Alfred: Children, please refrain from entering this part of the manor during your extreme game of tag. You are upsetting the ghost.
Dick: Um, we have a ghost?
Alfred: Yes he's in the crawl space.
Jason: How long has this ghost been here?
Alfred: Hmmmm, since the Drakes moved in? They gave Master Bruce an artifact they found in some ruins to befriend him. It turned out to be cursed.
Tim: I'm not surprised. My parents always went for the shiniest item in whatever tomb they found. Shiny in tombs ALWAYS means cursed.
Alfred: Indeed. This particular artifact was cursed by the Ghost Queen. She attempted to cause a coup by bonding the previous Ghost King to the item and threw it into the mortal world to create a makeshift cage. It worked for a little while.
Damian: What does that mean?
Alfred: The item only forces the Ghost King to a specific area around it for 72 hours. Then it powers down, and the King can return to where he was previously. The Queen was killed for treason upon his return, and the secret of breaking the bond died with her. The King, over the course of a few years, would randomly get zapped to the mortal world, bound by the property around the item for 72 hours, and flung right back. It was more of an inconvenience than an actual cage.
Duke: That's crazy. How come the Drakes didn't notice the Ghost Kig randomly popping up after picking up the artifact?
Tim defensively: They were new to the field when they moved into Drake Manor. It's hard to tell what's a curse and what isn't without experience!
Alfred: Yes, that, and given the fact that the King had been defeated hundreds of years prior. He was placed in an eternal slumber, but some idiot woke him and the artifact reactivated. Thankfully the throne was taken from the previous king in a right of conquest battle with the New King. That is who is in our crawl space.
Steph: I see. I see. Follow-up question. Why do you have a plate of cookies? You normally don't bake in the middle of the night.
Alfred: They're for the ghost. The King can get quite cranky when he's uprooted without noticed. Isn't that right your majesty? *opens wall*
Danny:
Alfred: I'll leave the plate here. I also brought you warm milk. I hope the next 70 hours are pleasant.
Danny: I was having a good dream. I was going to have a job interview tomorrow. All of that went out the window because of a stupid golden donkey statue. A donkey.
Tim: .....yeah but you got Alfred cookies. So it balances out.
Danny: ....Are you a Drake?
Tim: Yes
Danny: I can tell.
Tim: Why do I feel insulted?
Danny: Because it was a insult.
Damian: Ha! I enjoy this ghost. We should keep him.
Bruce: Damian was battling the ghost. He lost a lot of blood, and the blasted thing got away. Prep the medic bay.
Alfred: Right away sir.
Bruce: Hang on son.
Barbara from the Bat- computer screen: Is he going to be alright?
Bruce: Yes, once we get him some blood.
Barbara: Do you think he can give a description of the ghost he was fighting? I can start tracking him down so the others can avenge Damian.
Bruce: Let me check. Dami? What did that ghost look like?
Damian in a slurring voice: Sexy. White hair. Green eyes. Sexy
Bruce: It's no good. He's delirious.
Barbara typing rapidly: No, no, no. That's a good description. According to Amity Park's Top 10 Sexy Ghosts, we might be looking for number 1: Danny Phantom.
Bruce: Why the hell does a list like that exist?
Barbara: You shouldn't be surprised by what's on the internet, Bruce. Show Damian this picture to see if that's the right one.
Bruce: Damian, who is this? *holds up tablet with blurry image of Phantom*
Damian points to it: ITS SEXY!
Barbara: Okay, we got our target. I'll start tracking him.
Damian slurring: We'll have a Autum wedding.
Bruce: Barbara I don't mean to rush you but I need this ghost to be killed as soon as possible.
Damian: I'm gonna be the father of his children
Bruce darkly: He needs to die before daybreak, Barbara.
Jazz: That's good. We want rich customers. Just smile and get them to the back room for thier session. That's all you have to do.
Danny: Fine.
Dick: *Ringing counter bell* Hello?
Danny walking out with a fake smile: Hello! Welcome to Fenton Escape Rooms. Are you ready for a challenging fun filled hour of mystery?
