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Chapter Text

The truth is, hardly anyone had ever heard of Amity Park until it was far too late. 

It was a speck of a town– so small it could realistically fit in as a distant suburb of Chicago rather than its own independent entity.

People would talk later, of course. About how strange and otherworldly it felt to be there– how a cold and unsettling pall had draped itself over the town several years ago, like a funeral veil, and sunk deep into its skeleton. Fused with the DNA of the steel and brickwork, a genius loci spun from shifting graveyard soil and the spaces between worlds. A glowing green like bright, unnatural things. 

Amity Park– the most haunted town in all America.

Or a nice place to live, depending on who you spoke to. 

Afterwards, everyone would have a story to tell. Small anecdotes about a time they’d visited the town. Just snatches of half-formed memories supplemented by embellishment or exaggeration or even bald-faced lies, a thin wire mesh of desiccated recollections passed furtively between coworkers in the breakroom, spread far and wide by a national populace desperate for some kind of context. Rumors, spiraling.

Have you heard? Have you heard?

Did you know?

Amity Park is gone.  

Looking back, there’s something darkly humorous about it– (in a way that can only just cover up the stifled grief, all those questions unanswered– why? ). Because it wasn’t even the first time something like this had happened.

It was simply the first time anyone outside had noticed. 

The facts of the case are this:

On the evening of October 14th, in the last golden hour of the day, Illinois emergency dispatchers received a phone call from a Cook county public safety answering point. The operator who had taken the initial distress call was frazzled and shaken, informing dispatchers that emergency services had been requested for the town of Amity Park– a town that, by all accounts, should have had their own services to deploy. The operator had already lost contact with the caller, but the recording of the exchange he passed along to dispatch was, apparently, concerning enough to warrant a response. 

Seven and a half minutes later, emergency services from the broader Cook, DuPage, and Lake counties breached the outskirts of the town– an ingress from every direction, followed by local news station NCTV. 

What they found was only the aftermath. 

The ruins of the town rose up from the ground like shattered teeth, jagged and splintered, biting into the sky with a stark, alien viciousness. A graveyard disturbed, mired fields of churned up earth and chunks of stony rubble. Craters blasted into the pavement, splinters of broken glass glinting between piles of debris like tiny bastard stars– No stone uncracked, no building untouched. 

Smokey remnants drifted long between the dimming clouds, thick ribbons of lethargic, billowing ash all black and gunmetal gray, exhaling from toppled buildings like a quiet sigh. Or final breath. It settled over the town’s carcass like a shroud. Like the fog that lingers over the road in the early morning. And everywhere, everywhere , fires simmered dim and glistening– beacons in the night, like clumps of hot coals in a bonfire. Banked, it seemed, from several days of burning, their rage already depleted.  

Whatever had happened that night, Amity Park had not gone quietly. 

Her people had fought– with a vengeance and desperation that had cracked the earth beneath their feet. Leaving behind only rubble, and the ghost of their convictions. 

It wasn’t the first time this had happened.

On a different day, in a different way– Amity had disappeared before. 

But the specter left behind this time was much more literal. An echo of sudden and abrupt violence. A broken, rotting metropolitan corpse. 

And the evidence of a horrific struggle was overflowing from every angle, in the gutted remains of homes and office buildings, in humble highrises that teetered and wobbled on broken legs, the skin of each structure punctured through with jagged holes and scorch marks. There were mountains of shattered rock and crooked rebar– steel i-beams, bent and blackened, pushing out of the earth like gravestones. Collapsed telephone lines and thick cables, spraying sparks across the rubble, snaking like serpents along the ground, or tangled like spiderwebs. 

Thin, lingering smoke and dimmed fires. The wind whistling through quiet ruins. A battle had certainly happened there– but the damage was visually days old. And yet somehow, that very night, there'd been a call for help.

Unfortunately, despite the hard work of the outright platoon of first responders that had answered the call, aside from Amity’s own splintered skeleton, there was nothing to find. 

There were no weapons, improvised or otherwise, littering the ground among the crumbling cement and cratered asphalt. No personal items, such as wallets, cellphones, or tablets. No indication of what could have caused such catastrophic damage to the larger buildings, or how it might have reached the town. And worst of all– no people. Six hundred and twenty-eight individuals, vanishing without a trace.

In the days that followed, amid the storm of media frenzy that descended upon the remains like vultures, the rotating presence of every colorful cape and crusader across the world, no human remains were found amid the rubble– whole or partial. 

There was simply nothing there.

There were no bodies. No limbs buried haphazardly between the rocks, or entombed beneath a building. Not even the smallest drop of blood. 

Neither were there any survivors ever located. 

When emergency services arrived at Amity Park, there was only an empty town, and nothing more.

They have no choice, then– to call in the Justice League.

Not that it would do them any good.

October 15, 2015

5:00 PM EST

The Watchtower

When he first heard the recording, something about the voice on the other end made his teeth ache.

It was a troublingly familiar feeling. A slow creeping chill up his spine, lingering on the back of his neck like a damp towel, clammy and stifling. It was a sound beneath a sound, a frequency that sank through his armor and scraped against his bones, like nails on a chalkboard.

He was reminded, for a moment, of a dog whistle.

But if anyone else could hear it, they didn’t say anything. 

Superman was frowning, the skin about his brow tight with concern. Beside him, stonily silent, Wonder Woman listened with a growing urgency in her eyes. 

At the head of the table, splayed across the largest monitor in the Watchtower’s “war room,” was a still image of Amity Park, Illinois.

What was left of it, at least.

“911, what is your emergency?”

What played over the room’s sound system was an audio recording of an emergency call from within Amity Park, placed at exactly 6:42 PM the previous evening. In the twenty-four hours since boots on the ground, it was the only concrete piece of evidence authorities had managed to gather.

The operator was answered by a painful rush of static, fizzling bright and loud, popping and sparking like severed wires. Beneath it, someone shouted into the phone, desperate to be heard. An older woman– identity unknown. The audio was scattered with digital artifacts, hiccups and stutters in the crinkling snowstorm of static, but all too clearly, Bruce could still make out the distant screams in the background of the call, a mighty crash like a roll of thunder.

The emergency responder– Johnathen Melgrin, twenty-six, volunteer EMT, no criminal record– patiently prompted the caller to try again please, he didn't quite catch that. His voice was low and soothing, experienced with his task.

Again, the woman tried to say something– only to have her words hopelessly lost in a crackling, spitting haze, until–

“–H̸e̷l̸l̷o̷?̶  Are you there? P̸l̵e̴a̴s̷e̸–̵ ̸c̴-̸c̸a̴n̶ ̷y̴o̷u̴ hear me?” 

A breakthrough. Like a stage curtain, the static parted long enough to understand her, though it lingered in the backdrop. A looming threat. 

“Yes ma'am– I can hear you now. What is the nature of your emer–”

“We need emergency services i̸n̷ ̶A̴m̶i̸t̴y̷ ̵P̷a̵r̸k̵– a-ambulances, f̶i̷r̸e̵m̵e̸n̵,̴ ̷p̵o̶l̴i̸c̴e̸– damn it , just send the whole f̸u̶c̶k̴i̷n̵g̶ ̵ a̵r̴m̷y̴!̴”̷

With every word uttered, her voice rose louder and higher, bubbling up with hysteria. She started to hyperventilate, breathing in thin, wheezing gasps of panic that rattled unpleasantly against the speakers. The earlier static threatened to overwhelm her again, and in the background– muffled cries. Weeping.

“ Ma'am, I need you to–”

The speakers crackled with another piercing sound, the slam of a metal door as it was kicked in with incredible force, punctuated by the echoing screams of children– dozens of children– an uproar of terror.

Above the sudden cacophony, the woman shouts desperately.

“Turn it off!” Her voice grows distant. She's pulled away from the phone– speaking to someone else. “Turn it–”

There's a sound. Another slam. Then–

“Ma'am… are you still there?”

A beat of silence, tense and uncertain.

“...Ma'am?”

The recording ends. 

Across the table, disquiet settles on the shoulders of his present company. 

At the front of the war room, nervously palming the remote to the large main monitor, was Zatanna. Captain Marvel wasn't far from her, settled unhappily in his own chair, and in the corner of his vision Bruce knew John Constantine was lurking somewhere in the room. 

JL Dark had made the initial call– all hands on deck. 

By then, Bruce had already been broadly aware of the situation developing– had known about it as Bruce before Batman had even put on his cowl for the evening. 

It had been a quiet afternoon, where the early-darkening sky was slowly painted with blushing pinks and oranges.The onset of autumn had brought with it a kind of cold and dreary that only a true Gothamite could learn to love. The worst of his rogues were freshly tucked away in Arkham– for now– and the biting chill, the distant sight of sallow, heavy clouds on the horizon, was enough to discourage the more casual ne’er-do-wells from venturing out into the elements. Shadows stretching long between the setting sun and the jagged silhouette of Gotham beckoned forth his strange little flock for their nightly flight. 

It was a stroke of luck, then– that he’d even caught the broadcast at all, absorbed as he was with thoughts of his upcoming patrol. An idle glance, a double take, and he was left staring. Thrown for a loop.

At first, what had originally struck him was how obscure the news station was– how small and local it must have been, and how unusual it was that the more well-known national news networks had started to piggy-back off their live broadcast. And then, he’d caught a glimpse of the scene just behind the reporter.

Looking back, Bruce realized, he’d known right then and there that the situation would call for the League’s assistance.

Even so, he still hadn’t quite expected this.

October 23, 2015

8:31 PM 

Location Undisclosed

Maddie Fenton was not the monster here.

She could see how one might make that mistake, however– given the circumstances. And in any case, she’d spent her entire career weathering insults far more inventive than that, you would have to do better.

Maddie Fenton was many things.

A mother. A scientist. Wife, protector, pioneer. She wasn’t a monster, she was a trailblazer, pursuing heights unseen and unknown by the rest of mankind– for the rest of mankind. Because she knew what was at stake. She was the only one who knew what was at stake– not just for her town, but the whole world!

Or at least, she had been.

Now, it seemed, there was Amanda Waller. 

She had appeared before the Fentons like a shadow, slipping through the cracks in the dead of night, into the very heart of their home, a devil in her own right. She’d pulled up a chair, perched confidently in the middle of their basement lab, and had been sitting there waiting for them when both husband and wife had at last returned from their latest failed hunt. It was the moment Maddie had been waiting her entire career for– had staked her life on since those fuzzy, distant years at university, when it was just her and Jack and Vlad. And for all that she adored the man she married, his loyalty and commitment and enthusiasm for their self-assigned crusade, she had always known that there was a guilelessness to Jack Fenton that, if it ever came down to it, meant she would have to make the hard decisions for the both of them. 

That was fine with her. Maddie could happily shoulder that burden– the weight certainly wasn’t a bother.

But in Amanda Waller, she knew there was a sort of kindred spirit; she had the same knife-sharp edge of cold and focused ruthlessness lurking below fragile, mortal skin, like a shark in the depths. A silent apex predator, jaws open and waiting to snap. And while motherhood had tempered some of the steel from Maddie’s spine, it had strengthened it in other ways, and like would always call out to like. It was time, it seemed, to make the hard decisions. 

Out in the wilds, natural laws dictated that a meeting between two top predators would have ended with far more bloodshed, flesh rending between needlepoint claws, blood beading from dreadful wounds.

For Maddie, however, the encounter only portended the scent of thick, fresh ink– steadily drying upon a crisply printed contract, and the dotted line below. 

After that… after that…

Well. 

The cannibalized heart monitor right next to her ear gave an irritable screech , loud and plaintive across the relative peace that had finally settled over her makeshift OR. She flinched, brow dipping low in annoyance as the whistling alarm left her with ringing ears, and a sharp pain behind her left eye. 

The OR she had commandeered when they arrived was a much smaller set-up than she was used to. It had taken some adjusting in those first few days, ferrying supplies from Amity Park to the temporary command center. But it was well-stocked, and secure, and Waller had been very accommodating. 

It wasn’t a true operating theater by a mile– nor did it have the same trappings as the Fenton lab back home. It was simply a repurposed classroom, at the end of the science wing of a school that had shut its doors many years ago. The building was serving an even greater purpose now– it would just take time and polish to get it there. 

Though the room had been scrubbed top to bottom when they’d claimed it, the scent of heavy dust and mildew lingered still, and the vinyl flooring was stained a permanent off-white. The walls were painted cinderblock, a desaturated sky blue– chipped and flaking in several places.The science classrooms came pre-equipped with a countertop and sturdy wooden cabinets caulked to the back wall. They’d needed a bit of love and care, but they had been simple enough to see to– and Waller’s people had taken the liberty of extending them, installing an additional row of hanging cabinets above them, shelves along the side walls, and a large corkboard.

At the center of the room they’d bolted to the floor a single table, cold and metal and utilitarian. Not an operating table meant to save human lives, but… more like a steel cutting board Maddie was using to take apart a ghost. And rather than adjustable LEDs hanging from the ceiling, the Fenton’s temporary OR was lit with an array of souped-up ring lights on thick metal stands, arranged around her workspace like a choir. 

Perhaps best of all though, she and Jack had also been given new hazmat suits after signing on with Waller, far sleeker and more high-tech than the one they’d been wearing for years. A tacit demonstration on her new Director’s part, she assumed, of just what this organization could offer the Fentons. It was a seamless charcoal black, and fit more like body armor than a heavy, chemical-resistant suit, light and flexible and battle ready. The Division’s emblem was stamped over her collarbone– a deep gray octagon matrix, with the star outlined in white at its center. 

Wearing it made Maddie feel like a hunter. 

Earlier, she had pulled the instrument table right next to her when she’d begun the day’s session, each tool gleaming shiny and silver and new. They didn’t look like that now, of course– but that was ultimately a good thing. They were serving their greater purpose, the majority of them liberally coated crimson and bright, malevolent green. You could tell which tools she’d been using the longest that day based on wear and tear– tiny divots beginning to form down the bases, and pitting along the edges of feather-thin blades where the ectoplasm had corroded into them. Maddie had to change gloves frequently. 

She was flying solo tonight. Jack was still… struggling. 

Not that Maddie could ever resent him for it. She had been nearly catatonic herself, the day that… well, That Day.

These days, her work was all that kept her sane. She’d thrown herself into it wholeheartedly, trying to forget, trying to move forward, trying to do better . And it had gotten to the point where there were moments in time– brief instances, at night while she tried to sleep, in the Fenton quarters while she prepared a meal, a moment of brief downtime in the lounge– where Maddie’s skin would begin to itch and crawl with a mild desperation, like a thousand tiny bugs were climbing up her arms. A compulsion that urged her to get up, to get back to the OR– back to her work.

There was so much more to be done.  

But while she had feverishly, almost frantically buried herself in their work to escape the pain of… That Day, Jack was having a distinctly harder time of it. Most of the time, he could work pretty lucidly– but others… Some days, Maddie or one of their assistants would have to escort him from the OR weeping. Some days, he wouldn’t come to the OR at all. Wouldn’t even get out of bed. There was a dimness to his eyes that had never been there before. 

Maddie was… trying not to worry.

He’d find his anger soon enough– she knew . 

Then, he would come back to her. Then, they would be unstoppable. 

At the very least, their latest subject had stopped its struggles long ago. Whether because it had finally realized she wasn’t going to fall for its manipulations, or because her avid study had robbed it of its baseline functions, Maddie neither knew nor cared

In the beginning, she’d needed Jack’s brawn to help keep it still. To keep it steady enough for her while she saw to the more… delicate work. Still, small and temporary as it was, Waller had spared no expense for this lab, and the table’s restraints– combined with all of Jack’s muscle bearing down on it– had ensured the creature hadn’t had an inch of room to work with.

In past sessions, it usually became quite chatty whenever Jack had to leave the room. Oh, it had tried to come at her from every angle it could, from cool even-tones doggedly challenging her logic and thought processes, to tearful, trembling appeals to her sense of mercy.

And at one point–

“The children…” exposed lungs heaving, the red-eyed creature wearing Vlad Masters’ face had choked its words out, gargling around a mouthful of coppery-tinged ectoplasm, “Maddie– don’t do this, not to them!”

The false urgency plastered onto its stolen features as it had pleaded with her, as it had wheedled and whined piteously– “Where did they take the children? Maddie, you can’t let them–”

She’d lost herself for a moment, had reached up into its throat from the incision splaying open the chest cavity; she’d squeezed–

Maddie bit her lip behind the medical mask secured to the lower half of her face, rankled that it had gotten the better of her so easily. 

At least that had shut it up– for good. 

Something inside her, some innate primitive instinct, knew that the creature on her table wouldn’t last much longer. It was lethargic and unresponsive, even fading at the edges, like dissolving mist. The organs it had regenerated after her last harvest were less pristine than her previous samples. Less functional. She would happily take those too, of course, for comparison– but she had an inkling it wouldn’t be providing her much more than that. 

It was fascinating , truly– the depth and complexity of the mimicry at work within these things. Maddie was as awed as she was revolted. 

Still, in her heart she truly believed that– had any part of him been here to witness it– the true Vlad Masters would be delighted to know that the wriggling thing that had stolen his corpse was contributing excellent data. 

The other subjects, however…

Waller had insisted– the others were needed in pristine condition.

Neither of the Fentons were allowed to meddle much with them– yet. Not that they needed to.

Maddie’d had her hands full since their… abrupt transition, methodically taking apart the ghost wearing Vlad’s face. Waller seemed happy enough to supply both scientists with whatever it was they needed anyway– so long as they produced results.

It was a most harmonious relationship, despite the heartache that lingered still. 

Maddie quietly pulled free the newly regrown liver– it was definitely paler than the last one, sallow and gray in a way that suggested it might actually have already been rotting, even inside the creature. The doctor eagerly stowed it in a specialized jar of ectoplasm, making a mental note to compare its cellular structure with the rest of what she’d gathered later on. 

The doctor reached back into the ghost, idly wishing Jack had come with her today– if only so she could get him to work the rib spreader for her– before the resounding, familiar click of heeled shoes echoed down the outside corridor. She kept her focus on the kidney, just slightly out of reach.

It wasn't unusual for Waller to come checking in anyway. This was the Division’s new priority project, after all.

And Maddie had something important to discuss with her. 

The door behind her opened just as she finally pulled her quarry free, a throat clearing softly as she stowed it away alongside the liver– she’d have to mark this jar specifically, find some way to indicate that they were already decomposing. 

“Dr. Fenton.” Waller greeted her calmly, barely sparing a glance for the ghost pinned open like a butterfly on her table.

“Evening, Director.” Maddie replied, trashing the latest pair of disposable gloves and pulling the medical mask down to her chin. She turned to face the other woman head-on. 

If she was being honest, Maddie hated being in the same room as Amanda Waller– especially alone. She was a beast unlike any the scientist had ever worked with before, and every encounter felt like two starving animals circling a kill. 

Waiting. Thinking. Measuring the cost of the fight. 

It was exhausting.

But Maddie Fenton would put up with anything– anything– if it meant reaching her goals. If it meant saving the world. 

She’d come too far, and lost too much already to back down now. 

Maddie knew what the other woman was likely here for already. But still, she waited patiently for the Director to ask. It was likely she’d come with updates of her own to inform the scientist of. The world outside the walls of this temporary base had become… a much more interesting place than it had been before she and her husband had arrived here– or so Maddie had been told. 

Sure enough, after a cursory glance at the state of Maddie's tools, Waller met her eyes head on. Steady. Focused. In control. 

“Congress issued the official inquiry last night.” She calmly informed the scientist. “They're hauling the Ward's Chief Commissioner to the stand.”

When Maddie made no move to respond, she continued, “We knew this would happen, but it's likely that your name will come up during the trial. Your husband’s, too.”

“Will that… cause any issues?” Maddie prompted cautiously. 

“I took the liberty of having someone scrub your more… sensitive papers from the internet– as well as any patents or blueprints published by FentonWorks.” Waller replied. “Your tracks are covered well enough, but I want you and your husband settled in a permanent facility as soon as possible.” 

The Director nodded her head, indicating to the catatonic ghost strapped to the operating table.

“How close are you to getting everything you need from… that?” 

Maddie couldn’t help but smile, a slight quirk of her lips that betrayed her honest enthusiasm– her excitement. She turned, half beckoning to Waller with her hand, half reaching for the box of disposable gloves still sitting on her instrument table. She pulled on a fresh set and, as a pair of heels clacked against hard vinyl, blindly passed the box behind her. 

If she couldn’t say any other thing about the Director, at least she wasn’t afraid to get hands on with her projects. 

Waller circled the table as she secured her own gloves, seemingly unperturbed to be standing so close to an ecto-being without anything stronger than a bit of latex to protect her. The cold calculation never left her eyes. By the time Maddie had taken her place back at the table, the Director was already searching the creature’s innards with a critical stare– looking for signs of what Maddie was so eager to show her. 

“This one specimen alone has put our research miles ahead of what it was even a month ago.” Maddie began, nodding to the green-filled jars lining the shelves. “More than enough to confirm the hypothesis I explained to you last week.”

Scalpel in hand, Maddie delicately indicated back to the ghost’s near-empty chest cavity. Most of the internals had already been removed– and though the regeneration process was already underway, it was sluggish and reluctant. She had plenty of room to work with.

“It took us a few days to notice,” she continued, pointing at the creature’s heart with the flat of the blade. “But look there– watch closely.”

Waller’s eyes snapped to the frantically pulsing organ. It too was graying, showing signs of decomposition, a slow descent into the true lifelessness Vlad’s body should have had from the very beginning. But that was not what had caught Maddie’s interest last Monday. The heart thudded away in the ghost’s chest, shuddering with practiced, simulated fear, but–

“It’s not actually beating.” Waller noted, after a moment of quiet. “Something’s simulating the heartbeat from inside.”

Maddie grinned , all bared teeth and savage glee. With a practiced hand, she took the scalpel and carved a deep incision into the right ventricle, unbothered by the subsequent trickle of watery ectoplasm and imitation blood that immediately coated her fingers. One hand parted the wound while the other widened the incision, slowly but surely revealing the pearlescent, crystalline orb buried in the flesh of the organ. 

Right now, it was about the size of a ping pong ball– but it had been bigger when she and Jack had first discovered it. It had slowly gotten smaller, they’d noted, with every piece they had ripped out and watched regrow. 

“This,” Maddie breathed, eyes glinting manically beneath the ring lights, “This is a ghost’s true heart– their ghost core.”

Even as the scientist held the imitation heart open, it continued to pulse in her hands, pumping red and green over her gloves; they’d theorized the only way to stop it was to remove the core entirely. They’d only refrained from doing so based on the assumption that it would destroy the ghost as well… and they weren’t quite done with it yet.

That hadn’t stopped them from chipping away at it, however. Little fragments here and there– everything they had needed to prove their hypothesis to Waller. 

“So it’s a kind of fusion.” The Director concluded, eyes never leaving the little orb, “Between human and ghost.” 

“Yes,” Maddie affirmed excitedly, “Far more complex than we first assumed– it’s not possessing the corpse, it’s become a part of it. Like… like a parasite.”

Waller leaned away from the table, returning her attention fully to the scientist. There was a hunger in her gaze that Maddie was familiar with– could respect deeply. A thirst for knowledge. For understanding. For leverage.

“Explain.”

And Maddie quickly fell into lecture mode, approaching the corkboard they’d had installed at the front of the room. Every inch of it was plastered with pictures and notes, color-coded strings laced between pins and points of interest, neatly tying together all the evidence the Fenton’s had gathered. 

“In short, Director, or hypothesis was correct.” she announced, barely succeeding in toning down the sheer enthusiasm in her voice. “Whatever parasitic bond the ghost formed with Vlad’s body, it wouldn’t have been able to succeed at integrating into his biology if it wasn’t already significantly contaminated by ectoplasm.” 

Maddie gestured to a set of glossy images pinned to the board, pictures of samples they’d taken from Vlad’s body scrutinized under a microscope. 

“We theorize that this particular ghost came in contact with Vlad around the same time as our prototype portal accident– possibly even directly because of it.” She said. “It possessed him. But instead of taking control, it went dormant inside his body, and began a slow process of integration. It’s likely this took several years.”

“Vlad would have been alive while this was happening.” She added grimly. “But he wouldn’t have felt any of it– maybe an odd pain here or there, but nothing significant enough to set off any alarms.” She then pointed to a small cluster of pictures displaying various insects– each one covered in clusters of odd, spindly growths.

“Think of it like parasitic fungus.” She said, “Growing inside the host until it’s strong enough to take over completely– until it can take the body for its own. We believe… we believe this is what all ghosts wish to achieve eventually. A return to mortal form.”

Maddie breathed out a shaky sigh.

“The level of integration we’ve found within the body is astonishingly complex.” the scientist continued. “It’s still difficult at times to tell which parts are naturally, biologically human, and which parts are ghost mimicry, because the parts of it that are imitations are mimicking at a cellular level, even to the point of mitosis. And then it starts building into tissues, and then organs, and then whole bodily systems , until most of it is indistinguishable from a live human before you get it under a microscope.”

Taking a calming breath, she continued, “From what we can guess, it always keeps at least a few of the human cells alive where it can– because it needs a template. But even then–” she gestured pointedly to a comparison shot of two tissue samples, “Those natural cells that are left are still only kept alive by the presence of ambient ectoplasm.”

“Have you figured out why?” Waller asked, eyes lazily scanning the array of pictures.

“Because the ghost wouldn’t be able to survive the integration process if there wasn’t enough ectoplasm already present in the host to sustain it.” Maddie said, pointing grimly back to the body on the table. “Whatever else we do or do not know about ghosts, they need ectoplasm to survive. If they lose too much, or don’t get enough of it, they destabilize. And once a ghost starts to embed itself in a host, it can’t leave. Their core is the first thing to fuse; if they tried to exit the body, they would just destroy themselves.”

“So Mr. Masters was heavily contaminated already when this ghost decided to use him as a… host?” Waller concluded. 

“Y… Yes.” Maddie confirmed as the wind fled from her sails, ruthlessly squashing down the pinpricks of guilt and sadness as she stared over at the body. “I know you’re aware that my husband and I worked very closely with Vlad while we were still at university…” She said slowly. “We weren’t… as careful then, as we are now. I’m certain the accident with our prototype portal is what caused the most damage, although we’re still not sure… when the ghost began the integration process.”

