Ghost Cores are Dionesium
So! I while ago, I saw a Post about Danny and the Court of Owls, and one suggestion in the comments basically said, "What if Dionesium, the stuff they use to bring back the dead, is just Ghost Cores?"
And that got me thinking. Lazarus Pits are just Dionesium Infused Water, so how would they be created if Dionesium is a Ghosts Core? Well they way I see it, Lazarus Pits can only be formed in 2 Ways.
The first way is for a large number of Ghosts to be Ended at the same time, with their shattered Cores piling up and dissolving into Water.
The other way, if for an Ancient to Die. The Ancients are practically God's, and as such their Cores are immense in Power. When an Ancient dies, and their Core is left to dissolve in the Human Realm, it forms a Lazarus Pit in the exact same way it would take hundreds of normal Cores to do so.
Where am I going with this?
Well, isn't there a Giant Lazarus Pit under Gotham? The Batcave even has one, doesn't it?
The reason Gotham is so cursed isn't because Lady Gotham likes to collect Curses, or because her Ectoplasm is corrupted, it's because she isn't there to stop them anymore.
Lady Gotham is Dead.
Her Core sank deep into the Earth, forming a Lazarus Pit under the entire City, but thankfully far away from her People. She died, and only the fact that she is a Conceptual spirit saved a piece of her Consciousness. She represents a City, she can only fully be killed if the entire City is leveled. That doesn't mean she is still alive however, just that the barest sliver of her mind is hanging on by a Thread.
This is how Gotham possessed Batman that one time, it was her base instincts saving one of her precious children.
If you want her to be a little more cognizant, maybe she is just severely Injured? Her Core is cracked to the edge of shattering and she desperately needs help.
She she calls out to whoever could save her, and a certain Ghost Boy hears her cry for help?
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So This Was A Little More Angsty Than I Recalled...
We’re probably both going to be bruised black and blue by the time this is over, Ezra thinks, blocking a hard swing and throwing it right back. The sun was setting when they started, and it’s nearly dark now.
Sabine’s eyes glow too gold for comfort in the dusky night. Just like he has every day for the last month, he bites his tongue and holds back his questions.
Hera and Zeb won’t tell him about whatever happened to Sabine on Malachor, Kanan and Okadiah are as lost as Ezra is, and if Ahsoka knows anything, she’s not telling. When Ezra brought it up to Mom and Dad, they just told him to be there for Sabine.
He’s been trying.
Sabine has not been cooperating.
So after a month of being there with no success, Ezra gave up and decided that it was time for some non-optional friendship bonding time, but even his best efforts at finding a so-bad-it’s-good holofilm like they used to watch together, even after making some really good movie snacks, all for her, she sulked and complained the whole time, being so—so—infuriating that before he knew it, they were yelling in each others’ faces about tropes.
Ezra stopped yelling, stopped the film, took her by the arm, dragged her outside into the Atollon landscape, and said that they were going to beat the crap out of each other.
(For Mandalorians, sparring is training, recreation, and even courtship. He figured… maybe it would work as therapy, too?)
He doesn’t feel bad about throwing the first punch, because she hit back twice as hard. Ezra thinks his lip is split from a hard hit to the front of his helmet, and Sabine’s knuckles are scraped raw and bloody. They circle each other, slower now than when they started. Her hair has blown out of her braid and sticks to her face in the heat.
It’s a little bit pretty, but now definitely isn’t the right time to think about that.
Sabine rolls one shoulder—he thinks it’s where he landed a decent punch.
“Had enough, tin can?” she demands, but the tension has started to drain from her body and she sounds a little closer to playful than he thought she could ever be again.
“Not if you’ve still got that attitude, wizard girl.”
“You’re gonna regret that,” Sabine warns. She settles into a stance, rocking a little, coiled like a spring.
“Probably,” Ezra agrees.
She draws a breath, and Ezra must have blinked or something, because in the space of an instant, she’s flown at him. He can barely see her in the dark and even the night vision in his helmet doesn’t help.
But he has a split second of advantage. In pure chance, she overextends, and he slams into her, sending them both tumbling through the Atollon dust.
She’s up on her feet again right away—or at least she would be, but Ezra snags her wrist, and drags her back down, flipping over so she’s neatly pinned beneath him.
All he needs is a knife to hold to her throat and it would be a near-perfect replica of the scene in the holofilm that started their stupid fight in the first place.
Sabine doesn’t say anything. She just lies on her back in the dust, looking up at him with the eyes that always seemed to see through his mask, but now they don’t look like they’re seeing anything. He hopes she’s processing her emotions and not disassociating.
Ezra is about to move off of her when something catches his eye, and he brushes some of her hair away from her face. It clings—not with sweat, but with blood. There’s a cut on her cheek.
“Did I hurt you?” he breathes, not sure what he’s even saying, and he draws away.
Flying up, her hand seizes his wrist, gripping painfully tight, even as her sharpening gaze fixes right where his eyes would be.
Ezra swallows dryly. The look she gives him is making him feel a thousand things that he doesn’t really want to sort out, now or ever.
“Sabine?” he asks. “What…”
He trails off. Her thumb slides to the little space between his glove and his sleeve, pulling the cloth back. Never looking away from his face, she pulls his arm up and softly kisses the pulse of his wrist.
“You’re dangerous, Ezra,” she smiles, breath on his skin.
Then, like the Spectre she is, Sabine is gone.
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