âšđ» Ghostly Welcome Wagon đŠâš
By: PelawenNight
A Danny Phantom x Batfamily Crackfic Series
đ Summary:
Batman sends his sons to Amity Park to vet Cassâs mysterious new boyfriend. What they find is a ghost-infested town, a teenage superhero called Phantom, and one extremely overprotective older sister with a black belt in psychology and a roundhouse kick strong enough to launch Red Hood off a silo. Dannyâs sister Jazz delivers a shovel talk for the agesâand the Batboys may never recover.
đŹ Authorâs Note:
Hey bestie đ
Thank you so much for all the love and support. I took my original one-shot and turned it into a full series, because how could I not?
This one's got ghost fights, Bat-boy chaos, sibling drama, and Jason Todd catching feelings after getting his ass kicked by a therapist.
Iâm having way too much funâhope you are too!
(See end of post for more notes!)
The unassuming town of Amity, Illinois, shimmered under the afternoon sun, a picture of Midwestern normalcy that belied the chaotic ectoplasmic reality hidden beneath its surface. Fields of corn stretched to the horizon, dotted with the occasional farmhouse and a smattering of forgotten industrial structures. Perched precariously in the skeletal remains of an abandoned grain silo overlooking the town, Jason Todd (Red Hood), Dick Grayson (Nightwing), and Tim Drake (Red Robin) meticulously scanned FentonWorks through high-powered optics. The silo, a relic of a bygone agricultural era, offered a wide, if exposed, vantage point over the residential streets, and the bizarre, anachronistic structure that was the Fenton residence.
Back in Gotham, Bruce Wayne was receiving real-time feeds, his typically unreadable face betraying a rare flicker of concern that had only deepened over the past month. His adopted daughter, Cassandra Cain, their usually stoic and emotionally distant sister, had been⊠different. Her guarded shell had cracked, revealing glimpses of a lightheartedness they rarely saw. Her smiles, once a fleeting glimpse, were becoming more frequent, openly genuine. Her phone, once a mere communication tool for mission-critical updates or quick nods of affirmation, was practically fused to her hand, constantly buzzing with messages from "Danny." Theyâd seen video calls where Danny, radiating an easy charm and a slightly goofy grin, made Cass laughâa soft, breathy sound that was music to their ears. Sheâd even tried to teach him some basic martial arts moves over video, a sight that had nearly given Bruce a heart attack, until he saw Dannyâs endearing, clumsy attempts and Cassâs patient, gentle corrections.
The Fentons, Bruce had quickly compiled, were notorious for their "mad scientist" tendencies and their penchant for accidental chaos. Their files, compiled from fragmented news reports and obscure online forums, painted a picture of brilliant, if utterly unhinged, researchers obsessed with the paranormal. It was a bizarre narrative, but one that had surprisingly impressed the usually unflappable Dark Knight when he saw how effortlessly young Danny Fenton navigated their bizarre inventions and antics during the initial Wayne Enterprises visit. Heâd even witnessed a brief, bewildering video snippet that Cass had saved from one of their chats: Danny accidentally phasing through his own bed, eliciting a silent, delighted laugh from Cass that had resonated deeply with them all.
Now, with talks of Cass actually visiting this "Danny" in Amity, Bruce had dispatched his most reliable (and, Jason would argue, expendable) sons to get a read on the situation. The directive was clear: observe and report. Assess the kid, the town, and any potential threats. The Justice League, financed largely by Bruce, prided itself on global awareness and preparedness for every conceivable menace. The idea that a hidden variableâan entire town, perhapsâespecially one affecting a member of his own family, could exist without their knowledge was an anomaly he couldn't abide. It was a gaping hole in their intel.
"Still nothing," Tim grumbled into his comm, his voice a low drone of frustration. He adjusted the focus on his binoculars, which were currently trained on the quaint, slightly tilted house labeled 'FentonWorks.' The building itself looked like a cross between a suburban home and a low-budget research facility, complete with strange antenna dishes and what appeared to be a giant, metal, archway-shaped device in the backyard. "No known meta-activity, no rogue League members hiding out. Just⊠corn. And a surprising amount of lawn gnomes. My sensors are barely picking up anything anomalous. Itâs like the whole town is a dead zone for standard readings, and then suddenly bursts of high-level⊠something that my instruments canât even categorize." He gestured vaguely at the flickering readings on his wrist-mounted console.
