Chapter Text
Damian follows Jasmine for what feels like miles, following what appears to be a trail of frost. The echo of that horrible wail still echoes in his ears unlike anything he’s ever heard.
As they get closer to their destination, he begins to curse his choice of shoes this morning. It’s only a travel day, Richard said. Stop being paranoid, Drake negged. Like either of them is any better.
If he had worn his boots, the terrain would be less of a problem.
Luckily, Jasmine seems to have the same problem in her flimsy ballet flats, skidding and sliding along the frozen pavement. A few times she comes close to seeing him, and he divebombs out of her line of sight, behind parked cars, trash cans, and mailboxes. Still, the girl runs.
He hears the engine before he sees the vehicle, which gives him ample time to move into the afternoon shadows cast by the buildings separating his route with Jasmine’s. Seconds later, a heavily armored ATV launches itself over a gentle slope. It nearly tips over making a hairpin turn a mere ten yards from Damian’s current position.
“Jazz?” comes a man’s booming voice through the speakers mounted on top of the monstrosity of machinery. “Jazzypants, you need to get out of here! The ghost boy has been sighted in the area, along with several of his villainous allies.”
“And you don’t even have your sweater on,” comes a more feminine voice.
The Fentons. Experts in the field of ectology, or so they claimed. Brilliant engineers, capable of harnessing ectoplasm to injure the intangible. This, at least, is quantifiable.
“Oh, um, it’s ok guys!” Jasmine yells, somehow less convincing than Richard when Damian catches him stealing his snacks. She points eastward, away from where she and Damian are heading. “I saw him go that way. Obviously he was, uh, fleeing! Fleeing the scene of the crime! Only guilty ghosts like him would do that, right?”
This works. Somehow. First the Manson parents, and now this. Damian has to wonder if the adults in this town are being mind controlled. Perhaps there is something in the water. There can be no other explanation for their survival in such a dangerous place when they are all so mind numbingly dense. The ATV begins to back up, blaring a siren to signal the change in gear.
“Thanks, sweetie!” Madeline Fenton says. “We’ll get him this time.”
“Then we’re gonna rip him apart!” comes Jack Fenton’s overenthusiastic reply as they speed off.
Damian decides two things, then and there. The first: the Fentons will never be allowed near Phantom. Whether he is or is not Danyal, no sentient being deserves to be hunted down for the sole purpose of being ripped apart.
The second comes when Jasmine rolls her eyes and shakes her head as though this has not only happened before, but happens often. As she takes off for the final stretch of street, Damian decides that she and her underlings-- the boy with the stupid hat, and Samantha --are potential allies.
Amity Park Observatory comes into view shortly thereafter, a large round building with tall windows lining the top few floors. Compared to the somewhat dilapidated infrastructure of the town at large, it looks untouched. A few bricks are missing here and there, and there is a pothole in the parking lot that would total an unwary driver’s car, but otherwise it looks eerily undamaged.
The ice encasing the building like plastic wrap notwithstanding, of course.
When he and Jasmine get nearer, a green glow begins to coagulate outside the front door, eventually taking the form of a medieval knight, nearly eight feet tall. His armor is black as deep space, with a deep purple cape falling from his shoulders, buffeted by an invisible breeze.
“None shall pass this way!” he booms, drawing a bastard sword at Jasmine’s approach.
She slows to a walk, but doesn’t stop. Damian reaches for his katana before remembering his TSA restrictions and his agreement to pass the security checkpoint Richard’s way. He’s unarmed, and unable to help this girl.
Not that she seems to need it, drawing what looks like a whip or grappling hook. It has an adamantine sheen to it. “I will pass this way, and you will be the one to bring me.”
“None shall pass!” the knight says again, but the sword remains, curiously, pointed toward the pavement. A sentinel, not an outright adversary. Is he… protecting Phantom?
Jasmine looks frustrated and begins to unwind the weapon in her hands. “You can’t hurt me, Fright Knight, and we both know it. Your position is temporary. Phase me through or I’m calling in a favor and sending you to Walker.”
“My Lady,” the knight says, sounding chastised but unmoving, “You will of course have safe passage through. However, he is an outsider.”
The knight-- Fright Knight, apparently, and Richard will be too excited about that name --lifts his sword and points right at Damian’s hiding spot. Jasmine whirls around and squints, apparently not seeing him.
