If you're writing anything involving cons, scams, heists, or morally questionable characters who are very good at lying, here are some free resources I've been using for research. Saving you the "why is this in my search history" anxiety.
1. The FBI's Famous Cases & Criminals archive (fbi.gov/history/famous-cases) has detailed breakdowns of real fraud cases, Ponzi schemes, and confidence operations. The language they use is clinical and precise, which is perfect for getting the procedural details right.
2. The FTC Consumer Sentinel Network publishes annual reports on the most common fraud tactics in the US. Great for understanding how modern scams actually work and what makes people fall for them.
3. The Smithsonian's American Art Museum has a free digital collection of forgery case studies. If your character forges documents or art, this is gold.
4. Court Listener (courtlistener.com) is a free legal database where you can read actual court transcripts from fraud trials. Want to know how a real con artist talks under oath? This is where you find out.
5. The Internet Archive's collection of old newspaper crime sections. Search for "confidence man" or "swindle" in papers from the 1920s through 1960s and you'll find incredible real stories that would feel too dramatic for fiction.
Bonus: The Psychology of Fraud section on the Association for Psychological Science website has accessible articles about why people trust, how deception works cognitively, and what makes someone a convincing liar. Essential reading if you want your con artist characters to feel psychologically real.
Reblog to save for later. Your WIP will thank you.
people don't talk enough about how fucking funny it is that bruce can sub in his kids as batman when he's too busy. like can you imagine it from the league's perspective? imagine you have this really mysterious, geniusly scary guy that you know next to nothing about, never cracks a smile and yet always comes out on top, and one day he shows up to a league meeting and there's just something... off. about him.
you can't pin it down because he's literally acting exactly the same as usual and there's no reason to think there's anything wrong, but maybe he shifted in his seat one to many times, or he looked just a tad bit too bored during green lantern's case review, but something's just... odd. so you quietly ask superman after the meeting if anything's up with the bat bcs you know those two are closer and also clark can hear heartbeats so if something's wrong surely he'll pick it up? and without hesitation he leans over to you and mumbles 'yeah batman was busy, that's his 17 yr old son. he's a crime lord and kills people sometimes though so we're not allowed to let him into the weapons department.' and then walks away like it's normal.
like the whiplash the league must go through every time they realise that no, this is not their fearless dark and brooding leader, this is in fact one of his dipshit kids being forced to sub in bcs the real batman broke an ankle, is incredible.
wonder woman: so that's my proposed plan, what are your thoughts batman?
batman: hn. i think that- *voice raising two octaves* oh shit hold on my phones buzzing
the league:
batman, answering the phone and immediately dropping the Bat Posture™: what do you mean- aw come on little wing that's not fair! but- no, NO DON'T YOU DARE TELL ALFRED I'LL BEAT THE SHIT OUT OF YOU- IM SORRY OK I'LL BUY YOU MORE- *catches sight of the league watching him, baffled* *stiffens* ok listen i promise to replace them but i gotta go, please show me mercy iloveyoubye *hangs up*
the league:
batman:
batman: *coughs awkwardly*
superman: *sighs*
batman, to superman: ...red hood found out i ate his chocolate pretzels-
superman, shaking his head: just... just stop.
the flash: so this isn't batman either, is it?
wonder woman: if this one's also a criminal im losing my mind.
superman, tiredly: no no, this one isn't a criminal. this one's actually a cop.
batman: *sinks down in his seat* b's gonna kill me
green lantern, mystified: where does he keep GETTING you all from!?
'batman' dick, who made a pact with jason to Always Fuck With Bruce Whenever The Opportunity Arises: batman is a whore.
they think they've finally sussed out all 2 of batman's kids and then one day during a meeting 'batman' ends up on a 30 minute rant about different hacking methods this tech villain could be using that results in him half way through a sentence breaking off to say '-oh uncle clark could you pass me that pen- thanks, anyway so-' and then five minutes after that when the league have all been exchanging incredulous looks he finally freezes and is like. SHIT.
wonder woman: you're different from the other two, aren't you?
batman: maybe i am maybe i'm not, you can't prove it.
wonder woman:
green lantern: so like, are you new or have you just managed to avoid sub duty up until now?
superman, coughing: actually, this is this ones ninth occasion of replacing batman. you've just never realised before.
the league:
batman: yeah actually the other two are kinda mad i lasted longer than them...
the flash: how the fuck does he keep getting kids with the exact same build as him!??!?
'batman' tim, spent 20 minutes padding the suit out so he would look the part, still mad that bruce keeps palming WE work off on him: oh he forces us to take steroids for it.
the league, concerned:
superman, pinching the bridge of his nose: now come on red robin-
batman, fully tearing up and looking distraught: PLEASE uncle clark, it HURTS, you can't keep COVERING FOR HIM!
superman, frantically to the league: this one lies.
bonus
the league, squinting at batman:
the league: ...
superman: *head in his hands, too disappointed to do anything*
the league: *silently exchanging looks, wondering if anybody's brave enough to say anything*
duke as batman, fully aware this is fucking stupid but jason and tim fell on the floor laughing when dick came up with the idea and frankly, he wanted to see if anybody would have to guts to call him out: so, are we all ready to start the meeting?
if you are a parent, or may become one, or you are otherwise likely to arrive in the situation of caring for a child while they eat, promise me this: if a child doesn't like a certain food or food group, you will ask them WHY. and specifically, you will pay attention to either confirming or ruling out "it makes my mouth itch" or "it makes my stomach hurt," both of which are medically important info that children may not provide unprompted. which i know because this PSA has been brought to you by "i spent my entire childhood and much of my early teens eating peas and lentils while wondering why everyone else liked the Violently Itchy Mouth Sensation so much, like were they a bunch of legume masochists or something, before i finally realized that Violently Itchy Mouth Sensation was in fact a sinister demon appearing only to me, and her true demonic name was: Legume Allergy"
Jason and Damian are the only ones who were always Bruce’s kids, with no pretenses of it ever being any other way. Though an argument could be made for Cass.
"In the instance an employer makes an illegal request for a photograph as part of a job application, you may submit a complaint to the United States Equal Employment Opportunity Commission." Successful violation fee collections are paid partially to the one who suffered the violation, which in many cases exceeds a year of work at these shit jobs. There's only two weak points to a corporation, and those are in the budget and in the supply chain. Hit them where it hurts.
"Batman birthed all his Robin's" but Dick gaslit himself (and othere) into believing it was true to some extent.
—
Dick, eight years old, staring a reporter in the eye: What?
Reporter: Rumor has it that Bruce Wayne and Batman have been seen together.
Dick: Well DUH!
Dick: Batman gave birth to me :)
Bruce, choking on his drink in the background:
—
Later, Jason sitting in Dick's apartment, playing a video game: Any reason reporters think Batman and Bruce are dating?
Dick, not paying any attention: Didn't he give birth to you?
Jason: ???? What the F*CK!?
—
Much later, Jason being told Catherine wasn't his bio Mom before seeing his birth certificate: Oh my god. Batman gave birth to me.
—
Bruce: I'm fine, Nightwing.
Dick: Sure you aren't pregnant again?
Bruce:
Bruce: What?
Dick: You really gotta start using protection.
—
Dick, half asleep during movie night: Can't believe you slept with Willis Todd.
Jason, a full adult: Both my Dad's are hoes.
Bruce: . . .
—
Timbin: Hi, Mr. Nightwing Robin Dick Grayson Sir!!! I'm Tim Drake—
Dick: I KNEW BRUCE SLEPT WITH JACK DRAKE!!!
Timbin: . . . Clearly you're still deeply affected by the death of Jason Todd.
—
Tim, after spending a week with Dick: . . . Dad?
Jack: Yes, son?
Tim: Did Bruce Wayne give birth to me?
Jack:
Jack: Are you doing drugs with Ives??
—
Stephanie:
Dick: I—
Stephanie: Make the joke and I'll make sure you lack your namesake.
Dick: Understood.
—
Tim, walking into the cave: Alfred said Bruce won't be patrolling tonight. I think he was complaining about stomach cramps.
Dick: All the pregnancies really did a number on him.
Jason: Probably Tim's fault, on his medical records it said he was born nearly ten pounds.
Dick: What happened, Tim?! You're so tiny now.
Jason: To bad he didn't consider abortion.
