evandarya

[evandarya]

Guess I need a name for this?

This bit got stuck in my head just now: CW discussions of prostitution, cross dressing

“When did they abduct you?” Danny watched his hand be slowly rotated as Agent A felt carefully along the bones of the wrist. How did he actually answer that? He didn’t know where he was or who he was really talking to other than the fact that this A was someone Hood trusted. “They got me after a job. About six today?” “And what it is you do, Miss?” “Mostly I’m an escort,” Danny said, waiting for the reaction from the proper man. It was almost worse when the reaction didn’t come. It put Danny on edge. All of this put Danny on edge: this night, being used through his work, being used through Hood, the medical room around him— too much glass and steal and— “And your other work?” “Well, for my other work I’m just a fucking whore,” Danny drawled with a bloodstained grin. “I would ask you not to use such language, Miss Danny,” Agent A said firmly, “I understand that you are out of sorts after tonight but there is no need. Prostitution is, after all, one of the oldest professions in the world and you should not disparage yourself so simply because it is how you earn your money.” Danny glanced down and away, biting at his lip, putting another cut in it. He let the sting ground him. “I certainly hope Red Hood hasn’t been making you feel less than,” Agent A said seriously. Danny’s jerked his gaze up so quickly that it made him wince in pain. “No, Hood is great about it all. I mean, I think he worries too much about me, but that’s just how he is.” Agent A hummed thoughtfully.

[evandarya]

Danny is a minx and I am not responsible for him.

Okay, so, you all voted and I, um, failed? We didn't get to cuddling. There should be cuddling coming? Idk, darlings, this was my third start on this and Danny took over. I've got no say in this anymore. Canon-typical violence, crude language, cross dressing, discussions of prostitution

---

“You think you can fucking play us like that?!”

The shout carried easily through the crisp fall air. Red Hood sighed and changed direction away from his safe house and towards the noise.

“—fuck you up for that! Give us our fucking money back!”

“Fuck you,” snapped back a voice that Jason had come to recognize over the last several months. Right then the words dripped in fake, but damn convincing, heavy Crime Alley drawl, but Jason knew it all the same. “If yous don’t got it, don’t bet it. If yous don’t got game, don’t play it.”

“Yeah, no, I don’t think a little girl like you gets to say how this goes,” a third voice growled.

Hood clung to the edge of the roof just long enough to drop silently into the alleyway next to the dive bar. From the quick glance sent his way he was only noticed by the damn minx, so he leaned casually back against the grimy brick wall and unholstered his gun.

“Right? Yeah! Yeah, bitch! You don’t get to say how this goes!” the first voice shouted again. The guy’s shoulders were squared up as if he was some sort of threat in his overpriced, knock off bomber jacket and ill fitting jeans.

It almost made Jason want to sigh.

Actually, fuck it, Jason gave in and sighed loudly, knowing how it sounded through the modulation of his helmet. Bomber Jacket and his buddy, I Swear This is Real Italian Leather, spun around and then cowered so quick Jason swore they gave themselves whiplash.

“So,” Jason said with every ounce of disinterest he could put in his tone, “how does this go? Because right now, I’m thinking that it’s you two who are gonna be going before I put bullets between your eyes.”

“Right, um, yes Red Hood,” Bomber Jacket cowered and grabbed desperately at his friend’s pleather jacket to pull them out of there.

“And gentleman,” Jason said, making them freeze in their steps, “next time you lose your money to a pretty lady, you leave her the fuck alone about it.”

They nodded frantically as they backed the rest of the way out of alley and then took of running.

“I think you made one of ‘em piss himself,” the minx said, looking from the alley way to Jason with those striking aqua eyes.

Jason just shrugged and holstered his gun. “Probably.”

The short, tight skirt clung to the minx’s legs, pulling up enough with the sashaying steps that Jason had to wonder how everything stayed hidden. He kept still as fingers tipped in bright pink nails walked their way up his chest to the red bat. Aqua peered up from below thick, dark lashes. “And did I hear right? You think I’m a pretty lady?”

“Hair is nice like this,” Jason said brushing a gloved finger through the black strands that just brushed the edges of the chin. “But surprised your cock isn’t hanging out of that skirt with how short it is.”

Danny let out a started laugh, resting his forehead against Jason’s chest for a moment before he patted it and backed up to a more respectable distance.

“Duct tape and body shapers works miracles.” The fake Gotham accent was gone and replaced with the faint Midwestern drawl that Danny only seemed to let out around Red Hood. “And don’t make that face, the duct tape is outside of the panties.”

“You can’t see my face,” Jason pointed out, a bit grumpily because he had been grimacing at the thought.

“I was still right though,” Danny said with a smug little smiling pulling on his cherry red lips. It was a good color on him. He leaned back against the wall and spread his legs in a way that Jason couldn’t help but follow with this gaze. “Everything is fine down there, Boss, just a little squished. Offer’s still on the table if you want to check out the good. No charge for my darlin’ knight.”

Jason snorted at the continued offer from Danny; it was practically as good as ‘bye’ between them at this point since Danny seemed to offer it every time. “I’m not going to be one of your Johns, Danny.”

“Told you no charge. Could just be two people who like sex,” he offered with a little shrug, but pushed himself off the wall to leave. No, Danny pushed himself up off the wall with a wince.

Jason was at his side in an instant. “One of those fuckers get you?”

“No, so no hunting them down,” Danny said. His voice was confident, but the way he actually leaned on Jason’s offered arm was worrying. “Just a bad John— ex John. That’s why I’m sharking pool instead of working the corner.”

As if Danny had to work an actual corner anymore. He appealed to a very specific type of client that could pay to have something pretty and convincing on their arm and still get what they wanted between the legs and in the sheets.

“You taking anything for it?” Jason asked.

Danny just shrugged. “Nah, Boss, nothing over the counter works on me really.”

“Clinic?”

Danny snorted. “As if. They can test for STDs and that’s about as much as I want a clinic near me.”

Jason resisted the urge to cuss at Danny. He got it. After all, he only trusted Leslie or Alfred really— or a family member in a pinch.

Maybe he could just bluster Danny into getting some help. “Right, come on.”

“What?” Danny asked, digging his heels (and fuck those were some heels) into the ground.

Not willing to put with that right then, Jason just swung his arm under Danny’s legs and scooped him up like he was nothing. Fuck the Johns really had to be able to throw Danny around if they wanted that sort of thing.

“Boss, Hood, what the fuck?!” Danny hissed.

“Safe fucking house is what the fuck so I can check you over.”

“Boss, if you wanted in the skirt—”

“Danny, shut the fuck up and let me make sure you’re alright, alright?” Jason asked, looking down at him.