Damian: This is idiotic. We will solve everything in five minutes.
Dick: Thats why we are each going in alone and going to beat each other's time.
Danny's eye twitching: The rooms are quite challenging
Tim pitying: I'm sure you worked hard on them. We just tend to breeze through escape rooms.
Danny uses his ghost powers to make the rooms and grows deeply offended: Really? If you're so sure, how about we make things interesting?
Jason: Oh that is interesting. What are we betting?
Danny: You take on our most difficult room as a group. If you can't solve it in an hour, I win, and you have to promote my business on your social media.
Damian: And when we win what do we gain?
Danny: Well what do you want?
Cass: A date
Danny: Pardon?
Cass smiling: You go on a date with one of us.
Danny: Who is the date with?
Cass looking around her group: I'm sure there are a few interested here.
Danny: Deal. Good luck to you all. The Ghost Zone is not a easy room to escape from
Damian threatening: This will be easy. Get ready to waste your time being treated like a King by my overly emotional siblings. They will romance you so well, we'll be planning a wedding.
Danny equal as threatening: I look forward to it brat.
Danny is flying through the Ghost Zone, minding his own business, when he's tackled from above. Usually he would have better reflexes than that, but his ghost sense hadn't gone off in time. Which means he is helpless against the small arms wrapping around his waist as they plummet toward the floating island below.
His echoing scream is nearly drowned out by the blowing wind, and when he lands stomach first on the ground, the boom is only heard by the person holding him. Danny's breath is knocked out of him so badly that his ghost form is dissolved around him. The bright rings of light do nothing to help the dizziness that fills his head as blood oozes out of his nose.
Danny is momentarily so disoriented that he can't fight when someone turns him onto his back, and he comes face to face with a beaming ghost. She's dressed in a big, puffy purple dress with more ruffles than necessary, covered in star-themed accessories, and her hair is pulled back into pigtails. Dangling from the pigtails are the stars on chains. Her gloves are up to her elbows with purple ribbons.
She's also sparkling with glitter, and she would have almost looked like a normal middle-schooler were it not for the blue of her skin and ghost glow to her body. And the wide, really crazed grin on her face.
Something was deeply wrong with this ghost's mental state.
"I knew it!" She gasps, leaning in close to Danny's face. "I knew that there was no such thing as a Halfa! You're a Magic Guardian!"
Danny tries to reply, but his vision is overtaken by black spots, and all he can manage is a slurred mutter of questions. The girl doesn't seem to mind, running her hands along his body as if searching for something. "Where do you keep it? The magic item? I'm ready to go back to the field. I'll do better this time!"
Her hands slip under his shirt as Phantom's healing factor clears the fog, and he can lift his legs. The new position causes her to lose balance on top of him, which gives Danny the needed opening he needs to get out of her pin and push her off. She tried to turn the push into a spinning kick, but Danny's now-human body made him untouchable to her.
Her leg goes through his head as he springs up on his hands and flips away from her. She stumbles in place, dress flaring in her sudden halt. She holds out a hand, shaking it aggressively. "Sorry! Sorry! It was a reflex."
"Who are you?" Danny holds up his fists. "What do you want?"
"I just need a second chance." She folds her hands in front of her, a desperate hitch bleeding into her voice. "I was careless last time, but now I know what to do. Please, just give me the magic item."
"I don't have a magic item-"
"LIAR!" She suddenly screeched, the force of her voice turning into a wail like those of a few banshees Danny had fought. "I KNOW YOU HAVE ONE. THIS WOULDN'T HAVE LIGHTENED UP OTHERWISE!"
She reaches up to her neck, where a glowing black chain is wrapped around. Years of listening to Sam preen about her gothic style let him know it's a lariat slip choker chain, and he almost admires the dangling moon, were it not for the girl's eyes starting to glow with the same dark purple sheen as the jewelry charm.
"I CAN DO IT." The girl yells. Almost feverish, as if her desperation to prove herself was burning her up inside. "I'M ONE OF THE CHOOSEN."
