“Portable Anchor (or: things you should not carry in a school backpack)”
He learns the rule the hard way.
Distance matters.
Not in the vague, poetic sense ghosts like to talk about—but in something measurable. Trackable. Painfully real.
Too far, and he starts to unravel.
Edges blur. Thoughts scatter. The world goes thin and distant like he’s being tuned out of existence.
So.
That’s a problem.
Gotham is very far from where he died.
The solution is… inelegant.
But effective.
The bones don’t weigh much.
That’s the first thing he notices.
For something that used to be him, they’re surprisingly light. Fragile, too. Charred black in places, cracked along the ribs, one arm not quite sitting right unless he adjusts it carefully.
He wraps them. Packs them away.
Zips the bag shut.
Problem solved.
Mostly.
He moves cities with a backpack slung over one shoulder like it doesn’t contain what’s left of his body.
No one questions it.
This is Gotham.
People carry worse.
The thing about being anchored is that it works both ways.
He doesn’t drift anymore. Doesn’t fade.
But he also can’t leave it behind.
Not for long.
Not without that same awful, unraveling pull.
He gets used to it.
The weight.
The quiet, constant awareness of it.
The way it grounds him, in a way nothing else does anymore.
Someone notices.
Of course they do.
It’s not the weirdness that gives him away—again, Gotham. Weird is baseline.
It’s the care.
The way he never lets the bag out of reach.
The way his posture shifts when someone gets too close to it.
The way, once, when it’s knocked over, he reacts too fast. Too sharp.
Like something important almost broke.
The man watching him files that away.
Observes.
Waits.
It happens on a rooftop.
Because of course it does.
“You’re protecting something,” the man says.
Not a question.
Danny doesn’t bother denying it.
“Yeah.”
“A weapon?”
“…Not exactly.”
A pause.
Wind moves between them, cold and restless.
“…A body?” the man tries.
Danny glances at him.
Considers.
Then shrugs one shoulder.
“Close enough.”
He doesn’t expect the man to understand.
Doesn’t expect him to stay.
Doesn’t expect—
“Well,” the man says after a moment, voice steady in a way that feels intentional, “you’re doing a good job protecting it.”
Danny blinks.
“…That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
Huh.
Later, when the bag rests beside him and the city hums below, Danny thinks—
Maybe Gotham isn’t the worst place to exist.
Even if you have to carry your own remains to do it,
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