Stupid. Stupid, so stupid, to forget that the threat is supernatural. To get so caught up in the chase that he did not plan an exit. The parking lot is abandoned, and there are ten yards of empty space in every direction from his trashcan. He might be able to make a run for it--
“Bring him to me unharmed,” she says after a moment. Her weapon is still unwound.
Faster than a blink, he’s being lifted by his shoulders by gauntlets that are cold enough to burn and hot enough to freeze. Damian squirms and tries to wriggle out of the knight’s grip, but it’s like the times Jon moves him out of his way. His head whips with how fast they move back to Jasmine.
She looks up at Damian, examining him clinically. He’s very conscious of his unkempt hair and dirty travel clothes. It’s demeaning.
Jasmine looks as though she wants to interrogate him, but she settles on, “Who are you?”
“D-Damian Wayne.” The stutter is, to his deep irritation, not feigned. This girl commands a being this powerful with a single word, and Damian would be an idiot not to be intimidated.
Who is she, is the real question.
“How old are you, Damian?”
He blinks, momentarily forgetting about his spectral captor in lieu of the absurd question. “What?”
“How old are you?” Jasmine does not look like she’s kidding. The knight’s gauntlets squeeze him just too tight to be comfortable. “As in, when were you born?”
“Fifteen,” he manages. “Born fifteen years ago.”
She does react to that. Her eyes widen and her lips part in surprise. When she looks him up and down, it’s less clinical and more human, as though she’s looking for anything that would lend itself to his story, true or not.
“Shall I crush him to pulp, My Lady?”
“My wallet is in my back pocket,” Damian says immediately, extremely conscious of the gauntlets that seem to sparkle with tiny galaxies. “My passport and school ID are in there, if you wish to corroborate my age for some reason.”
Jasmine reaches around and takes his wallet from his shorts nimbly. She would make an excellent pickpocket, is all he can think as she flips it open and removes his scratched, slightly faded Gotham Academy identification card.
She seems to come to some kind of conclusion when she reads the information, and looks up at Fright Knight with stern violet eyes. “He has something to do with this. Bring us inside.”
The Fright Knight bows its head, then turns its gaze on Damian. A shiver goes down his spine, and he is reminded of every failed sparring match from his youth, every mistake that cost him his life with Heretic.
“I will restrain the outsider.”
This is a very strange experience, Damian realizes, for one reason beyond the obvious. The two of them have acknowledged him as either a problem or threat, but failed to threaten him in return. The Fright Knight could crush him like an overripe grape, yet here he is, uncrushed. Barely even touched, though the grip feels like iron.
Damian feels cold to his very soul when they phase through the iced-over walls and floors of the observatory. The ice appears to get thicker and thicker as they ascend, and he imagines that overdeveloped tank vehicle attempting to get through it.
The top floor, which appears to hold a large telescope, is coerced in a layer of smooth ice. In the center, near the viewing area, are two spectral forms.
The larger of the two is a tall woman with ghostly blue skin, about the height of Damian’s captor. She has too many limbs, and is dressed as a prehellenic Greek soldier. Her helmet appears to have bright pink and purple flames spewing out of it. Her gold armor and black linen undergarments are spotless, undamaged despite her apparent ghostly status.
Terrifying though she may be, she seems to be crooning something to the ghost boy-- Phantom --in her lap. It is no language of Earth, nor any alien dialect that Damian has ever heard. Her murmurs do not falter when she looks up at the newcomers, and Damian can almost make out the words as some form of lullaby.
Her eyes are red, older than time itself. She beckons Jasmine forward, and the girl approaches, unsure for the first time.
“Is he okay?” she asks. “Is he--”
The four-armed woman puts a finger to her lips, then another one of her appears and Damian’s mind stalls.
Flight. Energy attacks. Super strength. Intangibility. Cryokinesis. Invisibility. Super speed. Some kind of sixth sense. And now duplication. It is no wonder they were warned away from this place. The Justice League could have considerable trouble on its hands if the ecosystem of this town is disrupted.
The original does not stop her quiet murmurs, but the duplicate approaches Jasmine, meeting her halfway. “I have put him to sleep.”
“But is he okay?” Jasmine stresses.