"Chosen lunatics, more likely," Danny replies, taking a step back.
"NO! I CAN DO IT-"
Her words are cut off as the necklace detaches from her neck. At once, her entire form changes. Gone is her dress and star accessories; even her hair goes from pigtails close to her head to long, flowing hair reaching her ankles. She is now dressed in plain jeans and a black shirt. Her eyes even shift back to normal pupils, though they are wide with horror.
"No." She falls to her knees. "No, please. I gave everything for that. I gave my life. My life....."
Danny opens his mouth to ask what she means when the necklace suddenly flies at him at an impossible-to-dodge speed. He's knocked off his feet, pushed back once more, but this time by the neck.
His breath is once more knocked out of him, and the girl's mutters break into devastated sobs. His world tilts as Danny falls, and despite the ground beneath his feet, he falls far longer and far farther than he should.
A portal had ripped open under him.
He watches the Zone slowly recede as he free-falls into the mortal world, able to recognize the change in lighting despite not being Amity Park's familiar clear blue skies.
Grey overtakes his eyesight. Grey clouds, grey buildings, grey ground, and even the air feels grey somehow. Danny's back hits the pavement, once again sees black spots. This time, he isn't strong enough to shake them off as the world slowly vanishes behind him.
He lies there on the ground, feeling rain drench his body as a group of people surrounds his fallen form. He sees their lips moving but makes nothing of it; he can even muster the strength to move his outstretched arms.
The necklace wraps itself around his neck, humming with power. It's the only warm thing on his body.
As everything goes dark, a voice whispers in his mind.
Danny Fenton, you have been chosen to fight the forces of darkness.
This is the beginning of Fallen Star, Gotham's most tragic magic boy, ripped from his home and forced into soldiering for a necklace that promised fame and heroism with the power of friendship.
But all it does is steal the lives of children. Were it not for Danny's previous experience as Phantom, he likely would have ended up like that poor girl wandering the Ghost Zone, waiting for the necklace's intoxicating call with each fight it forced him into.
Being a hero means stepping up to fight when no one else will. Being called to fight when there is no chance of refusal means making a sacrifice.
Tim Drake, one of the people who found Fallen Star and witnessed the first forced transformation. He had seen the boy trapped inside his own body as he showed up to fights as an adorable prince, created of stars, associates, ruffles, and an overly preppy tone that belied the screaming teen fighting to regain control of his body.
Danny as Alfred body body snatcher is insane. Bruce why are you so mad?? 😭😭 1: He never killed any of his bodies 2: He's the same man you knew the entire time!! Yeah he only loved you because you're Thomas Wayne's son but you probably never knew that!!
Also I know Bruce thinks Gotham needs Batman but considering the DC universe has Magic and insane technology he could move to the other side of the PLANET, live his life as Bruce there and still be Batman in Gotham at night. Wait. No timezones. Well my point kinda still stands.
Also! Babian.
Bruce just thinks it's morally wrong to be snatching bodies. For example, the real Alfred Pennyworth died in England, but when his body was taken, everyone just assumed Alfred had abandoned his wife and daughter for the USA. No one in Alfred's real life knows he's gone, and thus no one mourns him; there was no putting him to rest, no closure, just a "man" who vanished.
Also, the fact that Danny is a paranormal creature that takes bodies is something dangerous if he's running around wearing humans as clothes. Danny likes Bruce because of his fondness for Thomas, but that's the only indication he's morally good. Usually, creatures with these kinds of abilities are not the friendliest toward humans. A good example is that Danny felt nothing when Jason died and wore his corpse because it only cares about Thomas' bloodline. If Bruce or Damian were to die, then Danny would likely kill everyone in the manor so they stop messing with the only thing remaining of Thomas- his stuff. Danny's more obsessed than in love with Thomas at this point because he's not be human in a long time.
The reason Bruce doesn't leave Gotham is that he is stubborn and his entire mental state relies on being Batman. Another reason is that Bruce is suffering from the full weight of the Wayne curse, and Danny purposely made it worse for him.