"She's been talking to him for over a month, Tim," Dick reminded him, his voice softer, yet firm. He leaned against a rusting metal beam, scanning the horizon with his own optics. "Cass doesn't open up to just anyone. There has to be something here. Something more than corn." He sighed, remembering a recent video call where Cass was patiently showing Danny a complex martial arts move, their heads close together, eyes sparkling with shared amusement. The simple, unburdened happiness on her face was worth the trip alone. It was a rare, precious thing.
Jason snorted, wiping dust from his helmet with a gloved hand. "Yeah, something called 'teenage infatuation.' Or maybe the kid's a master manipulator. My money's still on him being a serial killer who uses 'quirky mad scientist parents' as a cover." He glanced at the makeshift thermal map of the town on Tim's tablet, which showed perfectly normal, if slightly too warm, readings from the Fenton residence. "Seriously, this town is flat. No decent vantage points, no shadows. It's like it's designed to be inconvenient for us. Bruce must hate this place."
Their initial assessment, however, was spectacularly, spectrally, wrong.
Their first night was supposed to be a quiet data-gathering session, a routine observation punctuated by the incessant chirping of crickets and the distant croaking of frogs. They watched Danny help his parents, Jack and Maddie, wrangle what looked suspiciously like a giant, glowing toaster into a specially reinforced shed behind their house. It hummed with a low, unnatural thrum. Jack, a man built like a barrel with wild black hair, nearly tripped over his own feet, sending the glowing device wobbling precariously. Maddie, sharp and focused, barked instructions that sounded like a mix of particle physics and enthusiastic culinary advice.
"Are those⊠Ghostbusters props?" Tim whispered, incredulous, zooming in on the glowing appliance. "That's clearly not an appropriate use of government grants, even if they're independent. And that's a lot of ectoplasm showing up on my ambient scanners now. It's like it just appeared. And it's not a known energy signature. My instruments are having trouble filtering it out, itâs saturating the air."
Suddenly, the air directly in front of the Fenton house shimmered, twisting like heat haze off asphalt, growing denser and more opaque. A portly, spectral figure, vaguely humanoid but unmistakably translucent, materialized with a dramatic WHOOSH. He wore a cardboard box for a hat and gestured dramatically at a stack of ordinary moving boxes next to the front door. His eyes glowed a sickly green, and his form rippled like heat in a desert. "I am the Box Ghost! Beware! Beware of my cardboard wrath! For I control all things⊠rectangular!" he boomed, his voice echoing with an unnatural resonance that vibrated through the silo, rattling loose bits of grain and dust.
The Bat-Brothers froze. Jason instinctively reached for one of the Red Hood's hidden firearms, his fingers brushing against the cool metal. Dick narrowed his eyes, analyzing the spectral form, recognizing it as something entirely outside their established threat parameters. It wasn't a meta-human, not an alien they knew, and definitely not a magical construct of any known earthly origin. Tim, ever the analyst, frantically typed notes on his wrist-mounted computer, trying to cross-reference the apparition with any known meta-human, alien, or magical profiles. Nothing matched. His systems, usually so robust, were sputtering, struggling to even categorize the energy readings that spiked wildly around the spectral entity. "He's⊠he's literally made of⊠ghost?" Tim whispered, his voice a mixture of awe and utter disbelief.
Before they could fully process the utter absurdity of the situation, a blur of white and black shot out of the Fenton house. Danny, now glowing with an eerie green aura, his hair a shocking white, intercepted the ghost mid-boast. "Oh, come on, Boxy! It's Tuesday! Don't you have a convention to haunt? Or a basement full of empty Amazon boxes calling your name? Iâm seriously trying to get to bed before midnight for once!"
What followed was a brief, utterly bewildering aerial skirmish. Danny, or rather "Phantom," as the ghostly figure was now audibly calling himself, effortlessly dodged a flying stapler, phased through the roof of the shed to avoid a spectral filing cabinet, and fired glowing green ecto-blasts from his hands. The Box Ghost, for his part, tried to overwhelm Phantom with an onslaught of spectral packing peanuts and a haunting pronouncement about the perils of square footage. Then, with a weary sigh that carried clearly even to the silo, Phantom summoned a glowing thermos, aimed, and with a loud thwump, sucked the glowing Box Ghost into it. The spectral energies dissipated, and the air cleared.