Danny stared back with a frown. Then his sighed, like it was the biggest concession in the world to make. Finally he rested his head against Jason’s chest. “Fine, Boss, whatever you say.”

“Thank you,” Jason said, more gently than he meant to.

-

Jason had to suck in several careful breaths as he took in the wound splashed across Danny’s ribs. “No fucking John did that to you and if they did—” if they took some sort of hot poker to Danny’s side— “I’ll kill them if they did.”

[evandarya]

Writing Prompt #12

Bruce is reading the paper when the pour of Tim's coffee goes abruptly quiet. It would be hard to pinpoint why this is disturbing if it wasn't for the way the soft, tinny sound the vent system in the manor makes cuts out for the first time since being updated in the 90s. The pour, Bruce realizes, has not slowed to a trickle before stopping. It has simply stopped. And there is no overeager clack of a the mug against the marble counter or the uncouth first slurp (nor muttered apology at Alfred's scolding look) immediately following the end of the pour.

Bruce fights the instinct to use all of his senses to investigate, and instead keeps his eyes on the byline of the article detailing the latest set of microearthquakes to hit the midwest in the last week. Microearthquakes aren't an unusual occurrence and aren't noticeable by human standards, which is why this article is regulated to page seven, but from several hundred a day worldwide to several hundred a day solely in the East North Central States, seismologists are baffled.

Bruce had been considering sending Superman to investigate under the guise of a Daily Planet article requested by Bruce Wayne (Wayne Industries does have an offshoot factory in the area) when everything had stopped twenty seconds ago. That is what he assumes has happened (having not moved a muscle to confirm) in the amount of time he assumes has passed. His million dollar Rolex does not quite audibly tick but in the absolute silence it should be heard, which confirms the silence to be exactly that—absolute.

While Bruce can hold his breath with the best of the Olympian swimmers, he has never accounted for a need to remain without blinking without being able to move one's eyes. Rotating the eyeballs will maintain lubrication such that one could go without blinking for up to ten minutes. But staring at the byline fixedly, he estimates another twenty seconds before tears start to form.

These are the thoughts Bruce distracts himself with, because he doesn't dare consider how Tim and Alfred haven't made a (living) sound in the past forty-five seconds. About Damian, packing his bag upstairs for school after a morning walk with Titus that was "just pushing it, Master Damian".

There is a knife to his right, if memory serves (it does). In the next five seconds—

"Your wards and guardian are fine, Mr. Wayne," the deepest voice Bruce has ever heard intones. For a dizzying moment, it is hard to pinpoint the location of the voice, for it comes from everywhere—like the chiming of a clocktower whilst inside the tower, so overpowering he is cocooned in its volume.

But it is not spoken loudly, just calmly, and when he puts the paper down, folds it, and looks to his right, a blue man sits in Dick's chair.

He wears a three piece suit made entirely of hues of violet, tie included. He has a black brooch in the shape of a cogwheel pinned to his chest pocket, a simple chain clipped to his lapel. Black leather gloves delicately thumb Bruce's watch (no longer on his wrist, somewhere between second 45 and 46 it has stopped being on his wrist), admiring it.

"You'll forgive me," the man says with surety. "Clocks are rather my thing, and this is an impressive piece." He turns it over and reveals the 'M. Brando' roughly scratched into the silver back. He frowns.

"What a shame," he says, placing it face side up on the table.

"Most would consider that the watch's most valuable characteristic." Bruce says, voice steady, hands neatly folded before him. Two inches from the knife. To his left, there is an open doorway to the kitchen. If he turns his head, he might be able to get a glance of Tim or Alfred.

He doesn't look away from the man.

"It is the arrogance of man," the man says, raising red eyes (sclera and all) to Bruce, "to think they can make their mark on time."

"...Is that supposed to be considered so literally?" Bruce asks, with a light smile he does not mean.

The man smiles lightly back, eyes crinkling at the corners. He looks to be in his mid thirties, clean-shaven. His skin is a dull blue, his hair a shock of white, and a jagged scar runs through one eye and curving down the side of his cheek, an even darker, rawer shade of blue-purple.

The man turns the watch back over and taps at the engraving. "Let me ask you this," he says. "When we deface a work of art, does it become part of the art? Does it add to its intrinsic meaning?"

Bruce forces his shoulders to shrug. "It's arbitrary," he says. "A teenager inscribes his name on the wall of an Ancient Egyptian temple and his parents are forced to publicly apologize. But runic inscriptions are found on the Hagia Sophia that equate to an errant Viking guard having inscribed 'Halfdan was here' and we consider it an artifact of a time in which the Byzantine Empire had established an alliance with the Norse and converted vikings to Christianity."

"The vikings were as errant as the teenager," the man says, "in my experience." He leans back in his chair. "I suppose you could say the difference is time. When time passes, we start to think of things as artistic, or historical. We find the beauty in even the rubble, or at least we find necessity in the destruction..."

He offers Bruce the watch. After a moment, Bruce takes it.

"The problem, Mr. Wayne, is that time does not pass for me. I see it all as it was, as it is, as it ever will be, at all times. There is no refuge from the horror or comfort in that one day..." he closes his hand, the leather squeaking. And then his face smooths out, the brief severity gone. He regards Bruce calmly.

"You can look left, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce looks left. Framed by the doorway, Tim looks like a photograph caught in time. A stream of coffee escapes the spout of the stainless steel pot he prefers over the Breville in the name of expediency, frozen as it makes its way to the thermos proclaiming BITCH I MIGHTWING. Tim regards his task with a face of mindless concentration, mouth slack, lashes in dark relief against his pale skin as he looks down at the mug. Behind him, Bruce can see Alfred's hand outstretched towards the refrigerator handle, equally and terrifyingly still.

"My name is Clockwork," the man says. "I have other names, ones you undoubtedly know, but this one will be bestowed upon me from the mouth of a child I cherish, and so I favor it above all else. I am the Keeper of Time."

"What do you want from me?" Bruce asks, shedding Wayne for Batman in the time it takes to meet Clockwork's eyes. The man acknowledges the change with a greeting nod.

"In a few days time, you will send Superman to the Midwest to investigate the unusual seismic activity. By then, it will be too late, the activity will be gone. They will have already muzzled him."

"Him."

"There is a boy with the power to rule the realm I come from. Your government has been watching him. The day he turned 18, they took him from his family and hid him away. I want you to retrieve him. I want you to do it today."

"Why me?"

"His parents do not have the resources you do, both as Batman and Bruce Wayne. You will dismantle the organization that is keen on keeping him imprisoned, and you will offer him a scholarship to the local University. You and yours will keep him safe within Gotham until he is able to take his place as my King."