Tim: I wish he aborted you!
Jason: He probably tried to abort you! Your a#& just dodged the hanger.
Tim: Maybe you should've taken note and dodged that crowbar.
Dick: Guys, stop making abortion and death jokes! But to be technical I was the easiest pregnancy—
Damian: WHAT IS EVERYONE TALKING ABOUT?!
Tim, grinning at Jason:
Jason, clearing his throat: I think it's time you found this out Damian...
Dick, dramatically placing a hand on Damian's shoulder: Bruce gave birth to us all.
Damian:
Damian: What?
Jason: Think about it. Who would be insane enough to not abort Tim?
Damian: . . . Father.
Tim: Do you really think Talia Al Ghul would spend nine months undergoing the hardships of pregnancy?
Damian: I . . . No . . . Wait . . .
Dick: Jason didn't die searching for his birth Mother, Dami.
Jason, trying not to laugh: The Joker was jealous that he wasn't the Father, Damian. He killed me because I wasn't his.
Damian: You're all liars!
Jason: It's true! Batman and The Joker were in a very committed relationship!
Dick: My Dad is actually the Joker.
Damian: . . . what .
Dick: Who do you think gave me my love of the circus, Dames?
Tim: It was before the acid incident, obviously.
Jason: Batman cheated on him, that's how I was born.
Damian: . . . Batman gave birth to me?
Tim: Batman gave birth to all of us, Damian.
Duke, in the background: I am not a part of this!
—
Damian, the next time he meets with Talia: Mother?
Talia: Yes, my heart?
Damian: Is it true that Grayson was the Joker and Batman's child and that Todd was born out of wedlock from Batman which is what led to him being murdered and their divorce and that Timothy was birthed by Batman from an affair and that you got Batman pregnant and he also birthed me?
Talia, taking his face in her hands:
Talia: I wasn't supposed to tell you until you were older.
—
Bruce: Dick, Jason?
Dick: Yeah, B?
Jason: What?
Bruce: Can you please stop telling your siblings elaborate stories regarding me birthing them?
Jason: No.
Dick: What? No harm no foul!
Bruce, inhaling sharply: Damian beat the Joker within an inch of his life today, screaming "Why couldn't you love Todd as your own?" And then, as he was being taken to Arkham, shouted, "Do you know what the divorce did to Grayson!?"
Jason:
Dick:
Bruce: Tim still thinks I slept with his Father.
Jason: Didn't you?
Bruce: Jason.
Jason: Bruce.
Dick: Okay, so, maybe it's a little bit out of hand...
Bruce: Damian think you're a child of divorce between me and the Joker! Harley Quinn keeps asking why the Joker didn't even get weekends with you!
Jason: Maybe you should've thought about that before getting the divorce.
Bruce: Jason. Peter. Todd. Wayne.
Dick: Look, B, it's not that bad! It's funny. Dami will grow up and realize it was a stupid prank.
Jason: The story bits yeah.
Bruce: . . . Jay, what do you mean the story bits?
Jason: He'll still know you birthed us all.
Bruce:
Dick:
Dick: Jason. You know that Sheila is the one who actually gave birth to you, right?
Jason:
Jason: Dick. You told me that you picked out my middle name.
Dick:
Bruce:
Jason:
Dick: Now you're f*cking with us.
Jason: I could be. I could not be. But either way, betrayal happened in this room tonight.
Bruce: Dick.
Dick: Okay, fine, I'll stop telling people you birthed us and let the Joker raw dog you...
—
Meanwhile, many years earlier, the one time a reporter interacted with Alfred:
Alfred: I birthed the boy myself! I do believe I am fit to be his caretaker!
The morning after patrols, especially after a big Arkham breakout, was usually followed by a long rest and a big breakfast. Many of them had stayed at the manor, too exhausted to go to their hideouts or apartments. Alfred had prepared a large assortment of food: bacon, pancakes, eggs, muffins, and waffles.
Out of nowhere, a green portal appeared at the end of the table, and a teenager walked out holding a clipboard.
"Damn it, I still gotta work on my aim with these portals," he said jumping down from the table," sorry about stepping on the table B."
The table then erupted, weapons were pulled from seemingly nowhere, and each of the bats launched themselves at the intruder. The teenager was unfazed as their weapons passed right through them.
"You know, when you said that Gotham was dangerous, I wasn't expecting such a warm welcome," they smiled at Bruce.
"Good morning, Danny."
"Father, you know this intruder?"
Bruce sighs, "This is Danny, he is an apprentice under Justice League Dark."
"He works with Constantine?"
"Ew. No, I mostly work alone or with my friends."
"Father, how does he know are identities?"
"I actually didn't know your identities until I stepped through the portal. Sorry about that. The portal I was using was tied to the location of a soul, not a general location." Danny rubbed the back of his neck, looking sheepishly at the ground. " This is what I get for following Constatine's advice," he muttered.
"What did he say?"
"Quote 'The bloody paranoid bastard is probably in his cave still brooding or whatever. end quote."
Several of the bats stifle laughter
Bruce sighs into his coffee. " What did you need, Danny?"
So, Danny ends up being adopted/fostered by Bruce just months before Damian arrives at the manor, the how and why is your choice, but the GIW is still a threat.
Now, Danny catches Damian attacking Tim the first time and instead of telling the rest of the family or scolding Damian, he went lik:
“You haven't even defeated me, and you think you have a right to attack Tim? Get in line, kid.”
And so Damian understands that to get the right to fight against Tim, he needs to get rid of Danny first. Climb the power pyramid, if you will. And so, Damian starts his assassination attempts against Danny.
But here's the thing: Danny is making absolutely no effort to stop him, he just takes the attempts. The first time, Damian successfully stabs Danny, and goes to announce his victory over Danny to his father. Bruce rushes to Danny, worried for his safety, and finds him just chilling there, not a single drop of blood or injury. Damian is gapping.
“Oh yeah, the kid beat me in a round of hide and seek. He’s pretty good.”
Bruce is relieved and pats Damian’s head, not noticing his utter confusion. And so a cartoon-like montage starts: Damian attacks Danny and claims victory, but Danny is completely fine, and says Damian won at some random game. Everyone thinks the two are super close, and that Damian’s excitement about winning is super cute.
Eventually, positive enforcement wears Damian down, because everyone congratulates him and gives him affection for winning the “stupid things” Danny comes up with. He gradually calms down and integrates pretty well. Danny does end up being his closest sibling because he’s the only one that actually knows all of Damian. The only one Damian could attack with zero restraint and still be treated the same.
But the important thing here is: Danny becomes an invincible figure in Damians mind. He could be stabbed, decapitated, poisoned, and still come back like nothing happened.
So surely, when Phantom is shot out of the sky by a Blood Blossom, surely he’ll just stand back up in a minute like always. Surely, he’s just waiting to get back to the cave to pretend like he always did for Damian. Surely, he’s just putting on a show on the medbay.
But hours go by, and he’s still pretending. Still looking pale. Still keeping his eyes closed.
Damian doesn’t understand why he hasn’t bounced back yet. He should be okay by now. Alfred is moving around, changing the IV,dabbing Danny’s head with a damp cloth. There’s commotion outside as everyone is trying to get an antidote.
But this shouldn’t be happening.
Danny is invincible.
Danny should be back to normal already.
So Damian starts shaking Danny. Screaming to stop pretending and tell them he was beaten in some stupid game again. To open his eyes already.
Father is pulling him away, trying to calm him down, but he keeps struggling in his arms, because he’s getting Danny to wake up.
And he doesn’t notice the tears falling down his face until he runs out of energy, and all that’s left is hiccuping in his father’s arms.
...
So… yeah, that’s what my mind supplied today while on the bus :)
Maybe one day I'll write it, but I don't have time, so I would love to see someone else's take on it.
(This is my first time writing for either DP or DC but you know, I loved the prompt so much I wanted to give it a crack!)
“You haven't even defeated me, and you think you have a right to attack Tim? Get in line, kid.”
The words echoed in his mind, mocking and sarcastic, burning with derision, but Damian was forced to admit that he had been… hasty. Reckless, even. Whilst eliminating Drake would certainly help establish himself as Father's true and only heir, there was clearly a hierarchy to things.