Have you ever heard the phrase "Was that love or was that what you thought love was?" That's basically what's happening to Bruce. The man he knows as Alfred was a lie; everything Alfred did was a lie, and he was hit with the knowledge that Alfred never loved him- heck, didn't even like him.
It starts with Superman. At first, no one noticed, because Clark is always surrounded by adoring fans whenever he takes the time to interact with the civilians. He's used to people crowding around, begging for photos, autographs, and even handing him gifts.
Clark follows Bruce's suggestion to avoid autographs but allows selfies and accepts gifts. He tries to say yes only to kids, though, because he has a soft spot for them and doesn't trust the adults. After a normal save- a school bus almost fell off the edge of a bridge after three tires popped and the driver lost control- he was once again surrounded by children begging for his attention.
Amid the chaos, Clark's arms were filled with gifts from well-meaning teens who talked over one another and clustered close. Everywhere he looked, there was a teen with bright eyes and a wide smile, many clutching thier phones for a photo or two. Clark allowed them close for about three minutes before he politely excused himself and flew away, ignoring their disappointment.
He checked every gift, high in the sky, making sure there was no tracking or dangerous item. Once they passed his checks, Clark flew to his apartment, making sure he wasn't followed. After touching up his latest story- writing was mostly editing, he found- he took a bath and got himself some dinner.
Only then, right before he was set to head off to bed, did Clark bother to go through the gifts. Most were drawings and handmade beaded bracelets that reminded him fondly of his own high school days. There was one Superman plushie that seemed handmade, which found its way to a shelf in his room, but the one gift that really stole the show was the very last one.
It was a scroll that, upon unrolling, melted Clark's heart. It was an ink painting of Superman saving an elderly couple. It was obviously from the fire a month ago at the Daily Planet, and the couple was someone very dear to the hero.
There, in bold, sharp black lines, was Clark carrying his Ma and Pa out of the fire, thier faces beaming with love. The artist made the artistic decision not to include the disaster he was rescuing them from, so the image depicted the hair midflight with his parents in each arm, the wing blowing thier hair and thier smiles wide and warm.
He would hang this in his fortress as soon as he flew by the farm to show his parents. He stared at it a little longer before rolling it up and hiding it in his closet behind a false wall.
Clark never suspected anything because there was a picture of Superman saving the Kents, taken by one Jimmy Olsen. He fell asleep that night thinking about how much his family would love it.
That was until the monthly Justice League meeting, where the painting came up in casual conversation after it concluded and members were in the process of leaving. Barry was just retelling his most daring rescue of a group of high schoolers at science camp, outrunning a flood to reach the children. He was also showered with gifts, but his favorite was the ink painting of him running with Iris in his arms from the time he got her out of a building with a bomb.
Clark doesn't normally interrupt a conversation- because his Pa raised him better than that- but he couldn't help it this time. "An ink painting? I got one of those from a teenager two weeks ago."
"I got one too," Hal yells from across the table. He's leaning his cheek back with his feet up. Clark knows Bruce is fighting every instinct in himself to not snap at Hal to take his feet off the table. "It was even in a fancy scroll."
"Mine too." Barry and Clark say at the same time. The three pause, exchanging confused looks. A throat clears on the other side of the room; the men turn to find Diana standing there holding a very familiar scroll.
It is the same fabric that Clark's was made of, the same dark material with the twisting green swirls around the painting. The painting itself was of Wonder Woman, sword held high above her, shield at her side, and right behind her, smiling upwards at her like the goddess she is, stands Steve Trevor.
Except Steve Trevor has been dead for over eight decades. There was no way a random high school had found a picture of him, because Diana had spent years looking for pictures of him and had only found two, both too blurry to really see his facial features. The government had destroyed nearly all records of him when Steve became a part of a secret task force in WWII and couldn't afford to have him linked back to the USA.
This meant the gift giver was someone who had gone out of their way to find Steve and knew that he was someone special to Wonder Woman. Which meant this person also knew that the people they had painted for the other members weren't a wonderful accident but a deliberate choice to use thier family members.