This is a lot of information to take in, even for Bruce. The idea that there could be a boy powerful enough to rule over this (god, his mind whispers) entity and that somehow, he has slipped under all of their radars is as frustrating as it is overwhelming. But although Clockwork has seemed willing to converse, he doesn't know how many more questions he will get.

"You have the power to stop time," he decides on, "why don't you rescue him? Would he not be better suited with you and your people?"

"Within every monarchy, there is a court," Clockwork. "Mine will be unhappy with the choice I have made," he looks at Bruce's watch, head cocked. "In different worlds, they call you the Dark Knight. This will be your chance to serve before a True King."

Bruce bristles. "I bow to no one."

"You'll all serve him, one day," Clockwork says, patiently. "He is the ruler of realms where all souls go, new and old. When you finally take refuge, he will be your sanctuary." He frowns. "But your government rejects the idea of gods. All they know is he is other. Not human. Not meta. A weapon."

"A weapon you want me to bring to my city."

"I believe you call one of your weapons 'Clark', do you not?" Clockwork asks idly. "But you misunderstand me. They seek to weaponize him. He is not restrained for your safety, but for their gain."

"And if I don't take him?" Bruce asks, because a) Clockwork has implied he will be at the very least impeded, at worst destroyed over this, and b) he never did quite learn not to poke the bear. "You won't be around if I decide he's better off with the government."

"You will," Clockwork says, with the same certainty he's wielded this entire conversation. "Not because he is a child, though he is, nor because you are good, though you are, nor even because it is better power be close at hand than afar.

"I have told you my court will be unhappy with me. In truth, there are others who also defend the King. Together we will destroy the access to our world not long after this conversation. The court will be unable to touch him, but neither will we as we face the repercussions for our actions. I am telling you this, because in a timeline where I do not, you think I will be there to protect him. And so when he is in danger, even subconsciously, you choose to save him last, or not at all. And that is the wrong choice.

"So cement it in your head, Bruce Wayne," the man says, "You will go to him because I tell you to. And you will keep him safe until he is ready to return to us. He will find no safety net in me. So you will make the right choice, no matter the cost."

"Or, when our worlds connect again, and they will," his voice now echoes in triplicate with the voices of the many, the young, the old, Tim, Bruce's mother, Barry Allen, Bruce's own voice, "I will not be the only one who comes for you."

"Now," he says, producing a Wayne Industries branded BIC pen. "I will tell you the location the boy is being kept, and then I would like my medallion back, please. In that order."

Bruce glances down and sees a golden talisman, attached to a black ribbon that is draped haphazardly around the neck of his bathrobe, so light (too light, he still should have—) he has not felt its weight until this moment.

Bruce flips the paper over, takes the pen, and jots down the coordinates the being rattles off over the face of a senator. By his calculation, they do correspond with a location in the midwest.

"You will find him on B6. Take a left down the hallway and he will be in the third room down, the one with a reinforced steel door. Take Mr. Kent and Mr. Grayson with you, and when you leave take the staircase at the end of the hallway, not the elevator."

The man gets up, dusts off his impeccably clean pants, and offers him a hand to shake.

"We will not meet again for some time, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce looks at the creature, stands, and shakes his hand. It feels like nothing. The Keeper of Time sighs, although nothing has been said.

"Ask your question, Mr. Wayne."

"I have more than one."

"You do," Clockwork says. "But I have heard them all, and so they are one. Please ask, or I will not be inclined to answer it."

"What does this boy mean for the future, that you are willing to sacrifice yourself for him?"

There is a pause.

"So that is the one," Clockwork says, after a time. "Yes. I see. I should resolve this, I suppose."

"Resolve what?"

"It is not his future I mean to protect," the man says. "It is his present."

"You want to keep him safe now..." Bruce says, but he's not sure what the being is trying to say.

"I am not inclined," Clockwork repeats, stops. His expression turns solemn, red eyes widening. In their reflection, Bruce can see something. A rush of movement too quick to make heads or tails of, like playing fast forward on a videotape. "Superman reports no signs of unusual seismic activity. With nothing further to look into, you let it go in favor of other investigative pursuits. You do not find him, as you are not meant to. He stays there. His family, his friends, they cannot find him. His captors tell him they have moved on. He does not believe them, until he does. He stays there. He stays there until he is strong enough to save himself."

Clockwork speaks stiffly, rattling off the chain of events as if reading a Justice League debrief. "He is King. He will always be King. He is strong, and good, and compassionate, and he is great for my people because yours have betrayed his trust beyond repair. He throws himself into being the best to ever Be, because there is nothing Left for him otherwise. We love him. We love him. We love him. My King. Forevermore."

The red film in his eyes stall out, and Bruce is forced to look away from how bright the image is, barely making out a silhouette before they dull back to their regular red.

"I am not inclined," Clockwork says slowly, "To this future."

"Because of what it means in the present," Bruce finishes for him. "They're not just imprisoning him, are they."

"They will have already muzzled him."

Clockworks is right in front of him faster than he can process, fist gripping the medallion at his neck so tight he now feels the ribbon digging into his skin.

"Unlike you, Mr. Wayne," and for the first time, the god is angry, and the image of it will haunt Bruce for the rest of his life, "I do not believe in building a better future on the back of a broken child."

"Find him," the deity orders, and yanks the necklace so hard the ribbon rips—

Clack!

"sluuuuurp!"

"Master Timothy, honestly!"

"Sorry Alfred!"

[evandarya]

There are two things that Damian knows that he knows Father doesn’t.

He has an older brother

He was dead

(And a secret third thing: Damian was glad he was dead. They did not get along.)

Well. No, correction, they were two things that Damian knew that Father didn't. Past tense. Strange magic swirled through the air and created a mirage before his eyes, and immediately a scowl forms across his face.

The mirage shifts and shimmers like the light hitting a slowly turning prism, and then it settles into a memory. One that Damian does not recall. Like looking into a tv screen, it shows, faintly, a room, with most of the magic going into the image of a crib.

His mother was standing on one side, and next to her, standing on his tiptoes was a small five year old boy looking up at her. With dark hair and skin that was only few shades lighter brown than Damian's, the little boy's resemblance to Damian was undeniable.

However, his eyes were blue. Not green. Damian's scowl deepens, and he sinks back. "Danyal." He mutters, and feels eyes turn on to him.

Danyal Al Ghul. Damian's older brother. A prodigal swordsman like Damian, and five years his senior. He'd be fifteen if he was still alive. His memory of the last time he saw his brother was still clear in his mind.