Damian is struck by the question that has been lingering in the back of his mind all this time, since he darted off after her. Why does she care about Phantom if her brother is under his thumb? At the very least, she seems to know enough that she likely knows her living brother to be a clone of some kind. Unless…
Perhaps she does know more than he gives her credit for. After all, Phantom does not look seven. The clone may be a more recent transplant than he realized.
Perhaps Phantom used it to cover up his own demise. Danny Fenton’s report cards did indicate a jarring change in the past year. It would certainly explain why Jasmine is so comfortable around ghosts.
“He is at war with himself,” the ghost woman says, and her voice carries the same power as Doctor Fate. Quiet, and piercing deep into the listener’s senses. “His anguish summoned me. As his guardian and advisor, I am called to aid where possible. In this, however, I am powerless to assist.”
“What about Cl--” Jasmine glances at Damian, still being held several feet from the floor. He cannot lift his arms, but he waves a little bit with his fingers to indicate his powerlessess. “What about CW?”
“He has done all he can.” The woman turns her ancient gaze on Damian, and he sees flashes of time in her eyes. Wars and dinners and galas and gladiators. “Who is this?”
Jasmine looks at him seriously, seeming to consider the question. “The problem. Phantom saw an image of him that triggered this.”
Damian blinks, startled. “What?”
He saw the picture and bolted, Hat Boy had said. Damian’s picture. Phantom saw Damian and went nuclear. Why would he do that, if he isn’t Danyal?
Desperation breeds foolishness.
More the fool Damian.
“Please--” he starts to say, when the woman’s overwarm, pencil-like fingers cover his mouth.
“Hush, little one,” she says, not unkindly. She looks up at the void in Fright Knight’s helmet. “You may release him, Sir Knight. Return to your post.”
“As you command, Lady Pandora.” The knight sets him down, and Damian can already feel the cold from the surrounding room begins to pierce his bones.
Pandora. There is a nonzero chance that this is a different Pandora, another Greek woman named in her honor. Given the givens, Damian chooses to dwell on this possibility when it becomes relevant. The woman looks down at him, then shrinks down to human height.
“You have come very far,” she says, and her voice wraps around him like a blanket. “Why?”
He wants to lie. He needs to lie. This is a recon mission, and he is duty bound not to reveal his goals. Even Richard and Timothy know only the basics of the rogue clone. It’s personal. But looking into her ancient eyes, he knows that lying is futile.
Perhaps Zatanna and Constantine have the right idea about this town.
“I.. I needed to know,” he says, swallowing. He looks over to where Phantom-- where Danyal --is curled in the original Pandora’s lap, with Jasmine standing guard. “When I learned of Phantom, I needed to know if he was Danyal.”
Nearly two days he’d spent researching. He read the Fentons’ almost inarticulate journal submissions, examined blueprints, read eyewitness accounts. Suffered the indignity of reading the phrase “Inviso-bill” and needing to account for it as a viable option for names. Combing supernatural conspiracy boards and sifting through the endless chaff to fine granules of plausible information had taken nearly fourteen hours.
“You do not wish to harm him.” It is not a question.
He answers it anyway, fists clenched. “No.”
In the back of his mind, Damian wishes Richard were here. His elder brother is good at keeping him steady in moments like these. Even Todd would be better than no one at all. But Damian is alone with a god and someone treated by that god as an equal, and he knows he is very small, and very mortal.
Pandora reaches out and wraps her green hands around his own. It takes effort not to flinch. “Then approach, and swear to him.”
She floats backward, guiding him to the sleeping ghost of his brother. Danyal is wearing a black uniform that looks like a much too tight hazmat suit. His face is paler than Damian remembers, his teeth more pointed as his jaw clenches in sleep. Deep purple bruises stand out under his shut eyes, as though he has not rested in years. Aesthetic differences aside, though, it’s him.
It’s truly Danyal, in the… ectoplasm.
“If you hurt him, I’ll make you regret it forever,” Jasmine hisses under her breath. Damian believes her.
Danyal has failed in his assignment. He did not suffer a painful end, love. This I swear to you on our blood. Mother would not lie about this. Had Danyal died slowly, by her hand, she would have claimed the pain as a trophy, and bid Damian do the same.