"This just became a risk to our loved ones," Diana announces, hand tight around the top of the scroll
Hal stopped rocking in his chair, swearing softly. "They painted my niece and nephew after I saved them from a fire. I did a few loops and tricks in the air to help calm them down, so a lot of photos of us were taken. I assumed that the artist just used one as a reference. I had no idea that....."
His words fade, but no one calls him out on it. Clark's own heart was hammering in his chest, worry and anxiety licking at his stomach in a nauseating manner. The knowledge that someone out there knew his parents and was even bold enough to taunt him by sending him a painting scared him more than he thought he was capable of feeling.
The four gathered around, retelling how they received their gifts and comparing notes for any similarities. The one thing that stood out was that the scroll was always dropped off when a group of teenagers was nearby, meaning the one behind it was either using teenagers or was a teenager themselves.
"Do you think we are the only ones being targeted?" Clark questions while tapping his arm. "Does anyone else in the League receive them?"
"I'll send out a message," Barry offers, typing away on his tablet. A beep goes off on everyone's communicators, reading out the message in code and calling all members back for an emergency briefing. "We need to make it quick. I don't like leaving Iris alone now that I know someone knows about her."
Turns out every one of the main seven had received a scroll, which made everyone uneasy. Almost everyone.
"Did you not like them?" Bruce doesn't pout, but it's the closest any of them have ever seen him get to. "He worked really hard on them."
"He? Batman, do you know who sent these?"
The Dark Knight leans back in his seat, as stoic as the day they met him, but everyone knows him well enough to see the emotions just beneath his skin. Bruce was preening.
"My son painted those."
"Robin?" Clark frowns. "Why did he not just give it to us at the Watch Tower?"
"No. My other son. He doesn't know he's my son, but I know that he's my son, and I'm watching him go out in the world and act like he's not my son."
"Hold on." Barry holds up an arm. "I got confused. Which Robin are we talking about?"
"None."
".....Then how is he your son?"
"He's my biological child, whom I had during a fling with his parents during thier visit to the Tower of London."
"Parent s. As in plural?" Hal cuts in, eyebrows raised.
"Yes." Bruce nods once, sharply, decisively. And because they know him so well, smugly, "They're ghost hunters."
"Right, so your biological son, who doesn't know he's yours because he was raised by the two-thirds of your threesome, painted pictures of our family members and gave them to us as gifts." Oliver summarized, with confusion clearly coloring his words. "Does that mean he knows our secret identities?"
"Yes."
"Did you tell him?" Clark asks
"No."
"Then how does he know?"
Bruce paused for a single second before he shrugged. "He takes after me. He painted one for me as well"
They watch the man eagerly pull a scroll from its strap on his utility belt, letting it roll open on its own. It's an awe-inspiring painting of Batman mid-swing over the city of Gotham, with the moon behind him. It has bold, thick lines that create a contrast with the white fabric.
It is a true masterpiece....were it not for the giant world written across the scroll.
"It says menace."
"Yes. He does not like Batman"
Diana very delicately stepped closer, placing one comforting hand on Bruce's shoulder. "He'll come around."
"He will not. He thinks Batman is a ghost and has attempted to kill me multiple times. He won't let me close enough to talk"
There is another heavier pause before Clark stands. "All in favor of helping Batman with his child, say aye."
"Aye." The word is echoed by six different voices.
Bruce rolls up his scroll. "That's nice."
"Don't worry, Batman. How hard can it be to track down an ink artist?"
Two years later, Clark is sobbing into his hands in the conference room that has been covered inch by inch with Ink paintings. Every new piece is a new taunt. A reminder that for all his superpowers, he had nothing on the mind of a very determined and petty Wayne. "Where is he? Where is that boy?"
"What is he!? A ghost!?" Hal flings blurry photos over the table, each with a teenage boy. He's never in focus, rarely facing the camera, and the only thing clear about him is his bright green eyes, which almost seem to glow. "How can none of us get a good picture of him!?
Bruce turns from where he's admiring his son's latest work. "Wait a minute. You might be on to something."