(A sword to Danyal's neck. Stars were glittering through his window. Damian was five, Danyal ten. He is not sure why Danyal had snuck into his room, all he remembers is hearing a sound and on instinct reaching for his sword.)

(His brother had intercepted easily. But had not shoved the sword away. Moonlight hit his blue eyes, and Damian remembers seeing the pupils shrink to let the light in. His eyes looked almost silver.)

(His brother bares his teeth at him. Damian wants to slice his neck more than anything, and he bares his teeth back. "Good." Danyal says, his voice low in a hiss, "Your reflexes are good, little brother.")

("Of course they are," Damian remembers snarling, and presses the sword closer. But it does not budge. "I am an Al Ghul.")

(Something unrecognizable passes through his brother's eyes, and his mouth twists into something like a smile. "I know." He says, and tilts his head downwards at him. "And you will be great.")

(His brother shoves the sword back, causing Damian to stumble. And like the wind, he is gone.)

(The next morning, he goes on a mission with mother and a few others. Mother is the only one to return with Danyal's sword, and a red-eyed look in her eyes. Damian does not mourn. Now there's only one of them.)

"Momma." The little Danyal-mirage speaks, a furrow between his childlike brows as mother lowers a bundle into the crib. His blue eyes watch her, and lifts onto his toes to peer into the crib as she sets the baby down. "Who is this?"

Their mother's hand comes to rest along his back. "This is Damian, my son." She murmurs, voice low. "He is your little brother. Protect him well."

Damian scoffs internally -- not likely. He remembers every spar he ever had with Danyal, every harsh word and insult. His pushing, pushing, pushing for Damian to get up. To try again. Do it again. The only kindness he ever showed him was when his fingers bled. And even that was harsh, firm. Rolling gauze around his wrist and scolding him, telling him how to wield his weapon better.

(It was the same as everyone else, but somehow it hurt worse coming from his own brother.)

But he watches his older brother's youngest self tilt his head to the side, and then reach his chubby hand through the crib's bars. He runs small, blunt fingers over the baby's arm, and the baby jerks. Through the crib's bars, Damian sees himself grab Danyal's fingers.

And he scowls even deeper.

And Danyal's eyes... widen. He lets out a little gasp, and a small smile Damian's never seen him wear tilts at the corner of his mouth as he looks up at their mother. "Mother," he whispers, "he grabbed me!"

Damian... his scowl falters, for a moment.

He doesn't wait for a response, he looks back to the baby with sparking eyes. His expression melts like sugar as he bounces the finger being gripped tight by the small hand. "Hello, little brother." His brother says, voice its of usual firmness, but there's more fondness underlying it than Damian's ever heard. "My name is Danyal."

The mirage shifts before Damian can comprehend his older brother's voice. It shows the crib again, appearing as if a few days had passed. There is night lilting through the nearby window, and a creek of the door. The baby doesn't stir.

Danyal sneaks in, still wearing his training clothes and a sword strapped to his side. Damian's scowl returns, watching him creep over to the crib. Of course -- the last night he saw his brother wasn't the only time he'd snuck into his room.

Would he go so low as to attack an infant? Damian wonders, watching his brother cross the room to his crib. But while his fingers rest against the hilt, they never curl to unsheathe.

His brother peers into the crib again, and there it is again, that smile wider in the corner of his mouth. It's not a full one, but its as uninhibited as it gets. Dripping honey-sweet with awe. "You are so tiny." Danyal whispers, and pokes a finger back through the crib. It wriggles, then pokes Damian's cheek gently. "Was I as small as you when mother gave birth to me?"

There is no response from the baby. Not a coherent one anyways, the little thing snuffles and turns his head, mouth open to latch. Danyal stills, his eyes grow ever wider again.

Danyal says nothing else, just rests his cheek against the crib and watches the baby sleep in silence. The affection never leaves his young face.

Damian feels unsettled. Off-foot. This Danyal is foreign to him... He wonders what happened to have changed his brother's mind on him.

There's a scuffle, quiet, but there. Danyal picks up on it just as Damian does, and his head pricks up like a deer, head already turning away from the crib. The affection leaves his face, falling away like water into something serious. His blade is already slightly unsheathed.

Two assassins, belonging to grandfather, burst out of the shadows. Their swords swinging into the air and ready to strike.

Danyal kills them both, his back to the crib. It's not without struggle, and when the two assassins lay dead on the floor, the baby is wailing at the top of his lungs. Danyal has a laceration cleaving down diagonal of his cheek. It's close to his eye, just barely missed blinding him.

Damian never knew how he got that scar. He does now. (He doesn't know how to feel about it.)

His brother clutches his bleeding face, sheathing his sword as tears well up onto his face. But he turns towards the crib, and hurries over. "You're okay, you're okay, you're okay." He hushes rapidly, the League-drilled seriousness fallen away to reveal a panic-stricken five year old. He sticks one hand into the crib, the one not clutching anything, and grabs little Damian's hand.

Their mother comes bursting in that moment, and Danyal turns his head towards her. "Mother." He says, his voice cracks un-wantingly. Their mother steps over the bodies of the assassins easily. "They tried to kill Damian."

"But they did not." Talias says, kneeling down next to the crib to inspect Danyal's face and Damian's well-being. When she finds nothing of concern beyond the injury, she continues. "You killed them before they could, Danyal. Well done."

The mirage of his brother nods, his eyes teary and red.

Damian... is discomfited. he never thought Danyal would kill assassins for him. He would have thought his brother would sooner look the other way. The mirage shifts again, and it quickly shows time passing.

Danyal sits in Damian's nursery every night, after that. He lays at the foot of the crib with his sword, a pillow and a blanket with him. Some nights there is nothing but peace -- or as close to peace as a baby could achieve -- and some days assassins break in.

Danyal kills each one.

The mirage shifts again, and it shows more memories of Danyal interacting with Damian during his youth too young for him to remember. His first steps, his first words.

"Danya." The small toddler of Damian says, arms reaching for Danyal.

A frown curls across Danyal's face, and pulls Damian into his lap. "No, no, little brother." He scolds, voice firm but.. softer. "It is Danyal, Damian. Danyal."

"Danya!"

Damian's brother sighs, but there is that same-small tilt at the corner of his mouth. A glimmer in his eyes. A glimmer... that Damian is finding he recognizes.

(He always thought his brother got that look in his eyes when he was mocking him. Was he wrong?)

The mirage shifts again, and this time it shows only mother and Danyal, alone. Danyal is older, taller. Seven, if Damian had to guess. Mother has a stern look on her face, her hands tight on his shoulders. "Damian will be starting training soon, my son."