He knows now that, had he died by her hand or on her orders, Mother would have told Damian directly, rather than using clever words to fool Damian and Grandfather.
Instead, Danya; was shipped out here, each of them suffering a different kind of torment in solitude, which neither of them is built for.
Damian remembers that day so clearly, in a sea of training and expectations and murder. He had wished, shamefully and secretly to join Danyal in death. But Grandfather needed an heir, and Damian was all that was left. He and Mother, both complicit in their individual torture.
“I won’t,” he says to Jasmine, feeling raw. His eyes are glued to his brother. “Do you hear me, Danyal? I am not going to hurt you. I swear it.”
Some kind of energy settles over him, and Damian knows he’s been bound. An oath made in occult circles is not to be taken lightly, but this? He would say it a thousand times over. They have each suffered enough for a lifetime.
The tapered, inhuman tips of Danyal’s ears twitch. When his eyes open, they glow Lazarus green and fix on his face, mirrored above him.
“Damyan,” he breathes. He even sounds the way Damian expects him to. Behind his teeth, his tongue looks like it has a slight fork.
“It is me,” he confirms, unused to the almost pleasant ache that settles behind his chest.
Danyal’s eyes widen. He looks at Jasmine., who is looking between the two of them with a carefully neutral expression. “Your lips are blue. Both of you.”
Are they? The cold has faded to a background feeling, perhaps because of Pandora’s quiet presence. Jasmine looks similarly surprised, but there is indeed a blue tinge to her lips. Damian is sure that hypothermia should be a higher priority for them both than it is at this moment.
“I have kept them from the worst of it,” Pandora says, looking at Danyal with a smile. “You gave us a scare.”
He sits up in a hurry. “Sorry, sorry. One second.”
Giving Damian one more long look that he can’t read, Danyal touches the ground. He wears an unfamiliar ring over the glove on his hand. The ice chips away, catching the light so that it looks green as it dissolves. Within moments, the floor is cleared of ice and frost, with even the ambient moisture dissolved.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, “I didn’t mean to…” he gestures vaguely.
He doesn’t quite turn his back to Damian, but he is looking at Jasmine and Pandora. It stings, almost extinguishing that feeling in his ribcage, but Damian understands. If he truly feels as though Damian is a threat-- and why would he not, when he has spent eight years in this town and Damian is almost sure now that many of those were spent alive and fearing discovery by the League of Assassins --then his own feelings are not the priority. Danyal’s security is. He keeps himself in Danyal’s periphery as much as he can without drawing too much attention to his actions.
Jasmine is still looking at him with distrust. “I think you probably had a good reason.”
“He has given his word,” Pandora reminds her gently. There appears to be only one of her now.
Damian shakes his head a little. “It is understandable. I will be able to find my own way back. It appears that you two have… much to discuss. Ms. Fenton, I believe you will know where to find me when…” He looks at Danyal and feels, for the first time since Grandfather died, a sharp pang of loss. “...either of you is ready. I apologize for the anguish I seem to have caused.”
It looks as though Danyal wants to say something, but he remains silent.
“I will bring him to a safe area,” Pandora offers. “I must return to the Realms shortly. There is much to attend to.”
“I didn’t mean to distract you--”
She waves his brother off. “You needed me, and I was there. I will hear nothing more of it, for that is the duty of a guardian. I hope you still plan to join me for lunch next week.”
Danyal nods, which appears to be enough for Pandora. She reaches down and takes Damian’s hand for the second time today. For the second time today, he lets her. Then they are flying, and Danyal and his sister disappear behind a ceiling.
The sunlight is almost blinding after the last several minutes. If his eyes are burning, that must be why.
“They will need time,” Pandora says to him, voice somehow crystal clear over the sound of the wind. “But know, brother of Danny, that you have my protection for as long as you have his best interests at heart.”
Flying through the town is far faster than running, and by the time he has the ability to answer, she has set him down. “Thank you.”
“Until next we meet.” She nods, and in a moment, she vanishes, leaving Damian alone in an alley.
He takes a shaky breath. It smells of garbage in this alley, which is as unpleasant as it is grounding. Trash smells similar no matter where he is in the world. It is much warmer out here than inside the observatory and part of him wonders, distantly, if different ghosts have different powers.