“Almost exactly like how Phantom got to be in that state.” The Director remarked, eyes honing into the scientist like laser-guided missiles, paralyzing her in place.

Maddie flinched.

“Yes.” She replied, much quieter this time. “It seems contact with an opening portal had an integral effect on the process– either it infused them with massive amounts of ecto-contamination, making them more… attractive targets, or those portal accidents are what brought them in contact with their parasites to begin with. Either way, it’s a common factor we shouldn’t ignore.”

It was silent in the OR, for a few long, painful moments. For just a second, Maddie allowed herself to feel an iota of the terrible grief gnawing at her bones. 

Across the room, Waller watched her unblinkingly.

“Are you prepared to test that?”

November 30, 2015

3:58 PM EST

Washington D.C.

“Dr. Holzer, we are entering our third hour here today alone, and you have yet to provide a single concrete answer to any of the questions posed by this committee.” Minority Leader Susan Powell, an Illinois native in her own right, glowered across the chambers from her seat within the congressional gallery, face creased with stress and age. “You have yet to provide a single useful piece of information about your institution, nor what purpose it served within Amity Park.”

From the testimonial seat, Dr. Hans Holzer, Chief Commissioner of the Ghost Investigation Ward, glowered up at the woman with equal vitriol.

But deep shadows beneath his eyes betrayed his exhaustion. 

“Are you honestly–” Powell continued scathingly, “going to sit there and act like you don’t know what happened? ” Her hand clenched unconsciously around the flexible stem of the microphone, trembling with indignation. “You have been the head of this organization for twelve years , Commissioner. And you– you personally– bankrolled the entire building fund for your operations in Amity Park.” 

The congressional scribe was typing furiously in the far corner, sweat beading along the creases of his brow– and at the back of the room, the public gallery shifted with unease and suspicion.

“Over six hundred people have just gone missing in the dead of night, Commissioner– none of whom are your operatives.” she growled. “–and if you continue to refuse to explain yourself, you will be answering for every single one of them.”

In the beat of tense quiet that followed, Dr. Holzer took a steadying breath. In his heart, he knew this whole trial was a farce.

None of this mattered. The outcome was already decided– for him at least.

Slowly, he leaned into his own microphone.

“Congresswoman…” he began. “I won’t ask you to understand the sheer amount of hysteria and accusation I’ve endured over the past month and a half. As you so… generously pointed out just now, I’ve had a long career of much the same. This is no different.”

Lips twitching in the beginnings of a snarl, Holzer swept his eyes over the panel of elected officials– aptly dubbed the Amity Committee.

“But I will state this as plainly as I can, once more.” He growled. “At no point in time did the GIW play any part in the destruction of Amity Park, nor are we responsible for the disappearance of its citizens.”

“I still believe, ” Holzer continued, choking with righteousness. His words weren’t solely for the committee anymore, “that one day the work of this organization will be assigned its rightful place in the annals of history. But you, congresswoman… you and the rest of this blind, ignorant society… will go down in the annals of nothing.”

The public gallery erupted behind them, a banked thunderstorm of bewildered muttering and whispering.

The Committee Head immediately brought his gavel down on the sound block, calling for a return to order. His eyes reflected the disquiet of the room, “Commissioner, what do you mean ‘still believe’?”

Dr. Holzer leaned back in his chair. 

“My client is abstaining from any further testimony.”

December 19, 2015

2:16 AM

The Watchtower

“What even is a GIW?”

Barry Allen, AKA the Flash, was currently sprawled out on his back in the middle of the war room.

The place was a wreck.

In the past few months it had become the beating heart of the League’s Amity investigation. When they’d first begun, they’d used separate monitors across the room to display different pieces of evidence and information. One was dedicated to the ongoing timeline they were building. Another held a bullet list of information they’d gathered on the eponymous GIW. A third held a separate list for persons of interest– and so on, and so forth.
Eventually, when they’d run out of monitors, they’d rolled in several whiteboards– all of which were now covered in masses of nearly unintelligible scrawl (and in a wide variety of colors, to Bruce’s chagrin). The central table itself was blanketed by a layer of papers and packets of varying thicknesses, from suspect profiles to congressional court transcripts.  

There was another small table in the back of the room as well, currently holding what remained of the takeout Barry had gotten for them– six hours ago.

“A joke.” Constantine rumbled, snorting out a derisive chuckle. He barely opened his eyes from where he dozed against the wall. “Fancied themselves professional ghost hunters.”

“Ghost hunters?” Barry was incredulous. “Didn’t they work for the government?”

“As private contractors.” John replied, gesturing broadly towards one of the monitors. “But the way they used to talk, you’d think they were part of the bloody CIA or some other nonsense.” He scrubbed a hand over his tired face, settling more comfortably against the wall. “The United States terminated their contract when they heard the organization was even mentioned in close context with Amity.”

“They filed for bankruptcy last month.” Zatanna added, hunched over some kind of laptop and typing away. A brief flicker of amusement lifted the corners of her mouth. “None of their… “operatives” had anything useful to tell us, anyway. They just kept insisting it was all because of ghosts.”

“... You’d know if it was ghosts though, right?” Barry asked, craning his neck to glance over at her. 

Zatanna snorted.

“Yes, Barry.” She replied dryly. “We would know if it was ghosts.”

January 14, 2016

9:26 AM 

Avernus; Primary Facility

“Subject 12b showed some promising ecto-activity after brain death.” Maddie noted lightly. “Only an echo– ambient emotion, or something similar. But it means we're getting closer to our ideal baseline.”

From her spot at the control panel, she cast a furtive glance back at her husband– just in time to see him nod sedately from his own chair. He then went back to studying his clipboard, deep in thought, the pen in his hand tracing nonsense patterns over the log sheet secured to its surface. It wasn’t even touching the paper. 

They were holed up in the observation room, a tiny cement box on the other side of a large pane of one-way glass stretching from floor to ceiling. The walls of the room were at least a foot thick, solid concrete surrounding thick steel barriers, and the window peering into the next chamber came equipped with its own security measures– another layer of steel that would snap shut in front of the glass, just in case one of their subjects became… a little too unruly. 

Beyond the glass sat a large, solid white chamber, walls and floors made out of the exact same smooth, porous stone. Like the observation room, its walls were sturdy and thick– able to withstand nothing less than tank-fired artillery, or even guided missiles. The chamber was hermetically sealed, with a single door that locked tighter than a bank vault, and an array of sensors and security camera lining the ceiling. 

Their latest prototype sat at the center of the chamber. So far, it had proven extremely effective. Five minutes ago, it had been used on Subject 12b.

Director Waller was standing at the other end of the room, in front of the one-way glass, peering into the newly emptied chamber ahead of them, arms folded neatly at her back. 

“What was that one’s baseline?” She prompted.

“It was… twenty-five percent, Director.” Maddie replied, after a quick glance down at her own clipboard. “One quarter ecto-contaminated– that’s why this one was notable. So far, all the data we’ve collected has been progressing linearly. The more contaminated they are, the more of a response we see. It’s another point in favor of our hypothesis, at least.”

“What about Subject 6?”

Maddie grimaced, tucking her pen behind one ear as she leafed through the documents on her clipboard.

“So far, that subject has proven to be an outlier.” She explained. “We haven't had any repeat scenarios since, but… well, we keep a thermos on hand now. And we're still collecting samples to see if we can figure out what triggered it.”

Maddie let her voice fade, staring down at the control panel with glazed eyes.

Jack still hadn't said a word.

“At this point, we’re still not sure what forms a ghost. There could be any number of factors we’re missing– Six appears to have just been a fluke.”

“And it’s still currently in containment?” Waller clarified. 

“Yes– we’ve kept it in a thermos for the time being.” 

The Director nodded slowly, apparently satisfied. She was watching as the Fentons' appointed team of assistants streamed into the chamber, carefully resetting the prototype replicate– priming it for tomorrow's session. Subject 12b had been taken to the OR already, and would be there waiting for the Fntons once Waller had deemed their progress report sufficient. 

“I want to move up our timetable, then.” Waller declared.  

Maddie barely restrained herself from balking outright, carefully avoiding the Director’s gaze as she returned to notating the experiment log.

“We'd be taking a lot more risks that way…” she replied slowly, clipboard resting over her lap. “I was under the impression you wanted this project to be… more airtight. Thorough.” 

There was more holding Maddie back, of course. Nothing she could ever voice to Waller , but there all the same– lurking damningly in the back of her mind. 

But the Director was already plowing ahead.

“March.” Waller decided firmly. “By the end of March, I want us to be moving into the next phase.”

Slowly, inaudibly, Maddie exhaled a stressed breath. The hook digging into her heart tugged unpleasantly.

That put her from one session a day to about three. 

It would be… a lot. But she could handle it. She was more than capable– and she would have Jack with her. 

“Of course, Director.”

Jack Fenton said nothing at all.

February 15, 2016

10:21 AM EDT

Google Search: “amity park”

Top Results:

“BREAKING: G.I.W. Chief Commissioner Hans Holzer Found Dead at 62!”
Ron Troupe - The Daily Planet

Investigations into the recent Amity Park Disaster received yet another crushing blow this morning, when authorities were called to the home of Dr. Hans Holzer– the former Chief Commissioner of the now-defunct G.I.W, once based in Amity. Investigators say that Holzer was found dead in his living room earlier this morning, having apparently passed away from self-inflicted injuries sometime in the night. This comes just two months after Holzer was summoned to testify before Congress last November, for his role in–… Read more

“Amity Clean-up Efforts Halted; Authorities Warn of Further Disaster”
Margaret Hayes - The New York Times

For the past four months, clean-up crews and volunteers from around the country have been hard at work, struggling to clear the waste and debris left behind by the recent disaster in Amity Park. However, authorities are now stating that recent conversations with expert land surveyors have revealed conditions in Amity have taken another turn for the worse. Now, Amity’s clean-up crews are being asked to leave the area as quickly as possible, citing the latest concerns over massive sinkholes and–... Read more

“Op-ed: What Amity Park Revealed About the Justice League”

Bradley Parker - The Washington Post

As we near the five month mark since the tragic disaster in Amity Park, I’m not the only one who has recently found themselves wondering: How could the Justice League have not known what was happening? These are some of the brightest, most talented minds in the world, with some of the most cutting edge technology– alien technology!– to back them up. They’ve got an orbital space station watching over the whole planet! But an entire town was leveled, and every single one of its citizens has vanished into thin air, and you’re telling me that no one knew about it until days later? Even worse, five months later and we still don’t–… Read more

“Amity Park Investigation in Jeopardy?”

Bethany Gables - USA Today

A spokesman for the FBI's Office of Public Affairs has confirmed this evening that the Bureau is once again asking for public assistance in the Amity Park case, stating again that anyone with relevant information on the incident should report immediately to their local office, or call the information hotline provided. This comes just one week after Amity Committee leader Stewart Howard admitted that Congress's investigation was “going nowhere fast”. Concerns are steadily rising over investigators’ ability to solve the case, as recent polls indicate that most Americans believe that not enough is being done. White House Press Secretary Don Tyler stated in a recent press release–... Read more

Next Page —>  1 2 3…

March 03, 2016

6:00 AM 

Avernus; Primary Facility 

“How long has she been in there?” 

The sun hadn't even risen yet.

Senior Facilities Officer Markus Dennings had come to relieve the night guard for the first day shift.

It was impossible not to notice the bright white light streaming out into the corridor from the other end of the wing– from the row of labs and offices that had been reserved specifically for the Fentons.

“Since about 0100, sir.” replied the night guard, a fresh-faced young man named Thomas. He'd only just arrived that week, right out of basic training. 

“She, um… sure is dedicated, sir.” The kid remarked, and though it was phrased as a compliment, his tone was more uncomfortable than anything else. Markus almost scoffed out loud.

Obsessed was more like it. 

Maddie Fenton was a near permanent fixture in the Avernus testing wing, scurrying at all hours between the main chamber, her equipment lab, the OR, and the office. She had an air of somebody who was constantly running out of time, always muttering and mumbling under her breath, face glued to her ever-present clipboard rather than the ground in front of her. The circles under her eyes were deep and dark enough to look like fresh bruises.

Markus tried to cut her some slack most of the time. She was doing the work of two people all by herself. 

It was something of an open secret, in the Avernus facility at least. Everybody there knew that Jack Fenton wasn’t all present in the head anymore. Everybody knew why , too. Markus couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. 

He had some good days, sure. But they were getting fewer and farther between. It was patently obvious to everyone in the facility that Jack Fenton was getting worse, not better. Everyone but Maddie, although Markus suspected that deep down she knew something was wrong. It’s why she’d buried herself so desperately in her work. 

Grief did terrible things to people. So did denial. 

But Thomas was new to the facility; it was why they’d placed him on night shift. He hadn’t really learned the Fentons’ more… colorful background as of yet– or what it was exactly they were doing down in that lab. And if Markus had it his way, the kid would never find out. As far as he was concerned, there was no reason to put that kind of burden on someone that young.

Markus already had enough trouble sleeping as it was. 

“Yeah, you know those science types,” he replied, forcing out a shallow chuckle from behind the aborted grimace, and pasting a wry smile on his face instead. “Married to their work. You go ahead and run on out of here, it’s about time I took over anyway. Go get some rest, kid.”

Thomas shot him a grateful look, casting a final glance down into the wing, at the ghostly white light pouring into the corridor, before scurrying off with a quick salute and a quiet “Thank you, sir.”

Markus settled back against the wall with a weary sigh as he watched Thomas round the bend into the lobby, and vanish from view. 

Kid really was lucky, getting saddled with the night shift. Fenton never ran tests in the main chamber without her full suite of assistants there– and they were all off getting their proper rest when night shift was present, like sensible people. Even with Maddie up burning the midnight oil, nights were blessedly quiet.

The same could not be said, unfortunately, for the day shift. 

But Markus was a hardened old hand. He’d worked with Director Waller and Task Force X since he was Thomas’s age– it was why he’d been put in charge of the Avernus security detail. 

So, after he’d officially clocked in for the day, he returned to his post, and settled into a familiar parade rest, locking his eyes on the far back wall. He didn’t move an inch when Dr. Fenton's assistants finally arrived for the day. He didn't bat an eye when he heard the heavy, hydraulic hissing of the doors to the main chamber opening. And when the first round of screaming began, Markus kept still and steady, staring resolutely at that wall. 

Business as usual.

March 31, 2016

12:36 PM

Avernus; Primary Facility 

“And you’re certain… that you want to start with her?” 

Maddie’s voice was almost whisper soft as she stared down at the file on her clipboard. Familiar eyes stared back up at her from the photo stamped innocuously on the page, right next to the specimen’s basic profile. 

“If it doesn’t work, we’ll lose one of our primary candidates.” she tacked on. “It could set us back years.”

“Number Five is the least contaminated out of the three of them.” Waller replied calmly. She was lounging back in her chair, looking utterly unworried. “If we lose her, it won’t be as hard to replace her as it would Three or Four. But considering she’s still ten times more contaminated than the trial subjects you’ve been working with, if your hypothesis is correct– and it has been so far– you should have nothing to worry about.”

Maddie stayed quiet. For a moment, the only sound in the office was the faint ticking of the analog clock on the wall. 

“Whatever happens, I have faith,” Waller continued at last, “that you’ll find a way to make it work.”

She didn’t even need to voice the implicit “or else”.

Maddie Fenton glanced back down at the picture on her clipboard. There was an odd sort of numbness creeping up her body– one she’d been feeling more and more frequently lately. A shocking, icy coldness sinking deep into her chest, as if she’d somehow swallowed a block of ice. 

She’d stopped feeling squeamish about all this months ago. It had been hard, in the beginning. Coping with everything she’d lost since… That Day. Finding the strength to do what needed doing– the prototype, the experiments, taking apart the body of a once cherished friend over and over –...

She’d grown desensitized to it before long. But even now, there was the smallest flicker of discomfort and revulsion deep in her gut as her fingers traced the outline of the photo.

She’d known this girl for years– had watched her grow up from the corner of her eye. 

It was… sad. Maddie was sad that it had all turned out like this.

But Maddie also knew what was at stake. She was one of the only ones who knew. And the other one was sitting right there in the room with her. 

And yet still… Was it worth the life of a child?

Above them, the clock ticked on.

Slowly, she picked up the folder.

Maddie Fenton had been doing this for practically her whole life. Every choice she’d ever made was an exercise in cost-benefit analysis. After she'd married Jack, she never resented the burden; she could carry it just fine. This would be no different. 

She knew what had to happen– what it would take to keep the world safe.

Someone would have to make the hard decisions.

“I’ll have security go and fetch her from the cellblock, then.” She said, taking a steadying breath. “And we’ll prepare the chamber.” 

By the end of the day, they will have made history.

April 20, 2016

9:41 PM

The Watchtower

“This is really how we’re gonna end it?” Barry’s voice was incredulous. Almost angry. “Just like that?”

Most people in the room elected not to meet his gaze, staring down at the large spread of documents blanketing the central table, at the monitor slowly scrolling through people of interest, or even at the far wall– anywhere but directly at the agitated speedster. 

“Realistically, I'm not seein’ anything else we can do.” muttered Constantine. He looked haggard, slumped against the table, slowly trying to massage away a growing migraine. “Unless you've suddenly got a lead we haven't run into the ground yet.”

“Didn't you just make a trip up there a few days ago? What about those readings you mentioned?” Barry pressed. “The lane lines?”

“Ley lines.” Constantine corrected tiredly, straightening up to glare blearily over at the Flash. “And yes, I read them; no, they didn’t tell me anything I couldn’t bloody well guess for myself. We have nothing. ”

“Amity's readings were consistent with what we've gathered from previous disaster zones.” Zatanna added. “Some… very extreme negative emotions that will likely linger there for… a long time. But we didn't pick up on anything that might tell us what happened.”

“Well we can’t just abandon these people!”

“We are not abandoning them.” Clark stepped in, as close to a growl as the Man of Steel ever got, “We’re just going to have to step back and wait for more information. The FBI will still be running an active investigation.”

“It’s been half a year,” Oliver Queen pointed out from across the room, grim-faced beneath the edges of his mask, “What are the odds that these people are even still alive at this point?”

Activity in the room surged abruptly as several more at the table immediately tried to refute him, shattering the tense, unhappy silence that had fallen over the war room. 

Bruce had tuned out of the conversation an hour ago. 

They weren’t discussing anything he wasn’t all too aware of already. 

The case for Amity Park had at last reached its final dead end, following months of slow, painful decline. A quiet death, after so many people had put their trust in the League to find the answers. No evidence to examine, no witnesses to question, no leads of any kind to follow, and no answers to be found. Six hundred and twenty-eight people– gone, just like that. 

There was something at work here, Bruce knew. Something enormous– the sheer scope of the incident made it impossible to think otherwise. Something significant had happened in Amity Park that night– and the only people that could tell the story had vanished without a trace. Leaving the Justice League scrambling to stitch it all together, to make sense of the situation. 

Unfortunately, they just didn't have the right pieces to put the whole puzzle together.

Hell, they barely had any pieces at all. Whoever was responsible for this had left nothing behind. Nothing at all. And it wasn’t helping that their usual suspects had eagerly pounced on the opportunity to make their own moves while the League had their hands full. 

Arkham had suffered another mass break-out a few weeks ago– and last he'd heard, Luthor was stirring up his own brand of trouble back in Metropolis. Petty crime wasn't giving them any leeway either, and while Bruce trusted the rest of his family to have Gotham well in hand, the whole Justice League couldn't stay stuck on this forever. They had other responsibilities that were steadily slipping through the cracks in the wake of the Amity Park incident. As much as it galled. As much as it burned to admit it. As much as it had the detective within him gritting his teeth and clenching his fists.

Though it was a bitter pill to swallow, they needed to step back. 

Turning his attention back to the table, Bruce watched stoically as the room began to empty, one colleague after another making their separate escapes from the Watchtower– off to nurse the wounds of dissatisfaction and guilt. The past few months hadn’t been easy on any of them. Their quiet failure here would be a sting they’d feel for a while to come.
But the Dark Knight himself made no move to leave just yet– nor did Clark or Diana. 

“There’s something here that we’re all missing.” Clark said, after several long, quiet minutes, staring down at the files still spread across the table. Bruce offered a soft sound of agreement.

“And yet we are no closer to finding the truth than we were six months ago.” Diana replied, her expression creased with fierce disappointment.

The three of them lapsed into brooding silence, before–

“It was planned.” Bruce said at last, voicing what had been on his mind for some time now.

The two of them turned their attention to him, expectant. 

“Whatever happened that night, it was part of a plan.” Bruce repeated slowly. “It was following a design. And whoever is responsible clearly took the time… to sort out every detail.”

“We were never going to find anything in that town.” Clark concluded grimly. Bruce nodded. 

“So we are dealing with a mastermind?” Diana asked, leaning back in her chair and scrutinizing him closely. “Someone who plans for every scenario. Every eventuality.”

Much like you, she very carefully did not say. Bruce almost snorted wryly.

“And someone with the manpower to back them up.” Clark added.

“Most likely.” said Bruce, “Either way, we’re not going to get anything more from Amity Park. All we can do now is wait for the culprit to make their next move.” 

“Are you so sure there will even be another move?”

Bruce rose from his seat, long stride carrying him inexorably towards the central monitor. Plastered across its surface was the very same image that had loomed over them all since October– a horizon on fire, and the silhouette of a shattered town. 

This sort of thing– this level of destruction… it was never a one and done deal, not in his experience. 

Amity was the opening statement– the beginning of something new. 

“They’ll be back.” he assured them, eyes locked on what little remained of Amity Park. “And we’ll be waiting.”

April 21, 2016

8:00 AM

Google Search: “justice league”

Top Result:

“The Amity Investigation; FBI, Justice League et al. Quietly Declare Cold Case!”

Anthony Gatling - USA Today

After six long months, the Justice League , in joint cooperation with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, has been forced to admit defeat in the ongoing Amity Park case. Citing a dire lack of evidence, a spokesman for the joint investigation sat down for an interview with Today’s own Sarah Mueller to discuss the League ’s decision to step away from the case. After the Amity Committee’s failure to come to a conclusion in last year’s congressional inquiry, many League members felt that the best course of action–... Read more

Chapter Text

December 12, 2020

9:43 AM

Gotham

It was Poison Ivy, of all people, who set everything into motion. 

Though, it wasn’t actually her fault this time– she and Harley had honest to God been on the up and up for a while now; she would have never put the happiness they’d finally found together in jeopardy.

Not knowingly, at least.

But knowingly or not, she was the catalyst. She’d been caught unawares– in one of the few places in the world she could truly let her guard down. 

The greenhouse was Pamela’s ultimate labor of love. 

It was a stone’s throw from the apartment, a large warehouse somewhere in the far corner of the Bowery. The outer brickwork was artfully laced with flowering vines, making it abundantly clear who’d claimed it– and what the price would be should anyone disturb it. 

Walking inside the warehouse was like stepping into another world entirely, overflowing with a rainbow of greenery. The skylights were fixed with special panels– powerful grow lights that imitated sunshine in the face of Gotham’s frequently drab weather climate (They’d been a house-warming gift from the Bat, of all people). The flooring of the warehouse had been ripped away in jagged chunks, exposing the dusty earth below– which Pamela had long since filled with thick layers of rich soil and organic fertilizers. Her trees had taken root with aplomb, a humble orchard interspersed with the bright lavender of her ever-blooming jacaranda trees. Thick moss and vines climbed the walls and ceiling, wrapping gently around cold, hardened metal like a cushion, and playing host to a hundred different native birds that flittered and sang beneath the dappled light of the panel lamps. 

And everywhere you looked, there were flowers. A hundred– a thousand different types, and shapes, and colors, blooming at the feet of her trees, climbing the walls within the moss, overflowing from the hanging pots that swung from catwalks and ceiling struts. Exotic beauties like her indian lotus, and plumeria. Strings of brazilian fuschia stretching like fairy lights over the small, stone path she’d built. Cheerful sprigs of celosia where the light was brightest, and bright pommels of juniper grevillea. But also native varieties like her flowering dogwood– the blue-eyed grass sharing shade with her New England asters. 

And in the far back corner, hidden in the shadiest part of the warehouse, a small plot lined with several shelves of little pots– for her herbs. 

The whole thing had taken several years, and had become a sanctuary for her to retreat to. A sacred place. Cultivating and caring for it had become like meditation.

But something had been… wrong , in her greenhouse that fateful morning. She’d noticed it the moment she stepped through the doors– an eerie quiet that extended across the whole of the warehouse she’d… ahem, “liberated” from its previous owners.

Even the birds were silent.

There’d been a coldness creeping up her spine, standing there in the doorway frozen, wide eyes scanning frantically over the private oasis she’d cultivated just for her and Harley– their own private Eden. Something had disturbed it. Outrage quickly thawed the startled, foreign fear that had invaded her body. She’d stalked among the rows of exotic greenery, a wolf on the hunt. Something had messed with her pups, the children she'd raised by hand, and she was going to make them pay.

But no matter how far she wandered into the foliage or how keenly she stalked, there was nothing to be found. No one was there in the dimness with her– even if it felt like she was surrounded.

Pamela spun on her heels, eyes darting all around. The sensation of being watched was unmistakable– but there was no one! No one she could see…

“What do you want?” she snarled into the quiet. “Show yourself!”

The greenery responded to her agitation, and the building itself groaned in warning as the life housed within it whispered and rattled like a nest of a thousand snakes. 

Until, very suddenly, it stopped.

Pamela stood stock still for a moment, confused by the sudden pit of loss that flowered in her chest, before the realization struck her. 

She couldn't feel them. 

Her flowers, her trees, her children– though she reached out with her hand, nothing heeded her calls. The earth around her was, for the very first time in her life, cold and quiet and unresponsive. The vines did not stir, the flowers did not turn to face her, the trees did not sway over her head.

There was nothing.