Although he was the blood son - the true son! - in terms of age and seniority, it was clear there was a pecking order. And as the youngest, and the newest to the family - technically speaking - he was at the bottom. In the League, killing Drake would allow him to take his position in the hierarchy by demonstrating that he was superior to him.
Clearly that was not the case here. Clearly, if he wanted to assume his rightful place, he would have to work his way up. He could work with that.
Fenton wasn't even a vigilante, like Father or the others. He had managed to stop him from striking Drake with surprising swiftness and ease - embarrassing him by scruffing him like a cat, no less - but it's not like he was a Robin or even a Bat of some kind.
It should be simple. He knew his schedule after studying him, knew his favoured hobbies and haunts. He was trained since birth to be the Heir to the Demon's Head.
So whilst Fenton was setting up his game console to waste his time playing video games, Damian demonstrated why he should've been studying the blade by piercing him right through the heart with a knife. No sense using his blade when he'd have to remove it and get blood everywhere and cause a greater mess that Pennyworth would have to clean up.
"I win," he whispered into Fenton's ear as he twitched and struggled, his death throes. Wide blue eyes met his gaze for a moment but Damian melted away, triumphant and proud. One pretender dealt with. It was time to announce his success to Father.
------------------------------
Father… did not take his triumph like he had expected. If it had been Grandfather, he would've simply nodded, because success was expected, and Damian had always excelled.
But rather than be satisfied - or, as he dared to hope, proud - he had been horrified. Furious. Desperate to save Fenton, tearing through the hallways to the gaming room, with Damian trailing behind, confused as to where he had mis-stepped. Had he gone about it wrong? Should he have instead challenged Fenton to a duel? Announced his intentions prior?
"Danny! Danny just-Danny…?" Father shouted, fear and panic and then confusion on his face as his voice petered out.
"Oh hey Bruce," Fenton replied, looking away from the screen. The fact that he still did not call Father by an appropriate title burned at him, but the indignation was swallowed by the shock of seeing him… perfectly fine. Healthy.
Damian had stabbed him in the heart. He was certain of it. There should be blood. He should've died in seconds. He absolutely should not be sitting there, calm, relaxed and playing whatever vapid game he had loaded!
"... Damian said he had… attacked you," Father asked, voice tight and brow furrowed.
He hadn't phrased it like that, of course, but he hadn't been shy of describing his triumph over Fenton. Prematurely, apparently, given he was… somehow unharmed. No blood. No stab wound. No knife, even. He was definitely missing one, however, so he hadn't just… hallucinated it somehow.
Fenton just blinked and laughed. "Oh, that? Yeah, we were playing hide and seek, and he got a little enthusiastic. But hey, he won, so, congratulations buddy."
… Hide and seek? As if he would indulge something so… puerile!
Father studied them both, clearly confused and thrown, but… considering. "I… see," he said slowly, and although he certainly sounded assured, Damian was willing to bet he did not see. "I'm glad you're both getting along then. It's nice to see you're making an effort, Damian."
He was making an effort, but not to get along! He was still too shocked to react to Father ruffling his hair like a child, moving to leave both of them in the ensuing silence with only a parting request that they don't 'rough house too much in the manor'.
He wasn't sure whether that was a coded request not to assassinate within the manor or not, but with Father gone… "I killed you." It was a factual statement, even if he did sound almost accusatory.
"Did you?" Fenton drawled, a lazy smirk playing at his lips. Mocking. "I must've missed it."
Grinding his teeth was not a healthy response, although it was nigh on impossible to stop. "I do not know what tricks you used, Fenton… but I will triumph."
"Mmhm." Without any of the appropriate level of fear and wariness, Fenton turned back to his game.
He was tempted to try and strike him again, but he would do this properly, not impulsively. He would try again after.
"Oh, before I forget." He reached beside him, pulling out the knife he'd been stabbed with. "Here. You forgot this."
"You will live to regret this, Fenton," he seethed, cheeks burning with embarrassment and shame, "But no longer."
"Sure, sure. Better luck next time, buddy."
------------------------------
Stabbing had failed, so his next attempt was something grander. He waited until Fenton was in the manor gardens late one night, with his telescope. The perfect situation.
His steps were silent, his sword was drawn. He brought it down and he felt the resistance of flesh and bone as he carved straight through Fenton's spine. "I win," he hissed, watching the pretender let out a cry of pain and fall to the ground.
He wasn't taking chances this time either, and buried his blade through the back of Fenton's skull. And then he watched for a few minutes to confirm there was no trick. He checked for a pulse and found nothing.
Fenton was dead.
This time, when he declared his triumph the next morning to Father over breakfast, he didn't seem as concerned as before. Perhaps he was right to do so outside the manor itself? Grayson seemed more concerned, but he didn't seem eager to do anything given Father's calm reaction.
"I am sure Pennyworth will be able to confirm my victory, for Fenton should still be-" he continued, but found he couldn't finish his sentence as his eyes registered something impossible.
Fenton. Walking into the kitchen with a yawn. Unharmed. Again. No sign of the grievous wounds he should've received, no sign of anything except perhaps staying up a little too late. "Morning Bruce, morning Dick, morning Damian," he greeted, blinking sleepily, "Is there coffee? I'm dead tired this morning." His gaze flicked to Damian for just a moment, and there was a quirk to his lips that suggested he was making a joke.
He didn't see the humour in it, personally.
"Morning Danny," Grayson returned cheerfully, looking about far more awake than Fenton, but his gaze was nonetheless alert and assessing. "Damian said he 'triumphed' over you last night?"
"Oh yeah. We were playing tag. He's pretty fast and nimble, you know?" he lied, as easy as breathing. An infuriating thing to notice, given he shouldn't be breathing at all. "Good way to burn some energy."
Father sipped his coffee with a pensive grunt, but just nodded. "So long as you're not staying up too late, boys. I know it's the weekend, but do try to think about your routines."
There was a muffled snort from Grayson and even Fenton looked like he was about to call Father out on the hypocrisy there in a light, joking way.
"Tt." Vexing. Back to planning, it seemed.
"Let me know if you want to play again, Damian," Fenton said cheerfully, sipping his coffee as he passed him, "I'm always down to hang."
He dared to go to ruffle his hair like Father had, and if Damian had his sword on him, Fenton would be sans a hand.
------------------------------
He watched, careful, as Fenton drank the coffee he'd prepared for him - laced with fast acting poison, of course. The lout burped, pat his stomach, and made eye contact with him.
"Hey, thanks for the coffee, Dami. That was really thoughtful of you."
Thoughtful? That should've-"Tt!"
"Why don't you ever bring me coffee?" Drake whined, like the idiot he was. "I'm jealous now."
"It's because I play with him - maybe if you weren't so busy?"
Ugh. That's the last thing he needs, Drake occupying his time-
------------------------------
He garroted Fenton, holding the wire so tight it cut into his neck, and watched the corpse for a full hour, until the flesh had gone cold. Father just nodded along when he announced this time, he was surely victorious.
And then Fenton had been sitting at the table for dinner like nothing had happened, and cheerfully congratulated him at winning their game of chess by getting him in a chokehold.
He bashed his brains out with a rock in the barn - brutal and barbaric - and Pennyworth had thanked him for 'assisting Master Danny with his chores'. Fenton claimed he was going to sleep like a rock that night, and if he thought it would actually work, he would've smothered him with his pillow.
He decided he must be overthinking it, and went back to using swords and knives, ambushing Fenton wherever he could. He stabbed him in various places, striking vital organs and at least one time severing Fenton into multiple pieces. He had even considered claiming the pretender's head for certain proof of his demise to present to Father.
He'd held up a pumpkin instead. He has no idea when Fenton made the switch, but he'd come up with some ridiculous story about practicing for Halloween.
In July.
Despite the obvious ridiculousness, Father had ruffled his hair, praised him for getting along with Fenton so well and he couldn't even bring himself to be annoyed by it anymore.
"... I will triumph, Fenton," he hissed, glaring at the smugly grinning face of his greatest nemesis.
Fenton reached out to ruffle his hair again, pulling back with a light laugh as he went to impale the hand for his temerity. "Of course you will," he agreed, without even bothering to sound like he believed the words, "Better luck next time?"
"Tt."
------------------------------
At some point, he stopped bothering to announce his triumphs over Fenton, if only because none of them were triumphs. Inevitably, Fenton would be fine, like nothing had happened, and he would make some playful knowing comment hinting about what Damian had actually done, but nobody would ever notice or call him on it.