Phantom then reverted to his human form, his hair returning to black, the green glow fading. He wiped a hand across his forehead, looking utterly exhausted. "Right. That's done. Time for homework," he muttered, trudging back into the house, a faint hum of ecto-energy lingering in the air.
The Bat-Brothers exchanged stunned glances. The silence in the silo was deafening, broken only by the chirping crickets, now sounding remarkably normal.
"Did⊠did he just fight a ghost?" Jason finally managed, his voice laced with utter disbelief, his hand still hovering over his weapon. He felt ridiculous for even considering drawing on that. His Gotham training offered no counter-strategy for a sentient cardboard box.
"And he's a ghost himself?" Dick added, eyes wide, still processing the sheer impossibility of what they'd just witnessed. "He just⊠transformed. Like a meta-human. But⊠into that. And he's Cass's boyfriend. Bruce, are you seeing this?"
Tim's fingers flew across his keyboard, his usual rapid-fire data processing overwhelmed. "My sensors are going haywire. Ectoplasmic signatures off the charts. Energy readings⊠they're not registering on any known scale. And the town⊠it's like a low-level static on every wavelength. This whole town is radiating anomalous energy! This isn't just a localized event; it's systemic." He pulled up a map, now overlaid with pulsing green hotspots, emanating from everywhere and nowhere all at once. Every block, every home, seemed to have its own faint, bizarre signature. "And this 'Phantom' is the epicenter of it all. He's part of it."
Over the next few days, their surveillance became a rapid descent into the utterly absurd. Their strategic observations turned into bewildered spectator sports, where the main attraction was the seemingly endless parade of bizarre, intangible threats, and the perpetually tired teenage hero who fought them. They ate lukewarm energy bars and watched Amity's daily paranormal circus unfold.
They witnessed battles, often several times a day, sometimes in the middle of the school day, sometimes late at night. There was Ember McLain, a spectral goth girl who controlled music, turning pop hits into ear-splitting screeches and shattering windows with a sonic wail, demanding to be recognized. There was the Lunch Lady ghost, a monstrous blob made of school lunch residue, oozing through the cafeteria walls, furious about nutritional guidelines. There was Skulker, a towering, armored hunter ghost, who engaged Phantom in brutal aerial dogfights over the local diner, always demanding a challenge. And then there were the countless minor annoyances: a hyperactive poltergeist with a penchant for pranks involving flying pizza and turning all streetlights green; a towering, skeletal cowboy who rode a ghostly steed through Main Street, lassoing parked cars for target practice; even a sentient, haunted sandwich that tried to steal the local bakery's bread.
Each time, "Phantom" swooped in to save the day. Heâd phase through walls with casual ease, fly at impossible speeds, fire ecto-blasts that shattered spectral forms, and always, always end the encounter by sucking the spectral menace into a thermos. Heâd do it with a sarcastic quip ("Seriously, Meat-head? Still trying to make me eat those soggy tacos?"), a weary sigh ("Can we just not today, Spectra? I have a calculus test."), or a muttered complaint about being late for class or needing a shower. He looked perpetually tired, a dark smudge under his eyes that no amount of sleep could fix. His movements were precise, practiced, almost elegant despite the raw power he wielded. He was clearly a veteran, a phantom in his own right, fighting a war no one else seemed to notice.
The Bat-Brothers, seasoned veterans of Gotham's bizarre underworld, found themselves utterly out of their depth. Their gadgets, designed to counter conventional threatsâcriminal gangs, meta-human villains, even the occasional alien skirmishâwere useless against beings that could simply phase through them, or were themselves intangible. Their training, honed against human and meta-human adversaries, didn't account for incorporeal combatants. They had to rely on Phantom to indirectly save their hides more times than they cared to admit, often without him even knowing they were there.
One afternoon, while trailing Danny from school, they tried to get a closer look at a glowing, green portal that had spontaneously appeared in the town square. Before they could get within fifty feet, a ghostly, furry creature with glowing red eyes and razor claws burst through it, shrieking like a banshee. It looked like a monstrous wolf, all teeth and shadow. Jason immediately engaged, firing a warning shot from his non-lethal sidearm, but the creature simply phased through the bullet, its shriek growing louder as it lunged for him. Just as it was about to rip into his tactical gear, a blur of white and green intercepted it, Phantom slamming into the creature and sending it howling back into the portal with a resounding thwumph. The portal blinked shut.