Fear– unlike any she'd ever felt before– took root in the core of her being. Frantically, she searched for the invisible presence, for an answer, an explanation. She’d almost felt a spark of relief, when the plants around her began to move again, before the knowledge that she was not the one moving them sank in. Then, she could only watch as the closest vine struck out at her, with all the speed of a lunging serpent. It coiled around her arm with a vice-like grip.

The second it made contact with the bare skin of her wrist, she was lost. 

Ripped out of her own body. It was like being pulled beneath the water by a dark, wriggling monster. A strength she could never hope to match, dragging her into the depths of the earth itself. Soil closing over her head, filling her mouth, choking her.

Pamela could feel… she could feel the whole earth beneath the palms of her hands, pulsing through her core ( her core? )– every single blade of grass, every leaf on every tree, every petal. It was so much ( this was not her body ). Too much! ( Whose body was this? ) The planet’s heartbeat pulsed against her ears, frantic. Fear and agony and anguish invaded her body, foreign roots piercing soft flesh and burrowing beneath her skin, until her veins were made of wood, and she exhaled mouthfuls of bloody flower petals. 

This was… not her power. This was not her pain.

This was something else– some one else.

Pamela writhed, caught in the grip of an apex predator, gasping out choked sobs as the weight of their suffering bared down on her full force. She didn’t understand– She didn’t understand!

But then, all at once, for just the briefest moment, there was clarity.

Pamela looked down at the world. The world looked back.

And it screamed.

Date Unknown

Time Unknown

Avernus; Primary Facility

Perhaps the strangest part about it all– Sam had never considered they might be kept alive.

She’d always had some inkling that things would go wrong one day; had been preparing for it since the GIW had first shown up in their lives. Stashing away stacks of carefully folded bills scattered across several well-chosen hiding spots, building up go-bags of painstakingly researched essentials– the works. 

But in her head, Danny had always been the only target.

Perhaps Elle, if the Idiots in White ever caught wind of her. 

She and Tucker and Jazz would go with him on the run, because there would never be any version of these events where they weren’t by his side. And if anyone ever caught up to them, they would fight for him– God, would they fight for him– but she’d never seen herself as a target in her own right.

They wanted Phantom. Wanted to take him apart.

Her job– their job– would always be to get in the way. 

But then, there was… That Day. And someone new had entered the field.

When they’d finally been cornered, surrounded by smoke and fire and crumbling buildings, Sam had expected to die right then and there. What use would they have for the rest of the team when they had what they wanted already?

Looming overhead were shadowy figures dressed in black combat gear, far more serious and frightening than the GIW could ever hope to accomplish– because in the end, it hadn’t been the GIW that finally brought the hammer down on Amity Park.
She’d been pinned in the middle of the road, arms bent painfully behind her back, someone’s knee digging into her spine. And when she’d looked up, teeth bared in a last snarl of defiance, it was straight into the barrel of the biggest gun she’d ever seen in her life. 

Her heart had frozen over, then. It wasn’t anything like the myriad of dinky little blasters or wrist lasers, or any of the hundreds of weapons the Fentons had ever made to hunt ghosts. That night, she’d come face to face with a weapon specifically designed to eliminate human beings– and she had expected them to use it on her. She’d never felt that kind of fear before, not even after all she’d had to face since Danny had accidentally opened his parents’ portal. 

A part of her had shut down, after that. She had barely been able to register anything outside the fact that she was very much still alive, even as they’d hauled her up, separated her from her friends, and escorted her to the shadowy maw of an unmarked truck. 

They’d wasted no time transporting “Team Phantom” out of… the wreckage. She’d spent all night curled in the back of that armored truck– blindfolded, hands zip-tied behind her back. Every time the truck had swayed, she’d feel the muzzle of that massive automatic rifle– clutched tightly in the hands of the soldier assigned to watch her– brush up against the back of her head. She’d gone numb, at some point. Both inside and out.

She only remembered flashes of that first day, after they’d arrived.

They’d been stripped of all their belongings upon arrival, and given a full physical. Poked and prodded by a team of blank-faced doctors. Sam vaguely remembered them taking hair samples, along with several vials of her blood. Afterwards, the guards had shoved a set of pale blue scrubs into her still-trembling hands and ordered her to change, before hurrying her off to what she would dubiously be calling home for the next few months.

Cellblock Zero had been stark and utilitarian– honestly, a part of Sam had been expecting solid concrete boxes and iron bars– maybe even outright cages. The classic shady government facility experience. Reality had been a lot more barren, though at least it had been clean. 

Sam mostly remembered the white. The walls, the floors, the cots shoved in the corners of each cell, and the sheets that encased them, the thin privacy curtains sectioning off a corner of the room; all of it was the same shade of snowy white, sparkling brand new under harsh fluorescent panels. Instead of prison bars, each cell featured a thick, clear pane of glass stretching from the floor to the ceiling, offering an unfettered view of each prisoner beyond.

The feeling of exposure was the worst part. Nowhere to hide. Nowhere to run to. 

An animal in a zoo, waiting to be gawked at.

Sam’s cell had been right there at the entrance. Jasmine had been next to her, and Tucker right across the aisle. Danny and Elle had been stuck together, bundled into the same cell just across from Sam’s. They'd figured out later that the material their captors had used to make each cell had been laced with powdered blood blossom– both halfas had immediately collapsed upon being thrown in, and the porous stone had taken on a faint red tint, like blush, as the mixture activated. There had been nothing anyone else could do but watch as they’d suffered through it, weak, dizzy, and delirious. It had taken them several long days to adjust to the constant aching in their bodies.

Additionally the two had been collared, thick metal bands secured tight against their skin, red light flashing ominously near the clasp. No one knew what they would do– but the guards had harshly advised against trying to remove them. They’d implied the consequences would be painful.

After that– nothing. Not for the longest time.  

After a while, the fear they all felt had no choice but to give way to sheer boredom. The guards just outside the block never stopped them from conversing with each other, but anyone else that entered wasn’t allowed to speak to them. There were no updates on what was happening outside of their little bubble of space– no word on what their futures would be. Time lost its meaning. There was no day and night in Cell-Block Zero, no indication of the weather or season. For a truly loathsome three months– by Tucker’s estimate–  all they could do was sit and wait for the inevitable. 

The only comfort they had, in the beginning, was that they were together. 

Whatever else might happen to them in that place, they could still see each other's faces. Hear each other's voices. A robust surveillance system and twenty-four hour guards put a damper on any escape planning, but there was comfort in knowing where her friends were. In being able to call out to them, and getting a response.

Their first sign that something was changing, however, had come soon after. 

Jazz was the first one they took, and after so long spent waiting it had been jarring to suddenly remember why they had been so afraid in the first place. When faced with one of their own being yanked out of her cell and dragged to an unknown fate, it had all come flooding back.

The constant presence of those awful guns were the only thing that had kept any of them docile. Jazz hadn’t tried to fight it, even as Danny became frantic. He’d hurled himself at the glass, demanded to know what they were doing, what they wanted with his sister.

He received no answer. None of them ever did. 

But he’d kept slamming his fists into the glass long after they were gone from the cellblock– until the thick metal collar around his throat had lit up with a high, metallic whine, and he’d collapsed to the floor screaming. Electrocuted. 

Over an intercom, through the speakers discreetly placed in the corners of the room, a woman’s voice explained “That will be your only warning, Number One.” 

It would be far from the last time they heard her voice.

Number One. 

Sam remembered, more than anything, the cold weight that had settled in her stomach after that.

They’d returned Jazz almost three hours later. At a glance, she had looked unharmed– but she was pale. Her arms were wrapped around her middle, shoulders hunched up high, and her eyes were red and raw. There was a bandage peeking out from the crook of her elbow, a small square of white fastened with medical tape.

It seemed to take an eternity, for the guards to firmly push her back into her cell and leave the room– returning to their posts outside.

“Jazz! Jazz– what happened?” Danny had asked. He’d pressed himself as tight as he could against the corner of the glass– as close as he could get to her. Elle had huddled up next to him, staring across the room with wide eyes. “Are you okay?”

“I’m alright, I’m fine.” She’d rushed to assure him. But even if Sam couldn’t see her, the wobbly note in the redhead’s voice said otherwise. “They didn’t–... well, I’m not injured.”

“What happened?” Tucker asked, and his voice had been unusually soft. There had been a sad sort of suspicion in his eyes. 

“They, um… needed more blood.” Jazz explained. “They took a couple vials– I-I’m not sure why. They didn’t say. Did another physical, and took some x-rays, I think. And, um… well, after…”

She must have shown them something then, because Elle’s eyes had widened with something like horror, and the air had hissed through Danny’s teeth as he’d snarled out something in ghost tongue, eyes flashing a malevolent green. The collar around his throat had trilled in warning.

Tucker had just looked sad.

But Sam couldn’t see it, their cells were right next to each other . A lump of helplessness had lodged in her throat.

“It’s a tag,” Tucker had told her eventually, after an extended minute of horrified silence. His voice had cracked on the final word. “O-on her right ear. It, uh… it’s the number three. There’s also a tattoo, j-just behind it. I’m not sure what the symbol is.”

The ice had solidified in Sam’s gut, then. She took a step back from the glass, eyes watering as she carefully took a deep breath. As she carefully tried not to think too hard about the new reality of their situation.

Lab rats, we’re all just lab rats now –

“Always wanted to get my ears pierced.” Jazz joked weakly, but the undercurrent of despair and fear in her voice only made the burning in Sam’s eyes worse.

No one laughed. For several long, painful seconds, no one had said anything at all. 

What was there to say? 

After that, no one questioned why they were being kept alive. 

Maybe half an hour later, they came for Tucker.

No one made any comments when he came back a little paler, with his own tag– a neat “04” stamped in thick, dark print– and a white bandage behind his ear. 

And then it was Sam's turn.

When the troupe of black-masked guards came to a stop outside her cell, she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin high, desperately trying to hide the way her heart stuttered painfully in her chest when they pointed those guns at her, and ordered her to step outside. If she was going to be tagged like a lab animal today, she’d do it with some pride.

There had been no more outbursts since the sobering demonstration of the metal collar, but Danny still visibly seethed as they ushered her out of the block. Her heart went out to him.

The helplessness was definitely the worst part about it all. 

Still, it was the first time she’d actually been out of the cell since they’d first thrown her in– and Sam would be lying if she said she wasn’t itching to get a better look at the facility.

The first thing she noticed was the lack of windows.

No windows, and no natural light. The entire facility was lit solely by flat, fluorescent panels in the ceiling– plenty bright enough to see, but lifeless and utilitarian. Indifferent. Sam had never felt farther from the sun, and though the climate of the facility was carefully controlled, she’d been weathering through a constant chill since she’d first been brought here. Maybe it had something to do with the scrubs and socks she was forced to wear… 

Walking down the corridor from the cellblock to what she assumed was a medical wing almost felt like walking through a real doctor’s office. Polished tile floors and dull drywall on either side– perhaps the occasional potted fern or shrub next to a firmly shut door. None of their surroundings exactly screamed “Ultra Top Secret Government Lab”, but she digressed. Sam was never allowed to linger long enough to get a good look at anything, though she quickly realized it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. The complex was built like a labyrinth, all twisting corridors and sharp turns, dozens of silvery swinging bay doors that looked as if they might lead somewhere, but would deposit you into yet another endless corridor. 

Still, she knew immediately when they’d entered the medical wing proper when the population of white-coated staff members suddenly spiked from zero to well over a dozen all suddenly populating the hallways. They were quick to scramble out of the way, however, of the team in dark kevlar that surrounded Sam on their journey. Aside from that, very few of them paid her any true attention, scurrying off up or down the corridor, faces buried in paperwork or carefully keeping their eyes forward– away from Sam.

Busy little worker bees.

The ones that did turn to look evoked a certain queasiness in her stomach, the way their eyes picked her apart with open fascination and greed. Reminding her, with a sharp stab of revulsion rippling down her spine, of one Madeline Fenton. A sobering indication of what exactly she was here for– what she was to them. 

From there, they silently took her back to some kind of examination room– Sam vaguely remembered it from their first night in the facility– just as white and drab as the cellblock.

The guards dropped back to the front of the room, solidly blocking the only exit, and Sam was left to the embrace of the whitecoats. 

If the doctors conducting the exam had any reservations about what they were doing to her, absolutely none of them elected to show it. The whole thing was very clinical at least– stand still, step on the scale, breathe deep, hold out your arm. Ultimately painless. Sam was summarily given a full physical, and a less than willing donation of her blood, before she was marched abruptly into the next room.

…For something far less pleasant.

She’d been prepared for this. She’d known it was coming, but still–

But still…

Sam swallowed hard, pressing trembling hands to her sides, as if it could disguise the quaking of the rest of her body.

There was only one doctor in this room, hovering next to what appeared to be a dentist’s chair and preparing a small device that Sam grimley assumed he would be using to pierce her ear. He didn’t say anything as one of the guards “helpfully” shoved Sam towards the chair, ordering her to sit down in a low, gruff tone. 

She settled into the chair, and tried not to think about all the horror movies she’d seen of this exact scenario. 

“You know my ears are already pierced, right?” she drawled, fear masked carefully by bravado and sarcasm, heartily ignoring the way her pulse raced at her own audacity. She couldn’t seem to help it. 

“It won’t be that kind of piercing, Number Five.”

Sam jumped at the voice that came from behind her– neither the doctor’s nor any of the guards.

It was her voice. The woman from the intercom.

She watched as a shadow rounded the corner, and stepped into her line of sight.

The first good look Sam ever got of Director Amanda Waller, the woman was strolling casually from behind her chair, perfectly relaxed. For all that she looked relatively unassuming– dressed in business casual, no taller than Sam herself– the woman exuded an overpowering aura of chilling, competent ruthlessness. Staring into her eyes, Sam immediately knew this woman could very easily have her killed, if she deemed it necessary. She wouldn’t even bat an eye about it.

Sam hadn’t even realized she was in the room.

Calm, dark eyes seared into her soul, watching her like she was a bug under a microscope, picking apart her metaphorical armor and flaying it away with all the deftness of a scalpel. Sam was frozen, only able to watch mutely as the woman casually reached out to tap the cartilage of her ear, just beneath the helix. Then, she waved the doctor forward. 

“Number Five, my name is Amanda Waller. I’m the Director of the United States’ Black Badge Division, and I oversee this entire facility.” The woman explained, each word carefully scripted. “Before we can launch the next phase of this operation, several security measures have to be taken to ensure that you and your fellow inmates remain where we need you to be.”

Sam valiantly swallowed back the urge to spit at the other woman. 

Waller stepped away from her then, circling back around the chair as the doctor approached from the other side, holding what looked like a glorified nail gun. A cold sort of nausea took root in Sam’s gut. This was it, then.

The doctor was at least gentler than the guards, but firm as he tilted Sam’s head back and to the side, exposing her right ear to the harsh fluorescent light above. From the corner of her eye, she could see Waller’s silhouette pacing around her, like a circling shark. Sam dug her fingers into the arms of the chair, tense as a bowstring.  

With one hand, the doctor held her head steady, while with the other he positioned the teeth of the device around the curve of her ear, exactly where Waller had pointed. As chilled metal brushed against her skin, she struggled to focus on Waller past the sound of her pulse hammering frantically. 

There’d been a slight click, and then cold iron teeth crunching down hard on the shell of her ear, like the bear with a frantic, wriggling salmon she’d once seen in a nature documentary. Sam wasn’t able to stifle the pained yelp that tore past her throat, pulled by the rush of pain and heat.. A solid hand kept her from jerking away outright, before the doctor quickly pulled the device away and brought up a folded square of medical cloth– soaked in disinfectant. 

Sam had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from making any more sound as the doctor began clinically dabbing away at the metal clasp now sunken firmly into the cartilage of her ear, the sting of the alcohol bringing a telltale burn to her eyes. Waller watched on with complete indifference, though she at least waited for Sam to gather herself before continuing.

“The tag you’ve just received is embedded with a special nanite chip.” Waller informed her, as Sam sat there and desperately tried to steady her breathing. “This chip will broadcast your exact location at all times. Additionally, every single doorway in this facility is equipped with a scanner that can communicate with your chip.” Waller then stopped in front of her, eyes piercing as she gazed down at the girl. “If at any point in time you are somewhere you shouldn’t be, any door you walk through will detect the chip, and an immediate lockdown will be initiated. You will be caught, and returned to your cell.”

“What the hell do you want with us?” Sam hissed, eyes stinging fiercely. She refused to let even a single tear fall. “What’s the point of all this?”

Waller paused then, watching her with an unreadable expression.

“We want the same thing.” She said at last. “To protect our country, and by extension the world. If you cooperate with us, your time here doesn’t have to be difficult.”

The doctor left her side, then– in exchange for one of the guards. Sam tensed painfully at the sight of the tattooing gun in his hand. Her eyes flickered back to Waller.

No way out but forward. 

You should have just spit in her face, Manson.

March 31, 2016

2:00 PM

Avernus; Primary Facility

When the end arrived, for Sam, it was sudden and without warning

She didn’t even think to say goodbye.

When the guards came for her that day, there was no indication that it was for anything other than the usual. Since the day she and her friends had been tagged, getting dragged to the medical wing had become a regular occurrence. Nothing groundbreaking– just the same check-up. Their measurements would be taken, the doctors would draw a few vials of blood, and they'd be sent back to the cellblock. They’d grown to expect it, however reluctantly. 

But complacency would prove to be her undoing. 

She didn't realize something was wrong– was different– until the guards took an unexpected turn down one of the corridors, and she was forced to follow. Sam was far from memorizing the twisting pathways of the facility, but she knew what was familiar. 

And quite suddenly, she couldn't recognize any of her surroundings. 

Dread crept like ice up the back of her spine, a certain coldness that left her palms clammy and her eyes jumping from guard to guard. 

They seemed… more alert than usual. Backs just a little straighter, guns held just a bit tighter. Like they were expecting some kind of trouble.

Trouble from her.

But what could Sam do? What threat could she possibly pose to them, even with her heightened liminality? 

At the end of the hallway, a door loomed above all the rest– larger, plated with thick bands of metal and sealed to the wall with an airtight grip. Sam’s breath hitched in her throat, and she was shoved forward by the guard behind her. When had she slowed down? 

A dozen different images flashed through her head when it opened, hissing as it exhaled a gust of air pressure– like the building itself had heaved an enormous sigh. 

Sam had been ten years old when she’d first come across the concept of animal testing. Back then, she’d been nothing more than a fledgling environmentalist, searching for a way to give her life meaning beyond boring galas and old money, and everything her parents wanted her to be. But there had been a plethora of horrific photographs and clips for inquiring young minds with little supervision to glimpse through on the internet, and those images had stayed with her for the rest of her life. Ragged, mutilated creatures with empty, glazed eyes– chemical burns, surgical wounds, swathes of bloodied bandages and cold metal restraints–

She was reminded of them suddenly, as the guards pushed her into the chamber beyond, and she was greeted by a large white room, and a single metal chair. 

It looked like the dentist’s chair, from the medical wing. Except the arms and legs were lined with leather straps. From the back of it spindly metal rods, jointed like spider’s legs, curved out and around– four on either side, each tipped with an empty clasp. She couldn’t even begin to guess what they might do. 

And she refused to find out.

It was entirely instinctual, the way her body immediately turned and she lunged for the door, terror welling up in her throat like bile. Suddenly the guns being pointed at her didn’t matter anymore– Sam did not want to be put in that chair. 

She was grabbed, gloved hands wrapping like vices around her arms, the back of her neck, the loose tail of her scrubs, yanking her backwards as sound erupted across the chamber. Sam could only watch as a team of nervous looking doctors quickly resealed the door– and all at once, she was a rat in a lab, beneath a knife, animal in her panic. She turned on the hands that restrained her, clawing, biting, screaming in rage, in fear, in denial. 

Samantha Manson was fifteen years old. 

All she’d ever wanted was to get through high school. Maybe work up the courage to confess her feelings to her best friends. Get out of her parents’ house, and make a difference with her own two hands.

It was hard to calculate when exactly life had derailed the tracks for her– there were too many instances. Too many upheavals. Suddenly, it had been more about staying alive and keeping each other safe than worrying about essays and tests and first jobs. Perhaps it had happened largely without her knowing, one little inch at a time. 

None of them had ever asked for this. 

She felt like she was floating somewhere, far outside her own body as she swung out with one fist and clipped a guard in the side of the head. Her wrist was immediately caught in a bruising grip. Another guard brought the butt of his gun down on her shoulder. Sam barely felt it.

From somewhere behind, she was lifted by the waist and thrown bodily into the chair. The world rattled around her, and she could distantly taste the blood bubbling in her mouth from where she'd bitten down by accident. The world was a blur of dark hands– holding her down, wrapping the restraints over her arms, her legs, even a single strap for her head. 

She didn't come back to herself until some time after she was fully bound, chest heaving, eyes wild and burning, the beginnings of a sob lodged in her throat.

Director Amanda Waller and Madeline fucking Fenton stood just a few paces away from her, looking to all the world like a pair about to watch a particular interesting sporting match. 

“Wh-What the hell is this?” Sam demanded, forcing the words out between clenched teeth and wheezing breaths. Her fingers curled around the edges of the armrest, flexing against the restraints.

Waller blinked at her sedately, like she was no more than a yapping dog someone forgot to leash.

“This is what it will take,” She replied simply, “To protect our future.”

The team of doctors within the chamber were working on either side of her, wheeling forward a small metal table holding several locked cases. Sam couldn’t turn her head to look at them, to see what they were unpacking as each case was opened. But the glint of bright, glowing green at the corner of her eye was unmistakable.

Ectoplasm.

“Wait, wh… why do you have that?” The air in the chamber suddenly felt thin and inadequate. Sam felt her chest constricting as her breath quickened. As her heart rate skyrocketed. “What are you doing?”

Eight vials of ectoplasm in total, each one loaded into a syringe and secured to the end of the crooked appendages jutting out from behind the chair. One by one, each metal rod was bent until it aligned with her arms, each needle just a hair’s breadth from her skin. 

This was so far out of left field a part of her was convinced it wasn’t even happening. 

They were obviously going to inject her with an absurd amount of ectoplasm. But what for? Why? What would this accomplish, besides drastically increasing her liminality?

Is that what they wanted?

She and her friends had presumed that the Black Badge Division wasn’t too different from the GIW, desiring the ultimate destruction of all things ecto-related. Waller had just seemed to be going about it far more competently. 

But this? This flew in the face of everything they thought they knew. 

Sam swallowed around the lump in her throat as her gaze darted between the vials. Her fear had reached its event horizon, and she could barely feel it anymore. She was numb. Floating. Her body didn’t feel real anymore. 

Ectoplasm was a radioactive, corrosive material. Long term exposure to it could alter one’s very biology, though the process was lengthy, and often went unnoticed. It was not something that was meant to be directly injected into living human veins. 

What would this do to her? 

The other doctors stepped away, once it seemed everything had been prepared. An eerie silence had fallen over the room, barring the sound of Sam’s hitching, shuddering gasps. Maddie Fenton approached her slowly, holding another needle and syringe in her hand. The liquid in the vial was clear, almost like water. 

Something wavered in the woman’s eyes, as she lifted the syringe to Sam’s neck. Just a glint– there and then gone. Her expression caved into something carefully blank as she carefully lined the needle to the girl’s artery. Sam sneered at her.

“You’re a monster.” she whispered, tears finally welling up and over, spilling warmly down her cheeks. There was nothing else she could say. “Don’t you feel anything?”

“I’m sorry it appears that way.” Maddie replied woodenly. “But this is what has to be done.”

Sam winced as the needle pierced her skin. Whatever it was Maddie was giving her, she couldn’t really feel it– but the mental image of it flooding her body, sweeping through her bloodstream as the vial slowly emptied, made her tremble where she sat. 

Madeline Fenton pulled away as quickly as she’d approached, circling around the back of the contraption. Distantly, as something within her began to burn unpleasantly, Sam could hear the woman fiddling with some kind of switchboard.

“Activating Fenton Cradle.” She announced. Something whirred beneath Sam’s body as the chair suddenly powered on, and Maddie returned to the Director’s side.

She had been quiet through the whole exchange, watching the girl with a distant fascination. An idle curiosity– to know what would happen next.

The burning in Sam’s veins was steadily growing worse, spreading out from her neck and crawling down her body like a mass of fire ants. And then, all at once, the air was suddenly gone. Her throat simply closed up, like a bag sealing shut, and Sam couldn’t breathe.

Sam couldn’t breathe.

She choked, jerking hard against the restraints in a thin, noiseless gasp. Nothing. 

No air. 

Her body burned beneath invisible flames, her lungs heaved within her chest, every inch of her clawing for relief. Black shadows, darker than anything she’d ever encountered, crawled into the edges of her vision.

“On behalf of the United States’ government,” Waller spoke from the other end of a long, dark tunnel. “We thank you for your service, and your sacrifice… in the pursuit of better understanding.”

The last thing Sam felt, as the life choked from her body, was the sting of eight needles lodging into her arms, and the darkness enveloping her body leaching into incandescent, all-consuming green.

Then, nothing at all.

July 13, 2016

Time Unknown

STYX; Black Badge Containment Facility

Number Five’s new cell was much larger… and much lonelier. 

She didn't remember even half of the move itself. Just the after– the slow, syrupy heaviness lingering over her body as the drugs wore off. The now familiar ache of blood blossoms stinging against her neck, the curve of her ear. The sudden emptiness in her chest, like a chasm had split open somewhere within her. 

She was alone.

The fraid bonds were stretched painfully thin, like a rubber band or a strained muscle. But Number Five could still feel them, ever so faintly. Even if it hurt. 

Tuck– Number Four had predicted this would happen, soon after they'd been… created. Keeping them all together in one facility would have been tactically insane– and Black Badge was nothing like the GIW. Waller wasn’t a fool, nor did she tolerate idiocy in her staff. 

Still, a part of Five had been hoping for some kind of miracle. Had been hoping all the way until they'd flooded the cellblock with gas, and she'd inevitably lost her grip on consciousness. 

She'd woken up in a new cell, somewhere intolerably far from her fraid. They'd all been moved, it seemed. But she could still orient them somewhat in her head, trace a gentle hand down the length of each straining bond to get a sense of where they were. 

