at their word, but the footage the GIW provided—blurry, chaotic shots of a white-haired figure amidst explosions—matched the destruction he had seen in the news.
"You're far from home, ghost," Batman said, his voice echoing off the metal walls. "Amity Park wasn't enough for you? You had to bring your slaughter to my city?"
Danny’s head tilted. He heard the words, but they didn't process as English. It was just loud, angry noise. He felt a surge of pure, primal terror. They had found him. The GIW had sent someone to take him back to the table, back to the scalpels and the dark cell where he had to hold his own chest together so his insides wouldn't spill out.
"L̴̡̋̔̚e̶̛͎̰̙̮͊̆̽͑̃a̵̛͇̫͛̇͂̀̅̌v̷̳̮̙͉̬͇̳̣̙̑̍͊̈̀ͅě̵̼̹͙͓̖̥̺̲̩̾̃̃͛̓͗.̸͎̳̱́͑̇̌̐̈͜͝ͅ.̷͕̲̇̈́̌̾.̴̳̈̋ ̸̫̝̜͍̘̙̼̼͕͐͛̓̊͘͝l̴̛̫̻̦̟̅͛̈̿͒́̍̊e̴̳̒͗̈́̅̀̕͠͠ã̶̡͔̯̳̣͕̝̩͉̜̔̏v̵̙̼̘̳̼̹̥͎̿͂͛̓ȩ̶̼̜̺̬̃̎̈́ ̶̧̨̜̩͍̹̻͌͑̋̔̈̓̽͌̃ḿ̵̢̡̡̻̟̽̿͆̕̕e̷̩͊.̵̢̢̠̭̏͌͌̉́ͅ.̵̢͋̊̅́͒̚ͅ.̴̳͔̲̗̤͖̖̏̐͌͌͗̓ ̵̦̾̀̊̈à̵̙̳̳̱͖̼̓͆͝ͅḷ̸͖̠̹͛̌̋̃́̾̈́̓̾͜͜o̶̟̤͚̥̖̭̩̾̅̈́͑̈͛̿͠͝n̷̢̛͕͇̣̙̹̉̀̋̆̃̒̅͘͝e̵̺̱̗͖̤͎͉͕͕̓̈̈́̀̀͠͝.̷͕̤͙͖̪̀̈́̋͐̑̀ͅ.̴̛̺͎.̶͈̓͜" Danny tried to say.
But his vocal cords, saturated with damaged ectoplasm and core-strain, wouldn't obey. What came out was a series of clicks, shrill chirps, and a low, haunting hollow moan—the guttural, terrifying sounds of Ghost Speech. To Batman, it didn't sound like a plea. It sounded like a predatory snarl. It sounded like a monster clinching its teeth before a kill.
"I don't think so," Batman said.
Batman moved with the speed of a predator. He didn't see a child; he saw a shrouded, glowing-eyed threat that was currently emitting a sonic frequency that set his sensors off. He launched a reinforced grapple, intended to pin the entity's arms to its sides.
Danny felt the rush of air. He instinctively tried to go intangible, but a spike of white-hot agony shot through his chest—his core recoiling from the effort. He was too weak. The grapple didn't pass through him; it slammed into his shoulder, spinning him around.
He cried out, but again, it was a haunting, non-human shriek. He scrambled backward, his boots sliding on the grimy floor. He couldn't see the next attack. He only felt the crushing weight of a reinforced boot slamming into his side.
Crack.
The sound of his ribs snapping was louder than the rain. Danny’s breath hitched, his slow-beating heart stuttering. The pain was an explosion of white in his mind. He fell, coughing, and the liquid that hit the floor wasn't red—it was a glowing, viscous neon green.
Batman paused for a fraction of a second, seeing the green blood, but his resolve didn't waver. "Stay down."
They're going to kill me, Danny thought, his mind fracturing into a thousand pieces of panic. They're going to take me back. I'll wake up on the table. I'll wake up and they'll open me again.
The terror overrode his pain. It overrode his logic. He couldn't perform a precision shot—he couldn't even see his target—so he did the only thing a cornered animal can do.
He opened his mouth. He didn't just scream; he let out everything.
The Ghostly Wail hit the warehouse like a physical shockwave. The metal walls groaned and buckled. The glass in the high windows shattered into a million diamonds. Batman was thrown backward, his cape snapping violently as he was slammed into a shipping container, the sheer force of the sonic blast overwhelming his suit’s dampeners.
Danny didn't wait to see if the man was dead. He couldn't see anyway. He forced himself into the air, his flight wobbly and erratic. He hit a wall, felt his way to a hole created by the wail, and pushed himself through it. He went intangible for just three seconds—just enough to pass through the outer brick—and then he was falling into the Gotham rain.
He flew blindly. He didn't know directions; he just knew away. Away from the man in black. Away from the pain. His chest felt like it was filled with broken glass, and he could taste the metallic tang of ectoplasm rising in his throat.
Eventually, his energy gave out. He spiraled down, crashing into a pile of trash bags in a narrow, damp alleyway several miles away.