Damian refused to admit defeat, however, so he kept trying, but it was growing increasingly difficult to become convinced anything would actually succeed. Even burying the corpse didn't seem to change anything - there wasn't even any evidence that Fenton had climbed out of his grave, which just left him wondering what he had buried, if anything.
Fenton was sitting in the gardens, on one of the old, worn stone benches, enjoying a small lunch of Pennyworth's cucumber sandwiches.
"Not going to try and kill me again?" he quipped, voice just loud enough to reach Damian clearly from where he was observing him from behind some bushes.
Observing. Not stalking, as Brown had derisively suggested, and he was not just trying to spend more time with Fenton as Grayson cooed. It was observing. Reconnaissance!
… Although he did emerge, grumbling silently now that it was clear stealth had failed. "I am still attempting to draft a plan with a greater chance of success." Simply attempting to stab Fenton was simple enough. He rarely fought back, but it never stuck. He'd tried everything he could conceive of, short of electrocution and shooting him.
"Well, you'll think of something," Fenton said simply, offering him a sandwich.
He narrowed his eyes, but he grudgingly joined him on the bench and took one. It was, of course, superlative. He'd briefly considered whether it might've been poisoned, but Fenton had never attempted to retaliate. He found it doubtful he'd suddenly decide now.
He could, of course, have planned to get him to lower his guard… but then, Damian had watched Pennyworth hand him the lunch earlier. The benefits of reconnaissance, of course.
"You are clearly more skilled than the others believe," Damian said after a long silence, broken only by the sound of sandwich consumption, "Why have you not usurped the others, or at least demonstrated this competence?"
Fenton grinned at him, infuriatingly friendly and unbothered even now. "Wow, I'm competent now? I can't wait to rub that in Tim's face."
He scowled. "Tt. You are… surprisingly incapable of dying."
There was a snort at that, and Damian's eyes narrowed. The humour seemed… genuine, but he failed to find the joke. "And for the record, Dami, I'm not really all that eager to put on the spandex and gallivant about at night. I get why Bruce is doing it, and I fully support him - and Dick, Tim, and Steph - but I mean. Can you imagine me in a Robin outfit?" He shook his head with a laugh.
Fenton doesn't look that different from Grayson… and Drake. And himself. And Father. So yes, it is quite easy to imagine him in the costume although it is one that rightly belongs to Damian.
"... If you relinquish your claim, I will accept your surrender."
That merely got him a raised eyebrow. "Nuh-uh. You want my place, you've got to pry it from my cold dead fingers like God intended."
He's pretty certain no God had a hand in this, but he'll concede the point. "Very well. But I must ask - are you at all capable of fighting back, or do your talents simply lay with refusing to die?"
"Oh, you want to actually throw down with me? Sure, we can do that. I don't have to tell you not to hold back do I?"
"Tt. Of course not."
------------------------------
Fenton fought well, unsurprisingly. It hadn't stopped Damian from pinning him and snapping his neck, but all it takes is turning his back on him for a moment for Fenton to be standing up like nothing happened - save for perhaps the way he gingerly stretches his neck.
"You really don't pull your punches, huh?" he said, and a part of Damian notes this is the first time Fenton actually acknowledged being affected by what Damian had done. He'd always playfully hinted at it, obviously, but he never seemed sore after being stabbed or beaten, his voice wasn't hoarse when he strangled him, and there was never any sign of distress when he tried poisoning him.
"And I see you are not even pretending to care now," he shot back, although he was surprised to realise he didn't feel any animosity. Barely even any annoyance.
Fenton just shrugged. "Don't really see the point. You already know it's not going to stick."
He narrowed his eyes briefly, studying Fenton for a moment. "Does Father know you are a Meta?" There is a persistent rumour that Batman does not like Meta's in Gotham. It is a lie - Father has nothing against them, provided they follow the rules and don't disrupt the system. But powerful figures invite powerful opponents. There are those who attack Metropolis purely because Superman is there.
Father does not want the same happening in Gotham if it can be helped.
"He does," Fenton admitted freely, "It's actually part of why he's taking care of me. My situation is… complicated." His expression turns darker there, seeming serious for perhaps the first time Damian has ever seen him. Somber, even.
"Tt. I do not think he knows that well. He seemed… distraught when I first hold him I killed you."
There was a bark of laughter at that, filled with something sardonic. "Bruce worries. He's already lost one son, so he doesn't want to lose another. Fortunately for him, you can't get rid of me that easily."
"Tt. I'll figure it out eventually."
Another laugh. "I'm sure you will. How about round two?"
------------------------------
He never really stopped trying to kill Fenton - when they sparred, he gave it his all, confident that there was no need to hold back. He just… stopped trying to ambush him, or surprise him. Stopped trying to assassinate him. His time with Father and his… rival claimants made it clear that such things weren't tolerated. Wouldn't be looked well upon. Father's fear and concern had been genuinely fear that he had killed Fenton - as though Fenton could die.
If he had gone through with his attack on Drake… he doubted they would be so kind and welcoming to him now, not the way Fenton was. Fenton, who didn't seem to mind whenever he had tried to kill him, because he was, for all intents and purposes, immortal.
("I figured it was enrichment," he'd said, as though Damian were a zoo animal. He'd stabbed him for that comment, but he hadn't expected it to stick. It hadn't.)
And slowly, Fenton revealed more of his own abilities. The transformation, the ice, the phasing. The flying. He called it 'going ghost' because despite being Damian's senior by age, he was by far his junior by maturity. He learned about the Federal Anti-Ecto Acts, the situation that had led to him being adopted by Father, a situation that Father - and the Justice League - were working to unravel so he could return to being himself, safe and true.
He didn't quite understand why it was necessary for Fenton - he was, after all, immortal.
"You know I still feel pain, Dami," he'd said, light and conversational, and he didn't want to acknowledge the twisting feeling.
"You never complained," he'd replied, and it wasn't an accusation but it was in some ways.
Fenton had just shrugged and said "I've had worse." and ruffled his hair and Damian had let him, as his mind replayed the countless deaths he'd inflicted on his immortal brother.
Immortal, but not unfeeling.
He would not apologise for it, however. It wasn't his fault Fenton hadn't done the sensible thing and died. Everyone else did it when you stabbed them in the heart.
------------------------------
"Are you coming out on patrol with us now, Fenton?" Damian asked, already suited up as Robin. Father had finally acquiesced to allowing him to take his place at his side, donning the mantle that was rightfully his after Drake 'graciously' allowed it to pass as he became 'Red Robin'.
With the Anti-Ecto Acts rightfully repealed, Fenton was now free to resume his own mantle as 'Phantom' once again, and Damian would grudgingly admit that having his assistance was… not insubstantial. He was a powerful Meta, even if he restricted himself greatly.
And he was the only one who consistently returned to the manor without injuries, by virtue of fact that nothing done to him stuck and so was Alfred's favorite. Which was just unfair, in Damian's opinion.
"Yup," he said cheerfully, stretching a little, "Bruce's assigned me with you tonight - we're heading along the Boulevard, near the docks. Supposed to be some activity by Penguin."
Smuggling of some kind, doubtless. "Take to the skies then. We will scout the area and keep an eye out for his men."
"Aye aye, cap'n!"
He rolled his eyes, but he always appreciated that Fenton never pushed back, or accused Robin of being too young, too junior to take lead. Phantom had been active for a few years, but Damian had been taking missions for longer.
There was a bright flash, and Daniel Fenton-Wayne was replaced with Phantom, legs trailing off into that ghostly tail. "After you, boss."
"Tt."
A routine scout and patrol. Standard operating procedure was only engage if lives were being threatened - even if a crime was being committed, so long as nobody was actively in danger, Father preferred they avoided active engagements. He could, grudgingly, see the logic that was present even beyond Father's desire to coddle and protect them.
Stop a drug shipment, and you got all those drugs certainly, and put away the criminals who were smuggling it. Follow that shipment, and you learned more about the logistics chain, the transportation, the storage.
So they would watch, Robin carefully hidden in the shadows on a roof, and Phantom above, invisible.
"Robin, Phantom, I've got some kind of activity heading your way. White vans, no plates."