Two, far to the northwest, and Three in the exact opposite direction. Four down south, almost directly below her, and One up above. Scattered to the furthest points of the wind. Four had predicted that, too. 

“They’ll spread us out as far as they can.” he’d whispered, so quiet he could only be heard by other ghostly ears. “So we can’t rely on each other.”

Her new cell was essentially a large cube, maybe five and a half meters on each side. All four walls were made of thick, fully tempered glass, and the flooring was the same as Cellblock Zero– with the addition of several small vents to pipe in fresh air. A doorway along the back wall opened into a short hallway which led to an alcove with a bathroom, and though it was small and cramped, she was still grateful for that one modicum of privacy. Similarly to her old cell, this one also had a cot– larger, and seemingly of a higher quality– and a small dresser next to it. Elsewhere in the room, there was an empty bookshelf, a desk with a chair, and nothing else. 

The cell was situated at the center of a much larger chamber– a cell within a cell– this one made entirely of cold, unbending steel. Along one of the walls was a long one-way mirror, though with her enhanced vision she could still make out faint shapes just beyond it.There were two doors on either side of the chamber, one with an airtight seal leading to the rest of the facility, the other opening off into the small observation room on the other side of the mirror. 

Number Five was rarely alone, she knew, although aside from the constant observation none of the scientists at the facility had tried anything since she’d been brought here. Not even the usual gamut of physicals and blood draws. But Four had warned to expect something eventually.

Even with that in mind, however… she still hadn’t predicted something like this.

Undergrowth loomed on the other side of her glass prison, just opposite of where she sat cross-legged on her cot. He stood as casually as one might lounge by the beach, somewhere warm and tropical. His gaze was unblinking as he watched her.

No alarms sounded. There was no sudden influx of flashing lights and raised voices, nor the sound of heavy military boots tramping down the outside corridor. Nothing but the quiet hum of electricity, and the brush of cool air against her ankles. 

No one else could see him, it seemed. 

“How are you here?” She croaked, her voice cracking painfully from extended disuse. The sound of it was jarring after so long spent in silence.

“Lower your voice, child.” Came his equally serpentine warning. He stepped through the glass case around her, ethereal and mirage-like. “Our enemies cannot see me– but they can still hear you.”

Number Five’s gaze flickered briefly to the mirror, peering intently beyond its shaded tint. Searching for signs that her watchers had caught on. Undergrowth drifted nearer, trailing vines across the floor like a bundle of wriggling snake tails.

Five had no idea how he could possibly be ignoring the effects of the blood blossoms. 

Waller had put blood blossoms into damn near everything she used to contain her new assets– not just the floors. It had been a deeply unpleasant discovery, later on, to learn that the foul little blooms had also been coated onto the metal of her collar, and the clasp securing the tag to her ear. The guards even carried pouches of it clipped to their vests.

Yet Undergrowth didn’t even seem to notice.

“The Lord of Time has fashioned… an alliance among the Ancients.” the spirit informed her. “And my presence here was arranged to oversee your development, daughter of mine.”

Five studiously ignored the epitaph, and the mocking nature of his tone as she narrowed in on his words.

The Lord of Time? It had to be–

“Clockwork?” She whispered, barely daring to move her lips.

“That is how you’ve come to know him, yes.” Undergrowth replied. “And the Lord of Dreams has… kindly facilitated this meeting.”

Number Five frowned, brows dipped low in grim concern.

Clockwork was… working with Nocturn and Undergrowth?

“Why?” She asked, peering back at him with glinting eyes. 

Undergrowth smiled, the vines around his beaked face contorting unpleasantly. He made a large, sweeping gesture with his hands, arms extended to indicate the rest of her cell, enfolding the both of them like a crystalline coffin. 

“As I’m sure you’ve noticed, ghostling… you are in, as they say, dire straits.” He rasped, and his vines slithered noiselessly across the floor, probing at the walls of her cage. “The Lord of Time has seen the future as it should be, and has enlisted the rest of the Ancients to ensure events transpire as necessary. And so…”

He pointed one thorn-like claw at her, red eyes piercing.

“I am to assist in your growth, as the Lord of Time has assisted our young Prince.” He concluded.

Five stared incredulously. Though she kept her face studiously blank and bored for the cameras, her eyes were swimming with a potent mixture of annoyance and confusion.

“You’re here to train me?” She asked.

Undergrowth nodded with another uncanny smile. His vines were crawling steadily up the walls, curling up the legs of her desk, wrapping around the bookshelf. Her fledgling ghost senses could feel his power, curling oppressively around the room, like a thick blanket. 

“You were touched by my power once before, daughter of mine.” He said. “And so too has your core taken on my likeness.”

He sounded far too pleased about it. 

“I’m not your daughter.” she growled lowly, the first hints of an otherworldly hiss rising in the back of her throat, fanged teeth flashing under white lights. 

But the spirit only seemed all the more gleeful, daring to lean into her space with a soft, hissing chuckle. 

“But you are.” He insisted, “And soon, I will teach you to connect with this world as I can– to travel among the roots and veins of the planet.” A single vine brushed beneath her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze head on. “All of nature will speak with your voice, and it will become the key to your freedom… and your fraid’s.”

Fists clenched tightly in her lap, Five glared spitefully up at the nature spirit, even as she realized there was no way she could turn him down. 

If Clockwork really had been involved, then she was more than likely meant to accept the help– not doing so would probably only make things worse. Number One had always been closer to the Ghost of Time than the rest of them, and in his own roundabout way, the mysterious Ancient had always acted with her friend’s best interests at heart.

But still…

Undergrowth?

Five closed her eyes, heaving a long, frustrated sigh before jerking away from the vine under her chin. 

“What do I need to do?”

December 12, 2020

9:51 AM

Gotham

Jason had only been asleep for just a few hours before the force of the explosion sent him tumbling out of his bed. 

His patrol had run late, and long– nipping at the heels of a trafficking ring rumored to be running out of his turf. He’d been steadily closing in on them for the past week, like a hound scenting blood. They’d barely been managing to keep ahead of him somehow, and it was driving him up a wall. But he had been consoling himself lately, with thoughts on all the new and creative ways he’d make them pay for their transgressions. 

He hadn’t even bothered to change before collapsing into bed.

The apartment rocked precariously, floorboards trembling beneath his hands as another earth-shattering crash reverberated through the ground. Distantly, car alarms blared and sirens began to wail. 

Jason cursed virulently as he rose to his feet, braced against the wall as another tremor rattled through the safehouse. He went straight for the back window, fumbling for his discarded mask, his weapons, his communicator as he went. He only paused long enough to make sure no one would see the Red Hood climbing out of it in broad daylight.

The moment he saw the clouds of dust and debris rising high in the distance, perilously close to his own turf, he knew it would be all hands on deck. Destruction and mayhem were part and parcel to Gotham itself– but this looked to be something more significant. He brought his comm online as his bike peeled out of the alley, turning onto the road and accelerating like a bullet. Already, the Bat’s brood was chattering away, calling out positions and coordinating civilian evac as another resounding explosion rocked the district.

“This is Hood.” The sharp bite of his growl cut cleanly through the noise. “What the hell is going on?”

“It’s Ivy.” Nightwing’s voice sounded stressed, beyond the feedback of the destruction “We don’t know what’s wrong with her; she’s not responding to anyone. She’s gonna wreck the whole block!”

Pamela?

Jason frowned behind his mask.

It had been some time since anything had riled her up bad enough to lash out like this– especially on such a dramatic scale. Last he’d spoken to Harley, they’d both been doing great. 

So what had changed?

Red Hood shot into the Bowery in a blur of red and black, directly against the tide of fleeing citizens. The closer he got to the thick of the fight, the worse the smog of debris became. 

Poison Ivy had really done a number on the place. 

She rose up from the smoke like a monolith, held aloft by a thick pillar of writhing, thrashing vines. The largest ones lashed out at random, slamming into nearby buildings and tearing up the roads, sending chunks of asphalt and concrete flying in all directions. It was all the others could do just to keep anyone from being crushed in the mayhem. 

The streets below were blanketed in a thick mire of more dark green vines, wide as tree trunks, sprouting up from the earth and splitting the road apart, like a chick breaking free of its egg. A dense layer of thick grass and moss and shrubbery crawled up the buildings and over the sidewalks like a carpet, eating into the foundations. The largest vines swayed and flailed around Ivy like the limbs of an octopus, striking out at anything that got too close. The streets of the Bowery had become a jungle in their own right.

Having left his bike at the edge of the destruction, Jason had grappled onto the nearest intact roof for a better vantage, watching with gritted teeth as the distant shadow of the Bat wove like a wraith through the tangle of vines. But Bruce’s efforts to reach and disable Ivy were continuously thwarted by all manner of green and growing things– snagging the hem of his cape, wrapping around one of his boots, hauling him back by the arm. Every time the Dark Knight pulled free from one of the wriggling snares, he was caught in another. 

Up above, Pamela was surrounded by a frightening miasma of sickly green light. 

Lazarus Green.

It poured from her eyes like oily tears, and she screamed as she slammed another enormous vine into the roof of an adjacent building. The stone caved like wet paper beneath the assault, sending up another cloud of smoke and debris.

In the back of his mind, something green and sinister perked to attention. Like responding to like. 

Nausea gripped him. 

Jason felt cold all over, watching the woman howl and rage like a creature unhinged– senseless in her wrath and destruction. 

Did… Did Pamela have Pit Madness?

“Hood!” The shout of alarm came just behind him, before someone threw themselves bodily at him, sending them both crashing to the side just as another thick vine scraped half of the roof away, flinging the chunks into open air. 

Jason rolled with the tremor, leaping back to his feet in moments, turning just in time to see none other than Harley Quinn stagger up beside him and brandish a wooden baseball bat at his head. She didn’t even acknowledge that she had just saved him from breaking every bone in his body, hands twisted tight around the handle of her makeshift weapon as she glared him down.

“Don’t you dare , Hood,” She shouted over the chaos, eyes wet, breathing hard. “You an' the rest, don’t you dare hurt her!” 

Jason raised his hands, palms out. From the corner of his eye, he saw Robin cut down one of the larger vines with his katana, only to find himself pinned in place by several more. 

“Tell us what’s wrong.” Jason implored calmly, even as Red Robin shouted for back-up across the comms. “Do you know what set her off?”

“No, no, I don’t know!” She was more distressed than Jason had ever seen her, grip wavering on the bat as she cast wild eyes back up towards Ivy. “She’s not even respondin' to me, i-it’s like she can’t see us!”

He ruthlessly bit down on the discomfort that rose up his throat, wrapped around the familiarity of the words. And in the back of his mind, he couldn’t help but remember what it was like to lose himself in the rage and the wrath and the green.  

“We can’t let her keep going like this, Harley, she’s going to kill someone” Jason tried to reason with her, only to backstep frantically as she swung the bat straight for his head.

“No!” She snarled. “No, I won’t let you hurt her! W-whatever this is, it ain’t her fault! It’s not her!”

“We won’t , Harley, we won’t!” Jason hurriedly assured her as she moved to lift the bat again. “No one’s going to hurt her, I promise! We just need to knock her out.”

Harley seemed to take his words into consideration, lowering the bat with another desperate glance at her girlfriend– clearly torn. 

Ivy’s vantage point above made it nearly impossible to sneak up on her. The vines surrounding her feet acted almost like sensory organs, moving like they had a mind of their own, tracking their prey as Gotham’s defenders weaved through the tangle of greenery. They were able to sense the birds and bats darting through the thicket with serpent-like precision, and acted accordingly. Black Bat leapt nimbly from a crumbling fire escape, only to be snagged midair by a vine, and tossed back to the shattered pavement below. Nightwing attempted a more aerial maneuver, only to be brutally swatted away by another tendril. 

They were being overwhelmed.

Frantic, Jason dug into his belt and waved a handful of dark, circular pellets in Harley’s face.

“Look, these just have sleeping gas in them.” He told her. “If you can help me get close to her, all I have to do is crush them. She’ll just go to sleep, no one gets hurt!”

Harley wavered a moment longer– long enough for Jason to debate throwing caution to the wind and going in by himself– before she tightened her grip on the bat, squared her shoulders, and raced for the edge of the roof. 

The former rogue brought her makeshift weapon up, and slammed it down on one of the thicker vines draped over the building, hollering a battle cry. As Jason quickly made his way down to street-level, he heard Harley calling loudly for her girlfriend’s attention, shouting futilely over the noise. 

Poison Ivy didn’t give any indication that she’d heard her, but it certainly got the vines’ attention.

Below, Bruce was the only one still in the fight, tearing viciously at the myriad of tendrils trying to tie him to the street. Even then, they were steadily driving him back, keeping him on the defensive. He had to stay mobile if he wanted to avoid getting snared, and he could neither help his children nor take out the root of the problem so long as they kept hounding him.
The rest of the family had been overwhelmed by the vines, wrapped tight in snares of slithering, insidious green. Jason couldn’t even pinpoint their exact locations.

If he didn’t move fast, they would suffocate. 

How had none of them ever realized Ivy had this much power?

Seething with rage and desperation, Jason shot up and out of the thicket, using the broad coils of denser vines like stepping stones as he raced straight for Pamela, palming the sleeping beads in one hand. He didn’t bother drawing his gun when he was inevitably targeted– there wasn’t much his bullets could do against unfeeling foliage, rubber or otherwise. 

Harley’s distraction was doing a decent job– there weren’t nearly as many tendrils coming at him as there could be. But he was still dodging plenty, teeth bared in an agitated growl behind his mask as one of them tried to snag his ankle. 

He didn’t need to get right up next to Ivy, he just needed to get close.

Jason took a chance, leaping off of the next vine into open air, his arm arcing back to launch the handful of pellets straight for the raging meta. Predictably, another large vine slammed directly into his midsection, swatting him down onto the street with impunity. But as he looked up, blurry-eyed and wheezing, breath knocked from his lungs, a second vine flung itself forward to intercept the sleeping beads, coiling inward to protect their master. 

The sheer weight and force of the vine crushed the beads into fine powder, releasing an immense cloud of thick, silvery smoke. Ivy was enveloped in seconds. 

If he could say one thing good about Bruce Wayne– at least his gadgets did their job quickly.

The vines holding Pamela aloft shuddered and swayed, releasing their deathgrip on both Ivy and the rest of the bats. Jason hadn’t even had time to climb back to his feet before the pillar of green gave one last, violent jerk. Pamela crumpled like a puppet with her strings cut, plummeting straight for the ground.

Someone screamed– Harley– and Jason launched himself unsteadily to his feet, heart in his throat–

Bruce separated from the shadows like a specter, dipping beneath the arch of a long vine, before arriving just in time to catch the ailing meta before her skull could strike the pavement. 

Jason released a low, stressed breath. 

His ears rang in the silence that followed, only distantly registering the sound of approaching sirens as emergency services began to arrive at the outskirts of the disaster. Jason’s eyes were locked instead on Bruce, now kneeling beside Pamela as his sleeping beads took their toll. 

She was crying. Sobbing.  

Like Harley, Jason had never seen her so distraught. 

“Pammy!” Harley was scrambling frantically through the debris, wiggling under collapsed vines and leaping over jagged chunks of concrete, before ultimately landing at her girlfriend’s side, “Pammy, what happened? What’s wrong?”

The other woman just shook her head, leaning heavily into Harley’s shoulder and shuddering violently.

“It wasn’t me!” she wept, clinging to her girlfriend’s side “It wasn't–... She asked for help! I don’t know how to help her!”

She was inconsolable, babbling about the grass and the earth and deep, unending pain until she couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer. She went limp against Harley, green tears still staining her cheeks. 

Slowly, the rest of the family was pulling themselves free from the debris, shaking away layers of dust and foliage, tearing themselves loose from viney traps. They gathered slowly, battered and bruised but ultimately intact.

Police sirens were rapidly approaching. Harley cast a frantic look at Jason– then at Bruce.

“You can’t–... T-This wasn’t her fault!” She argued. Her face was streaked with soot and dust. Her eyes were fearful, but determined. “They can’t take her!”

Bruce didn’t say anything for a long moment. Jason tensed, preparing to step in, but the Bat looked up to meet his gaze head on.

“Take her to Dr. Thompkins.” The Dark Knight’s voice was low and unreadable, but Jason knew he was angry. Not necessarily at Ivy– but someone was going to pay for this. “Make sure nothing is lingering in her system.”

Dark shapes began to appear through the smoke, along with the shouting of emergency workers as they searched for anyone trapped in the rubble. 

Jason knelt to scoop Pamela Isley up into his arms, and Harley followed close behind. He didn’t much feel like making an appearance for the police anyway. 

“You can handle the circus.” He growled blithely as he passed Bruce. “I’ll check in later.”

As he carried her away, Jason felt the Pit lingering in the back of his mind, studying the woman through his eyes. Whatever it had recognized within her was gone now, but its echo lingered still, clinging to her skin like residue. 

‘She asked for help!’ Pamela had cried, ‘I don’t know how to help her!’

Who was “her”? Had someone– or some thing – reached out to Pamela this morning? Had they been the ones controlling her?

Jason thought back to the sheer level of destruction he was leaving behind– he knew for a fact there were at least half a dozen buildings that had been irreparably smashed, nevermind the ones that had sustained severe foundational damage. The streets themselves had sprouted into a meadow, buried under a canopy of tree-sized vines. The Bowery would be functionally out of commission for a while.

Which begged the question– did that massive display of power come from Pamela alone? Or had she been fueled by the one controlling her? And if the power had come from her puppeteer, what did they want with Pamela? With Gotham?

He glanced back down at her. Harley was fussing with her hair, reaching over to brush it out of her face, wiping away the lingering green streaks with the sleeve of her sweater, babbling a mile a minute about tucking her into bed with some hot chocolate once they got the okay from Doc Leslie. 

Pamela slept on, unaware. 

December 12, 2020

10:16 AM

STYX; Black Badge Containment Facility

Number Five slumped heavily against the wall of her cell, chest heaving, twin trails of scarlet leaking from her nose.

Clumsily, she reached up to wipe them away. 

The collar around her throat burned with warning, and Five swallowed painfully as her fingers probed at the irritated burns flushing a line of red around her neck. That was going to suck for the next few days. 

“You were successful?” Undergrowth loomed beside her, clawed hands hovering near her shoulders, like he was waiting to catch her. 

She nodded slowly, far too drained to form words. Five let a tired trill fall from her lips instead, a succinct success-tired-sleepnow.

Undergrowth answered with his own scratchy warble.

Pride-satisfaction-goodwork And, much quieter– Restwell.

Number Five settled back against her cot, boneless and spent. She was asleep in seconds. Unbeknownst to her, Undergrowth lingered still, even after she had fallen asleep. Gleaming red eyes remained watchful and alert as the fledgling halfa slept.

“The fruits of your hard work are at hand, daughter of mine.” His whispering hiss lingered in the quiet of her cell. “And now, things are set in motion.”

Chapter Text

April 04, 2016

Time Unknown

Avernus; Primary Facility

Out of all of them, Tucker is the first one to truly understand what Black Badge wanted. He is also the first to realize that there wasn't a thing any of them could do about it.

After escorting her out, it took the guards three days to bring Sam back to Cellblock Zero. By then, the rest of them had long since realized that something had gone terribly wrong. None of them had taken it well. 

The collar around his neck had put Danny on his knees no less than five separate times on the first night, until Waller had threatened to activate Elle's the next time he got too rowdy. And every night after, Tucker had heard him pacing the length of his cell like a caged lion, a constant, cat-like growl simmering low in his throat.

Waller had refused to answer, when the halfa demanded to know what they were doing to Sam. 

Tucker didn't think the Director truly grasped how dangerous of a game she was playing– interfering with one of Danny's primary Obsessions. Though he couldn't see his friend from the next cell over, the glass did little to muffle the way Danny's snarls of frustration had grown increasingly animalistic. What they'd done to Amity Park had been horrific enough– but to prevent Phantom from protecting his own fraid? His instincts had to be driving him up the wall, demanding retribution for his destroyed haunt, for the harm done to his people. A very small part of Tucker was concerned that they'd overwhelm him. That Danny might actually kill Amanda Waller, if they ever made it out of this cellblock. 

A significantly larger part of him was viciously okay with that. 

When Sam was finally delivered back to her cell– sometime around mid-morning, by his estimate– she had to be wheeled in on a flat, metal examination table and accompanied by a team of doctors. Tucker's heart had simultaneously leapt and plummeted.

Because though she was brought back alive and unmaimed (at least visibly), something was still very obviously wrong with her. Tucker just didn't understand what, until Danny started to scream. 

There was a gasp. A thin, choked sound, and then–

“What did you do?” It began as a ragged whisper, and very quickly built into a full-throated cry of rage and horror. “What did you do?!”

But like all the other times, the guards simply ignored him. Sam was placed on the cot in her cell, and locked away once more. The cluster of whitecoats beat a hasty retreat, and the guards returned to their posts.

Tucker remembered having to press himself close to the glass to get a good look across the room, squinting under the harsh light, heart in his throat. Sam was largely unresponsive– sleeping, or just unconscious. She was frightfully pale, and the skin around her eyes was shadowed. Almost bruised. Had there been an accident? Did they take too much blood?

She almost looked like a corpse.

If it weren't for the faint rising and falling of her chest, he might have been convinced she was dead. 

… And then he understood. 

The moment the idea popped up in his mind, he almost swatted it away on principle– a visceral, bone-deep rejection. He wanted so desperately for it not to be true that he almost refused to allow himself to entertain the notion. Because they weren’t even supposed to know it was possible, and there was absolutely no way that they had gone that far. There was no way they’d crossed that line.

Except…

Except.

Tucker remembered fire. And screaming. And rubble.

What line hadn’t Waller already crossed in this war? 

In the end, however, it was the new collar that gave it away. Tucker had seen Danny and Elle wearing ones just like it when they'd finally been tagged. There was really only one reason for them to give her one.

Distantly, he could hear the littlest halfa crying in the cell next to his, and Danny's labored breathing as he tried desperately to quell the rage and instincts gnawing away at his control– Waller had definitely not been kidding about activating Elle's collar. Across the room, Jazz was trying to console them, limited as she was in her own cell. The whole exchange washed over Tucker like water slicking off a raincoat.

He should have been trying to help, he knew, but…

For one strange moment, all he could think of was the last night Team Phantom had spent together. Just before… before That Day. 

Jazz and Elle, curled up together on the picnic spread they’d brought with them to the local park, quietly dreaming beneath a blanket of stars. He, and Danny, and Sam– sprawled out like starfish in the grass just a few paces away, head to head. Staring at the night sky, and only daring to whisper as they spoke of tentative, hopeful futures, plans they would make together. Surrounded by cricket-song and all the people he loved most, the world had never looked so beautiful– so full of potential. Tucker remembered closing his eyes, and making a silent wish. A prayer. Wherever life might take them, at least take them there together.  

Twenty-four hours later, they'd each been loaded into the back of an armored truck. And then there were no more wishes. 

It was difficult to process the facts laid out in front of him. His mind shied away from it, like a spooked horse. He didn't want to approach. Didn't want to acknowledge it– a revelation so horrific it made him physically ill- nausea bubbling up in his stomach as he stared across the room at the thick circle of metal wrapped tight around Sam’s throat. 

Worst of all– the liminality within Tucker could feel her.

Distantly, like the whisper of a breeze on his skin. The same way he often felt Danny, or Elle. 

Because Samantha Manson was a halfa now. 

The flimsy barriers he’d tried to build– to block out the rising tide of grief, and hysteria, and rage crumpled like matchsticks as his mind spiraled into cascade failure. Like an avalanche, imploding inward with all the force of a bomb blast. 

They killed her. They killed Sam– they murdered her. They’ve turned her into a halfa– how did they figure it out? How did they recreate the accident? Is that why they’re keeping us– it is, it must be. Waller wants more halfas, they're going to kill all of us.

Am I next?

The others might not have had any idea– but Tucker knew all about Amanda Waller, and what she was capable of. He'd recognized her name immediately, when she'd finally deigned to introduce herself. There’d been a brief buzz around that same name a year or so before That Day, when the papers on Task Force X had originally been leaked. Tucker had found out about them in the same way he found out about a lot of things, trawling the darker areas of the web, keeping watch for any mention of Phantom, or ghosts, or the GIW. He wasn’t surprised when the whole fiasco was quietly swept under the rug by a less than enthused US government, like a child with their hand caught in the cookie jar– although Tucker was pretty sure it had more to do with intelligence agencies like the CIA than their lobbyist friends in Congress. Humiliation was not something the states really tolerated. 

So the problem had promptly disappeared, like every other thing that made the United States look bad. And Waller was free to pursue her next venture in the name of national security.

Apparently, that venture had been Black Badge. 

Tucker often wondered, over the past few months, if news of Amity Park had been quietly silenced in much the same way. Did anyone even realize they were all gone? Was it foolish at this point, to still hope for a rescue?

Was there anyone outside this facility– anyone at all– searching for an answer? 

Tucker didn’t think so. Not anymore. 

If they were ever getting out of here, they were doing it on their own. It wasn't exactly new.

Sam stirred on the other side of the room, and Tucker’s eyes jolted up to meet her. His friend shifted in place, the ghost of a whimper crawling up her throat, before suddenly she had lurched upright with a choked inhale and a strangled scream. 

She twisted, thrashed, threw herself from the cot and landed on the floor heaving, wild-eyed and gasping for air. One hand reached up to clutch at her throat, fingers fumbling against the collar in a blind panic. It trilled a high-pitched warning as she yanked and tugged, struggling with a steadily increasing hysteria. She gave no indication that she even heard it. 

Tucker felt cold all over. 

Her eyes were vacant and glazed– whatever she was seeing, it wasn’t Cellblock Zero.

“Hey– Hey!” Tucker called from his own cell, bringing a hand down on the glass for extra emphasis, “Sam, don’t! You have to calm down, you can’t mess with that! It’ll hurt you– Sam!”

She shuddered, heaved in another gasping breath as her hands stilled against the ring of cold metal, gripping it tight. She'd definitely heard him, but clarity had not yet returned to her eyes.

“I can’t breathe–” she gasped, watery eyes locked on something in front of her, “Tucker, I can’t breathe!”  