Ah, then close to eight then. Training starts, always, at three years old. He watches Danyal nod, his expression mimicking their mother's. His arms are folded, always folded, behind his back, always neat.

"You can no longer have the relationship with your brother as you did before." Mother says.

Danyal's expression... falters. It shifts, it fluctuates. He looks surprised, thrown off. Like he isn't quite sure he heard what mother just said. His brows furrow. "What... do you mean, mother?"

"I mean what I said, Danyal." Mother says, stern, "Ra's will be keeping a closer eye on Damian now that he is of age to begin his training. He will not like if he sees you both getting along."

"I am sorry, my child. But your relationship with Damian ends here. You are rivals now, not brothers." In a cruel form a gentleness, mother raises her hand and tucks a stray curl out of Danyal's face.

Of course. Damian never had a relationship with his brother because of Grandfather. Of course. No, he's not feeling a little bitter. No. There's not an inner child that still, like a candleflame, wishes that he'd had a bond with his only flesh and blood.

Danyal is dead now. So it's not like it matters. He's happy about this.

Danyal frowns, and he steps back. He looks lost in thought. "We are still brothers, mother," he says, argues, and looks up to meet mother's eyes. "Let me train him, I will make sure he gets the skill he needs. If we must be rivals, then I will teach him how to defeat me. If he can defeat me, he can defeat anybody."

Their mother, and Damian, both blink in unison. Then mother smiles something sharp, calculated. She folds her hands behind her back. "Then do it. But you will make him hate you."

"...So be it."

Damian.... Damian is silent. His world axis has been tilted on its head. He is sliding, and sliding, and sliding down. Spinning. Many things click into place at once.

More memories from the mirage show. It shows Danyal training Damian. It shows their arguing, their bickering. It shows Danyal going to their mother to praise Damian and his skills, how fast he is picking up on the sword. How one day he will surpass even him.

It shows Danyal sitting outside Damian's bedroom door every night, listening in for anyone who dares to break in. His knees drawn to his chest, his sword at his side. Sometimes he sneaks in, sword drawn, when he hears a sound.

Some nights, Damian wakes up. He remembers those nights. Danyal standing over his bed with his sword unsheathed and tight at his side. He remembers the instant terror as he immediately reached for his own weapon.

His brother always scolded him for his lack of vigilance. That had he been anyone else, Damian would have had his neck cut. He would've been dead already. It only made Damian's hatred of him grow.

But he understands now. Because there were assassins in the room that Damian, four years old, three, did not notice. Not until later. He always assumed the attacks on him after Danyal's death had been because now there was a new heir to target.

It had been the only lesson he'd been even somewhat grateful for.

Then finally the mirage shimmers, and it shows Danyal, ten years old, in one of the training rooms, mid-spar with Mother. It's fast, sharp, impressive and like a blur. Damian is unsure if at ten which one of them was the better swordsman. Some of the assassins who have never met Danyal said Damian was, but the ones who had said it was Danyal. He'll never know.

In a lull in the fight, when their swords are crossed, mother speaks. "Ra's wants you and Damian to fight." She says, teeth grit into a deep scowl. The cross breaks and Danyal jumps back, he frowns.

"We have fought, mother." He says, and dives in first, swinging for mother's feet. Mother dodges, and slices at his arm. He swerves out of the way, twisting on his feet like a dance. "We are always fighting, doesn't he see our spars?"

"Not a spar like that, my son." Mother says, a snarl in her voice. She lunges, and Danyal blocks her blade. "A fight to the death. Father has grown tired of having two heirs."

That gets Danyal's attention -- or, more accurately, it distracts it. His eyes widen, and his sword lowers for a single moment. A mistake. "What?" Is all he gets out before mother has him on his back, her blade pressed to his throat.

He freezes. As does Damian. Danyal's brows furrow, then unfurrow, only to knot up again. "Mother, what do you mean a fight to the death?" He flips to his feet when mother removes the sword. She walks over to grab her water.

"Must I repeat myself, Danyal?" Mother snaps, rubbing her forehead before swigging from her canteen. "Father wants to find out which one of you is the stronger heir, and so you will fight to the death after your training in a few days."

Danyal's tan face loses a shade of color, he looks ashy. "There must be some mistake!" He exclaims, his arms gesturing out as he peers around mother. "There is a five year disparity between us, Damian has only just started training two years ago. It would be an unfair fight!"

"Do you think me unaware?" Mother whirls on him, and there is a grief-stricken look on her face. Like she is already mourning Damian's death. Damian feels ill. "Your skill is far beyond what Damian can accomplish right now, and there is nothing that I say that can convince Father otherwise."

Danyal wears an expression like he is scrambling for answers. A white knuckle grip on his weapon. There is a long silence, and his lower lip curls up. His throat bobs, he swallows. "Is there really nothing we can do?"

Mother makes a frustrated sound, pushing her loose hairs out of her face. "Not unless Father changes his mind, or I send one of you away. But Father would surely send someone to look for you or Damian."

"What if one of us faked our death?"

Mother stills. As does Damian. No, he thinks, stiff as a rod, no way. These mirages were lying, nothing but figments of an imagination. Of some quiet what-if that Damian had not yet stomped out.

Mother's expression shifts, and then turns contemplative. Danyal notices, and keeps pushing, he looks as hopeful as he could get beyond his usual unwavering, stone-like expression. "One of us could go to father--"

"No." Mother cuts off, voice sharp. Danyal wilts, confusion flittering across his face. Damian, from the corner of his eye, sees Father tense as stone. His white-slit eyes have not left the mirage. Nobody's has.

"Father will undoubtedly check there first, it would not be a good idea. You or Damian will have to go somewhere where he would not think to look. Someone unaffiliated with the League."

Danyal's face falls, shutters, and then closes up again into stone. Mother begins to pace, and Danyal's blue eyes follow her. "So a stranger?" He asks, and there is disgust lilting into his voice.

Mother nods, and she looks just as offput as Danyal.

The mirage of Damian's brother rolls his shoulders back. "Then I will do it, mother." He says, voice unwavering. There is a stubborn note behind it all, one that Damian recognizes. "I will fake my death, and Damian will stay here."

Mother's eyes turn sharp on him, and she stops in her spot. She pivots. "Are you sure?" She asks, eyebrow raising, "There is a chance you will never meet your Father if you leave. Nor will you see I or Damian again, if you do this."

Something like fear flickers across Danyal's face, eyes widening momentarily -- as if that very thought had not crossed his mind. But then it smooths over to sharp determination. He nods. "It would be the same for Damian if it was him instead. I will do it, Mother."