Danny curled into a ball, his cloak wrapped around him like a shroud. He was shaking so hard his teeth rattled. He pulled his knees to his chest, his hands
trembling as he clutched at his stomach, trying to hold his broken ribs still. He coughed, a thick spray of green ectoplasm staining his white gloves and the dark fabric of his hood.
He was so cold. He was always cold, but this was different. This was the cold of a core that was shutting down. He squeezed his eyes shut, though it made no difference to his vision.
Jazz... he thought, a silent, broken sob racking his frame. Mom... Dad… Ellie... please... someone help me...
He didn't hear the footsteps at first. They were lighter than Batman’s, more rhythmic, but they were still the footsteps of a soldier.
Jason Todd, the Red Hood, had been patrolling the Bowery when he heard the explosion. Not a bomb explosion—something weirder. A sound that felt like it had been ripped out of a nightmare. He’d seen something white and glowing streak across the sky, looking like a bird with a broken wing.
He turned the corner into the alley, his hand resting on the grip of his pistol. He saw the heap in the trash. At first, he thought it was just a discarded tarp, but then he saw the glow. A faint, rhythmic pulsing of toxic green.
"Hey," Jason said, his voice modulated by his helmet, but he kept his tone neutral. "Who's there?"
Danny flinched violently. He tried to scramble back, but he only managed to hit a dumpster. He let out a low, terrified hiss, his claws extending instinctively from his gloves, his teeth sharpening into fangs behind his lips. He was ready to fight, ready to die, as long as he didn't go back—
But then, Danny’s head tilted.
He couldn't see the man in the red mask. But he could sense him.
Ghosts were sensitive to ectoplasm. And this man... he reeked of it. But not like a ghost. He smelled like the Grave. He smelled like ectoplasm—just a twisted, stagnant version of the same energy that flowed through Danny’s own veins. To Danny’s traumatized, instinctive mind, this man wasn't a human hunter.
He was... a brother? No, not a brother. But he was Dead. He was like him.
The aggression drained out of Danny instantly. The hissing stopped. He sensed the "death" clinging to Jason like a heavy perfume. In Danny's shattered state, "dead" meant "safe." Dead people didn't vivisect you. Dead people were family.
Slowly, painfully, Danny uncurled. He didn't run. Instead, he reached out a trembling, green-stained hand toward the vibration of Jason's footsteps. He let out a tiny, pathetic chirp—a soft sound in Ghost Speech that roughly translated to 'Hurting. Help?'
Jason froze. He looked down and realized for the first time how small the figure was. The cloak was huge, but the person inside it... they were tiny. Shrunken.
"Holy shit," Jason whispered, clicking off his helmet's vocal distorter. He knelt down, keeping a respectful distance. "You're just a kid."
He saw the way the kid’s eyes were fixed on nothing, the hazardous green irises clouded and unfocused. He noticed the way the kid didn't react to his movements, only to his voice and the sound of his boots.
"You can't see me, can you?" Jason asked softly.
Danny didn't answer in English. He just leaned forward, his head dropping until it almost touched Jason's tactical vest. He was shivering so violently that Jason could hear his bones clicking.
Jason’s eyes swept over the kid. He saw the green blood on the floor. He saw the way the kid was protecting his ribcage.
"Alright," Jason said, his voice cracking with a rare, sudden warmth. "Alright, kid. I've got you. I'm not gonna hurt you. I'm... I'm a friend. Okay?"
Danny didn't understand the words, but he understood the heartbeat. Jason’s heart was steady, and it carried that familiar, low hum of the Pit. Danny let out a tiny, shaky breath and slumped forward, his forehead resting against Jason’s chest.
Jason didn't hesitate. He reached out and scooped the boy up. He was horrified by how light he was. It was like picking up a bundle of dry sticks and silk. There was no meat on his bones, no weight to his soul.
"We're going home," Jason muttered, his jaw tightening. "And God help whoever did this to you."
The safehouse was warm—a sharp contrast to the biting Gotham wind. Jason set Danny down on the bathroom counter, his movements incredibly gentle.
Danny was barely conscious, his head lolling. He was in a state of sensory overload, the hum of the refrigerator in the next room sounding like a jet engine.
"I need to see the damage, kid," Jason said, reaching for the ties of the dark cloak.
As soon as Jason’s fingers touched the fabric, Danny erupted. He shrieked, a high-pitched, warbling sound, and lashed out with his hands. He didn't want to be uncovered. Under the cloak, he was vulnerable. Under the cloak was where the scars were.
"Whoa, whoa! Easy! Easy, tiny," Jason said, holding his hands up and stepping back. He didn't get angry. He knew this look. He’d seen it in the mirror after the Pit. This was the look of a trapped animal. "I'm just trying to help. It's okay. You're safe. I'm Jason. I'm like you, remember? I've been to the other side too."
He kept talking, his voice a low, soothing rumble. Slowly, Danny’s breathing slowed. He could feel the warmth of the room. He could feel the soft texture of a towel Jason had placed nearby. Soft. He liked soft.
Danny went still, allowing Jason to slowly, inch by inch, pull the cloak away.
When the cloak fell to the floor, Jason actually felt his stomach turn.