Not for the first time, he seethed internally– railing against Waller, against Black Badge, against this stupid-ass glass wall keeping him from his fraid. Across from him, Jazz chimed in.

“You can, I promise you can.” Her voice was steady, gentle, patient– the eye of a storm. A cat-eyed glow flashed from her gaze as she tapped into her own liminality, flooding the cellblock with soothing energy. It wasn’t the first time she’d had to do it. “Listen to me count, and breathe with me–”

Tucker watched as Jazz slowly counted to five from the closest corner of her cell. Sam shuddered and gasped her way through it, tears dripping miserably down her cheeks, and his heart hurt. Next to him, he could hear Danny chirping softly, sadly, afraid to disturb the ragged calm that was beginning to settle over them. Every time Sam managed to tremble her way through a set, Jazz murmured a soft “Good, again.” and resumed counting– until at last Sam’s breathing had evened out.  

No longer ruled by blind panic, Sam folded in on herself, arms wrapped around her midsection in a pale imitation of an embrace. She started to cry.

“Sam.” Danny sounded wrecked. 

He could almost see the other boy, pictured clearly in his mind– wet eyes shining with guilt and grief, the way Tucker always hated to see him. He was already blaming himself. 

There was nothing any of them could say to make the situation better. No snappy quip to brush off the horror, no dry remark to cut away the tension and fear. The only comfort they could offer was distant, and mired by their own helplessness. 

The sight struck Tucker as deeply, viscerally wrong, somehow. Sam was sarcastic, and blunt, and more than a little forceful. She went on hour-long rants about corporate waste dumping and the fur industry, and argued with Tucker about his meat-eating habits, and she was strong. And he hadn’t seen her actually cry since Danny’s accident. 

Watching her fall to pieces, sitting in a concrete box with a collar around her neck and a tracking tag in her ear– miles away from the best friend he’d always known– the reality of the situation settled heavy and dark over his shoulders. 

There was no escaping this. Not as they were. 

“I couldn’t breathe.” Sam said numbly– some time later, after she’d run out of tears and the five of them had been sitting in grim, shellshocked silence. 

She didn’t elaborate any further than that. They all knew what she was talking about anyway. 

‘Sam–.. I-I’m sorry–” Danny sounded wrecked, the barest hint of a ghostly whine threaded through his voice, “I’m so sorry, th-this is all my fault–”

“Danny–” Jazz’s admonishment was gentle, yet firm, but Danny brushed it aside with ease.

“It is!” He hissed miserably, “This wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t dragged all of you into my bullshit–”

“Bold of you to assume we wouldn’t have followed you either way.” Tucker hoarsely croaked. He’d moved to sit against the wall that cut him off from Danny’s cell, knees pulled tight to his chest. 

“You didn’t drag us anywhere.” Sam’s voice cracked painfully around each syllable. “We wanted to help.”

Danny made a pained sound, something nebulous and inhuman, and Tucker had heard his best friend make more ghostly distress calls in the past month alone than in the entire handful of years they’d been defending Amity Park together. 

It was one of the things Tucker had grown to love most about Danny’s undead side– this new way of communicating that only Team Phantom could really understand. Sleepy purring when they fell asleep together on the couch. Chirpy greeting calls when they met up on their way to school together. 

It hurt, that the only sounds Danny made these days were full of grief and pain.

In the silence that followed, Tucker heaved a deep, weary sigh. He really didn’t want to bring it up, especially so soon after Sam had finally calmed. But the elephant in the room needed addressing, so to speak. 

“You understand what’s going to happen next, right?” He asked, keeping his voice carefully lowered, mindful of the guards just outside the block proper. From across the room, Jazz met his gaze unflinchingly.

They shared a kindred understanding, for a moment– as two convicts standing just next to each other at the guillotine. At the banquet with the sword of Damocles overhead. At Golgotha, the thieves hanging on either side of Christ. 

Equally doomed.

“They can’t do that–” Elle’s little voice was raspy and paper thin– had been since That Day, when she’d attempted her own ghostly wail in a desperate effort to drive the horde of masked gunmen away from the doors of Casper High.

It hadn’t worked, and something in her throat had been damaged ever since. 

Tucker didn’t have the heart to tell her what they all already knew– there was quite literally nothing any of them could do to stop it. 

It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. But it was the reality of their situation. 

Worst of all, he was pretty sure he knew who’d be next. The tag on his right ear, dubbing him ‘Number Four’ hung heavy on his spirit.

And he was proven right not even a few hours later, when a sneering team of black-masked soldiers in heavy tac– the same group that had taken Sam to her death– stopped just outside of his cell.

He didn’t try to fight them.

There wasn’t any point. 

But he’d met Danny’s gaze, as he was escorted from the block. His brave, precious friend had tucked himself into the far back corner, clutching Elle to his side like a lifeline, breathing like he’d run a mile without stopping. Tucker knew, in the way he knew most things about his oldest companion, that if he’d let go of the young girl for even a moment, Danny wouldn’t have been able to stop himself from lunging at the glass like an enraged bear. His gaze had been manic and despairing, and Tucker had felt another twinge of worry for his state of mind. 

Tucker did not say goodbye. He refused. 

As they walked one of the soldier’s kept a constant, iron grip on Tucker's arm, squeezing with enough force to make the tips of his fingers tingle as his circulation was constricted. The air grew progressively colder with every corridor they turned down, and Tucker could almost taste the ectoplasm in the otherwise stale air of the facility, like battery acid mixed with sparkling cold sprite. 

In that moment, he wondered if the scientists here realized the kind of environment their experiments were creating. If they even registered the contamination beginning to cling to the underground walls.

Danny’s accident, and the subsequent opening of the portal, had drenched the whole of Amity Park in an unimaginable amount of ectoplasm. There hadn’t been a single citizen who wasn’t at least a little contaminated. Purposefully creating a halfa– nevermind three of them… Tucker wondered what effect it would have here. Whether the doctors here would eventually turn on each other, after discovering their own contamination. 

He might like to see that, if it ever came down to it. 

The chamber they brought him to was cartoonishly ominous– bright white walls, and a chair-like contraption that would be more at home in the Saw franchise than in a science lab. Tucker half expected Jigsaw to start speaking to him from the intercom system at any moment. 

Unfortunately, he got Amanda Waller instead. And Danny’s mother– which wasn’t a surprise, considering the previously mentioned horror movie chair bolted to the center of the room. The Dr.’s Fenton were nothing if not consistent. 

By the time the guards got to actually strapping him down in it, Tucker was already halfway into figuring out what the chair was going to do to him. 

Tucker wasn’t a biologist by any means– medical engineering wasn’t really his thing, and his expertise had always been far more technical and software oriented– but he’d been picking apart FentonWorks gadgets for years at this point. He could tell right away what they’d been going for, and that it had obviously worked the first time, given… well. 

The arms protruding from behind the chair were attached to an automated mechanism, which was itself attached to a sensor within the chair– he had spotted both when he was all but frog-marched into the room. By Tucker’s estimate, the sensor would scan for a specific readout and, upon receiving it, activate the mechanism. The arms would spring forward, instantly and simultaneously driving the syringes secured on each end right into the body of the chair’s occupant.

And injecting them with no less than eight very large vials of pure ectoplasm. 

The conclusion made Tucker queasy, even through the odd calm that had settled over him. The only thing he couldn't predict was how exactly they'd go about killing him right before the involuntary ecto-injection.

At least he had some idea of what was going to happen. He couldn’t imagine what it had been like for Sam– the fear that came from the unknown, paired with the certainty that it would hurt somehow. 

Still, Tucker resolutely shoved it away. 

He had bigger fish to fry at the moment. 

Amanda Waller stood at the front of the room, side by side with Madeline Fenton, watching their team of blank-eyed doctors prepare him for his imminent death.

Or undeath, he supposed. 

He met the woman’s gaze head on from across the chamber. Unblinking. 

“I know what you’re after.” He announced, when the team of whitecoats had finally stepped away, and he was alone in that chair, at the center of the room. “And it’s not going to work.” 

Something like bland annoyance entered her expression, arms crossed, head tilted just slightly. Part of Tucker felt like a bird in the branches, oblivious to the snake that had wound its way up behind it. Still, he pressed on.

“You couldn’t control Task Force X.” He said, just shy of too cocky. “And they had agreed to work for you. What makes you think you can keep five halfas contained indefinitely?”

For a moment, Tucker worried she would just ignore him. 

In the past, it had been shockingly easy to goad agents from the Gits in White into telling on themselves. A handful of provocations, a few carefully placed words, and any one of them would happily spill all kinds of information about any range of things, from specific missions to the layout of the organization itself. It was part of what had made them such a joke. 

Waller was a different beast. 

She gave nothing away. You knew only what she wanted you to know, and only when she wanted you to know it. Her defenses were impenetrable. No matter what any of them threw at her, she’d remained as steady and aloof as she’d been since the day she’d introduced herself. Her staff was carefully chosen, weeded and re-weeded for weak links and gossips and the intolerably soft-hearted, until only those with no semblance of a conscience remained in her employ.

She didn’t waste time with anything so precious as morals. And she had no issue ignoring all five prisoners when they dug for information. 

So it almost came as a surprise, when the Director slowly crossed the room to stand over his shoulder, gazing down at him with blank, stony eyes. 

“I don’t need you contained.” She told him, quiet and slow. “Or comfortable. Or agreeable.” 

Her eyes were like black holes, pulling in light and life unending. Her voice pitched with the barest hint of menace. 

“I need you compliant– however that has to happen.” She continued. Tucker felt his heart seize in his chest. “And if that means breaking you, you will be broken. Every last one of you, until I’m satisfied.”

She backed away then, and Tucker inhaled like the air had been pulled from his lungs, rattled from his previous calm. He glanced over at his other side, where another shadow had fallen over him. 

Danny’s mother, standing next to him with a syringe in her hand. 

Ah. So that was how they'd do it.

Once upon a time, Tucker had wished to be a halfa like Danny. Part of him had only desired the ability to help his friend, but a larger portion of his wish had been born simply from jealousy. It was easy to forget, in the glamor of each fascinating new power, just what it had taken to give Danny his abilities– and what it had cost him daily.

His grades, his sleep, his health, his relationship with his parents.

His life.  

The resulting catastrophe with Desiree had been the biggest test their friendship had ever weathered, and the guilt of it still kept Tucker up at night sometimes– especially after the battle against Pariah Dark. Their world had only continued to grow more complicated after that. As had Tucker’s desire to ease his friend’s burdens. 

This would only hurt him, he knew. He’d heard the devastation in his best friend’s voice, the moment he’d realized what they’d done to Sam. And it was only going to get worse. 

How would he fair, in three days time, when they wheeled Tucker back to his cell freshly undead? What would Danny do when they finally came for his sister?

Hell, was Tucker even sure he was going to wake up from this at all? 

There was no guarantee, even if it had worked for Sam.

And even then, if he ever made it back to the block, Tucker didn’t know if he’d have the heart to tell the other boy what Waller had planned for them. All he knew was that he couldn’t allow her to get what she wanted. 

And if that meant he’d have to become the biggest pain in the ass she’d ever encountered, so be it. 

Danny had been fighting for them for so long, shouldering the burden of his accident, of defending the town from its consequences like a martyr before the gallows. Tucker’s jealousy had long since resolved into grief, dull and aching in the back of his throat. 

At least… at least from now on, he wouldn’t be shouldering it alone.

Maddie Fenton lowered the needle to his neck, the latex of her gloves cold against his skin. 

He closed his eyes, and made a promise.

One day, I’m going to get us all out of here. 

July 15, 2016

Time Unknown

LETHE; Black Badge Containment Facility

Of all the people Clockwork could have sent to him– it had to be Vortex.

Number Four wasn’t even sure how the guy had managed to pull it off, Ancient of Time or not. The last any of his fraid had heard about the malevolent spirit, he’d been back in the custody of the Observants, awaiting his trial. Releasing a prisoner was a big ask, and the council of one-eyed assholes usually made it a point to be as uncooperative as possible. 

And yet, somehow–

“ Pay attention, welp!”  

The weather spirit's voice was like the distant rolling of thunder, echoing across unseen horizons as an invisible hand cuffed him over the ear. Number Four felt the electricity in his core rise up to meet it, teeth bared in a half-hearted snarl of warning. 

Vortex just laughed at him.

“Pah! Like you'll be scaring anyone anytime soon with those baby fangs, boy!” He jeered, “Now get back to it!” 

The Ancient of Calamity was a brutal taskmaster in his instruction.

Granted, his training so far had been largely theoretical– chances for Four to put his mentor’s lessons to practical use were few and far between within the glass cage he now occupied. But still, the mental work was taxing enough on his newly formed core. 

It was almost like meditation

Four had never been the zen type, but he was familiar with the motions. Sit still, be quiet, empty your head. Focus on nothing.

Easier said than done– especially for someone like him. 

The one caveat was that Vortex’s exercises had less to do with reaching a state of calmness, and more to do with attempting to strengthen the newborn halfa’s core. 

Because Four had received the dubious honor of inheriting a core that was quite similar to Vortex's, sparking and snapping with barely-contained electricity. And apparently that meant the walking extinction event was the only one most fit to train him.

Thank you ever so much, Clockwork .

For the past few days, Number Four had been sitting quietly in his cell “meditating”, as Vortex had shown him. 

Physically, he was fine. Mentally? He'd never felt more drained. 

Vortex certainly hadn’t explained it like that, but the way Four understood it, his core was essentially like a lightbulb, and Four himself was the circuit. He could close the circuit, and switch the lightbulb “on” whenever he wished. He could also control how much power he channeled into it, and thus how brightly the bulb would shine. The only problem was that at the moment, his lightbulb was small and fragile, and couldn’t handle higher outputs. 

Higher outputs that Four would need if he ever wanted to get out of this facility. 

Too much power, at too high a voltage, and the lightbulb would shatter– taking Four along with it. 

Four’s “meditation” involved turning on his internal circuit, and channeling as much power as he could into his core. Once he hit his absolute limit, he was to hold it there for as long as he could– until his vision swam and his hands twitched with tiny static shocks. Until he had no choice but to let go, or pass out. According to Vortex this would allow him to slowly temper the tolerance of his core, like stretching a rubber band, and supposedly expand his limits.

At least, as far as he understood it.

However, drawing on the power inside him was taxing and difficult, draining himself dry while simultaneously holding his core at maximum output, like revving an engine for too long. Four had only just started the process after making contact with the Ancient the week before– but already, Vortex was pushing hard. Demanding progress the new halfa just didn't have in him yet. 

Who could have predicted that the would-be harbinger of a stormy apocalypse would be such a goddamn micromanager.  

“You're still not connecting with the flow, boy!” The ghost insisted, arms gesticulating grandly, somewhere vaguely in the direction of Four’s chest. “You keep isolating your spark!” 

Number Four valiantly bit back an irritated growl, cracking one eye open to glare furtively over at the whirling green spirit. He was sitting cross-legged on his cot, very purposefully faced away from the one way mirror that peered into his cell. His posture was carefully crafted to give the illusion of nonchalant boredom.

The last thing Four wanted was a bunch of paranoid whitecoats clucking around his cell like a flock of frightened chickens– not while he was trying to concentrate, damn it!

“I can’t get anymore connected than this Vortex,” he hissed quietly, irritation bleeding into his tone. He had to force each word through clenched teeth. “We literally just started!”

His mentor clicked out an irritated “Tsk!”, staring down at the boy with a critical gaze. Four got the feeling that the other ghost could somehow see straight through to the heart of him, directly at the gently glowing orb hidden center mass in his body. It flickered and sparked feebly, like a split live wire, already exhausted from only an hour of meditation. 

Vortex frowned. 

Slower, quieter, he rumbled, “You’re not understanding what I’m telling you, ghostling.” The spirit stooped to poke a finger at his chest, right over his core. “You've cut yourself off from the flow. You're trying to do this on your own power. Your core isn't anywhere near built for that kind of use.”

Four carefully glanced up to meet Vortex’s gaze, his own subtly tilted away from the nearest corner camera. His expression curved into something far more thoughtful. Considering. 

“What do you mean then?” He asked quietly. 

“I’m saying,” Vortex began, fangs flashing with exasperation, “You’re attempting to run before you’ve even started crawling. You have no finesse. No fine motor control. And you think too much like the Princeling. You’re drawing from a well of power that isn’t there.”

Vortex reclined back in the air, like he was simply lazing on a beach somewhere, the deep red of his eyes unblinking as he watched the young halfa. 

“Stop isolating your spark, and start connecting with the flow around you.” The spirit instructed briskly. “Before you exhaust yourself any further.”

“I don’t understand what that means.” Four pressed, the barest hints of a plaintive trill edging into his tone. Vortex clicked his tongue again.

Sitting up, the Ancient ghost reached into his chest and plucked out his own core. Cupped in one hand, he raised it high for Number Four to see clearly. It was wreathed in a layer of sparking, spitting electricity– a bright, almost purple-white, like the lightning Four had often seen spearing through massive thunderheads on a stormy afternoon, long before his captivity. The static crawled over the ghost’s hand like an affectionate serpent, winding between his claws and crackling down his arm.

“Energy, boy.” Vortex explained. “It’s not like ice, or fire, or any of the thousand other cores a ghost can possess. It cannot be contained or kept– only redirected. Your little monarch might have a deep well of power from which he may draw, but you do not. And you never will.”

Number Four glared back at the spirit with no small amount of frustration, fangs digging sharply into the inside of his cheek as he swallowed back a sharp keen of distress. It was the opposite of what he wanted to hear. But days of work had been getting him nowhere so far. There had to be a kernel of truth to the weather ghost’s words.

How was he supposed to help his fraid if he was destined to remain this weak?

Four was summarily cuffed again, right as he was beginning to spiral.

“I see that look in your eyes, whelp, wipe that pout off your face.” Vortex ordered sternly, still grasping his core tightly in his other hand. “Because while you may never acquire the same wellspring of power other ghosts possess, you will never have need of such a thing.”

Vortex’s expression stretched into a manic grin as he shoved his core back into the center of his being.

“Every core type has its own gimmick– but ours are uniquely special.” He explained gleefully, “While all other ghosts draw power from within their own cores and grow stronger over time, energy cores cannot hold vast quantities of power, because–”

“Energy cannot be contained…” Four murmured. 

Vortex shot him a pleased look.

“Instead, our power comes from the flow. ” The Ancient continued, “Energy is all around us, boy. At every waking moment– and we are its rightful masters. Call on it, and it will bend to you. Redirect it into you, and you will have a nigh unlimited source of power.”

Unlimited power! Chancellor Palpatine’s voice echoed in Four’s head as he fought off an almost hysterical giggle.

“So the meditation?” He prompted instead, desperate for composure.

Vortex just scoffed rudely down at him. “Pah! How do you expect to command the infinite resources of the flow with such a puny little infant’s core?” He growled, eyebrows furrowed scornfully. “You are not meditating to store more power within your core, you are doing so to strengthen it– preparing it to withstand the unbridled fury of the source of all energy!”

At least it all made much more sense to him now.

Number Four had been drawing from what little power he innately possessed to charge his core– exhausting himself long before any meaningful change could happen. He heaved a steadying breath as Vortex’s usual abrasiveness made a swift return.

“Now reach out with your senses, boy!” He ordered, “And begin again!”

October 01, 2017

2:56 AM

LETHE; Black Badge Containment Facility

Number Four couldn’t tell whose pain it was– just that it hurt terribly. 

He clutched at the phantom ache in his chest, scorched by a wound that didn’t truly belong to him. The cellblock was dark– the lights artificially dimmed to signify nighttime. 

Four was meant to be resting, but…

He cringed into the thin material of his cot, curled tight around himself in a desperate attempt to stifle and soothe the persistent burning– like he was being scorched from the inside out. Unfortunately, the situation was more common than he dared to think about.

Someone was hurting a member of his fraid. 

The sensation was muddled by time and distance, and Four couldn’t pinpoint the exact direction it was coming from– they were all nebulously “above” him somewhere. But the sensation was unmistakable, the searing agony that accompanied the sting of anti-ghost weaponry. Number Four had suffered through his fair share of it recently. 

Hell, they’d hauled him off to the testing wing not even three days ago, eager to try out the next up-and-coming Generic Ghost Blaster Bazooka #8510– honestly, Four had stopped keeping up with names and numbers and iterations a while back. They had only grown more ridiculous and tedious as time went on, no matter how the soldiers gushed about “sleek, modern looks” and “I bet I could mulch a ghost’s head at fifty meters with this thing”.

Number Four was over it. 

But still, having a captive ghost in one’s facility made for an ideal test subject for all the new gadgets crafted by a veritable legion of pet scientists and engineers. Black Badge was nothing if not pragmatic.

Static gathered at his fingertips as he fought off the haze of outrage and wrath gnawing at his core, the pernicious instinct to kill-kill-kill, find-them, destroy-what-hurts-the-fraid!

Maybe one day he’d get to indulge, but at the moment it wasn’t conducive to any of his plans– of which Four had made quite a few by now. 

After he’d finally grasped an understanding of his energy core, Number Four had flourished in leaps and bounds over the last year. In many ways, training a core like his was much easier than any of the other elements– he had no wellspring of power that required careful control and constant attention. Four’s power was in the air, all around him– humming through the panels and wires of the facility, lingering in the atmosphere like mist. And already he could handle a much higher output than he’d started with.

Enough to finally– finally– begin plotting his escape. 

During his frequent visits, Vortex had taught him all about harnessing the natural energies of the world within the flow. It was how the Ancient commanded the weather, shifting the energies in the upper atmosphere to fit his whims. And Four had found it interesting, to be sure. But he’d had his own ideas he was eager to try. 

Because he had long since learned that energy was unrestricted in the forms it could take, unchained from the rigidity of the other elements. It ran through all organic matter–

And all technology as well. 

As Number Four further tempered his ghostly core, he had found that he could touch not just the world’s natural energies, but the artificial power that enabled the entire facility to function. He saw it all whenever he closed his eyes, dangling in front of him like a thousand million tiny strings, vibrating with energy, waiting to be plucked by a steady, practiced hand– like a violin, or a harp.

And with them, Four learned to play music. 

It was like astral projecting– separating his ghostly senses from his physical body in that meditative state, casting himself like a net into water to see what he might find.

At first, it had just been the overhead lights. Then, Four had been able to reach out and touch the security cameras in his cellblock. The computers used by the scientists behind the one-way mirror. And then beyond that, to the medical labs, and the testing wing, and the guard barracks. On and on, until Number Four could circulate his presence throughout the entire underground facility. 

He was in the wires. In the walls. Burrowed into the very code in their computers. Swimming through the flow like an electric eel, unseen and undetected. 

This was how he hoped to trigger his escape. 

Because while physically leaving his cell was an impossibility in his current state, Number Four could travel far and wide within the wires of technology, piggybacking off lines of code, from emails shared between devices and– eventually– to the world wide web itself. What every self-proclaimed tech nerd dreamed of: uploading his consciousness, or a copy at least, onto the internet. Becoming one with the content cloud, or something like that. Semantics.

There, Number Four would be free the wreak holy havoc.

Energy could not be contained.

He’d make sure Black Badge learned that lesson in blood. He’d find his fraid. He’d expose Waller and her agents. He’d put an end to all of this.

He just needed an opening. And a bit more time to further temper his core.

Four wasn’t strong enough for even half of what he had planned yet, he knew. But he was getting there– faster with each passing day, with each meeting with Vortex. And with every pass he made through the wires of the facility, he learned more and more. Things that would help him as he refined his plan. 

At first, he’d stuck to observation only. Lingering in the lights and the cameras, watching and listening to doctors and scientists and soldiers, any staff member within reach. He spied on them as they’d gossiped and gabbed about Amity Park, about his fraid, about him, with malicious glee.  

Slowly, he was building up his own catalog of information in his head, adding new tidbits piecemeal as he gathered them up. 

Phase Three, they’d called it. Of a much larger project, that much was certain, but Four still didn’t know exactly what it was, or what it was meant for. 

From what he could surmise, Phase One had been him and his fraid’s abduction on That Day. Then, once they had been properly contained and processed, Phase Two had consisted entirely of… some kind of testing. Perhaps it had something to do with all the blood samples they’d taken? Four had put a pin in it. 

The doctors at his facility had named their current Phase, rather ominously, “conditioning”.

He’d spent far too much time around Number Three to not immediately grasp what they were doing. After all, Amanda Waller had told her himself– if earning their compliance meant breaking their spirits, she wouldn’t hesitate to do so. 

Four rubbed at the ache in his chest with a soft, sad chirp. 

Perhaps it was for the best, that the sudden spike of pain had jolted him from another fitful sleep. The scientists observing him through the mirror didn’t pay half as much attention this late at night– especially if they were under the impression that Four was asleep. And there was something he needed to do. Something he’d been preparing for. The first step in the skeleton of a plan he’d built for himself. All he’d been waiting for was the right opportunity.

An opportunity that had at last arrived, it seemed. Tonight of all nights. 

If he were anywhere else, he might have even suspected that Clockwork had something to do with it. 

A little over a week ago, Number Four had finally decided that he had observed more than enough. He wanted to act.

The halfa had carefully split off a tiny piece of himself– something he’d been practicing with Vortex’s supervision– and left it lingering in the systems that powered the facility. Patrolling through the wires, watching and waiting for something very specific while Four returned to his physical body. 

His biggest obstacle thus far: the Lethe Facility ran on its own private network, an internal structure completely cut off from the outside world. Four had run himself over every last inch of it– several times. There had been no way to access any part of the internet. No way out of the system.

At the beginning of each day, when staff members arrived for their shifts, they first had to pass through an elaborate security checkpoint. Each individual was thoroughly scanned and combed over for wires, microphones, flash-drives, personal tablets, laptops, and especially cell phones. Any kind of outside technology was forbidden on the premises– and if you were caught carrying some in, it was confiscated, and the offending staff member would be immediately detained for further questioning. 

Four had never actually seen it happen, but he’d read over the policy himself when he’d skimmed over the facility’s general access files.

He had faith, however, in humanity’s propensity to break the rules. Even if your Director was Amanda Waller, no one could resist the siren call of shitty social media sites forever. Boss makes a dollar, or however that phrase went. 