Damian narrowed his eyes behind the domino mask. Another gang? "Which direction?"
"Coming in from the north."
"Too much to hope for a quiet night, eh?" Phantom said breezily, "I think I see them. Is that-do they have a radar? Wait." There was an element of… something in his voice then. A quiver. A note of… fear? Concern?
"Phantom?" he muttered. Did he turn his attention to the vans? Phantom had a visual, but if he was concerned, then something could be happening, but if he turned, then he would abandon the vigil on Penguin's men.
No, Phantom could handle himself fine. He was functionally invincible.
"They're still around?!" he squawked, and there was anger there as well.
A voice, shouted distantly, too far for Robin to hear the words intelligibly. He glanced up to where he knew Phantom was hovering - or the rough area - just in time to hear his panicked shout… as a rocket rushed up and exploded into a cloud of dark, crimson red.
There was a scream of pain, and Damian was moving before he had the wherewithal to recognise, consciously, that it was Daniel screaming. He'd never screamed no matter what Damian put him through.
"Oracle! Reinforcements! Phantom's down, they hit him with something, I'm engaging-" There was a flurry of responses over the comms, alarmed replies from his other siblings, Father himself, but none of it mattered because Phantom was falling out of the sky, streaking through the lingering cloud like a falling star.
He'll survive impact his mind supplied, and so he swept down to engage his brother's attackers.
"Stand down Robin," one of them snarled, tall and dressed in a ridiculous white suit. How it stayed clean was beyond Damian, but also, not important. "Don't fall for the ghost boy's ridiculous-oof!"
Damian was already moving. It was only Father's abhorrence of killing that prevented him from drawing his blades on them, but he had no time for anything even resembling banter. They'd dared to shoot his brother.
His favourite brother even.
"He's overshadowed! Shoot!" one of them shouted, and suddenly there were blasts of green scorching the ground and walls, but their aim was mediocre at best. He had learned to dodge live fire years ago by better marksmen.
But if he hit them harder now that they were fighting back, he's certain nobody would bring it up.
Once Drake and Father arrived, what had started as a relatively one-sided fight turned into the bloodless and nonlethal equivalent of a slaughter. "Robin. Phantom?" Father asked, brusque and to the point as always.
He nodded immediately, grappling to the nearest roof. Fenton had fallen not far from here, although why he hadn't simply gotten back up was beyond Damian. A test? Another game? A poor time for it, certainly, but he had shrugged off worse than a little poison.
"Phantom!" he called, swinging onto the roof he had landed on. "This is no time to be fooling around!"
Fenton didn't respond, unless one counted the pained cry as a response - it didn't seem directed at Damian, however, merely at his situation
"Fine then," he snapped, arms folded over his chest, annoyance clear in his tone, "Play it like that. If you wanted to ride back to the manor, you just had to say so."
"What happened?" Father growled, rushing over, already protective and concerned in his own way, checking over Fenton as he writhed.
His annoyance bled out as he snapped into a more serious demeanour. "Those men down there fired some kind of missile at Phantom; it burst into some kind of gas, and he fell." Then his face scrunched up in annoyance. "I do not see why we are indulging him like this."
"Robin." There was a furious warning to Father's tone, and Damian couldn't help flinching.
"What?" he blustered, defensive, "It's not as though he won't recover! This is nothing-"
"Enough. We're returning. Oracle, inform Agent A to prep the medbay for potential poisoning."
Poisoning?! Ridiculous! Damian had tried several varieties, including both batrachotoxin and tetrodotoxin and the only thing Fenton had said about them was that they gave the sauce a nice kick!
"Fine," he muttered, annoyed, glaring at his brother. "Waste of time. He's fine. He always is."
------------------------------
He glared at Fenton the entire way home, and didn't shy away from proclaiming the fact that Fenton was just pretending for some ridiculous reason. He expected him to get up in the medbay, laugh it off and ruffle his hair again, make a joke about no longer being the only one who returned uninjured.
Damian had returned uninjured, but he didn't get a plate of cookies as a reward from Alfred because he was busy fussing over Fenton. Who, again, was pretending.
"... Have I annoyed you in some way?" he asked, scowling at where Fenton was still groaning and whimpering in bed - he hadn't stopped the entire way, presumably because he did not actually need to breathe. "Is there a reason you're insisting on this… farce?"
Outside, he could hear his siblings rushing around, Drake furiously analysing the files and research, Grayson and Father arguing over whether to contact the League. Even Alfred was panicking, although in a quiet, controlled way, given how swiftly he'd prepared tea and quickly dabbed at Fenton's forehead when he came in, but they seemed content to leave Damian to watch over him, even if they had scolded him for proclaiming the truth.
"I'm sorry for attacking you so often. Is that what you wanted to hear?" Fenton just whimpered. Not a real response. "... And I'm sorry I stole the last cookie. You were too slow, but… it was unfair of me to deny you it. I am not sorry about eating it in front of you. It was motivation to get better. And I'm sorry I told Grayson where you kept the last of your froot loops. I didn't eat them, he did, but it was my fault he did. Go ahead and tell me I won whatever stupid game you came up with this time."
He frowned a little, still staring right at Fenton's pained grimace. "Fine. You win, instead. You won weeks ago. I gave up trying to take your place, it was clear I wasn't going to succeed. I admit defeat. You bested me! So you can stop now!" His voice was raising despite himself, a sense of desperation he wouldn't admit bubbling up inside of him.
"Fenton! This isn't funny! It's over, the game's over, open your eyes and stop-" His hands reached out to seize him by the shoulders and Fenton had always been cold to the touch, but never clammy like this, and his skin was bordering on translucent to the point he could see the veins, pulsing sluggishly, and he was shaking him now, furious and desperate. "Stop pretending already! You're not-you can't-"
"Damian!" Father shouted, broad hands seizing him by his own arms, trying to pry him away, but he refused to be separated now, struggling and kicking.
"Wake up you idiot!" he howled, furious as something hot begin to sting at his eyes, "Stop playing dead! You can't die! You can't!"
"Damian, sport, it's okay, we're working on a cure," Father soothed, pulling him away with his infuriating gentle strength, still insisting on this childish charade.
"He doesn't need a cure!" he screamed, "He's fine! He's always fine! I cut off your head, Daniel, this is nothing so stop pretending-!"
Father's arms bound him tighter, turning him around to bury his face against his bulk, and his struggling, flailing hands seized the fabric of his batsuit. "It's okay," Father murmured, "He'll recover, we can fix this."
"He's fine," Damian whispered, voice hoarse from screaming, trembling with emotions he refused to acknowledge, "He's fine, he's always fine…"
Daniel's continued pained whimpers said otherwise, but he had to be fine.
When Damian woke up the next day after crying himself to sleep, he immediately went down to the cave, not caring to change from the clothing that he was changed into last night. He didn't care. The only thought on his mind was that Daniel could be hurt. When he got down to the cave, he saw some members of the JL and JLD there, but he just moved past them and into the med bay, not caring to answer anyone who called his name. He had his sword with him so some of the people sounded panicked but he didn't acknowledge them.
He entered and went next to Daniel and stayed on his left. Daniel had trouble with his left arm more so that was his weaker side, it was where he needed more protection so that is where he stayed. He sat against the wall with his sword in hand on the ground. He glared at everyone who came in. His father and Richard looked confused at first before taking on sad expressions.
Why they made that face was unknown to him, he was just adding to Daniel's protection. He was weak right now and damian was going to make sure no one could hurt him now that he was vulnerable. Damian stayed when Alfred came in to change ivs and check on Daniel, he threatened Richard when he came in and tried to get damian to leave Daniel's side. Damian just swung his sword at him, cutting him on his arm. He wanted him to leave Daniel! Outrageous!
Richard left the room after that, sighing as he went and got his cut taken care off. Damian simply sat back down on the ground, pulling his legs up to his chest. Once Daniel recovers he will make sure that those people will never hurt his brother again. He does not care about breaking father's rule. He will break it to protect Daniel.
Father had brought him some sandwiches, he tried talking to damian but he didn't listen, he simply ate his food in silence. Glaring at people when they entered and went near Daniel. When they did go near Daniel he would stand up, sword in hand as he watched their every move. He didn't trust these people. He did not care who they were, if they made Daniel's condition worse then he would kill them where they stood.