The street corner he was dropped at is familiar to him. The Manson estate should be three blocks to the west, if the map he memorized is accurate. Belatedly, he realizes he does not have a communicator on him, or even his cell phone. He left it in the car when Samantha ran off earlier.
Luckily, the Manson estate is not only easy to spot, but guarded by people rather than technology. They recognize him and open the gates without any trouble. One of them says something into an intercom that Damian does not process, and he hears Richard’s voice crackle back through the speaker.
Several minutes later, his brother rolls up to the security desk in a golf cart he barely fits into. “Dames! Great timing.Tim and Sam got back a while ago, and Tim abandoned me to go unpack and if I had to talk about the benefits of caviar over tapenade for another second I was going to-- wow, you look like shit.”
Damian glares at him. “How observant of you, Grayson.”
Richard’s gaze is calculating but kind when he gives Damian a once over. “Are you injured?”
Over the last few years, Damian has become even more aware that there are more ways of being watched than the average person knows. Alfred and the security guards at the Mansons’ seem to have expertise in the lesser-known technique of listening while being invisible to their charges.
“Bring me to my room,” is all he says, climbing into the front seat of the golf cart. It’s a tight squeeze, but he fits.
Once they’re out of earshot of the guards, Richard pulls into a secluded tea area. The Mansons appear to love spending their money in order to prove to people that they have money. They are exactly the kind of people that make him reluctant to make many appearances among the socialites in Gotham.
“I’ve already scanned most of the property,” Richard says, casual as can be. “It’s clean. So’s the cart. Seems like bugging this place would be a nightmare if the wiring just erodes.”
The hedges are trimmed back too far. They will die this winter if it continues, Damian can already tell. “It is good to know that you are capable of that much, at least.”
Richard only leans back in his tiny seat and hums. “You’d stand a better chance of insulting me if you didn’t look like you’re about to cry, you know.”
Does he? He scrubs at his face, feeling the tightness where his facial muscles are holding back tears. He forces them to relax and the itching in his eyes recedes. “I had an encounter with several… ecto-entities. I will submit my report this evening. It is not your concern.”
“Damian,” Richard sighs, “I’m not Bruce. Distracting me with work just. Won’t work. I’m big on multitasking.”
He is… not wrong. Once Richard catches a scent, he is impossible to throw off even when other events get in the way. Still, the words will not leave Damian’s lips.
“I… have not been entirely transparent with you or Timothy on this mission. Speak to Fath-- Alfred. I am sure he knows everything by now.” And Father will likely be unwilling to discuss Danyal so soon. If ever. Damian pulls one of his knees to his chest and holds it there. “Can I please go to my room now?”
He does not look up at his brother’s nearly inaudible inhale. “Yeah. Yeah, sure thing, Baby Bat.”
--------------------------
After Jazz ran off, they decided to wait it out. She or Danny will text when everything is figured out, and they can reconvene at the park or something. Until then, Sam and Tucker turned around and headed back, running into Tim on the way back. He’d been pretty far behind her, and claimed his brother had followed some stray dog. He would find his way back on his own, Tim assured her parents, and he had taken the whole “her ditching them” thing pretty well. Didn’t even mention it, just waved off Tucker’s videogame invite with a Super jetlagged, but raincheck. For real.
Richard “call me Dick” Grayson is everything Sam wishes she could be, in her darker moments. At least, it’s super obvious that the quick-witted, charming, Perfect Socialite Personality is a switch he can just. Turn on and off. It would be so easy to get her parents off her back if she could do that.
Maybe he can tutor her in it while he’s here.
He’s also a lot smarter than he’s trying to look. Maybe it’s just that he lives in Crime Central, USA, but she watched him mark every hinged window in the parlor when they crossed paths earlier. Sam would bet every pair of fishnets she owns that he was marking escape routes.
She doesn’t even need to bet that he’s got her clocked in a similar manner.
“--pretty sure they patched that out in the new update, so people are accusing him of cheating,” Tucker is saying. They’ve moved on from the topic of his obvious crush on Tim Drake pretty quickly. Now he’s going on about the latest online gaming tournament that Sam, a solo player, doesn’t care about. He’s rambling so he can keep their minds off Danny.
It isn’t as though this is the first meltdown-- Ancients, Tucker would eviscerate her for that pun if she said it out loud --but they’re usually for more concrete reasons. And it’s never been quite this… spectacular.