The boy was wearing a tattered black and white jumpsuit, but it was shredded in places, stained with that neon green fluid. But it was the boy himself that was the tragedy. He was skeletal. His collarbones poked out like knives. His skin was a sickly, muted green, and even in the dim light, Jason could see the dark circles under his sightless eyes.
"Jesus, kid..." Jason whispered.
He moved Danny to the bathtub, turning on the water. He made sure it was warm, not hot. He knew from experience that when you were this cold, hot water felt like acid.
He helped Danny out of the ruined jumpsuit. He tried to be careful, but as the fabric peeled away, Jason saw it.
The 'Y' incision.
It ran from the top of the boy's chest down to his stomach. It wasn't a clean surgical scar. It looked like it had been opened and reopened a dozen times. It was jagged, raw-looking, and surrounded by smaller puncture wounds and chemical burns.
And then there were the other marks. The lichenburg scar that looked like a frozen lightning bolt. The brandings. The old, faded bruises.
Jason’s vision swam with a sudden, violent red. The Lazarus Pit in his blood roared. He knew what this was. This wasn't a battle injury. This was a laboratory. This was vivisection. Someone had been cutting into this child while he was still breathing.
Danny felt the shift in Jason’s energy. He felt the spike of heat and anger radiating off the man. He whimpered, scrambling backward in the tub, his sightless eyes wide with terror. He thought the anger was for him. He thought he had done something wrong.
"No, no, no," Jason said instantly, dropping to his knees by the tub, his voice thick with forced calm. "Not at you. Never at you, kiddo. I'm just... I'm mad at the bad guys. Not you. You're doing great."
He reached out and gingerly splashed some warm water on Danny’s shoulders. Danny flinched, then slowly, he leaned into the warmth. He couldn't remember the last time he’d been warm. In the GIW labs, everything was stainless steel and ice-cold water hoses.
Jason washed the grime and the dried ectoplasm away with a soft cloth. He was as meticulous as a surgeon, his hands trembling slightly with repressed rage. He found more scars on Danny’s arms—needle tracks and restraints marks that had rubbed the skin raw.
After the bath, Jason wrapped Danny in the thickest, softest towel he owned. He carried him to the bedroom and dressed him in a pair of old, oversized soft cotton pajamas. The sleeves were way too long, bunched up around Danny’s thin wrists, but Danny seemed to relax the moment the soft fabric touched his skin.
He didn't walk. He just floated a few inches off the bed, his feet never touching the ground, until Jason gently pushed him down to sit.
"Stay here. I'm gonna get you something to eat," Jason said.
He went to the kitchen and pulled out a carton of chicken broth. He didn't want to give the kid solids yet. He looked like he hadn't had a real meal in years, and Jason knew that refeeding syndrome could kill a body that was this far gone.
He heated the broth and brought it back in a mug.
Danny smelled the food. His stomach let out a violent, painful growl. But he didn't reach for it. He sat perfectly still, his hands folded in his lap, waiting.
"Here you go, kid. It's just soup," Jason said, holding the mug out.
Danny hesitated. In the lab, they didn't give him mugs. They used tubes. Or they threw scraps on the floor to see if he would scavenge. If he moved too fast, they shocked him. If he moved too slow, they hit him.
"It's okay," Jason encouraged, his heart breaking. "It's yours. Take it."
Danny reached out, his fingers brushing Jason's before finding the mug. He took a small sip. Then another. Then, his hunger overrode his fear, and he began to drink it down with a desperate, frantic speed.
Jason sat on the edge of the bed, watching him. He saw the way Danny flinched when the refrigerator kicked on. He saw the way the boy’s ears constantly twitched, tracking every sound in the apartment.
When the mug was empty, Jason took it and set it on the nightstand. He picked Danny up again—the kid didn't fight him this time, instead tucking his head under Jason’s chin—and carried him to the living room couch.
He settled Danny into a nest of pillows and a heavy wool blanket.
Danny immediately curled into a tight ball, the smallest possible target. Outside, a sudden crack of thunder rolled through the Gotham sky.
Danny jumped, a strangled gasp escaping him, and he buried his face in the pillows, his entire body quaking.
Jason sat in the armchair across from him, cleaning his gear, but his eyes never left the small, white-haired figure.
He thought about the "Phantom" the news talked about. The mass murderer. The monster.
Then he looked at the child on his couch—the child who was blind, starving, and covered in the marks of a butcher’s table.
"They lied," Jason whispered to the empty room.
He thought about Bruce. Bruce had probably been the one to chase this kid into the alley. Bruce, who followed the rules and listened to the 'official' reports.
Jason looked at Danny, who had finally drifted into a fitful, twitching sleep, his fingers clutching a corner of the soft blanket as if it were a lifeline.
"I don't care who's looking for you," Jason said, his voice cold and iron-hard. "I don't care if it's the government or the Big Bad Bat. No one is touching you again."
Jason Todd had died once. He knew what it was like to be discarded by the world. And as he watched the little ghost boy shiver in his sleep, he made a silent vow.
Gotham was a city of monsters. But tonight, this monster had a protector.