"This isn't 'stalking a potential threat,'" Jason grumbled into his comm later that night, patching a new rip in his sleeve that had mysteriously appeared from an invisible ghost's claw. "This is getting our asses handed to us by⊠lunch lady ghosts and whatever the hell that 'Wulf' thing was. And he just teleported to save my ass. Again. For the fifth time today! My armor's getting more ectoplasm than bullet holes!"
Tim, perpetually exhausted and running on lukewarm coffee and sheer stubbornness, just stared blankly at a thermal reading of a haunted toaster that was currently causing a minor electrical fire at a local diner, making toast pop out of the toaster at impossible speeds. "My brain can't process this. Gotham has Joker. Amity has⊠a sentient toaster. And a Box Ghost. What is happening? More importantly, how long has this been going on, and why doesn't the Justice League know? Bruce, the League is global. How could an entire town of active, pervasive supernatural phenomena be completely off their radar? Has he been doing this for years? Decades? The sheer volume of spectral energy radiating from this place should be a flashing beacon in space!"
Dick, despite the overwhelming chaos and the genuine danger they faced, found himself increasingly fascinated. "He's genuinely good, though. He protects this town, and he does it alone. He's tired. He moves like a veteran, a ghost himself, but heâs still just a kid. And his parents⊠they're building the very things that seem to attract and contain these entities. How is his family stuck in the middle of all this? Is it accidental? Deliberate? And he died, didn't he? Bruce, the files said something about an accident with the portal. He's a kid, Bruce. Just a kid, doing this every single day." He watched Phantom, currently battling a giant, spectral dragon high above the town, his movements precise and practiced, almost elegant despite the raw power he wielded. The weight of his burden was palpable even from this distance, etched onto his tired, ghostly face.
Bruce's voice, gravelly and analytical, came through the comms, cutting through the static of their bewilderment. "The energy signatures are unique. Unquantifiable by known League metrics. This warrants further investigation. Continue observation. Do not engage unless absolutely necessary for your own survival. A full League debrief will be required upon your return. This⊠changes things. Everything."
"Too late for 'not engaging,' B," Jason muttered, eyeing another glowing entity floating past their silo, a grinning spectral clown juggling spectral bowling pins. "He's already had to save our asses three times this week. And what the hell are we supposed to tell the League? 'Sorry, we found a town full of ghosts and a teenage half-ghost who's been doing your job for who-knows-how-long, and we accidentally stumbled into his girlfriend's bizarre homelife'?" He felt a strange mix of annoyance and grudging respect for the kid. This Danny kid, this Phantom, was a force of nature, a one-man clean-up crew for an entire supernatural epidemic. And he was tired. A growing sense of dread about explaining any of this to the League settled in Jason's gut. He could already hear Diana's questions about mythological entities, Arthur's skepticism about land-locked anomalies, and Clark's cheerful but ultimately unhelpful suggestions about offering a "friendly hand."
Unbeknownst to them, their covert surveillance had not gone unnoticed. Jazz Fenton, Dannyâs older sister, was many things: a psychology prodigy with an unnervingly keen eye for human (and spectral) behavior, fiercely intelligent, and burdened with an acute awareness of her parentsâ scientific negligence and her brotherâs impossible secret. She had navigated their dysfunctional, ghost-obsessed household with a mix of academic detachment and unwavering protectiveness for years. She'd known about Danny's powers since he first accidentally phased through the living room wall; she'd been the one to help him figure out his abilities, to keep his secret, to pick up the pieces when their parents' experiments went awry. She knew he'd died and come back, half-ghost, and she knew the terrifying weight of his secret, the constant battles, the bone-deep exhaustion that perpetually shadowed his eyes. And sheâd accepted it, managing it the only way she knew how: with structure, copious therapy notes (for everyone but herself, of course), and a perpetually vigilant eye on her baby brother.
When Danny started getting giddy texts from "Cass," Jazz had been cautiously optimistic. A normal connection! A lifeline to something outside their paranormal circus. But then, the phone calls turned into video chats where she'd glimpse shadowy figures in the background on Cass's end, figures that moved with a certain predatory grace. A few carefully placed, anonymous searches about "Gotham vigilantes" and "masked figures operating in secret" sent a chill down her spine. The blurry images she found were enough. Men in tactical gear, lurking in the shadows, always near Cass. And now, Danny was talking about Cass visiting Amity. The pieces clicked into place with an alarming, horrifying certainty. Her baby brother was being drawn into a world of costumed psychopaths and brooding billionaires.