And he was right to keep an eye out, it seemed– as the fragment of himself within the walls of the facility had just locked on to a foreign energy source. Something bright and new in a landscape he’d long since memorized. 

Four felt his lips twitch into the beginnings of a smirk.

Looks like someone wanted to watch TikToks on company time. 

Number Four allowed himself to relax into the thin padding of his cot, feigning sleep as he closed his eyes and drifted into a meditative state. It was as easy as breathing these days, to sink into that dark between-place, glittering with countless strands of light. There, he searched for the brightness of the new thread, quivering a single, discordant note in the harmony he’d organized within the flow. 

He couldn’t physically see which staff member had brought the device– they were out of range of the nearest camera– he couldn’t detect anything more than a dark boot lingering in a doorway, and it didn’t appear they’d be moving anytime soon. But he didn’t really need to. 

He shrugged it off. It wouldn’t make any difference. 

Four reached out, and dove into the wiring of the contraband cell phone. 

It took several long, blinking moments to adjust to the significantly smaller space, though it got marginally easier as he settled in. To his immediate, crushing disappointment– it was patently easy to realize that the phone wasn’t connected to the internet. The little device was a closed system all its own. It wasn’t even picking up cell service, not this far underground– another dead end.

The second, and perhaps most odd detail was that it had no personal information. The admin had no name, it was attached to no number, it contained no downloads or files, and there weren’t even any apps on it. It was almost as if someone had simply purchased a completely new phone, and brought it with them in their pocket. It had no identity. No personality. 

Still, Number Four scoured it with a fine-tooth comb, his confusion only growing as he continued to find nothing– utterly nothing– within the device. 

All except– there, buried at the very back– like loose paper stuffed at the bottom of a backpack. The owner of the phone had written something in the notes app. Four twisted into it with easy grace, prying open the file.

He felt himself freeze atop his cot. 

On the top line of the document, carefully typed in bold black:

Tucker, can you read this?

October 03, 2017

11:37 AM

Contraband Phone of Unknown Staff Member

Untitled Note

Created 10/01/2017, 12:00 AM

Last edited 10/03/2017, 7:39 AM

Tucker, can you read this?

W̴H̸O̷ ̷A̴R̷E̴ ̸Y̶O̷U̶?̵

For now, you can call me Peregrine.

W̴H̵A̴T̴ ̵D̴O̸ ̵Y̸O̶U̴ ̶W̴A̴N̶T̶,̵ ̵P̷E̵R̸E̸G̸R̷I̷N̵E̵?̸

I want to help you. I want to help all of you. 

I̵ ̸D̸O̷N̴'̸T̶ ̸B̵E̶L̶I̵E̵V̷E̷ ̴Y̵O̸U̶

̴Y̵O̶U̶ ̶W̴O̴R̷K̸ ̷F̷O̸R̷ ̶B̷L̴A̶C̸K̷ ̵B̸A̷D̴G̷E̷

I don’t blame you. But I’m telling the truth. 

Waller is no friend to me either. She pressured me into signing a contract with the BBD, I didn’t think I had a choice. I thought I’d be doing the right thing.

But I didn’t know what I’d be doing for her, and I’ve been trying to find a way out ever since. I’m not the only one. 

H̴O̶W̶ ̸D̶O̶ ̶I̸ ̸K̶N̸O̶W̸ ̶T̸H̶I̴S̸ ̵I̶S̶N̶'̵T̷ ̵A̵ ̷T̵R̸I̵C̴K̷?̶

Because I’m taking this chance. If the guards here catch me with this phone, it’s all over. They won’t even question me, they’ll just kill me. But I’m willing to put my life on the line, if it means we can all get out of here. 

.̸.̸.̵H̵O̴W̶ ̷D̵O̴ ̶Y̶O̵U̵ ̷K̶N̸O̶W̸ ̶M̸Y̷ ̷T̴R̸U̷E̷ ̷N̶A̶M̶E̵,̴ ̶P̶E̴R̵E̸G̵R̷I̶N̶E̸?̷

It’s a long story. I can explain it soon, though. But there are a few things you need to know first. 

T̵E̴L̸L̶ ̴M̵E̴.̶

I’ve been inside some of the files for Project Cerberus. I know where most of your friends are being kept. I’ve been looking for ways to communicate with all of you. You’re the first one that’s ever responded. 

I’ve got another contact in Black Badge who’s been helping me with all of this. He’s just as interested in getting out of here, and he thinks we can expose Waller and the Division on our way out the door. We can free your friends and take her down for good, but we need your help. 

W̴H̶E̵R̸E̴ ̴A̷R̵E̴ ̶T̸H̶E̸Y̵?̷ ̷W̷H̵E̸R̸E̷ ̶I̵S̵ ̶M̸Y̴ ̴F̵R̵A̶I̷D̷?̸

Each facility has a different name. Sam is being held at Styx, somewhere in Colorado. Jasmine is at Acheron, in New Jersey. Danielle is in Oregon, at Phlegethon. You are at Lethe facility, in Louisiana. 

I don’t know where they took Phantom. I know it’s called Cocytus, but its location isn’t on file. 

I’m sorry. 

D̸I̷D̵ ̷Y̵O̶U̸ ̷H̷A̵V̸E̵ ̴S̷O̵M̴E̴T̵H̸I̷N̶G̷ ̴T̷O̶ ̴D̸O̷ ̴W̷I̷T̶H̷ ̴T̷H̵I̷S̵?̸

̸W̵E̵R̴E̴ ̵Y̸O̴U̴ ̸T̸H̵E̵R̸E̸ ̶T̸H̷A̸T̷ ̷D̷A̴Y̷?̶

Yes. And no.

It’s complicated.

U̴N̶C̷O̷M̶P̵L̴I̴C̶A̷T̷E̴ ̴I̸T̶

I don’t think I can. 

T̶H̷E̷N̶ ̴W̷E̵ ̶H̴A̵V̸E̶ ̴N̵O̶T̴H̸I̸N̶G̷ ̴T̸O̴ ̸D̷I̵S̶C̸U̵S̶S̷

WAIT

PLEASE

Please hear me out

I was young and stupid and I didn’t know half of what I thought I knew. I made a mistake. It was dumb, and that’s on me, but I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. Please let me help you.

Please. 

F̵I̶N̶D̵ ̴A̷ ̴W̴A̴Y̷ ̵T̵O̷ ̷M̷E̶E̸T̷ ̸M̸E̷.̶

P̵R̶O̸V̴E̶ ̵Y̶O̵U̸'̴R̶E̷ ̵N̷O̴T̸ ̵L̴Y̴I̶N̴G̴ ̷A̶N̵D̴ ̶S̶H̴O̸W̵ ̶M̷E̷ ̵Y̵O̸U̷R̴ ̶F̵A̷C̴E̶

̴T̷H̶E̴N̵,̴ ̷W̸E̶ ̸C̶A̸N̶ ̴T̵A̷L̸K̶

Okay

I’ll try

But it might take a while to figure out. Waller is always watching.

Will you still speak to me here? 

.̸.̵.̷F̴O̵R̶ ̵N̶O̷W̸.̸

October 09, 2017

1:02 PM

Contraband Phone of Unknown Staff Member

Untitled Note

Created 10/06/2017, 9:22 AM

Last edited 10/09/2017, 12:34 PM

Are you there Tucker?

I̶ ̴A̶M̶ ̷H̸E̴R̷E̵

I’m still working on a face to face meeting. There might be an opportunity coming up. But I thought it might help if I told you a bit more about what Snowden and I found in the BBD files.

S̴N̷O̷W̵D̷E̸N̶?̸

My contact.

He insisted. Thought it was funny. 

W̴H̸A̴T̸ ̶H̶A̶V̷E̵ ̴Y̴O̵U̸ ̴F̸O̴U̵N̴D̶?̴

Waller has been planning Project Cerberus for a while. Longer than either of us realized. It’s pretty much been her main goal since she formed Black Badge. 

W̶H̴Y̵?̴

Honestly? Because of the Pariah Dark incident. 

Everyone in Amity just assumed that no one in the world really noticed when the whole town got pulled into the Ghost Zone, but apparently that’s not true. 

Waller’s people heard about it, and for some reason it really set her off, because she formed the BBD immediately after. Started turning her attention to the “ghost threat”. And she started recruiting ex-military, and even hiring on mercenary groups to pad out the Division. To hunt ghosts.

On paper, it says that Black Badge exists to prevent something like Pariah from ever happening again, but knowing Waller there’s way more to it than that. 

W̷H̵A̷T̵ ̶I̷S̶ ̶P̶R̷O̸J̸E̸C̶T̴ ̷C̸E̶R̶B̴E̵R̵U̶S̶?̴

You. And Phantom. And all the others. 

Waller was watching Amity Park for a while before she actually moved her people in. And Phantom showed her that the only way to effectively defeat a ghost is to pit them against another ghost. 

So she had Phantom captured. And she made the rest of you just like him.

So you could be Cerberus.

And guard the border between us and the underworld. 

Tucker?
Are you still there?

I’m sorry. That was too much.

T̶H̶E̸Y̷ ̶K̶I̴L̵L̶E̷D̵ ̷U̸S̴ ̷S̵O̵ ̴T̷H̷E̶Y̷ ̸C̴O̶U̶L̶D̵ ̷T̴U̶R̵N̷ ̷U̵S̸ ̶I̸N̷T̴O̶ ̸T̶H̶E̵I̶R̴ ̸A̶T̶T̸A̸C̶K̴ ̴D̷O̶G̶S̷ .

… Yes. And no.

It’s not just that they want you to fight ghosts for them.

They want you to hunt ghosts for them.

And bring them back to their facilities. For study. 

W̸E̸ ̶W̵I̷L̴L̷ ̷N̴E̷V̵E̶R̶ ̶D̶O̷ ̸T̶H̵A̷T̸.̵

I know. And I want to get you all out of here before they try to make you.

But Waller still thinks you can be… motivated to cooperate. 

I̴ ̷K̵N̵O̵W̸.̴

̷T̵H̷E̸Y̷'̵R̴E̷ ̶A̷L̴R̵E̵A̸D̸Y̵ ̶T̵E̶S̴T̶I̷N̶G̴ ̶T̴H̸E̵I̵R̷ ̷W̸E̵A̸P̴O̵N̶S̴ ̴O̶N̶ ̵U̷S̵

It’s more than that. 

If Waller can’t bend you into doing what she wants, she’ll have you all destroyed. 

Even worse, she’s started sending teams of agents all across the country. Looking for more contaminated humans. If you and your friends don’t work out, she’s prepared to try again with someone new. 

T̴H̴E̶Y̶'̷R̵E̵ ̷H̸U̷N̴T̵I̸N̶G̷ ̷L̷I̴M̶I̶N̴A̴L̸S̷?̵

If that’s what you call them, yes.

She’s building a list. 

No one’s been abducted yet, but she’ll have them on file if she has to replace any of you. Snowden wants to bring her down before it comes to that. 

W̶H̷E̶N̶ ̷W̶I̸L̷L̴ ̸Y̶O̸U̶ ̷B̴E̶ ̴A̶B̴L̸E̸ ̵T̸O̸ ̷M̵E̵E̷T̶ ̸W̶I̷T̵H̸ ̴M̶E̶?̴

̴Y̵O̴U̶ ̸S̶A̷I̶D̷ ̶Y̸O̴U̶ ̷M̶I̸G̷H̸T̷ ̸H̴A̷V̸E̸ ̴A̸N̵ ̴O̵P̶P̵O̷R̸T̸U̸N̴I̸T̶Y̵.̸

… A little less than a week from now. Five days.

But it involves speaking to Waller directly. There’s no guarantee I can convince her. And even if she does say yes, I won’t be allowed in with you alone.

T̵H̷E̸N̶ ̶W̶H̶A̷T̴'̷S̴ ̵T̶H̴E̸ ̷P̶O̵I̸N̵T̸?̴

I want you to see my face.

Then you’ll understand. 

October 14, 2017

8:15 AM

LETHE; Black Badge Containment Facility

In hindsight, Number Four should have realized something was up the moment Peregrine had outright insisted on seeing him today, of all days.

The second anniversary of… That Day. 

Four had been struggling all morning, desperately trying to stave off the heavy, lethargic weight dragging at his core, like a sticky pit of mud, or tar. He’d woken up feeling like he’d just died all over again, throat perilously tight, nausea roiling in his stomach. He’d chirped– a single, involuntary sound, choked off at the root as his grief and anguish washed over him like a tidal wave.

He’d stayed in his cot, shivering.

While it wasn’t as bad as his Death Day, it was still a miserable experience.

All over his body, he could feel faint echoes of That Day– the wrenching pain in his shoulder, where he’d landed wrong after an exploding shell had thrown him across the street. The long-healed gash carved into the back of his right calf, where he’d scraped against the rubble.  And everywhere, all over, the phantom pain of various burns and scratches, and booted feet kicking him to the ground and pinning him there. 

The pain was compounded, unfortunately, by the additional remnants suffered by the rest of his fraid– an echo chamber of half-remembered pain. The gash in Three's brow, where a soldier had brought the butt of his gun down on her head. Five’s broken ankle. Two– throat raw, coughing up green-tinged blood. 

Bullet wounds glowing bright green, trailing the length of Number One's ghostly side.

None of them had come out of that conflict unscarred, in more ways than one. 

Still, Four stubbornly, painstakingly set about putting aside his grief. Pushing all the suffering and loss deep down into his core. He could get back to it later, after he'd done what needed doing.

Namely, looking Peregrine in the eyes, and seeing for himself if he could trust them. 

They'd been an unexpected piece on the board– after all this time, he'd never factored in the possibility of any Black Badge agents coming to regret what they'd signed onto. And now apparently there were two of them. Number Four wasn't feeling particularly sympathetic. Regret or not, they’d still willingly signed their soul away to the devil. Had followed the same orders that had destroyed Amity Park. That had murdered him and his friends.  

At the very least, Number Four demanded that this person stand before him, and see the consequences of the choices they’d made. Just how much suffering they had caused– even if they weren’t able to talk freely. 

Four would judge Peregrine today. And if he found them lacking, he would hang them out to dry. 

Nothing– nothing– could be allowed to get in the way of him rescuing his fraid. 

As if summoned by his morbid thoughts, Tucker’s pointed ears twitched as he heard the sound of distant footsteps making their way down the corridor, the one just outside of his cellblock. Two pairs from the sound of it– the click of practical heels, and the heavier tread of combat boots, like the ones the guards wore.

Number Four tensed on instinct. 

There were no voices. Whoever approached, they didn’t bother exchanging any kind of pleasantries with the soldiers stationed on the other side of the heavy, almost vault-like door leading into the first layer of his prison. 

Four’s skin prickled when the energy around his cell suddenly hummed and surged with life, activated by the sweep of an access card against the door panel. He could feel it in his veins, the electricity that answered the call to action, rushing through myriad wires, protocols triggering, mechanisms shifting– all culminating in the low, drawn-out hiss of hydraulics, and a door unsealing.

He let the flow of the technology ground him as Amanda Waller stepped into the outer cell, facing the front glass wall of the inner prison. 

It had actually been some time since he’d last seen her. As far as he knew, she spent much of her time at Black Badge’s base of operations, only touring the containment facilities when she felt it was time to acquire a progress report. 

Her last check in had been around May. 

Regrettably, his opinion of her had certainly not improved since then.

He stared at her blankly, cross legged on his cot. 

“Number Four,” She addressed him quietly, after several drawn out heartbeats of staring him down. “You have a visitor.” 

It took everything in him not to shoot off something sarcastic. Something that would have One grinning at him, and Five rolling her eyes in fond exasperation.

He missed them so much…

Instead, he glanced over to the figure standing at the Director’s right hand, eyes narrowed and searching. 

She was wearing special gear– set apart, aesthetically at least, from the rest of the soldiers with Black Badge. Instead of dark, midnight blacks, Peregrine’s kevlar and tac gear were a deep grey, gunmetal and wood smoke. Most of her face was obscured by an intricate mask– the hollow skull of a bird of prey, unpainted. An eerie bone white nestled within dark, curling hair. Visually striking, against the ashen color of her suit. The black pits of its empty sockets stared at him from beyond the glass, but he knew her eyes were behind there somewhere. Watching him.

The crest of the Black Badge Division, the white star outlined over a black octagon matrix, was stamped proudly on her chest. But hers was framed with a pair of feathery wings, spread out on either side of the logo. And beneath it, in blocky white print, her own moniker.

Peregrine. 

Number Four pressed his lips into a thin line as he studied her. This proved it, then.

Whoever she was, she was significant to the Division. 

But was that better or worse for him? 

He frowned thoughtfully. That wasn’t quite right. 

It wasn’t so much about what was better or worse– it was more about how much risk he was willing to tolerate. A high ranking individual within Black Badge, turning against her superiors? Offering him unfettered access to any information she had? 

An absurdly high risk, on the chance that she was lying to him.

But conversely, and equally lucrative reward, should she be honest. 

Four returned his gaze to her. Subtly, pointedly, his eyes darted to the rest of her mask, before landing back at the eye sockets. He’d made it abundantly clear before now.

He needed to see Peregrine’s face. Look them in the eye.

He felt a small thrill of nerves blanket the air– anxious energy that very clearly came from the grey-clad stranger in front of him. His head tilted in something like surprise. She was at the very least slightly Liminal, perhaps due to the time she’d spent with Black Badge since signing her contract. Idly, Four wondered if she even realized it. 

For a moment, she seemed to anchor herself. Take a deep breath.

She reached up and plucked off her mask in one smooth movement, and Four immediately felt as if he’d been doused in ice. 

He could remember once, what felt like a lifetime ago, an activity his old chemistry teacher had conducted back at Casper High. He’d allowed the class to take turns dipping various odds and ends into a tank of liquid nitrogen– rubber toys, flowers, pencil erasers, fruit slices– just to see how they froze solid upon contact. Becoming fragile and brittle, like dead leaves. And at the end of the class, his teacher had playfully taken the tank, and splashed the liquid out onto the floor, only for it to erupt into a cloud of cool, thick fog, and dissipate into the air. 

It had been engaging– fun, even– to giggle and goof off with his friends as each of them had dipped something into the tank. Tucker’s item had been an eraser. It had been frigid against his palm, when he’d taken it out. Cold like he’d never felt before. Like he thought he’d never feel again.

Until now, sitting in that little glass box, staring back at a face he’d thought long gone. Gone with the rest of Amity Park, to a fate unknown. 

Peregrine took off her mask, and the eyes of Valerie Gray stared back at him.

Chapter Text

April 08, 2016

9:22 AM

Avernus; Primary Facility

The last time Jasmine Fenton had seen her mother was the morning of That Day. 

They'd been caught– she and Danny– climbing out of the second story window of the Fenton home, over-filled duffel bags strapped to their backs, rooms stripped bare of all necessities. 

Jasmine had pushed her dresser in front of the door. It had taken three men in full black body armor to break it down and storm the room, both of their parents hot on their heels.

“Jazzy?” Her father had sounded so confused. So worried. “Dann-o? What's going on?”

There had been no warning. 

Looking back, Jazz was shocked that either of her parents were able to keep it from them for so long. Aside from the obvious, there were generally no secrets kept in the Fenton household. Not by her parents, at least.

In fact, Jack and Maddie Fenton had always been quite open with their children about any number of things– most especially their careers. Oftentimes, they were all too excited to drag Jazz and her brother down into the lab to show off their latest creations. To discuss their latest “findings”. 

It had been a boon, in the earlier days of Team Phantom. 

As anxiety-inducing as it often was, watching Danny linger awkwardly along walls and back corners, cautiously ducking around the line of fire as their parents powered up their latest and greatest in ghost-maiming atrocities, it had been incredibly useful to learn how they operated. Knowing how each weapon or device worked meant knowing how to disable them, or avoid them as necessary. Foreknowledge of her parents’ newer inventions had saved Danny's life on more than one occasion, and countless other ghosts who knew how many times– which was more than enough to convince Jazz to tolerate the frequent late-night show and tells. 

But this had been different. 

Jasmine and her brother had walked down the stairs earlier that very morning to find the living room full of boxes. Every shape and size, stacked almost to the ceiling– each of them full of assorted gadgets and equipment, scraps and unfinished projects and various other odds and ends, all neatly labeled and arranged in towering columns. For one wild moment, she had found herself wondering how the Box Ghost had found his way past the home security system.

But then, she remembered watching as a man– a complete stranger, dressed all in black and wearing an odd looking vest– walked in through the open front door, picked up a box, and ferried it outside without so much as a glance at them. Parked out on the street, right in front of their house, was a large truck. It had no company label, no identifying marks at all, but the man disappeared inside it, box and all. There was a whole team of them, moving about the house, about five in total.

Dread, cold and foreboding, had hooked crooked claws into the base of her spine. 

Their parents had been waiting for them in the kitchen, sitting hand in hand at the table, full coffee mugs untouched and long cooled. Jazz couldn’t remember ever seeing them so hesitant.

They’d been offered a very prestigious position, her mother had explained, with a fledgling government agency. Recruited a full three months ago , by the director herself. Given the nature of the job, they would of course have to relocate to the “on-site” military housing– their children would be provided for alongside the rest of the army brats, they’d have their own accommodations– but the nature of the contract meant that they couldn’t disclose the agreement until it was time to leave. Because they were leaving.  

The Fentons were leaving Amity Park. 

The lab had already been cleared– of everything. Only the portal remained, sealed tight and now under armed guard. They were packing the rest of their things this morning. She and Danny would need to start packing immediately as well. There was no reason for them to go to school that day– they’d already been pulled out. 

The walls had started closing in around her, squeezing tighter with every word out of her mother’s mouth. She'd barely registered her brother’s immediate protests, too focused on the invisible hand strengthening its grip around her throat. Her dread transformed– grew wings, took flight, amassed into sheer, unadulterated terror. She’d locked her jaw so tight that it had ached fiercely. 

Because Danny would not survive a military base. 

Team Phantom was wily and resourceful and getting better all the time, but delicately toeing the line of keeping her brother's identity safe had been a dance they’d struggled with for years. It was a constant arms race, fighting to stay ahead of the numerous gadgets and devices her parents carelessly dumped onto the market. Ever since the accident, they'd gotten by on a volatile mixture of spite, willpower, and Tucker's chaotic brand of information warfare. But they’d done it safely from the cradle of Amity Park– a town so drenched in ectoplasm and contamination that Danny naturally blended in with everything around them.

Remove him from that? All of his natural defenses would be gone. He’d be figured out in minutes. There’d be no more convenient excuses– it would be over. 

Because while her sweet brother was strong– and growing stronger every day, since Pariah Dark– he was still young, and unsure of himself, and so frightened of hurting people. What would either of them be able to do, trapped in the heart of a military facility? Surrounded by soldiers with weapons made to kill, part of an organization that declared Danny an unthinking creature. 

A strange calm had washed over her, after that. 

She and Sam had discussed this before– several times. The dark haired teen had approached Jazz on her own, soon after she had become an official part of Team Phantom, and explained the supplies she’d been steadily hiding away for all of them.

Just in case, she’d said, eyes dark with worry.

Jazz had approved of the decision, and had contributed in whatever ways she could.

Once upon a time, she’d been loath to call her parents “the enemy”. They had just been passionate. Over-enthusiastic. Obsessed. But over the years, she’d watched the two of them grow more and more manic in their hunt for the “ghost boy”. In their determination to take him apart. It had become less about scientific endeavor– about discovery– and more about paying the ghost back for years of leading them in circles, in a way that could really only be described as gleeful sadism.

The moment she'd seen it in their eyes, Jasmine had known it would be inevitable. One day, they would have to run. 

She never told Danny. Neither had Sam. 

He still had so much faith. So much hope in their parents. She hadn't wanted to take that from him.

But they had no other choice. 

So, when their parents had finally released them to go and pack their own things, Jasmine had gently taken her brother by the arm, and shepherded him back up the stairs, deaf to his continued protests.

Phone clutched in her other hand, she sent a message first to Sam, then to Tucker, then to Ellie.

Code White

It was Team Phantom's DEFCON One. Their highest state of emergency.

The nuclear option.

Jasmine and Sam had come up with the entire plan together, painstakingly combing through every detail– what they would take, where they would meet up, how they would get out of town, estimated travel times and expenses. The goal was to be clear of Amity Park, and even well out of the state of Illinois in under three hours. From there, they would b-line straight for the closest city with the highest rate of ecto-contamination– Gotham, according to Tucker's readings. Depending on how bad the situation was, the two girls had even crafted a contingency for fleeing the country entirely. 

But first–

First.

They needed to escape their own house. 

To this day, Jazz wasn't sure what might have tipped her parents off. She and Danny had been so quiet as they’d frantically gathered their things. Too frightened to step too loudly. Too frightened to breathe. It didn't change the fact that, ten minutes after vanishing up the stairs, Jasmine and Danny were staring down the barrels of three separate handguns, and the wide, betrayed eyes of both their parents. 

“Those aren't your kids, Doc.” One of the soldier's growled. His face was hidden by black fabric. 

“Surrender quietly,” another demanded, “and no one gets hurt.”

A thousand different scenarios Jazz had imagined and prepared for about her parents learning the truth, and none of them had been this. Cornered in her childhood bedroom, the only thing standing between her brother and a trio of masked paramilitaries. 

If they had just gone with them, in that moment… could Amity Park have been saved? Tucker, and Sam, and Ellie– would they have been spared? Would it have changed anything?

Six months later, glaring into the pale, blank gaze of her own mother– lingering just beyond the glass panel at the front of her cell– Jazz had strong doubts. 

Come hell or high water, regardless of whatever or whoever stood in their way, Black Badge would have gotten what they wanted in the end. Jazz suspected that the destruction of Amity Park had been part of the plan from the very beginning. But had they known about it?

Had either of her parents known what was going to happen? Had they not cared?

“Are you here to kill me, too?” She asked her mother. Her voice was calm and even– carefully controlled. 