Damian feels ill again. Father has a strong set in his jaw, his teeth grinding.

Mother stares at Danyal, and then her expression softens. And like before, it is grieving. "In a few days time, I and another member of the League will be going on a mission to the American States. I will tell Father that you will accompany me, once there we will dispose of the other member and then orchestrate your death."

The American States. Danyal was here, in the country. He was out there somewhere -- but no this was fake. It had to be. Danyal was dead. A fool who got himself killed on a mission with mother and left the title of Heir to Damian.

Or maybe it had been his plan all along. His and mother's both.

...Was mother ever going to tell him?

The mirage of Danyal nods, sharp. Understanding. There is a gleam in his eyes that is not pride, it is tears. And when Mother leaves the room and leaves him alone, the stone-like expression on his face crumbles and falls.

His brother, ten years old, curls up his lip in an ugly way. It wobbles as the tears in his eyes do, and he brings up his hand to slam it over his mouth. And sinks to his knees, a yell-like sob muffled behind the skin.

His brother, ten years old, looks smaller than Damian remembers him being, and cries.

Damian has never seen Danyal cry. Not once in the mirage of memories, nor in his own.

The memory holds for a minute, and then disappears. And no new one shows up. The magic is gone, and it leaves a silence in its wake. Heavy, staticky, and full of revelations.

So there are two things that Damian knows that his Father now knows too.

He has an older brother

His older brother is alive.

(And a new secret third thing: Damian wasn't sure how to feel about it.)

[evandarya]

As someone who lived in the middle of nowhere, Amity, the ocean both terrified and enthralled Danny Fenton.

The first time his parents took him to the beach, it was the middle of the day and he’d been stuck in the prototype GAV for hours upon hours on their “quick, ghost rumor hunting field trip.”

It wasn’t quick, and they caught exactly zero ghosts. When Danny saw the expanse of sand underneath the summer sun, he and Jazz both bounded out of the van like feral little monkeys. Danny and Jazz sprinted down the sand, their parents ambling behind them with their arms loaded up with towels, a first aid kit, and an ungodly amount of mildly ecto contaminated food that they already fought before getting onto the beach.

Danny had splashed into the water, yelped at the freezing temperature, and then promptly found a shell to keep. His mom taught him how to swim with the waves, having come from Surf City herself, and his dad taught Jazz how to dive.

It was a day full of fond memories, especially the memory of the Great War of Sand-Castle Crushing he and Jazz waged against each other.

They stuck around for the sunset, the ripples of colors and peacefulness that swept across the vast waters caught Danny in its hold.

He hadn’t forgotten that moment. Not even when he died.

After a particularly hard day as Phantom, Danny would fly to the coast and loose hours just sitting on the sand and watching the waves lap against the shore. And when those nights were clear? It felt like a slice of his own personal heaven, with the stars shining on his shoulders and the encompassing crash of the waves sheltering his heart.

And on some days, when being Danny left him frustrated, Danny would fly out to the coast and use his intangibility to walk beneath the waves. Near the coast, it’s cloudy with swirls of moving sand and disturbed waters. He walked, and walked, and floated and floated beneath the waters, taking contentment from the way the moonlight of his stars filtered through the water. He admired the way light would glint on the scales of fish and crustaceans alike as he floated beneath the surface. On those days, Danny would pick up trash and polluted things and bring them to shore, to place in the trash cans and all of the recycling cans. He picked up shells and decorated the beaches he frequented, because if it were decorated, perhaps people would refrain from chucking their waste into the sea.

Well, usually, it’d be trash.

Danny watched speechlessly, jaw cracked open just a smidge, as an explosion happened right over his head. The distortion of the water did not hide the fact that there were large chunks of plane pelting down at him, a different figure flying away from the explosion. Danny went invisible and intangible as large metal pieces plunged into his current water space.

“Gosh, people these days,” he huffed. “This is gonna take forever to…”

Danny trailed off, seeing a humanoid shape crash into the water, clearly unconscious. Danny didn’t hesitate before shooting towards the drowning person, glowing green and fully visible again. The stranger’s eyes- holy shit, that’s Batman- turned towards him before closing behind cracked open lenses. Batman slumped falling unconscious. That’s not good.

Danny rocketed out of the water with the vigilante in his arms. If it weren’t for his supernatural strength, there’s no way lanky teenage Danny would have been able to carry Batman’s grown ass built like a tank self to the shore. Likewise, if it weren’t for his strength, Danny wouldn’t have been able to start chest compressions through the layers of armor.

Danny leaned back with a sigh as Batman coughed out only a bit of water, because Danny hadn’t taken all that long to get to him, and held up his hands in a “I don’t have weapons” way as Batman whirled to him.

“Hi. Are you alright?” Danny asked, ectoplasm and instinctive ghost speak fuzzing his words a bit. Damn, Batman must have nearly died a lot. He’ll freak out about meeting Batman later.

“You saved me,” an awkward pause. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. The other guy went that way.”

Danny waved vaguely.

“…What are you?”

“Oh my god, Batman, you can’t just ask someone what they are!” He immediately replied, inwardly smacking himself for the joke. He watched Batman’s face, watching for any sign of discrimination against ghosts, or any sign the man had a sense of humor.

“…”

Neither, apparently, was the answer.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m just here to clean up the beaches. You humans really like to pollute the beaches. It’s quite rude, you know. That plane of yours, well, it’s not your fault,” he amended. “But it’s gonna damage sea life. And I don’t know if you’re in the habit, but please don’t litter on the beach or in the water, especially with your unconscious body. It’s tedious to clean.”

“…I see.”

“Stay. I’ll take out your plane. Make sure it doesn’t stay on the sand, alright?”

With that, Danny stood. Unaware of the way the moonlight lit up his hair like white flames and accentuated the sharp points of his ears, Danny turned away and flew back to the plane site, dragging the pieces up with ease.

Batman sat on the sand, likely exhausted from his fight, and watched him carry the pieces of the aircraft up.

“Here. All done. I gotta get going,” because Danny has school and this just lost him two hours. “Will you be alright?”

Batman nodded once, sharply.

“Good.” Danny went invisible, watching Batman sat up straighter, glancing around in a suddenly visible awareness. Oh, well. Tucker’s gonna freak out.

——

Three years later, Danny’s moved to Gotham for university.

And after midterm season, Danny went for a ghostly walk, but this time, in the waters surrounding Gotham.

When he surfaced, Batman was crouching on a lamp post, waiting for him.

“Oh, it’s you,” Danny said. “Hello. Did you know that people are polluting these waters with bodies too?”

“Yes,” Batman said, graveled voice resounding on the shipping containers around them.