Jazz had enough on her plate with her parents accidentally summoning interdimensional demons on a bi-weekly basis. Her baby brother, who had already faced death and embraced a terrifying power to protect their bizarre town, was not going to be drawn into the theatrics of self-appointed, spandex-clad vigilantes. Especially not by masked men who seemed to be stalking him and, by extension, her family. Her protective older sister instincts, honed by years of parental neglect and ghostly emergencies, flared into a protective inferno.
She had been tracking the anomalous energy signatures they'd been giving off since they arrived. They were subtle, almost imperceptible to anyone not actively looking for them â a faint technological hum, a barely-there electrical discharge, traces of unique fabrics. But Jazzâs custom-built ecto-scanners (hidden inside a seemingly innocuous psychology textbook in her backpack) had pinged their unique wavelengths for days. Tonight, the readings were concentrated right above the old grain silo. Perfect. She slipped out of the house, a grim determination in her eyes, leaving her parents blissfully unaware, as usual.
The Bat-Brothers were deep in their comms, debating the feasibility of using sonic disruptors against an entirely incorporeal foe, utterly oblivious to the approaching storm. Tim was frantically trying to input new parameters for ghost classification, while Dick was contemplating if a full-spectrum light bomb could affect spectral beings. Jason was just grumbling about the existential dread of sentient pastries. A soft thump echoed from behind them. They spun, their trained reflexes kicking in, dropping into defensive stances honed over years in Gotham's darkest alleys.
Standing calmly in the dim, dusty light of the silo, a redheaded young woman in sensible jeans and a crimson hoodie looked at them. Her eyes, sharp and intelligent, narrowed as she took in their tactical gear, their masks, their very presence. She knew exactly what they were. The "training wheels Justice League" as she'd mentally dubbed them.
"So," Jazz Fenton said, her voice cutting through the tension, surprisingly calm given the circumstances. "You're the creepy stalkers who've been tracking my little brother." Her tone was deceptively light, but the underlying steel was unmistakable, a prelude to the psychological onslaught she was about to unleash.
Jason, Red Hood, ever the impulsive one, took a step forward, his hand subtly going to a holstered weapon. "Look, lady, we're justâ"
He never finished the sentence. Jazz moved with a speed that belied her unassuming appearance. It wasn't the fluid, almost dancing grace of a trained martial artist like Cass, but something sharper, more direct, born of exasperation and years of dealing with literal monsters. She didnât aim to injure, but to assert, to make a point with undeniable physical force. With a fluid movement that surprised even Nightwing, she executed a perfect roundhouse kick. It connected squarely with Jasonâs chest, the muffled thwack audible even through his armor. He grunted, surprised, and stumbled backward, losing his footing on the rickety wooden planks of the silo's observation deck. He tumbled over the edge, disappearing with a surprised "oof!" into the tall grass and shadowy debris below.
Dick, Nightwing, and Tim, Red Robin, stared, dumbfounded, their defensive stances momentarily forgotten. Their comms, for once, were utterly silent.
"Jason!" Dick yelled, rushing to the edge, peering down into the darkness.
"He deserved it," Jazz declared, calmly dusting off her hands, a flicker of satisfaction in her eyes. "Trying to intimidate a psychological professional. Amateur. Honestly, the posturing is a textbook defense mechanism for deep-seated insecurities." She turned her gaze to Tim, who immediately took a more guarded stance, feeling oddly exposed despite his mask. "And you," she pointed a finger at him, her voice holding a note of exasperated concern, as if addressing a particularly difficult therapy patient, "you look like you're perpetually stressed. Dark circles. Caffeine addiction, I'd wager. You probably need a nap. And a less demanding job. Perhaps a hobby that doesn't involve lurking in dilapidated structures."
Tim, genuinely flustered by the pinpoint accuracy of her assessment, stammered, "IâI'm fine. Who are you?"
"I'm Jazz Fenton," she announced, her voice firm and clear, projecting an authority that made them both instinctively pause. "Danny's older sister. And if you think you're going to drag my baby brother into your little cape-and-cowl drama, you've got another thing coming." She then fixed Nightwing with a steely, unblinking glare that pierced straight through his domino mask. "And you. You look like the leader. You need to tell whoever you work for â Bruce Wayne, I presume, given his daughter's⊠particular circle of acquaintances â that if they lay one gloved hand on my brother, if they try to interfere with his life or, God forbid, try to recruit him, I will personally dissect their psychological profile and expose every single one of their neuroses to the entire city. I will publish it. I will lecture on it. Your mysterious lives? Over. Capiche?"