A team of facility guards, and Amanda Waller herself fanned out on either side of Maddie Fenton, quiet and waiting. Jazz had known this was coming– though she hadn’t expected her mother to come for her in person. They’d brought Tucker back early that very same morning, pale and unconscious (He hadn’t come to screaming, like Sam. But upon finally waking, he’d folded himself into the back corner of his cell and trembled for a good hour before he would speak to any of them). Jasmine was angry, and her heart ached, and she needed these people to pay for it. 

For once, her mother didn’t seem to know what to say. There was an emptiness in the older woman’s eyes that hadn’t been there when they’d last seen each other, and dark bruise-like shadows beneath them. The mania and glee that had once defined the Drs. Fenton was long gone. But still, she stood outside the cell, quietly tracing Jazz’s face with those dull, blank eyes, like she was committing it to memory.

Jazz sneered at her.

Was it the guilt, or her obsession that kept her up at night? Jazz viciously hoped for the former. 

“Just get it over with.” She growled, baring sharp inhuman fangs. The guards behind her mother shifted uneasily. 

Then, from across the cellblock–

“Mom?”

And Maddie Fenton startled. Like she’d been physically slapped. 

She didn’t turn to look at Danny. Her eyes instead flashed to Amanda Waller.

When had their mother become so servile?  

“We’re on a tight schedule, Doctor.” the Director said blandly. She nodded towards Jazz’s cell.

At her command, the guards accompanying the two women unsealed the cell door and took her by the arm. She carefully shoved away the violent mental image of tearing out of the soldier’s grip– and bringing his hand along with her. Of turning on the rest of them in a whirl of fangs and sharp claws and liminality-enhanced fury. She was certain she could tear through a fair few of them before they finally took her down. But she resisted. 

Jazz had already decided– she was ultimately going to allow this to happen. 

As much as it would hurt, as terribly as her brother would grieve, she would come back, like Sam and Tucker. And though the five of them would still be trapped in this hell, they would grow stronger. However long it took, however much they suffered– Team Phantom would pay it all back in kind, one day. 

Then, when all was finally said and done, she would take her family and leave – into the Infinite Realms, where nobody on this petty, ridiculous, depraved planet could hurt them anymore. They would be no one’s weapon– ever again.

With this in mind, Jazz allowed the soldiers to pull her from the cell, head held high. 

Danny, however, had other thoughts on the matter. 

“Wait– wait! Mom, wait!” Jazz watched from the corner of her eye as her brother stumbled to the glass panel of his own cell, hands pressed flat to the surface, eyes pleading. “Don't– Please don't do this. Please- You can't do this!”

He followed them as they walked, until the thick side wall of his cage prevented him from going any further. Maddie Fenton didn't look at him even once. 

“That's Jazz, Mom, it's Jazz, that's your daughter!” His voice warbled and wavered with otherworldly despair. Her brother babbled like a man facing the gallows, searching desperately for a single crack in the woman's stony facade. “She's still alive, she's still your daughter!”

But there were none to be found.

“No, no, nonono– don’t do this! Mom, please! Jazz!”

His cries followed them out of the cellblock. 

When they arrived at their final destination, the room was exactly as Tucker and Sam had described it. Haltingly, voices choked with half-remembered pain and fear, they’d explained all they could about her parents’ latest monstrosity in the few hours they’d had before it was Jasmine’s turn to die. Blank white walls. A one-way mirror. A team of scientists. And at the center of the room:

The Fenton Cradle. 

Just looking at it made her skin crawl. Made her feel ill and queasy. 

Her parents had invented a lot of crazy things over the course of her life– but this… this crossed a line. This wasn’t ghost hunting anymore. 

This was murder. 

Still, when Jasmine was brought into the room, she finally allowed herself to pause. Even if she was going to let them go through with it in the end– there was still something she wanted to do. Something she had to make clear. 

Faster than any human eye could see, Jazz had ripped herself away from the soldiers and launched herself at her mother– or at least, the woman who had once been her mother. She had never felt more satisfaction in her life than she did the moment her fist connected with Madeline Fenton’s face.

There was a soft crack as the woman’s nose shattered on impact, and a swift eruption of blood that splashed across her face, and Jazz’s clenched fist. She barely felt the sudden pain in her fingers and her wrist– she’d never been taught to throw a proper punch, and while she hadn’t tucked her thumb, she was still quite certain she might have broken a few things with the force of the blow. 

Worth it.

Behind her, the facility guards leapt into action, a myriad of gruff, gloved hands reaching out to haul her away from the stunned, swaying scientist. Jazz felt one of them latch onto her hair to yank her back, pulling an inhuman snarl of pain and surprise from somewhere deep in her chest as she whirled on the individual and raked her nails down his masked face. Her eyes flashed, reflecting the harsh light of the room as the chamber descended into chaos. 

Sam had quietly admitted, shortly after Tucker had been taken to this very chamber, that she’d tried to fight them off when they’d brought her here. It had been an instinctual response, like she had been forced out of her own body. A sort of autopilot, where she’d been transformed into an entity of blind, desperate rage. But Sam was small, and thin, and all of fifteen years old, and she hadn’t even had a shadow of a chance against at least seven grown men, liminal or not. 

But Jazz?

The general misconception that most people ultimately landed on when they first met Jasmine Fenton: she was largely harmless. 

A quiet, bookish young woman with an air of competence and maturity– perhaps a bit awkward, perhaps a bit meddlesome, but overall quite friendly. She was responsible and independent and studious, and the exact opposite of her delinquent of a brother. With the Fentons in general, expectations were already abysmally low, but Jasmine was driven and polite, and perhaps one day she’d make it out of Amity Park– off to begin a career she’d been pursuing since she could pick up a textbook.

And really, Jazz never minded these labels. 

For quite a long while, most of them had actually been true. 

But the reality of Jasmine Fenton, often overlooked by those who glimpsed no deeper than surface level, was this: Jasmine was tall, and her father was an enormous grizzly bear of a man that taught her how to plant her feet, and her mother was a ninth-degree black belt that taught her quickness and evasion, and beneath the loose sleeves of her scrub, her arms were toned with lean, wiry muscle earned from years of fighting off entities that packed a far harder punch than any human could manage.

The next soldier to charge at her was promptly clotheslined to the ground.

A low, persistent growl rose up in her throat, cat-like and irate.

She was surrounded, hemmed in by a loose semi-circle of armed, jittery guards. They hadn’t reached for the guns yet, but Jasmine knew that if she pushed too hard, eventually they would just shoot her. She wasn’t attempting an escape anyway– she had a fraid to protect. But she wanted them to know. She wasn’t a dog on their leash, and she wouldn’t bark on command. 

Her mistake, in the end, was not keeping a closer eye on Waller.

The scalpel came out of nowhere, a glint of silver under sharp fluorescent light, like the tail of a comet as it rips across the night sky. There was no pain, only a burst of liquid warmth as her body surfed a high of adrenaline and liminality-enhanced rage. The furious growl rumbling somewhere in her chest squelched into a pitiful squeak, croaking from the new seam in her throat with a wet gurgle. 

Her breath came as a wheezing gasp; Jazz stumbled. Swayed on the spot, eyes still pinned to the circle of guards. The one she’d batted to the ground was slowly rising to his feet.

Frozen, stunned, she numbly reached up with her hands, eyes widening as they were immediately drenched in crimson red– pouring in sheets from a mortal wound, staining her skin, the collar of her scrubs. Shaking fingers prodded clumsily inside the gap splitting her neck open. She swallowed hard, reflexively, and felt the inner workings of her throat shift against her fingertips. Her legs gave out. 

Dark shapes caught her by the arms before she hit the ground. She searched for their faces, but her vision had tunneled. Narrowed down to a fine, distant point, and she could never hope to make them out. She could still recognize, however, that she'd been placed in the Fenton Cradle. 

They didn't even bother to strap her down. She only had seconds, if even that. 

This had been inevitable, she knew. There had been no way out, even if she'd managed to kill everyone in that room. Perhaps it would have been wiser not to try Waller’s patience like that, but Jazz didn’t care. For betraying them, for locking them away, for siding with Black Badge, for murdering Sam and Tucker– Madeline Fenton deserved far worse than a broken nose. 

And whether they knew it or not, whether they truly believed they could tame five halfas for their own use, they were ultimately giving Jasmine all the tools she’d need to make that justice real. 

She felt a shaking hand brush against her hairline, smoothing away her bangs in a gentle motion. 

Her last thoughts were of her fraid. 

July 26, 2016

3:00 AM

Location Unknown

Number Three dreamed in shades of black. 

Curled on her side within an endless, outstretched void– nothingness in every vast direction– the darkness folded around her, heavy and soothing, like a weighted blanket. Her eyes blinked slowly, blurry with the fog of sleep. There was no earth and no sky, no sun or moon. The ground beneath her was a thin layer of water, glassy and mirror-like in its stillness. Even her slow movement did nothing to disrupt it– not a single ripple or splash as she lifted her head. Her arms came up completely dry when she examined them. Above her, shining across the whole expanse of the void, was the speckled light of a billion different stars, twinkling somewhere far away.

Her brother would have adored the sight.

Number Three was laid between two skies. Each tiny light from above reflected back on the surface of the water, a perfect mirror image of each other. And though it was cold, Three felt comfortably warm wrapped up in the shadows, like a bird in her nest. Sleep was a siren call in the back of her head, a soothing voice that promised the peace of oblivion. Still, with a pang in her heart, Three sat up to face the darkness, keen eyes scanning the endless depths of shadow for a sign– a hint of where her new mentor was hiding.

He had appeared before her suddenly only a week ago, looming dark and ominous beyond the glass cage, and left shortly after with the quiet promise that they'd be seeing more of each other very soon.

Three was sure this place had something to do with it.

And then, the stars rippled in unison around her, and an enormous shape separated from the horizon. 

Three watched in careful awe as sword-sharp talons, large enough to pick up entire buildings, dug noiselessly into the starry firmament, standing tall between mirrored, light-speckled skylines. Still, the water beneath them never stirred. Massive wings unfolded, stretching wide and glorious, forming a canopy over her head. The sheer span of them could overtake entire cities, miles across from end to end, and made of living shadow. Its heart-shaped face was a bright, blinding white, like the full moon, and its whole body was speckled with glittering stardust, nightborn feathers inlaid with swirling galaxies and distant moons.

The owl stared down at her with dark, fathomless eyes. 

Number Three blinked, and in the next moment the owl was gone. In its place was none other than Nocturn.

The Lord of Dreams had traded his starry wings for an equally glittering cloak, shrouding his form in shadow and celestial bodies. His horns had returned, framing his pale face with gentle curves. Red eyes watched her close, expression unreadable. 

“Welcome to the Dreamscape, little bird.” He said at last.

“The… Dreamscape?” Three's voice was guarded– wary– and affixed with a permanent sort of huskiness, from the injury that had ended her previous life. 

Though the Ancient had assured her that Clockwork had brokered an uneasy peace between them, she hadn't forgotten what he'd tried to do in Amity Park. 

The shadowy spirit slowly tilted his head with a small, clever smile..

“It is the place where all dreaming minds connect.” He replied. “A dominion accessible only to those who walk in shadows.”

He stepped closer, sweeping an arm out to gesture towards the endless stretch of night, and the stars that painted either side of the horizon. The water remained still beneath him. His footsteps made no sound.

“Each light is a dream.” The ghost continued. “Eventually, you may learn to locate specific dreams. To enter them. Even to draw power from them, as I can.” 

Three took in the expanse of stars with a new appreciation, eyes wide. Every single pinprick within the blackness represented a dream. They were countless– as numerous as the stars in the true night sky. 

“Why you?” She asked at last, turning to glance back at him. “You promised to explain what you could.”

Nocturn bobbed his head in an oddly bird-like nod. “The Lord of Time approached soon after your rebirth. As the young Princeling's protector, he holds authority as Regent of the Infinite Realms.” Nocturn rasped. “So, when he demanded my assistance, naturally I could not refuse– even as an Ancient myself. For the sake of the timeline, I was sent to offer you tutelage in the dark arts.” 

Number Three frowned, searching his face for signs of duplicity. 

“That… doesn't really answer my question.” She countered softly.

An invisible breeze stirred through the void, frigid and biting. She felt it sink through her skin, piercing all the way down to her core, and shuddered.

“It’s quite simple. Because your core falls under my domain.” He replied, “ Thus, I am the only one fit to instruct you, little bird.” 

Number Three glanced down at herself, hand hovering over her sternum, and the warmth of her ghost core beneath it. 

She'd been thinking about it for some time.

Danny had always described his core as a perfectly round ball of solid, glowing ice buried in the center of his chest, large enough to fill both palms when he cupped it in his hands. It was shockingly cold, and her brother had once warned her that if he ever brought it out, she absolutely could not touch it, or it would likely freeze her hand down to the bone. She'd seen him use it to self-soothe countless times, reaching into his own chest to cradle the orb after a hard day, and feeling it humming against his skin. 

When Three had become a halfa, she'd quickly realized that her own core… wasn't like that. 

It had taken several frustrating attempts to actually see it, suspended within her own body. She'd been startled by what she’d glimpsed, once her eyes were attuned. 

Though comparable in size, Number Three's core was a sphere of liquid shadow. A black hole, buried in the center of her chest. It was cool to the touch, but not frigid– a refreshing kind of cold, like flipping your pillow in the middle of the night– and velvety soft. Like holding a fragment of night in her hands. She hadn't been prepared for the sight of it. A part of her had always assumed she might have an ice core, like her brother. Another part of her knew that there was no way to really determine, none of them quite grasped how ghost cores settled into their different types.

Yet another part of her feared what her ink-dark core might imply.

“A shadow core.” Nocturn informed her, almost gently. “Quite versatile. Capable of immense strength. It will serve you well, if you allow me to cultivate it.” 

“And,” he carefully added, glancing sideways at her, “The powers it will give you will be the key to your escape from this place.”

That certainly got her attention. 

Her eyes snapped back to him, unwavering. 

It hadn't even been a full month since their separation, but already Three was miserable. 

She was in constant pain. 

But while the dull ache caused by the blood blossoms was manageable most days, the pain radiating across the fraid bonds was pervasive, and altogether unavoidable. Team Phantom had been bonded before captivity, sure– but their transition to half-breed status had strengthened those bonds exponentially. They felt each other more clearly, more vividly than they ever had before. Separating them so soon after the bonds had mutated had been a stroke of cruelty Three didn't think Waller was even aware of. 

It left some deep part of her scraped raw and throbbing with pain. It made her core physically ache with the sudden, all-encompassing loneliness. 

She wanted desperately to leave this place. To free the others and escape somewhere safe and secluded, to heal before they found their way back to the Infinite Realms. 

Number Three was done with humanity.

“Where do we start?” She asked, drawing her shoulders up to stare Nocturn boldly in the eyes. 

The Dream Ghost just crooked a somewhat sinister grin, and ushered for her to take a seat. He circled around her in a misty haze of lightless black smoke.

“Close your eyes, and reach out with your senses.” He instructed. “Tell me what you feel.”  

It took a few tries. 

For several long moments, Three floundered in the darkness, grasping blindly at each fleeting sensation. The cool breeze winding over her shoulders. The water beneath her, and the way it still felt wet somehow, even though she was completely dry. Ever so faintly, the twinkling of wind chimes, or tuning crystals, as each distant star glimmered in the darkness. 

A brush of velvet, winding around her body like a blanket. Smooth as serpent scales. Cool, like the underside of a pillow. 

“It feels… soft.” She murmured, brow furrowed in concentration. “And… almost cold?”

And as she acknowledged it out loud, she felt the alien sensation ripple beneath the palm of her hand, twisting tighter around her shoulders. She was inexplicably flooded with something warm and happy. Delighted. 

“Your Shadow.” Nocturn informed her. “It has been with you all this time. Only now have you been able to truly sense it.”

Three’s eyes flew wide open, and she jolted where she sat, twisting around in an almost frantic search. Sure enough, something moved beneath the water, all around her.  A dark sinuous shape with the faintest teal undertone, a glowing outline just barely bright enough to be visible against the void. 

Though it sported a pair of glowing eyes– the same shade as her own– It took no distinct shape. Winding around her body like a long black ribbon or a scarf, sleek and svelte, twisting and turning in nonsense patterns and loops before ultimately curling around her waist like a contented animal. It pulsed warmth into her bones, and for the first time in weeks, Three felt some of the constant aching in her bones lessen. 

She was reminded then, of Johnny 13 and his loyal Shadow. 

Was this the same thing?

Would Three eventually be able to command her shadow like Johnny?

“All that and more.” Nocturn said, sounding pleased. 

The Ancient spirit reached out, and brushed a clawed hand delicately against the soft shape of her shadow, where its head might be. Three could feel the chill of his palm as if he'd touched her himself. 

“The Shadow is the most basic of tools for cores like your own.” Nocturn began, brisk and lecturing. “It is not a separate being– it is you. It is your own power, manifesting in a physical form that will follow your every command. Everything it feels comes from within you. You need not ever fear it.”

As he spoke, her Shadow burrowed closer to her side, rumbling like an affectionate cat. Its emotions were startlingly complex , when she brushed her ghostly senses against it. Joy and pain, grief and fury, staunch determination and, within the deepest parts of them both, something black and dark and seething. She felt a flutter of unease, despite herself. 

“It can take any form you desire and, as an extension of your being, can act as your eyes across vast distances.” said the Dream Ghost. His eyes gleamed with equal mischief and vengeance. “Right now you are perilously weak, fledgeling. Newly born into this half state. In order to escape this place, you must grow stronger. And to grow stronger you require ectoplasm. Energy. Emotion– all these things which ghosts feed on”

“Escape may be far out of reach for now, but the same cannot be said for your loyal Shadow.” Nocturn continued. “It can go where you cannot, traverse distances and planes unseen by mortal eyes– all it needs is shade.” He watched her closely then, eyes uncharacteristically grim. “But you must understand, you are within the Dreamscape now. Here, it was easy to call forth your Shadow, because this domain is the heart of your power. It is our primal source. When you awaken, you will find it much more difficult to achieve the same feat.”

“Then what should I do?” She asked, rigidly fighting back the edge of frustration that leaked into her voice. 

“Have patience.” The Ancient replied. “Reach out as often as you can, and call your Shadow forth. It will be small, and weak, but you must shape it as you will, and send it out into the world. The place where they have trapped you is old, and full of ectoplasm. Order your Shadow to absorb as much as it can, and bring it back to you. You must grow stronger.”

All at once, the Dreamscape began to dissolve around her, fading like fresh watercolor paint, dripping into a blank whiteness. For a moment, Three almost imagined she could hear the distant hum of the electric lights about her cell.

Nocturn’s form rippled between spirit and owl.

“Awaken, now. We will speak again soon, little bird.”

September 05, 2016

11:32 PM

Gotham

When Number Three had finally learned exactly where her containment facility was located, she'd laughed until she'd cried. 

Her Shadow, pulled from within her core at last, had been carefully shaped into the delicate silhouette of a tiny moth, dripping inky shadows from thin gossamer wings. Small, and fragile, and weak, Three had cradled it in her hands like fine spun glass, no bigger than a bottlecap. She'd ordered it to leave the facility, and bring back as much ectoplasm as it could absorb. 

The void-black moth had sunken into the nearest shadow, and vanished entirely. 

But Three had still been able to feel it, like a steel cable connected straight to her core, strong and unbending. She'd closed her eyes and followed its pull, as Nocturn had instructed, only to find herself suddenly surrounded by the chill fresh air of the outside world, and the sounds of city nightlife bustling in the distance. Watching, through her Shadow's eyes, as the city of Gotham unfolded before them. 

Overwhelming emotion had welled up in her throat. Grief and joy– the air, she could feel the air!– irony and humor dark as pitch, and a deep, abiding bitterness. 

It seemed somehow, she had been destined to end up in this city one way or another. 

The first time she’d sent it off, her Shadow had remained above for three days, drifting about the city as it absorbed the ambient ectoplasm. It was dark, and tainted with a myriad of negative emotions– but Number Three couldn’t afford to be picky, and Gotham had plenty to go around.

She peeked in whenever she could, desperate, longing to feel the ghost of a breeze against her skin, to breathe in cool air beneath a boundless sky. To see normal, everyday people walking around– like everything was fine. 

When it finally returned, she took it back into her core, and felt her body absorb the ectoplasm it had gathered– a single drop to add to the growing puddle of power within her. She’d realized then, exactly how long this was going to take. It was excruciating, like drinking water through a thimble.

But Number Three was patient, and meticulous, and dead already. 

She had all the time in the world, according to Nocturn. 

So, every three days she sent out her Shadow.

Week by week. Month by month, until three days became four, and the moth had become a butterfly, flittering sweetly in the palm of her hand. 

While it was still small, she used it to study the Acheron facility. To study Gotham and its people– particularly its defenders. She wondered if they knew about Acheron. If they had any idea at all. How angry would the Dark Knight be, if he ever found out what was happening beneath Arkham Asylum? 

Or were they all in on it? Hardly anything happened in this city without the Bats knowing– how could they have missed something so significant?– unless they hadn’t missed it at all. 

Unless they were allowing it to happen. 

She couldn’t risk contact.

Three had been burned too many times now to take any risks– she’d long since decided that she’d be escaping on her own. Everything had to go perfectly if she wanted to save the rest of her fraid. 

Yet still, something about Gotham’s resident flock drew her in. Through her Shadow’s eyes, she’d watch them in the night, running across the rooftops like they were flying. Skimming across the stars. Saving lives, helping people.

They reminded her, achingly, of her little brother.

The months since she’d last seen him were long and painful. The memory of his face, wide-eyed and frightened as the gas filling Cellblock Zero had put them all to sleep, as the fraid was separated, haunted her in the night. 

But there was one in particular among the bats and the birds that called out loudest of all. A beacon in the otherwise dull ambiance of the city. Gotham might have been full of ectoplasm, but its liminal presence was strangely muted. Dull.

All except for one person. 

Red Hood was an oddity amongst his flock. The aura of death clung to him like a second skin, grim and dark and oily. He was something more than liminal, she could tell. But the ectoplasm within him was so tainted and corrupt that it was like staring into murky water. She couldn't tell what was at the bottom. Couldn't see his core. 

(But she certainly had her suspicions.)

And she could see the way he struggled with it– blindly, like he was unaware that he was sick. Sudden mood swings, a hair trigger temper, frightening black-out rages, and he strayed frequently from his fraid. He had to be exhausted all the time.

It wasn't often that Three had time to worry about anyone other than herself and her own fraid these days, but with each cautious foray into Gotham she couldn't help her growing concern for the masked vigilante. 

Clearly, he had no idea what was going on within him. 

She knew that he could sense her, whenever her Shadow strayed into the solitary haunt he’d claimed within the city. He would charge across the rooftops, confused and searching, driven by a territorial instinct he didn’t even consciously recognize. In this, she was again reminded of her younger brother. How, in the earliest days of his accident, he’d had no one to explain what was going on to him. No one to teach him how to understand the myriad of foreign instincts and senses suddenly rushing through him. 

Perhaps that’s what pushed her, in the end. 

Quietly, she bid her Shadow to follow him as he leapt from roof to roof. Her butterfly went all but unnoticed, skipping from shadow to shadow in order to keep up with the vigilante’s break-neck speeds. 

After a short while, Red Hood paused on one of the roofs, back straight, shoulders rigid, the blank eyes of his mask glaring into the darker corners. 

“I know you’re there.” He growled lowly. “Come out now, and maybe I won’t shoot you.” 

Her Shadow gently fluttered down onto a busted cooling unit, unnoticed. 

Number Three borrowed its voice, whispering gently from the darkness.

“That’s a bit rude.” She admonished playfully. “I was only trying to see if you were alright.”

In an instant, Red Hood had drawn his guns and whipped around, both barrels pointed in her general direction. She could see the tension flooding into his solid frame when his eyes found nothing there.

“I’m not here to play games.” The vigilante snarled, still searching vainly for the person he was convinced lurked somewhere on the roof with him. “You’ve been following me all goddamn night. Who are you and what do you want?”

Three’s answering chuckle rolled eerily across the rooftops, echoing from every shadow at once.

“I’m Nobody. Who are you?” She replied, before lowering her voice to a mischievous whisper. “Are you Nobody, too?”

Hood didn’t seem as impressed with her gentle ribbing, tightening his grip around his guns until the fabric of his gloves creaked tellingly. 

Three heaved a sigh of regret.

“I’m just a Shadow.” She said, “Passing through.”

“And what does a shadow want with Red Hood?” He hadn’t relaxed at all, though he seemed to have narrowed down her location. He glared in the general direction of the cooling unit– but he either disregarded, or didn’t notice the little butterfly resting right on top of it. 

“Nothing, really.” Three told him honestly. “Idle curiosity. Do you know how tightly death clings to you, Red Hood? I could sense it all the way across the city.”

She could taste his unease on the wind, sharp and metallic. 

He knew something.

“What do you mean?” The words were forced out between gritted teeth, something raw and festering lurking just beneath. 

Red Hood–” She addressed him grimly, “Have you ever died before?”

January 18, 2017

12:00 PM

ACHERON; Black Badge Containment Facility

“And how are you feeling today, Number Three?”

Sharp teal eyes glared menacingly at the pale figure circling slowly around her cell, every step watched with lethal intent. Her Shadow was an invisible presence within her, tucked safely inside her core. She could feel it watching the man, growling, fuming, itching to attack– begging to be unleashed. Number Three hushed it gently.

She didn’t reply to the whitecoat– refused to give him the satisfaction.

“Not feeling communicative today?” The man– Dr. Emile Rassmueller, lead scientist within the Acheron facility– studied her with cold, dark eyes. The gentle smile on his face was as fake as the rest of his persona. The iron-clad grip he kept on his clipboard gave him away. “That’s alright, we don’t have to talk.”

Another lie.

Every second Three refused to speak took another inch off the man’s lit fuse– and she could already tell it was a particularly short one today. 

She didn’t care. 

As far as Black Badge was concerned, ghosts were still unthinking, unfeeling creatures. So half-breeds like she and her fraid were objects of immense curiosity to their scientists. 

They wanted to know– how did being half ghost affect them?

Were they less intelligent now? Could they feel less pain? Less emotion in general? How drastically had their physical capabilities changed? Were they more violent now? More animalistic?