This was the process over the hours that passes, damain would stay by Daniel and refuse to leave. Daniel seemed to be getting a bit better over time, some of his scars and veins didn't glow as bright as before. They were a dim red now. They didn't find an immediate cure, just one to help flush his system slowly. It wasn't until 3 days later when they actually got a cure.
On the third night he had fallen asleep on the floor again, sword in hand but when he woke up he was being held by someone, he heard his father and other siblings talking to the person holding him, he was to tired to tell who it was at the moment. As the person responded he woke up more, looking up at who was holding him. "Aww, my tiny protector is awake." Damian blinked. Daniel. Daniel was awake. He was sitting up and holding damian. He was okay. "Your awake..." damain sniffles, moving and wrapping his arms around Daniel's neck, hugging him tightly. He was okay! He was talking! Damain knew he was crying, he felt the tears going down his face but he didn't care, his brother was okay and damian was gonna make sure that an incident like this never happens again.
... if damain glared at anyone that wore a bit to much white and kept Daniel away from them then that was someone else's problem. So what if he clung to danny and didn't leave his side alone for the first few weeks. No one complained...
(I ain't good at writing lol, someone wanna write them more detailed go ahead man)
Danny as the Ghost King and God of Space who has been alive for far too long and decided to jump into the DC dimension. He’s bored, whimsical, and mischievous. He grabs a piece of cardboard and writes:
Challenge me to a game of your choosing. Loser grants any one (1) wish the winner asks.
And, of course, people roll their eyes at it. They roll their eyes at the clearly homeless young man on the street corner with the weird sign. Some toss him some change every now and then, but no one “challenges” him.
Then, someone does.
Sarah, a street kid with quick hands figured that she’d be able to easily beat the weirdo with the sign. She says, “I bet I can pick more pockets than you.”
She’s been doing this all her life. She knows what she’s doing. And yet, she loses. She doesn’t run, despite the danger she fears she may now be in. She lost, fair and square. So she waits for whatever “wish” the weirdo has.
He says, “I wish for you to take me to the best street food vendor you know.”
And she stares at him like he’s lost it. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. It never does. She takes him. He buys them both dinner.
Later, at “home,” she goes to bed without being hungry for the first time in weeks and doesn’t think about how she’d been wishing for that very same thing.
—
It’s a while after that someone challenges him again.
A street worker, Maxi, with nothing to lose. She jokes with him, says, “I bet I’m a better kisser than you.”
He says, “Let’s find out.”
She wins. He asks, “If you could have anything, what would you wish for?”
At this point, they’re friendly, somewhat close. It’s been a wild night and she has nothing to lose. She’s about to lose her kid to CPS, she lost her day job, she’d just gotten an eviction notice.
She says, “I’d wish for the chance to go back to school without worrying about paying for tuition, rent, whatever. So I can give my kid a better future, y’know?”
He nods, says, “I’ll see what I can do.”
She doesn’t get it, at the time.
A month later, she puts the final box down in her new apartment. She smiles at her kid, who is staring out the window with bright, wide eyes and not shying away at the worry of gunfire. She joins her baby by the window and thinks about how lucky she’s been; she has a good job, a new apartment, she’s going back to school— and she makes eye contact with the person she made a stupid bet with months ago. He waves and tilts his head in a knowing nod. She gasps, smiles, and cries because how could it be possible? But also because who cares how it was done. She’d gotten her and her kid out.
—
It’s not something that happens often. People challenge Danny on occasion, some win, some lose. Nothing outrageous.
Then a kid, far too young to be out as late as it was, comes up to him. She’d heard the guy was safe. How DJ won and got a new skateboard and how, despite losing, Sarah’s dad finally got convicted and her mom was steadily getting clean.
Li Chen figures it couldn’t hurt to play. She chooses rock, paper, scissors. She loses and says, “What is your wish?”
The man looks up and Gotham’s smog covered sky, “I wish I could see the stars from here.”
Li Chen agrees. “I don’t think I can do that.”
He smiles at her, something knowing in his eyes, “Maybe not right now, but you will.”
Li Chen doesn’t understand until decades later, looking at the stars under Gotham’s semi-clear skies with her wife, how both their wishes came true.
“This seems like a fairy trap,” a voice sounds to his right. He smiles, but doesn’t look over.
“And yet, you approached,” he teases. The voice chuckles. Danny doesn’t need to see to know it’s Nightwing.
“Is it some sort of magically binding contract?” Danny shakes his head.
“No contract, no magic.” He looks over at the vigilante clad in black and blue. “Though it would be rude to back out once the challenge is done.” Nightwing nods thoughtfully, then shrugs and takes a seat near Danny.
“You got a chess board?”
. . .
Nightwing wins their game of chess. Danny chuckles as he topples his king.
“So, what is it you wish for?” he asks. The man’s happy-go-lucky attitude wilts a little, and his mask does little to hide his expression, which has become somewhat pained. He doesn’t speak at first, thinking over his answer.
“I want my family to be okay without me.” Danny doesn’t say anything, but reaches over to touch the man’s shoulder comfortingly.
. . .
Dick wasn’t serious when he gave that answer, and he really didn’t think anything would come of it.
If he’s honest with himself, he just wanted his family to be okay so he wouldn’t feel guilty about…just…not being here anymore.
It seems that mysterious guy knew that, because it started with a red-haired therapist named Jazz all but dragging him into a chair.
And because it’s impossible to hide anything from Tim and once he knew so did Steph and she decided to blab, the whole family found out he was in therapy. And, one by one, they started going, too.
For the first time in almost two decades, Dick can honestly say he’s not worried about how his family would function without him there to guide them.
And…for the first time in a long time…he doesn’t want so badly to not be there.
The portal has been closed. Danny no longer has access to the infinite realms. So he decides to travel.
He found a traveling circus to join. He met a beautiful woman and changed his name. He had a child that’s he loves more than the world. His life is good.
Until he’s murdered. Being fully ghost means he’s stuck in the infinite realms with no way to see his little boy. His robin.
That is until the justice league needs help from the ghost king.
The invasion had been nothing like any before. Effective in its simplicity. The invaders came from nowhere, gave no warning, and made no contact whatsoever. Billions upon billions of ships surrounded Earth so thickly it blocked out the sun like a curtain, engulfing the world in an endless void of black. The planet cooled in a matter of hours, changing air currents tore the world apart with endless storms, plants died, and supplies were running thin.
No matter how many ships they were destroyed, what slivers of light they opened up lasted only moments.
The world was suffocating.
The only reason they resorted to such drastic measures as summoning the King of the Infinite Realms was because if the world was ending anyway, they didn't have much to lose.
In the biggest ritual room in the Watchtower, Constantine cast the dice.
The Kings voice fractured dimensions and was barely contained by his most powerful translation spell. It still grated against his soul with every word. The judger of gods and the restless dead had shown itself to fitting of the title, with a wit sharper than its teeth. None of Constantine's usual tricks worked. Careful wording, double entendres, offering his soul... nothing. The King didn't even seem to have pride or vanity that Constantine could leverage or manipulate either. It simply refused everything offered.
After the JL and Constantine exhausted every other avenue they had left, he reluctantly agreed on behalf of the Earth to the price it would name after it eliminated the invasion. NO conditions. At least this way, there was a chance that some of humanity would be spared.
When Constantine shook the King's 'hand' binding the contract, its grin activated every primal fear in his DNA. Pure, unadulterated terror washed through him like dry ice crystalizing outward from the contact into every cell of his body. It hit Constantine that he was out of his depth and had no idea what he was dealing with. Under the monstrous form of limbs, claws, and tail made of the eternal abyss accented by the light of creation was an abomination beyond any eldritch entity he could comprehend.
And that was the smile of a dragon playing with a mouse.
Without another word, the ruler of the Infinite Realms turned to the window that appeared as a pitch black wall and waved the limb Constantine shook. The sky turned a blinding, unbroken green. As quickly as it came, it vanished, and in its place, the sun shone like any other day. The Watchtower hadn't even shuddered.
To Constantine's senses, it was as if everything in a certain range from the surface of the Earth had been sliced from existence with surgical precision. The fabric of reality knitted itself back together so perfectly, no signs that gaping hole in reality had been there at all.