Vlad is a thorn in their side, sure, and they know he’s caused some serious trauma to Danny specifically, but the idea of a new clone isn’t the spark for this particular explosion. Maybe it has something to do with Ellie, but then there was Jazz’s insistence that it’s a human half issue.
Sam isn’t inclined to believe that. She knows how Danny gets about the Fraid, and it’s hard to pretend this level of emotion isn’t connected to it in some way. If only she knew how, she and Tucker would be able to help. Danny has always been bad at accepting, but when it comes down to it, he knows they always have his back.
“Alfred? No, that’s fine. It was actually you I needed to talk to,” comes Dick’s voice from his room. He’s down the hall about seven rooms, so she can’t hear the other side of the conversation. Even Dick’s voice is drowned out slightly by Tucker’s rambling.
Sam elbows her friend in the side. “Tucker, shut up for a second.”
“Ow!” he yelps, indignant. “Fine, be nosy with your supersenses.”
“Shut up.” She listens more closely.
“--just showed up looking like… I don’t even know. I’ve rarely seen him this upset. No, I obviously couldn’t get him to talk about it. I’m not his therapist, I don’t know how to get him to open up! Yeah, at one point I could, but not anymore. I’m flying blind. Help me out here.”
There’s a squeak, not from the mattress, but the varnished bedframe, as Dick stands up from his bed. “You’re stalling. Do you know how terrifying that is, Alf? Damian is acting like a traumatized teenager for the first time in his super fucked up life and you of all people are stalling-- No, he told me you would probably know, and didn’t want me to ask Bruce… Fine, fine.”
Tucker opens his mouth and Sam slaps a hand over it. “Shut. It.”
The bed squeaks again. “I’m sitting. Now what’s this thing he and Bruce are hiding? No, Tim isn’t here… I’ll fill him in later, stop stalling-- Yes I’m sure! You’re genuinely freaking me out here, Alfred, just get on with it.”
“Wha’ goi’ o’?” Tucker tries to ask from behind her hand. Gross, there’s Tucker spit on her fingers. She’s going to have to deal with it.
“Shh,” she says.
Dick hasn’t said anything for several seconds. Several more go by in silence. Sam almost thinks he hung up, but then--
“Holy shit.” It’s only a fraction of a second of silence this time. “Yeah. Okay. Maybe I shouldn’t have volunteered to fill him in. Jesus, Alfred. I hate to be the bearer of news this bad, but if Damian is this messed up about it… They probably made contact, yeah. Yeah. Okay. I’ll work my end. Yeah, get back to it. I’ll… I’ll talk to you later. Bye.”
She’s pretty sure he’s hung up, because she can hear him screaming profanity into one of the goose down pillows before his much clearer, if quieter voice comes through. The volume rises and falls, like he’s pacing, but Sam can’t hear footsteps. “Fucking asshole, sending me out here like it’s not going to ruin the one good thing I have left. Now I’ve gotta be the bad guy, as usual. Twins? God. ‘No, kiddo, sorry, you’ve gotta leave space for the chance your brother is dead or evil or not your brother. Again. Yeah, I know we just did this.’” He takes a long moment of silence. “It’s fine. You’ll deal. This isn’t about you, Grayson. Shape up.”
Sam wipes her hand off on Tucker’s shirt. “First of all, ew.”
“I can’t believe that still works.” He grins, and she pointedly ignores how disarming it is.
Sam rolls her eyes. “Do you want to hear what I heard Dick Grayson talking about or not? Because you’re not endearing yourself to me right now.”
Tucker’s gaze immediately turns pleading. “I’ll be quiet!”
"I think," she says, weighing her words carefully, "Danny might have been hiding a couple of things about his birth family."
This is a topic of conversation they don't broach often; Sam wasn't there when Danny came to Amity, and doesn't like bringing up topics if she doesn't have all the info. Besides that, her friends have had a "the past is the past" attitude regarding anything pre-middle school. Sam has known Tucker for five years. In that time, she's seen the humor drain from her friend's face only a handful of times. Of those, it's never been for a reason other than anger or fear.
The look in his serious brown eyes now isn't anger or fear; Tucker looks calculating, in that way that Danny can read in an instant but Sam is still learning.
"I knew it."