“You should do something about that. Do you like places that are polluted?”

Batman sighed. “What are you?”

Danny hears a small, tinny voice by Batman’s ear, coming from a comm.

“Oh my god, B, you can’t just ask someone what they are!”

Mind flashing back to the night Danny drug a waterlogged Batman out of the ocean, Danny cracked a smile.

“Phantom,” he said, decisively. And, because this isn’t Amity anymore, “the Beach Clean Up crew from the flip side.”

——

Bruce, waking up on the sand: wtf

Bruce, seeing a child next to him who probably saved him: wtf (in “adoption”)

Bruce, seeing Danny’s skin glitter like stars, hair aflame, and pointy ears: wtf (in “I can adopt fae folk, right?”)

Bruce, seeing that Danny doesn’t leave any footprints: wtffff (detective mind goes brrrr)

——

Bruce, after Danny leaves: *donates 20 mil towards beach clean up efforts and anti-pollution causes*

——

Bruce’s Goggle Search History, documented by Oracle:

Sea spirits

Sea vampires

How to parent supernatural kids

How to thank your sea child

Are shells a good gift?

Ocean conservation efforts

Sea spirits that glitters under moonlight

Sea spirits that cleans up beaches

Wayne corporation waste disposal

Companies that dump trash into the sea

*outgoing call to Lucius Fox*

What is “mean girls”

——

Bruce, learning “current pop culture” from his kids:

Bruce, remembering the kid who saved him and realizing he’s probably as old as his own kids are: *adoption tendencies intensifies*

[evandarya]

Looks like I have work to do.

This is self-made. Date of creation: 22.01.2024

I assume no guarantee or liability for the completeness, correctness and accuracy of this chart despite my best efforts.

Includes fanfictions in all languages available, NOT English only. Includes all fandoms on Ao3 connected to Tim Drake.

Percentages were rounded up or rounded down to natural numbers for easier comprehension.

Poly ships were not included.

More charts will follow. :)

Want to have a chart for different pairings, headcanons etc. in your favourite fandom? Send me an ask!

#BrainDead #BrainDead superiority #tim drake/danny fenton #tim drake #danny Fenton

[evandarya]

I have my ears pierced, where can I get one?

Recently I started reading Like Betta Fish Do by @clockwayswrites and felt the need to draw Danny's fancy betta fish earring from how I imagined it!

[evandarya]

Danny Fenton was tired. He was also annoyed, just a little bit angry and disappointed, but mainly he was tired.

Tired of the excuses, of the missed dates, of the nights he waited for Dick to come home only for him to show up in the morning with a sheepish smile and an excuse.

He tried to be understanding, he tried to ignore the instincts that screamed that Dick was leaving him, that he was finally getting tired of him and had found someone else.

The problem was that ghosts were beings of emotion. They loved with all their core, they also hated with the same passion, but Danny ignored that. If their partner was not as dedicated, the ghost suffered, their core tried to reach out, form and maintain the bond all alone. Some ghosts even ended up with cracked or shattered cores because they fell for the wrong person.

Danny foolishly thought he would be spared this, he was still half human after all. He was forced to let go of that illusion today. This evening was his and Dick's anniversary dinner. They had planned this months in advance and Dick never even showed up.

Danny felt his core crack on the way home. Not a big break, just a little barely noticeable nick, but given time it could grow deeper and shatter him. So Danny made the decision and packed his things, left a note letting Dick know and left.

[evandarya]

back on my halfa!Damian bullshit.

today’s 2am thought: what if Damian unknowingly ecto-marks people and places he considers “his”?

like if a ghost ran into Bruce, they’d know that he already has a ghost kid because a child ghost has left their ectoplasmic signature on him that more or less says “this is MY parent.”

Which in ghost culture isn’t necessarily a sign of someone being off-limits because of how lax they are with family structures, and might actually make him more attractive to ghosts and heavily liminal people who want a partner. Mostly because it’s like Bruce walking around with a neon sign saying “I’M GOOD WITH KIDS!” even if we know this man has the emotional communication and processing skill of a slab of basalt when it comes to personal relationships.

Tangent about Damian potentially unintentionally plastering a “date me” sign on his dad aside, the idea of ghosts coming to Gotham and being confused about how this one child ghost has little spots of “this is mine” ecto really scattered around, and all over this one rich family, a few other humans, and several animals for some reason, is funny to me.

#DPxDC #halfa!damian #damian wayne #damian in is 'mine' phase #all toddlers go through it #even ghost toddlers

[evandarya]

When the Hunter gets Hunted.

Nobody messes with his sisters. NOBODY!!!

[evandarya]

To divert my sadness i drew jason..again.. [drops mic in anguish]

[evandarya]

Honestly I think it’s so funny that in the Marvel universe, when someone’s really smart, they have like eight to twelve doctorates and they finished high school at age twelve.

And then over in the DC universe it’s like. This is Tim Drake. He’s a genius. He keeps cloning his loved ones. He dropped out of highschool. Over there is Barry Allen. He can reverse engineer a spaceship in less than a minute. He is such a good chemist he’s still going to be known as the best chemist in 4,000 years. He has a bachelor’s degree.

[evandarya]

practicing that pretty fallen angel…

[evandarya]

Very heavy. Have slept through an earthquake.

POLL TIME BABY

Tell me in the tags if you'd like!

[evandarya]

Hello hello I am very new in the Danny Phantom fandom (phantom?) And I keep seeing posts about "little baby man" and you being tagged in it

I haven't finished the series yet, just started season three, so I have to ask - where did little baby man come from? Is that a fandom created thing or a show thing? Much confusion

Hi there!! Welcome to the Phandom, I hope you're having a fun time with all of the shenanigans! :3 <3

So the Little Baby Man thing is just a fun fan thing. It comes from a little joke DPxDC doodle I did awhile back, this one--

It just sort of gained traction from there after some friends and I started drawing him like that some more while in a voice call xD

The idea stems from a DPxDC joke, but it's def not limited to the crossover. I encourage shrinking the blorbo in all situations lmao

People also don't have tag or credit me when drawing LBM, but I do love to see when people draw him! :D

[evandarya]

Fictober23 Prompt: 24 - "Is it over? Is it really over?"

Fandom: DPxDC

Rating: T

Warnings: Implied menstions of experimentation, and torture

A/N: My brain came up with two options… I went with the sorta angsty one…

They had raided the facility. It had been a plan they had carefully prepared for months now. Batman had gone over all possible scenarios. But it was a needed preparation. They had discovered it too late. Being prepared for ever eventuality was the least they could have done.