Constantine breathed a sigh of relief. It was over. Now, it was time to find out what fire-
But the King wasn't done. It swept its 'hand' down toward the Planet. The change was immediate. The ice that encased half the planet melted, hurricanes vanished, and vegetation bloomed. It wasn't a reset to a previous point in time. No. This was much more nuanced. Constantine could feel it.
Everything that had died was gone, but dead plants were replaced by new growth, displaced wildlife was returned to their homes with a boost to help them restore their biomes, frostbite and starvation was healed, and structures and buildings were repaired if the rapidly vanishing damage to the Watchtower was any indication.
It did not fix everything. Anything that was broken, sick, or contentious from before the invasion remained so. Earth's problems remained.
...That hadn't been part of the deal.
The King had done that of its own volition. It set Constantine's teeth on edge. The only reason it would do that was to show its absolute control. The worst part was it worked.
Constantine really hadn't comprehended what he unleashed until that moment. He'd faced countless beings capable of far greater destruction, but healing the fundamental makeup of the world like it was an afterthought?
Cold sweat broke out under Constantine's coat. He'd gotten what he asked for, but now, it was time to pay the piper.
"About my payment, there is someone you must find and bring to me. He is mine."
...
This was fine. This was totally and completely fine.
How this unknowable entity from beyond every reality knew the name of Richard Grayson, Constantine wasn't going to question.
One soul as payment was a goddamned miracle of miracles. A pipe dream that Constantine still wasn't sure he believed. He had been expecting the enslavement of their souls at the very least or blood sacrifices until the end of time. So the loss of one silver spoon licking wanker from Bludhaven, the literal rotting trash heap worse than Gotham, was nothing.
Or at least it should have been if it wasn't for Batman.
To summarize an extremely vicious and contentious series of events that almost resulted in the dismantling of the Justice League: the King of the Infinite Realms refused to change its demand and stopped responding to any attempts at conversation, and after weeks of back and forth, the Bats ONLY agreed to allow Grayson to talk with the King for the explicite purpose of finding an alternative payment.
While all this went on, the King had done nothing but silently watch the stars with an ever-shifting number of toxic green eyes. That type of cold impatience left Constantine terrified what price they would pay for the delay. Batman had no understanding of how precarious their situation was.
After the Bats' failed to make any technology work in the presence of the King in the hopes of a video call, here they finally were with the sacrifice in tow, walking down a hall of the Watchtower to the ritual room. Every Bat and Bird was equipped to the nines and surrounding this average looking chap like a living shield.
Constantine didn't know what all the fuss was about. This Grayson bloke repeatedly vocalized from within the wall of bodies his willingness to hand over his soul. Called it a fair trade. Good lad.
"You will not sacrifice yourself. That's an order." Batman's voice was harsher than Constantine had ever heard it.
"It's my life. They saved everyone and everything I care about. That's more than enough."
Constantine stopped with his hand on the door.
"Denied. We will find another way. This will only be a discussion. Understood?"
To cut off the argument that had been cycling on repeat since they entered the tower, Contantine interjected, "Yes! For the last time, it's completely contained within the binding circle. Can't affect anything outside it since it completed its end of the bargain. The only thing it can do is talk." Constanine opened the door without waiting for the go-ahead. "Fair warning, if your ears start to bleed, that's normal."
Batman glared at him as they stepped inside without another word to stand before the King.
It gazed out into space with its back to them, none of the multitudinous green eyes were visible as it gazed out at the universe. Constantine closed the door and stepped off to the side of the Bats. Standing close to the object of a master of gods fury generally wasn't good for one's health.
Constantine cleared his throat, praying that the world would still be in tact after this. "Your Majesty, we have brought Richard Grayson as you requested."
Everything stilled around the King, every indistinct shifting particle of its being froze as if the very fabric of reality was holding its breath (Which was a terrifying possibility).
Slowly, ever so slowly, it turned.
Every one of the King's eyes was focused solely on Grayson. Constantine doubted it even registered that anybody else was there.
The King's form evaporated like mist in a swirl of light.
It was replaced by a man stood with his feet on the ground wearing simple black clothing, the crown above his head the only adornment. It shimmered and rippled like a living curtain of the aurora borealis. His features were too sharp to be fully human. His eyes glowed the same unnatural shade as before, and his hair flowed like an etherial white fog, swaying and insubstancial.
Then the King stepped out of the circle like it wasn't there, shoes silent against the hard floor.
Constantine felt like he shit a house in shock.
Every bat jumped into fighting stances. Warnings turned into demands, then threats as he approached. Constantine jumped in doing his best at damage control, but he was too late as everything devolved into violence.
The King didn't react to any of it as he stopped in front of them. Every attack went straight through him.
"...Robin?"
The voice was breathless and thin with only a slight echo. Sorrow, yearning, and love all wrapped around that single word like a lifeline. The King's face was open and vulnerable in desperate hope.
Grayson stood stock still at the center, refusing the arms that tried to pull him to safety as he stared back in shocked wonder.
"...Tata?"
The quiet call of 'father' cut through the chaos like a stone to glass.
"My little robin. My boy." Tears glimmered in the King's eyes, and a tender smile lit up his face like a beacon. His arms made an aborted motion to reach out when something uncertain flickered through his expression.
Dick vaulted forward, latching every one of his limbs around the man so tightly as to never let go and burying his face into the crooks of his father's neck. "Tata!" He heaved in wet sobs.
The King clung back, cradling him and humming a quiet lullaby. "I thought you followed me, but I couldn't find you. I have never been happier to be wrong. Oh how you've grown."
Before long, the King was quietly mingling with the Bats like a freaking person. Constantine stayed well out of it, wondering why the King hadn't taken his prize and killed them all already.
A voice that was way too soft to be Batman but was definitely coming out of Batman jolted Constantine out of his suble creep toward the door. "One father to another, would you allow Dick a little more time before you collect his soul? He is young, and this world would be a darker place without him."
The King's face contorted in confusion. Then, his head snapped glare at Constantine with daggers he could actually feel against his skin. "Is that what took so long? I never said anything about taking anybody's soul. I just asked to see my son."
Constantine decided this was an excellent time to make his exit. In a flash of sparks, Constantine was in the House of Mysteries safe and sound and out of whatever bullshit he stumbled into.
...until a voice filtered into his head. "We will have words later."
Note: pointed out in a Tumblr post that I can't find (if you know it @ me so I can credit), Daniel means "God is my judge," so I choose to believe that when "Danny Phantom" is filtered through Constantine's imperfect magic translation, it comes out as "I am the judger of gods and the restless dead" because that is cool as hell and sounds like a proper introduction for the literal Master of the Infinite.
Edit: someone found it! This is the post that inspired the name miscommunication.
What if everyone in Gotham just collectively knows that Bruce Wayne is Batman, and the reason nobody outside of Gotham knows is because Gothamites are actually capable of keeping secrets? Like they’ll talk to each other all day, but if you’re not a local, you get their customer service voice.
And to those who would say “but what about the dumb people who like to blab?” I remind you that this is Gotham. You have to have at least a little bit of brain to survive living there.
And why do they not blab to outsiders? Because they are painfully aware that their city would not survive without both Bruce Wayne and Batman. Batman protects people and keeps the dangers in check. Bruce Wayne works tirelessly to make sure the people are taken care of so there’s nothing pushing them toward a life of crime, and pushes for and finances rehabilitation and halfway programs to give a way out of crime to people who already got into it. Both of the man’s identities are heroes, and Gotham cannot survive without either of them.
The villains and criminals don’t blab either, but they have a different reason. Bruce Wayne gives Batman a reason to live, a reason to hold back. No one knows exactly how dangerous Batman can be because he’s never let himself go completely unrestrained, but they do know that he does restrain himself. A lot. And still kicks their asses. And the thought of what he would do without that anchor keeps them awake at night.
I wonder if, when Dick became part of the household and was in his “I’ll kill anything that looks at me wrong” phase.
Bruce would 100% go out of his way to see if he could hunt down each and every one of the recordings of the Flying Graysons he could.
He would pay collectors for self recorded videos, (since they were a famous performance family even before the tragedy) and buy photos that people took of them while they were around the world, collecting every advertisement poster he could of them.
Just so Dick would have something to remind him of them, of the good days. So he could remind him that they would want him to be smart about this, and not let the rage and resentment take over completely.
Can you imagine a scene where it’s maybe the first or second time they meet Scarecrow after Dick becomes Robin.