Dick, usually unflappable, the master of de-escalation, the one who could talk down angry villains and comfort traumatized victims, could only gape, his mouth slightly ajar behind his mask. "What the fuck is wrong with this town?" he muttered under his breath, utterly bewildered by the sudden, unexpected, and terrifyingly competent civilian intervention. This wasn't just a threat; it was a deeply personal, meticulously planned, psychological ambush.
Before Jazz could deliver another psychological threat, a new presence shimmered into existence beside her, a flash of white and green. Phantom materialized, his white hair a mess, his glowing green eyes wide with panic as he took in the scene: Jazz, mid-rant, and two bewildered masked figures, with a third, even more bewildered one, slowly rising from the ground below. He'd been battling a particularly persistent spectral clown that kept turning innocent citizens into balloon animals, and his ecto-sense had just screamed at him that Jazz was about to do something drastically embarrassing.
"Jasmine!" Danny, as Phantom, hissed, his voice laced with mortification, his spectral glow flickering with agitated energy. He saw Red Hood slowly picking himself up from the ground below, rubbing his chest. "Oh my god, Jasmine! Tell me you didn't just punt-kick an ex-crime lord off a roof! Please, please, please tell me you didn't!" He turned to the two masked figures still on the platform, his glowing eyes widening apologetically. "I am so sorry about her. She's⊠very protective. And a bit dramatic. She means well, mostly." He floated slightly, wringing his spectral hands. "Look, I know this is weird, and I know you guys are⊠well, you guys. Could you please, please not send Batman here? He'd just make things worse. Heâd probably try to analyze the ghosts, or worse, put them in Arkham. And honestly, we've got enough problems with the actual ghosts without adding a brooding vigilante and his highly trained, hyper-competent-but-currently-traumatized family to the mix."
Red Hood slowly looked up from the ground, brushing himself off. The dust of the silo stuck to his armor, and he felt a phantom ache in his chest where the kick had landed. He saw Phantom hovering, a kid in a ghostly suit, clearly mortified by his sister's actions. He then saw Jazz, arms crossed, looking at Danny with a look that clearly said, 'He started it, little brother, and frankly, I'm proud.' A faint, almost imperceptible flush crept up Jason's neck, spreading beneath his helmet. "Huh. She's⊠got a good kick," he mumbled, a strange, new thought blooming in his very confused mind. She had audacity. And she was protecting her brother. And that red hair⊠yeah.
Red Robin, however, was already done. He clutched his head, eyes wide with a mixture of exasperation and existential terror. "I'm so done. I'm taking a sabbatical. To a deserted island. With no internet. And no ghosts. Or highly articulate, psychologically astute older sisters who can apparently punt highly trained vigilantes into next week."
Jazz, a triumphant smirk gracing her lips, ignored Danny's mortified apologies. "Now," she said, cutting across him, her voice resonating with finality, "if you'll excuse us, my brother and I have actual interdimensional threats to deal with, largely thanks to our parents'⊠enthusiasm. You boys have fun with your⊠whatever this is. And seriously," she added, her voice echoing as she pulled a still-apologetic Danny (who was still trying to explain that the kick was "an accident, mostly," and that Jason was "probably a nice guy, underneath the ex-crime lord thing") by the ear, "therapy. It helps. And communication. You need better communication skills. That's a foundational principle, people."
Danny, still red-faced, gave one last frantic, apologetic wave to the bewildered Bat-Brothers before Jazz dragged him away, both of them dematerializing and disappearing into the Amity night, leaving two very confused, and one very intrigued, masked vigilantes behind. The hum of the ecto-energy, once a strange anomaly, now felt like the heartbeat of the most bewildering town they had ever encountered. Gotham had nothing on Amity, Illinois.
đ Bonus Notes (at the end of the post):
I love when Jazz goes full big sister mode and Danny panics like âNOOO DONâT KICK THE BATMEN.â
Because what do you mean you yeeted Red Hood off a silo... and he liked it đ€Łđ€Łđ€Ł
Let me know what you think! Batfam shenanigans are my love language.