The entire Justice League had been horrified when they had discovered this governmental organisation what was committing sanctioned mass genocide of an entire interdimensional race. An Organisation called the GIW, Ghost Investigation Ward or more commonly called Guy's in White. If Doctor Fate, Zatanna and Constantine hadn't found out about them they probably would have never discovered the atrocities their government was committing.

But this had led to a large-scale operation. They started locating any and all locations the GIW possessed and was working on. Tracking any and all Agents that were working for or with them. Every company that was supplying them was looked into deeper until they had every little bit of information they could find.

With all the locations found they then split into teams. Planning a simultaneous strike to all facilities so that one could not warn the other. They would not let a single Agent of this organization escape. They all would be brought to justice.

Batman had not been surprised that the moment his children were clued into the operation, that some of them were ready to go off on their own to do something. Luckily they all were aware enough of the high risks and how many lives would be at risked if even only one of them messed up.

Four months. It had taken four months of thorough planning, of meticulously strategising, and careful preparation. But now everything was ready. Finally after so long the night to strike came. Originally the other heroes wanted to strike at daylight, a tactic to make it as public as possible to also gain the public opinion in their favor.

Batman had disagreed. It was better to strike at dusk or night. When their guard was down to easily overwhelm them. They could make a clear and evidence based statement to the public the next morning throughout all news channels and news times. Superman, as Clark, had already published several papers throughout the months of preparation that would play into their favor.

They had prepared for everything, arresting every Agent, every Scientist, every Guard. Everyone they encountered was knocked out, bound and prepared for transport into arrestment. He did not scowl any of his children when they used more force than necessary, quite frankly if Batman didn't have his own moral code and self control he might not have held back after what he was seeing.

Thad did not mean that he might have hit one or two of these so-called Scientists harder than necessary if they resisted. There were so many cages, so many 'ecto-entities' bound, branded and caged. Batman felt visibly sick when he came across labs with tables stained in green, knowing exactly what that meant after having listened to Doctor Fate's explanations.

They had gone through nearly the entire facility they were in charge of when Superman reported back first. "There was a boy in the deepest part of the facility, bound and hocked up to what appeared to be the facility's energy source. See if you find anyone with similar treatment in your locations. The Boy is rescued, he appears delirious and is pretty much snarling and growling at me but he is in safe hands now."

"Can confirm! A girl was found in my location in the deepest part underground. Same situation as you described. She didn't appear to be conscious, we took her off their system and transferred her to immediate treatment." Wonder Woman chimed in a moment later and Batman lips formed a straight line.

"Same here. It's an older man, face is familiar. He was shortly lucid enough to talk but all he asked about was where the children were. He might be connected to the kids you two found." Flash also reported after a while. Now Batman was more than sure, there were only four big locations aside from several small ones. His was the last one and his stomach sunk even more at the possibility of what he would find in the deepest part of this place.

His prediction was confirmed when he kicked open the door of the last room they hadn't checked yet. Nightwing was by his side, while Red Robin, Red Hood, Black Bat and Robin had hung back to take care of the evacuation of victims as well as arrest of the last GIW workers.

Nightwing let out a string of actual curses.

There in this room was a white haired teen in a ripped NASA shirt and green stained jeans, hooked up to several tubes, bound with silver shining and heavy looking chains to a wall. There was a green strain on the flooring directly below the boy and the green pipes appeared to be pumping more of it from as well as into the teen.

"Get him off the wall!" He instructed hurriedly, checking for the best way to safely unhook the teen. They appeared to be unconscious but with the report from his hero colleagues he wouldn't bet on that too much. The teen might just be too exhausted to actually react to what was happening around him.

"He can't be any older than Red…" He heard his son mutter as he broke the silver metal bindings and Batman couldn't help but agree. He didn't want to even know how long the teen had been here like this. They had been too late, they should have known about this entire things sooner. But at least they weren't too late to save them in particular.

Suddenly the teen stirred, head snapping up. Blazing Lazarus green eyes stared at them and Batman froze, feeling reminded of his second son. The boy didn't say anything, he was just staring at them before, eyes going from his broken bindings to Nightwing, to the unhooked tube in Batman's hand. He saw how the teens eyebrows furrowed slightly.

"You are not with them…" The teens voice cracked from obvious disuse or maybe overuse? He couldn't know for sure. Still he made a sound of agreement before continuing to unhook the last of the tubes.

"We already freed the others, you're the last one." Nightwing was forcing his voice to sound light and friendly. Batman knew this, he could sense the internal rage his son was suppressing. In a way he was glad it was Nightwing with him, his other sons might not have had the same control over themselves in this situation.

"What about Ellie, Dan and the fruitloop?" It took him only a short moment to connect this question to the possible three reported by the other.

"Rescued and in treatment." He answered curtly, removing the last tube while his son broke the last chain and binding. The teen fell forward like a ragdoll, Nightwing instinctively catching him.

"I can't believe it… this isn't a dream…" The white haired kid muttered, eyes going unfocused and Batman worried that the teens system was going into shook. Did he unhook the boy from the tubes too fast?

"Is it over? Is it really over?" The teens started to sound delirious and Batman shared a look with Nightwing. His son nodded as he moved to get a better hold of the teen.

"It is." His son told him voice was going soft. "Rest for now, the next time you wake up you will be free and with Ellie and Dan."

"Don't forget Vlad, he is still a fruitloop but a good one…" the Teen mumbled before finally passing out. Batman gave Nightwing a nod before the other hurried out of this place with the now passed out teen while he reported his similar finding to Superman, Wonder Woman and Flash.

He stood in the now empty room letting his eyes wander over it one last time, checking for any evidence he should keep before deciding to leave too. There was a lot to prepare for, the news, the public statement, the aftercare and treatment of the victims. Batman ignored the fleeting thought of who was going to take in their four main victims, especially the children and teen. Surely his kids wouldn't mind if he provided them a temporary home, right?

[evandarya]

Here is my Bingo card!

Celebrate the "Haunting Heroes" Discord server launch with a fun game: DPxDC Bingo

With our new server launch, we wanted to make some fun games for people to participate! Below are the links to some bingo cards created by the amazing @die-erlkonigin6083!

Feel free to fill them out and share your results here!

Reader Bingo: https://bingobaker.com#65334ee12ade64c2

Author Bingo: https://bingobaker.com#6533576a2576466c

Artist Bingo: https://bingobaker.com#65335f341a5422ac

Here's an example of what you can get:

We have more activities planned for the server's launch.

If you're 18yo or older and you want an invite, feel free to send us an ask and one of us will reply as soon as we can!

#haunting heroes #discord server #bingo cards #dpxdc