Bruce warned him to never take off the gas mask no matter what, no matter what.
But when he sprays an entire museum with it and the guests are still inside, they do their best with what they have, but eventually run out of emergency masks for them.
Dick sees a person in distress and makes the choice to give them his. And runs to join Bruce.
And even though they broke all the windows to clear out all the gas as much as possible quite a bit is still in the air.
Nothing seems inherently wrong when they get back. Dick might’ve been a little more quiet than normal, but otherwise Bruce deems he didn’t inhale anything. And the boy shook his head when asked.
When they return to the manor Dick flings the door open and sprints toward the stairs up, and nearly running directly into Alfred in his hurry.
Bruce of course follows after, all the way to the memorabilia room, filled with the Flying Grayson posters, little figurines, and the small screen playing a slideshow of digital pictures and a few clips of the performances.
He stands at the door and sees Dick on the floor, reaching out toward the biggest poster, the one he was part of too, when he was finally old enough to perform in the air with his parents.
He seems to be whispering apologies.
Apologies for not being strong enough
Apologies for not noticing
Apologies for what’s he’s become
He might have been better at hiding his grief than Bruce first thought.
Setting up a little memorial complete with the first drawing Jason gave him, the first book he gave Dick as a gift. And his Wonder Woman pajamas that was a matching set to Dick’s own Superman one.
And the photo
Their first one
Taken on a particularly happy day. Bruce had apologized for their last fight, and Dick had heard him out. Jason springing on the opportunity and asked to take a photo together.
It came out nice.
Jason was standing with his head held high, hands on his hips and grinning brightly.
Dick stood smiling behind him, amusement clear, at the younger’s antics
And Bruce looking longingly at both of them, his small smile peeking out, one not for the camera, but for special moments like this.
And in the dim room the photo stood on the table.
A memory of what was never returning.
Dick trusted Bruce to never enter this room, especially after their big fight. Bruce knew what this room meant to him. To his family.
And now it was for Jason too.
He would return after missions, talking to the photo and posters like they would respond. He would wave his arms around dramatically to emphasize his points, and laugh when he told them of their new adventures.
And when the silence was all that came in response.
He would break down,
cry,
beg
and plead for their forgiveness.
He was sorry he didn’t make it, sorry he wasn’t there, sorry he hasn’t noticed anything amiss before taking off on the mission.
He would apologize for his anger, his anger at the world, his anger at Bruce. His anger at himself.
He knew they were all grieving.
He would sit there, in the dim room.
maybe waiting for a sign.
But nothing would come.
And he would promise to come again.
~~~~
@batsandbirdbrains here’s some more if you wanted to be even more sad <3
Tim insists Bruce isn’t dead, but nobody really believes him. Certainly not Damian.
He was taught at an early age that death, while something to be avoided, isn’t something to be afraid of. And there’s no point in grieving or feeling sad about it. It made it easier to watch people slaughter each other in the League, and occasionally do the slaughtering himself.
This is different. This is his father. This is the man he heard legendary tales about and looked up to all his life, the man who was meant to train him and make him a worthy heir, the man…who he wanted more than anything to look at him one more time with that soft, affectionate pride (though he’d never admit it). Damian was never taught how to move on from his death, how to let go of any ideas he had about the future…how to grieve.
Because that’s what this is. Grief. Damian would be a fool not to acknowledge it for what it is. How else would he crush it as the weakness it is and overcome it?
He wanders the halls, unable to stand the silence and stillness of his father’s office. And why shouldn’t he? He’s the blood son, the rightful heir. And with father gone, the manor is his. And he has every right to inspect his inheritance. Because that’s all he’s doing. Inspecting. And if his eyes occasionally flick to the dark corners, half-hoping to see a familiar cloaked figure, that’s nobody’s business but his.
He’s never really explored the top floor before. Not with any real earnest. This oversight becomes obvious when he passes a tapestry. He previously dismissed it as a mere decoration. But upon more thorough inspection, it conceals a door. It’s locked. How quaint. He picks the lock, and the door slowly swings open.
Whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t this.
It’s not a terribly grand room, but the sheer amount of…stuff…occupying it makes it look somehow both bigger and smaller. Every surface is covered in photographs, drawings, posters, and other various memorabilia. Many are framed. Many are loose. Several are laminated. There is not a single inch of wall that does not have something tacked onto it. There’s a small desk in the corner, with a box of empty frames and a laminator, waiting for further items to join the collage.
The first thing Damian notices is the utter mess that is the walls. The second thing he notices is the contents of the items making up the mess.
The largest items are posters for a circus act, the Flying Graysons. Scattered in the surrounding area are pictures of Richard as a child, along with who Damian assumes are his parents. As his eyes move further along the wall, the contents change. Instead of John and Mary Grayson, the photographs feature Damian’s father, and Alfred. Some with Richard present, some without. Then further along, Todd comes to occupy the photographs. Then Gordon. Occasionally the elder Gordon. Brown. Cain. Drake. The Titans. Then…Damian himself. Scattered throughout all of the photographs are drawings, most giving the appearance of having been done by children.
He had no idea this many photographs of himself existed. He had no idea Richard had saved his drawings.
Because of course this is Richard’s doing. Who else would do something…create something…so obscenely sentimental? Something so…admittedly…beautiful?
“Master Dick is quite the collector.”
It’s only because of his training that he doesn’t flinch. How the hell did Pennyworth sneak up on him?!
“It’s a mess,” he replies, sticking his nose in the air. Pennyworth sidles beside him, hands folded and looking softly over the memorabilia, and says nothing. Damian’s eyes travel over the pictures. “Why would he waste his time collecting such trivial nonsense?” he asks, trying to seem unaffected. Pennyworth looks at him, a knowing look in his eyes, but doesn’t bring it up.
“Because this is how he grieves, Master Damian.” He gestures at the walls. “Look around. Every single person in these photographs is precious to him. Some of them have been lost to him and then returned. Some are truly gone…” he pauses. Damian knows he’s thinking of father. He’d be a fool not to know their relationship was more akin to that of a father and son than that of a servant and his employer. “But all of them live in on in the memories of those who love them. This room, these images, they are visual reminders of that.” Pennyworth places his hand on Damian’s shoulder. He considers shrugging him off, but decides against it. “That is why Master Dick collects and displays these things. Because even though it can hurt, it is good to remember.”
After some time, Pennyworth gently guides Damian out of the room. He closes the door and locks it, informing him that it’s a private room, and it would be wise to avoid mentioning to Richard that he’d seen it. Damian doesn’t say anything, but he knows he doesn’t have to. Pennyworth knows him well enough to tell when he agrees. He doesn’t immediately walk away, though. Instead he considers for a moment, before speaking.
“Are there any other photographs of father in this manor?” he asks, his voice quiet. Pennyworth smiles at him.
“Of course, young master. I’ll prepare some tea, then we can go look at the photo albums in the library.”
I keep telling myself no more dp x dc stuff. Then I do more dp x dc stuff.
Danny is Talia Al Ghul's son. Not Bruce's son, tho. It's not entirely impossible Talia would have had multiple partners. She is (theoretically) about 150 years old.
Danny was born weak. It's a miracle he survived birth, and Talia knew Ras would never accept him, and he didn't. He told Talia to just leave him somewhere. Let him die. But despite her need to make her father's proud and follow his orders, she just couldn't. So she left him at the doorstep of two crazy people in a middle of nowhere town.
Imagine her shock when her father tells her to capture a man from that same town. One who walked a fine line between life and death. The perfect vessel, and when she arrives to capture the vessel, she is met with the very son she abandoned all those years ago, all grown up.
He isn't frail anymore. He's huge. Not overly bulked, but he's tall and lean. Clearly a fighter. Im a huge fan of goth Danny. I just love the concept of this tall ass cryptid dressed like he's gonna dig your grave with his bear hands. She didn't even have time to get close before he was already stairing at her. Piercings blue eyes, haunted and aged by years of what she could only assume to be hardship. Slowly, a grin stretches across his face. Unaturally sharp teeth, too many teeth, beared.
In that moment, the hunter became the hunted.
A/N: Yeah. Talia lives a horror moving of being chased and hunted by the beast that is an adult Danny. Meanwhile, Danny is registering her as a new ghost and just wants to play.
