I am deeply enamored with the prompt where Danny gets mistaken for (or correctly identified as) some kind of pit creature—god, angel, demon, mermaid, eldritch problem, take your pick.
• Danny either has no idea who the hell keeps bathing in his pool, or
• He knows and is doing something specifically to be annoying.
Danny discovers the Lazarus Pit.
Naturally, everyone else assumes he’s a creature of the Pit. A guardian. A god. A cursed spirit. A mermaid (he got the look). Danny does absolutely nothing to correct this.
But instead of the usual routes—destroying the League of Assassins, adopting Damian, picking a moral side—Danny just… starts chatting and continues to do so for centuries in their world.
Ra’s al Ghul becomes his pool buddy.
They talk while soaking in the Pit. Ra’s gives long, dramatic monologues about destiny, immortality, and the decay of the world. Danny listens politely, floating upside down, occasionally splashing, responding through some kind of ghostly translation magic that turns his very normal thoughts into something vaguely ominous and prophetic.
Ra’s: “The world must be cleansed to be reborn.”
Danny (meaning): “Yeah, stagnation sucks. You ever try bubble filters?”
Danny (translated): “All cycles end in rot, and rot demands renewal.”
Danny just thinks his pool buddy is neat.
Then one day Danny sees Ra’s with the Batfamily.
Danny, with complete sincerity, assumes this is Ra’s trying to invite his other friends to pool time.
He attempts to guide one of them into the Pit. It does not go well. There is screaming. There is grappling. There is Batman shouting about unknown entities and containment protocols.
Danny is confused. A little offended.
Still, every time he sees them after that, he tries again.
• appearing out of the Pit like a horror movie mermaid,
• ominously intoning (via broken translation magic):
“Enter the waters. The pool is warm. We are bonding.”
The Batfamily is convinced this is a recruitment ritual.
Danny is just trying to get his friends to hang out.
In his first centuries, when Ra’s al Ghul was still learning what immortality cost, he met the creature.
Back then, the Lazarus Pit was wilder. Less refined. Less… tamed. Ra’s had only bathed a handful of times when, during one resurrection, the waters did not still.
Something surfaced with him.
Ra’s woke choking on life and madness, and found himself face to face with a being already awake, already watching him with mild curiosity—as if Ra’s were the strange thing in the pool.
The creature was young-looking, but not young. Luminous in the Pit’s glow, hair drifting like ink in water, eyes reflecting death without fear. It did not recoil from the Pit’s frenzy. It was not consumed by it.
Ra’s understood immediately: a child of the Pit, born from death repeated too many times.
“You return too soon. The waters remember you.”
What it meant, in a voice filtered through strange translating magic:
“Wow, that was fast. You good, dude?”
Ra’s laughed. He could not help it.
From then on, Ra’s was never alone when he resurrected.
In those early centuries—before the League, before empires rose and fell beneath his feet—the creature would join him in the Pit. Sometimes already there, sometimes arriving halfway through Ra’s rebirth, as if checking on him.
It asked questions. Strange ones.
The Pit twisted these into riddles and warnings. Ra’s heard prophecy. Doctrine. Judgment.
He spoke of saving the world, of cleansing corruption, of shepherding humanity forward. The creature listened, chin propped on its hands, occasionally nodding.
It responded with statements like:
“Endless renewal without rest fractures the soul.”
(which meant: “That sounds exhausting.”)
Ra’s took this as sacred counsel.
Ra’s refined the Pit. Controlled it. Built rituals, safeguards, entire philosophies around it. Through it all, the creature remained—unchanged, unaging, eternally informal.
Sometimes it vanished for decades. Sometimes centuries. But whenever Ra’s returned to the Pit, there it was again, greeting him like an old friend.
When Ra’s finally formed the League, he spoke of the guardian with reverence. He warned his followers not to disturb the waters unnecessarily. It was watched.
Only much later—much later—did Ra’s bring outsiders to the Pit.
Ra’s al Ghul has faced the Detective many times.
This encounter is no different: steel, smoke, accusations, inevitability. The Bat stands between Ra’s and the Pit, his allies fanned out behind him, tense and prepared. Ra’s is already calculating angles, exits, casualties.
Then the waters of the Lazarus Pit ripple.
Slowly—deliberately—the guardian emerges.
Pale glow first. Then eyes. Then the familiar, impossible calm of a being that has watched Ra’s die and rise more times than any mortal ever should.
The Pit-spirit floats at the surface, blinking as it takes in the scene.
The creature tilts its head.
“Oh,” it says—though what Ra’s hears is something closer to:
“Conflict stains the waters before it begins.”
Ra’s does not move. He does not dare.
The bats, unfortunately, do.
One of them shifts, weapon raising half an inch.
The creature immediately misunderstands everything.
Its expression softens. Brightens. Recognition dawns.
“You brought friends?” it says, pleased.
Translated as: “The circle widens. New souls approach the threshold.”
The creature reacts faster.
It glides closer to the edge of the Pit, extending a hand—not threatening, not aggressive, just inviting. Like one would gesture toward warm water on a cold night.
“Careful,” it says gently. “First time can be rough, but you’ll feel better after.”
Of course this is happening.
The bats scatter. Someone swears. Someone fires a grappling hook. The creature recoils, startled, nearly slipping back into the Pit.
“Huh,” it says, confused.
Rendered ominously as: “Fear resists transformation.”
Ra’s snaps orders, retreating—not from the bats, but to shield the Pit. He positions himself between them and the guardian, blade lowered but ready.
The creature looks at him, baffled.
“They don’t want to hang out?” it asks.
Ra’s exhales, slow and reverent.
“They are… unprepared,” he says carefully.
The guardian considers this. Nods. Withdraws a little, sinking back into the waters.
“Okay,” it says. “Next time, then.”
Ra’s kneels by the Pit, heart still racing—not from battle, but from relief.
“I apologize,” he says quietly.
The creature shrugs, already relaxing.
And Ra’s al Ghul—immortal, feared, unwavering—accepts, once again, that he is not the most dangerous being in the room.
He is merely the one with the pool.
2087
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