Most of the scientists with the BBD didn’t actually care if she was sentient or not. In fact, she was quite sure most of them would agree that she was. It didn’t matter.

Federal law declared her subhuman– so she was fair game. 

Number Three had first been introduced to Dr. Emile only a week after she’d started training with Nocturn. At first, he’d tried his hardest to take her in with kind words. Presented himself as a soft-spoken sort of man, plied her with promises of extra privileges, freedom to move about the facility, anything he could think of to tempt her into cooperation with the various tests and experiments he was itching to run. She’d seen straight through it immediately. Recognized it all for what it was– a longer leash, and nothing more. 

There was an air about him that set off every major red flag in her body, whenever he got too close. Even if she wasn’t now half ghost, and privy to all the extra senses and instincts that came with it– even if she were still fully human – something about this man would have warned her off either way. 

Maybe it was the way he spoke to her, that false kindness– all slow and honey-sweet and suffocating. A heinous trap, and one she’d long since learned to recognize. Maybe it was the mask he wore, meticulously painted to seem friendly and approachable, yet struggling to hide the violence and rage that lurked close to the surface. Or maybe, it was the way he looked at her. 

Sharp blue eyes, cold as ice chips, dark like an arctic sea. Watching her– always watching– with measureless greed and anger and poorly concealed obsession. The air of a man who had never been denied before.

It made her skin crawl.

Three had him figured out by week two, when her obstinate refusals had revealed the truth of the man underneath.

Dr. Emile Rassmueller was a violent, bitter, prideful man and a raging misogynist, who craved all the powers of undeath for himself. 

And he was jealous of Number Three. Of her status as a halfa.

Nevermind the fact that she currently lived in a glass cage. Nevermind the fact that she’d been tagged like cattle, and bound by the collar around her throat. Nevermind the fact that she’d been forced to watch as her hometown was destroyed. As her brother was captured. As her friends, her fraid, her family was murdered. That she was murdered– cruelly and painfully and without mercy.

Nevermind that he would be in her exact position, if he ever got what he wanted.

But she had everything he desired, and so he hated her for it. Hated it even more when she refused to answer his questions, to bow to his apparent authority and “respect him as a man”. 

Three would never give him what he wanted, so he took great joy in making her suffer for it. He couldn’t have her maimed irreparably, to be sure, or Waller would have his head. But he could humiliate and degrade her in plenty of diverse ways when provoked. 

Every so often, if he was feeling particularly vindictive, he’d arrange a test at some ungodly hour in the middle of the night, and have the guards drag her out of bed– sometimes several nights a week. He reveled in his ability to dictate her entire schedule. 

And at one point– maybe two months ago– he’d ordered one of the facility guards to cut her hair, simpering vaguely about being worried it would get caught in something during one of his tests. It could hinder all their progress, and surely she knew he was just looking out for her, right? The whole time his eyes had mocked her, daring her to lash out, to respond in any way to his provocations. He’d left that encounter angrier than when he’d first arrived, when Three had done nothing but stare blankly at him. (But if, later on in her cell, when the lights were dimmed and the staff had gone home, she’d shed a few tears? Then that was her business, and hers alone).

It had already started growing back, of course. Slowly but surely, though it just barely reached her ears now, and the lackluster environment wasn’t helping at all. 

Because Dr. Emile also frequently enjoyed withholding meals– especially on the days he ran his tests, when she would need the energy the most.

Dr. Emile’s tests were designed to measure her physical capabilities as a halfa. With each one he forced her through, he pushed harder and harder, until she was half convinced he was simply trying to break her, rather than measure the full extent of her power. Spite was a powerful thing– she would know.

His favorite test was a massive maze, built from the ground up by him and his team. The walls were constructed from thick metal sheets that interlocked like scales. They could be moved at will, which meant that Dr. Emile could change the design of the maze whenever he wanted– even if Three was still inside. And the floors were covered in a complex array of heating coils, and layered with ceramic glass, like a stovetop, that could be superheated at a moment’s notice. 

The goal of the test was simple: Run to the exit. 

The only rule: she was not permitted to stop moving, or slow down. At all.

Any hesitation on her part, if she stopped to decide which way to go, if her energy flagged and she couldn’t keep up the sprint, then the coils would be activated– and then Three would have far more to worry about than just her exhaustion. 

Motivation, Dr. Emile had called it with a wide, cutting smirk, A way to encourage you to give us your all.

Thankfully, he didn’t seem interested in forcing her through it today. Instead, he had returned to his fruitless interrogations– searching still, for an avenue to the power he so desperately desired.

Number Three kept up a careful mask around all BBD personnel, something quiet, and docile, and stoic. Tucking all her rage and fear into the deepest parts of herself, safely hidden away. The persona kept the rest of the facility staff complacent. Kept them from looking too closely, even if every part of her chafed at the act.

The only one who’d never been fooled was Dr. Emile.

Like recognized like, she supposed. And they were both liars. 

But she tolerated his poison anyway. Because he too had something she wanted. 

“You know our Task Force Raptors attempted another breach yesterday.” He said, aiming for something pleasant and conversational. “But they were intercepted again, not even a few meters from the Fenton Portal.” 

“It was the same ghost as the last few times– the one with the armor.” Dr. Emile continued. “I don’t think he’s left that spot since the first breach. The Raptors… are struggling to get past him. They lost two more yesterday.”

He skirted around the outside of the glass, smooth and almost nimble– like a weasel in the grass. His eyes never left her face. 

“I know you know who he is, Number Three.” His voice pitched into something soft and sinister. A quiet threat, lingering behind the vowels. “You could save a lot of lives– a lot of good people– if you told us about him. Anything at all would be an enormous help. I could make your stay here a lot more comfortable… if you’d just tell us what you know.”

So Fright Knight was still guarding the portal, then. 

Number Three felt something within her slump with relief.

She’d been told before, of the first time Black Badge had attempted to send one of their paramilitary teams into the Infinite Realms via her parents’ portal. It had ended just as poorly, thanks to the Spirit of Fear. But it kept Three up at night sometimes– the thought of the BBD someday succeeding in infiltrating the realm of the dead. 

She took great comfort in knowing that Fright Knight was making their lives miserable.

“None of you are good people.” She replied, rasping around the dryness in her throat. “He’s giving you what you deserve.”

For a moment, just a fraction of a second, Dr. Emile’s face twisted into something hateful and enraged. Just a flicker, before the mask was back in place. 

“I understand that your… condition can make it difficult for you to grasp morality,” He began, oozing a self-congratulatory sort of pity, stepping as close as he could get to her on the other side of the glass, “And that it’s easy for your kind to… slip into misanthropy, but I need you to understand that we’re on the same side here.” 

“You and your compatriots protected an entire town for several years. And you did an admirable job!” He said. “You defended humanity against threats from beyond– and you can do so again! Help us protect our people, Number Three, just… tell me what you know.”

She stared him down, unblinking.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Three replied, blithe and flippant– like they were discussing the weather. 

His fist came down on the glass with a hollow, ringing thud as the mask splintered. The beginnings of a warning growl rose up in her throat.

The man on the other side took a deep breath, eyes fluttering closed as he struggled to compose himself.

“I’m trying,” He growled through gritted teeth, not loud enough to be a true yell, but far more forceful than he’d been before, “To be patient with you, Number Three. I’m trying to be nice.” His eyes opened, glaring fiercely at where she stood– laser focused. “But you keep insisting on being difficult.”

He rose up to his full height (which was still several inches shorter than Three herself, much to her frequent amusement), oozing a quiet sort of violence. A menace that promised pain. 

He’d been angry with her, frustrated, plenty of times before. 

But never like this. 

Number Three felt something cold and foreboding latch onto her core. 

“Lives are on the line, and we are running out of time.” He said, almost to himself. A conviction. A persuasion. Dr. Emile looked back at her with cold, cold eyes. 

“I’m going to find what hurts you.” He promised, “And you’re going to tell me everything I want to know.”

January 28, 2017

3:00 AM

Dreamscape

She was pulled from the sweetness of oblivion by a deep, crooning song– a melody winding through the emptiness between dreams, threading around her aching body like a warm embrace. Gentle hands cradled her, pressing cool relief into dark bruises and brittle bones, rocking slowly against the sound of lapping water and humming crystals.

Reluctantly, her eyes fluttered open. 

Hovering above her– a pale, heart-shaped face. The careful slope of curved horns. Eyes wine-dark red. 

Instinct pulled at her core, wrenching a ragged, whisper-soft chirp from her ruined throat. Then another. A litany of fledgling distress calls, from somewhere frightened and desperate deep within her. Helplessness scratched at the back of her brain, too weak to even lift her head.

“My poor little bird,” Curved claws gently brushed her hair away from her face, tucking the loose strands behind her ear with an answering chirp of his own, “I know you are in pain, but you must come back now. You have been away too long.” 

Pain– Her whole body was a gaping wound, raw and suffering. Even limp and unmoving, every part of her body throbbed with dull agony. 

She remembered… a small room. A chair– her arms, bound. Bright white light, coming from every direction. It burned. It hurt.

Men in black kevlar. They kept forcing her awake. She wasn’t allowed to sleep.

She was so tired, please just let her sleep–

“You have slept for three days now, fledgling.” Nocturn told her. He sounded… genuinely distressed. “They deprived you… for a week. You are still recovering.”

Number Three shuddered as her memories came flooding back, sucking in a pained, gasping breath. 

Dr. Emile, and his volatile anger– forcing her into a small testing room. She’d been bound to a chair, interrogated relentlessly. 

The lead scientist had refused to allow her even a moment of sleep until she gave him what he wanted. 

The first twenty-four hours had been manageable– if a bit boring.

But at thirty-six hours, she’d had significant trouble keeping her thoughts straight. 

At forty-eight, the white lights of the room had begun to burn.

After seventy-two… she couldn’t quite remember. In her head, there was only the phantom of bone-deep desperation. Primal fear accompanied by indescribable agony. 

Like she was burning alive. 

They’d kept her awake for a week.

She choked on her next breath, grasping blindly at Nocturn’s starry cloak as her eyes welled over. Her careful control shattered like fine china, buckling from the stress of her pain and anguish. For the first time since That Day, Number Three fell to pieces. 

It was an uncontrolled descent, a graceless swan-dive into the mire of every awful thing she’d been holding back since the day she’d been hauled from the rubble of Amity Park. Since her life had been stolen from her. 

Number Three was the oldest, and happy to shoulder the burdens.

She had to be strong for them– they needed her, and no one else was stepping up.

Except her body refused to obey her. Every shudder and twitch sent ripples of phantom pains crackling through her body like lightning. Every breath she took was guttered and choked by grief. Dr. Emile Rassmueller’s cruel, sneering face dominated her mind, the echoing sting of his palm against her cheek whenever her eyes fluttered shut. 

She wailed like a child, crying into the dark shroud that pooled around the Lord of Dreams. 

“Why did it… h-hurt?” She gasped, one arm rising– with significant difficulty– to wrap around her own waist. A desperate attempt to push the pieces of herself back together. “The light.”

Dark hands lingered almost helplessly over her shoulders, like he wasn’t sure how to comfort her. His pale face twisted into something wrathful. 

“You were exposed for too long.” He told her quietly. “You are a creature of the shadows now, fledgling. And just as the darkness can heal and revitalize you, lingering too long in the light can have… painful consequences.”

Three shuddered at the memory of her skin searing beneath white fluorescent light, burrowing deeper into the Ancient spirit’s cloak. 

“That fool,” Nocturn spat, the beginnings of a bird-like hiss rising in his throat, “Is lucky he didn’t destroy you with his own incompetence.” 

There was a whisper of fabric and feather as his arm melded with the fabric of his cloak, shifting into something fluid and wing-like as he draped it over her shoulders, and tucked her under his chin. He warbled another ghostly, musical noise over her head, and her eyelids drooped on instinct. 

“You have been unconscious for three days.” He informed her, “I could not bring you into the Dreamscape until this moment.”

Sharp talons ran soothing lines through her hair, like a preening bird. Number Three felt the tension draining from her aching body.

“But you are here now, and you may return to your rest.” The Dream Ghost murmured gently. “Sleep, little bird. I will keep watch.”

She was already gone. 

Chapter Text

“A soul full of justice is a heavy thing to hold.” her mother used to say. “It wears too many faces.”

Valerie Gray had been carrying that burden for a long while– she’d just never understood.

In the beginning, it had been less about righting wrongs and more about soothing bruised egos. In the beginning, Red Huntress had pursued Phantom because he’d embarrassed her.

The humiliation of falling from so lofty a height, pulled to the earth by something as blithe and as silly as a dead boy and his dog. An intolerable disruption of her life, stripped of family fortune, and status, and the friends she thought she’d had. Brought low, for the first time in her life. A jarring and panic-inducing experience (one that she would laugh at now, if only it were actually funny).

As Red Huntress, she could fly as high as she needed to. No one would ever pull her down again.

When her father lost his job, everything they had got swept along with it, and Valerie’s life was never the same. Bereft of all the creature comforts she’d once been used to, yes, but also–

That’s when the lines had started to appear on her father’s face. The gray hairs, thin and sparse at first, but… evermore plentiful, after a while. When the steady line of his shoulders started to slump, week by week, and the dark circles had bloomed eerily beneath his eyes. When her father had started to look his age, and then steadily older. An ache in his back, and in his knees, and Valerie had felt the first icy trickle of fear.

After that, it had been much more personal. 

Their lives had been taken from them, and that was all. Phantom’s. Fault!

She’d realized then, what she truly wanted. Not just for herself, but for all the people of Amity Park. For all the people that had lost homes and businesses and livelihoods in ghost attacks. All the people whose lives had been similarly disrupted, all the people who’d suffered somehow from the never-ending tide of spirits assaulting their town. 

Red Huntress could act on their behalf– fight on their behalf. And she wanted to. 

But more than anything, she wanted to help her father. She wanted to ease his burdens.

So every triumph she willed to him, and every victory was a redemption. A strike back, both at the humans that had fired him so callously, and the ghosts that had caused it. And a part of her desperately hoped they he could feel it, every time she won. That she was doing it for him. 

They won. 

So Red Huntress became something more. Something better. A force for good, in a place long abandoned by the Justice League, and the rest of the world. 

Fine, then. Amity didn’t need them anyway. 

Red Huntress would be enough. 

She had to be enough. 

And that’s when Amanda Waller entered the picture. 

The devil had come knocking, with a pen and a contract, seeking whom she may devour. Valerie had not noticed the teeth until it was too late

March 01, 2016

10:45 PM

Avernus; Primary Facility

Perhaps the worst part about it all: Valerie didn’t even know about That Day until nearly five months after the fact. 

In the future– once Snowden had explained the very worst of it, had revealed just how woefully out of the loop she truly was– she would feel foolish for allowing herself to believe that it was some horrific twist of fate. That some god, somewhere, had conspired against her in the grand cosmic joke that was her life. That the whole thing hadn't been planned, down to the last detail.

She would regret, with a bitterness and desperation that made her dizzy, believing a single word out of Amanda Waller's mouth.

But that was for the future.

This was now.

Her knees hit the ground of the hangar floor with a hollow, metallic clang against the padding of her gear. The pain of the impact, rattling through fragile bones like an aftershock, like the judge’s gavel coming down, was a far off echo in the back of her mind. A small spot on the horizon. She barely felt it.

Some distant part of her could recognize that she wasn’t breathing right, each inhale pulled through the ever-narrowing gap around the lump in her throat, each exhale shallow and brief and ineffective. Her vision was blurry. Her cheeks were wet. She felt strung out– pulled from her body by invisible strings. A spectator. A puppet.

A hand came down on her shoulder, warm and firm. Grounding.

“No– n-no… nononono, that’s not–” The words stumbled out of her like they’d been tripped, graceless and fumbling as something deep, deep in her heart cracked, “That can’t… that can’t be right, that can’t be right– you can’t– … Everyone? It’s– everyone?”

The hand on her shoulder tightened its grip, a solid shadowy figure kneeling by her side. Before them both, Amanda Waller stood with her back straight and her arms folded neatly behind her. She was no more expressive than usual, but there was a glint of understanding in her dark eyes that Valerie clung to, desperately. 

“I’m sorry, Ms. Gray.” Waller’s voice was tempered. Not with gentleness– never gentleness, with Waller– but something quiet and contemplative. Valerie huddled in its shadow like a starving, trembling stray, begging for warmth. For a glimpse of the sun. “Several searches were conducted within the wreckage, by several different agencies and a host of volunteers… no one ever found anything.”

Valerie shuddered around the strangled, anguished sound that climbed its way up her throat. In her head, there were so many faces.

Star. Paulina. Dash, and Wes, and Kwan. Mr. Lancer. Mr. Burns and Tiffanie. Sam and Tucker, and Danny.

And Danny.

Danny.

(She was supposed to protect these people– why hadn’t she protected these people? Why had she wasted so much time?)

“Why didn’t… Why didn’t you say anything?” There was a pleading note to her voice, as if the right answer could somehow undo it all and send her back– as if there was still a chance that she could help any of them. A battering, ineffective outrage.

“I asked her to wait.” 

The shadowy figure kneeling beside her solidified. Colored, sharpened, emerged from the blankness as the masked face of her Captain– Lanner. A pair of dark eyes peering through a beaked visage. Familiar now, after months of grueling physical conditioning. 

Valerie didn’t even know her real name. 

“I asked her to wait until you’d finished basic.” Lanner said again. Her voice was muffled by the mask and balaclava, but no less apologetic. “You’d just… You and your father had only just settled in, it would have only distracted you–”

“I deserved to know!” Valerie snarled in a way she’d never before dared to speak to a superior officer, not since Amanda Waller had sat across from her in the cramped back room of a shitty burger joint and slid a single-paged contract across the table, all those months ago. A frantic, animal sound, buried beneath the plea– whywhywhywhywhy–

A contract that Valerie had signed. 

“That was– that was my home! It’s–... I–”

In an instant, she was uprooted. Torn from soft, warm soil and cast to the wind.

Anchorless.

How do you quantify that kind of loss? How do you put it into words?

How do you make someone understand?

For almost two years, Valerie had patrolled the skies over Amity Park, doing the best she could. No backup, no fancy League, no allies but a double-dealing billionaire asshole playing both sides of the game… 

All that time, and not even a week after she’d left–

The story they tell her is this:

Less than seven days after Valerie departed for basic training, an army of the dead descended on Amity Park. They’d come from the open Fenton Portal, an unstoppable tide hundreds– thousands– hundreds of thousands strong. There had been no force on the earth strong enough to stop them, even if the wider world had known what was happening, had been given some kind of warning. 

The entire town was leveled. 

No survivors had been found. No remnants left behind. 

The leading theory was that they’d been taken– pulled into the Ghost Zone, just like so many months ago. When the King of the Dead had made his presence known. When Pariah Dark had declared his intent for the world.

(And Phantom had saved them then– why hadn’t he saved them now? Had he even tried? Or had they just destroyed him?)

“I should have been there.”  

Behind her mask, Lanner’s eyes were full of nothing but pity.

“Kid…” She murmured softly, “I’m sorry, but there wasn’t a thing you could have done about it. If you were there, you’d be dead. Or taken, with the rest.”

But Valerie didn’t want her pity. She wanted… she wanted–

“Could they still be alive?” She croaked, rising up on her knees to wipe the wetness from her face. “The townspeople. Is there a chance they could survive in there– i-in the Ghost Zone?”

Lanner exchanged an ominous glance with the Director. 

“We’re not sure.” She replied. Her eyes never left Waller. 

“We weren’t alerted to the situation until well after the attack was underway.” the Director contributed. “You have the GIW to thank for that. They believed they had the situation handled, and didn’t think to call in the Division until it was far too late. They were already overwhelmed by the sheer volume of ghosts.” Her voice never wavered once. “By the time our people arrived on the scene, the town was empty.”

“There wasn’t any sign of mass casualties.” Lanner rushed to reassure her, finally turning to face her once more. “No… No blood, no remains, the place was just…. Empty. We’re still looking into it.”

The hangar was quiet for several long, painful moments– barring the occasional sniffle from Valerie as her breathing at last smoothed into something contained. Professional.

Enraged.

“I want to see it.”

A soul full of justice is a heavy thing to hold. It wears too many faces

And all too often, they are easily confused with vengeance. 

Valerie Gray was recruited on a dark October evening just one week before That Day. 

After signing on with Waller’s Black Badge Division, she and her father were immediately transferred to a military base just outside of Chicago, and several hours away from Amity Park. There, the younger Gray would undergo her basic training, before progressing to a specialized course as part of the new taskforce the Director was building. 

Her father had been offered a place with Division security– only if he wanted it.

(One of Valerie’s only contractual stipulations: her father would never have to work another day in his life.)

It had been a difficult adjustment, at first. Something in Valerie had chafed at the thought of leaving her hometown behind, especially given the reality of Amity Park.

Who would look out for the people of the town while she was away?

Phantom was… well, maybe he wasn’t as bad as she’d originally chalked him up to be, but he was still a ghost. There was no telling what might happen while she was away. 

She was consistently reassured by her new Captain, Lanner, that the BBD was keeping a sharp eye on the town. That Valerie had nothing to worry about. She believed her, mostly. But nothing could truly stop the worry. 

The Raptors were originally a ten-man team– all of them were familiar with each other, and had worked with Waller in one form or another in the past. 

Valerie had been shocked and flattered at first, when the Director had explained that the idea behind them had largely come from Red Huntress. That Waller had observed some of her fights, the way she moved on her board, and desired to build a team in her image. 

The reality was much more nerve-wracking. 

The reality was that Valerie Gray was a fifteen year-old girl fresh into a private military contract, and the youngest person on the entire compound by miles. She’d seen her fair share of fights. She knew how to handle herself. The Director of the entire Division was certain that she could handle herself. 

That did not mean she was taken seriously.

Not in the beginning. 

The other Raptors weren’t cruel to her by any means, but their discomfort with her presence was extremely overt. As was their pity. 

It was several months before she got an answer for the latter.

As for the former– that did not change. Not until the incursion initiative. 

March 02, 2016

7:00 AM

Amity Park

The sun rose cold and sluggish over a concrete skeleton. A heavy wind whispered through the cracks.

The wreckage beyond showed sparse signs of organization. Of efforts to recover abandoned halfway, a cleanup interrupted by rumors of sinkholes and further disaster and, very rarely, the faintest whispers of a dreadful curse.

Amity Park was surely haunted after such a disaster– the rest of the world had decided. 

(She wanted to laugh and scream and rage– it had been haunted longer than anyone had even known, and no one had ever come to help them. No one had ever cared–)

Smaller chunks of rubble were organized in neat stacks along cracked pavement roads, and mounds of shattered glass swept into neat piles, glinting like tiny crystals under the light of a steadily rising sun. The smoke had long since cleared, but there was still a kind of heavy, misty pall hanging over the remains. A faint, curling fog leaching all color from the surrounding area.

Houses and buildings obliterated by sheer force jutted up from the ground on either side of the empty streets, like a tangle of ghastly rib cages all folding into one another, picked clean of meat and gristle. Scorched steel and brickwork swayed and creaked eerily in the morning wind, echoing across the desolation with the reverberating groan of heavy metal warping. 

At the outskirts of the town, where a cheerful sign once stood, a cairn of stones had been carefully crafted from the rubble– stout and humble, and carved from Amity’s corpse. They hadn’t been able to find any wildflowers to place around it. The ash had buried all the wildlife. 

A line of dark silhouettes stretched out behind the kneeling form of a lone girl, their faces shadowed by feather and bone.

Lanner. Amur. Seychelles. Gyr. Taita. Osprey, and Hook, and Levant. The twins, Besra and Shikra. 

On her knees before the remains of everything she had ever known, everything she had ever cared about, Valerie Gray stared down at the two masks in her hands. Neither of them had any answers for her. 

Her head bent forward– an acquiescence, an acceptance– and the first mask slipped easily over her face. The second one was placed on the ground with gentle hands.

Peregrine stood, lingered for only a moment more, before rejoining the other Raptors.

Behind her, the rising sun cast a long shadow over the cairn, and the helm of the Red Huntress, sitting quietly at its base. 

“Do you think we’ll find them in there?”

Peregrine had almost not asked. Had almost buried the question back within the folds of her heart, along with the rest of her silk-fragile hopes. 

Captain Lanner glanced at her from further down the bench– five of them, bundled in the back of an armored truck as they returned to Amity Park. 

To the Fenton Portal that sat, still functional, beneath the rubble. 

The vehicle swayed and bounced over uneven roads, and Peregrine had steadily had to ignore the growing headache spreading across her temples. The knot forming in the back of her head where it bounced against the wall of the truck with every pothole. The uncomfortable soreness of sitting on a metal bench for several hours.

At the head of the group, the older woman’s eyes crinkled behind her bird mask, something sad and encouraging and supportive. Peregrine drank it in with something like relief. 

“I don’t know, kid. But I’m hopeful.”

Six hundred and twenty-eight people– someone had to have made it out.

"Chin up, Peri. We'll find something."

Peregrine couldn’t be the only one left.

Please God let her not be the only one–

August 12, 2016

4:58 PM

The Fenton Portal; Within the Ghost Zone

“Get down!”

To the right of her, the world exploded in a blinding flash of malevolent violet light. The shockwave sent Peregrine spinning end over end, teeth gritted around a hoarse cry of shock. Pain flared in her calves and ankles as the limits of her hoverboard’s restraints were suddenly put to the test.

When she finally righted herself, the rest of the Raptors had scattered, circling around the source of the explosion like a swarm of furious hornets. A ring of putrid green fire hemmed them in, arching high overhead and preventing them from pushing further in. 

“You dare return here?”

From within the raging inferno, an enormous black figure stood resolutely in their path. 

He was tall, and wreathed in vivid purple flames that spouted from his helm and spilled down his back like a billowing cape. His armor flickered around him like solid smoke, dark and writhing, and in his hand he grasped a long, glowing sword– simple in design, but perilously sharp.

He sat astride the biggest horse Peregrine had ever seen in her life, a skeleton of blackened bone, empty sockets bright with the red of hellfire. Draped in the same heavy, leaden armor as its master, the creature’s teeth gleamed sharp and hungry in the firelight, a pair of enormous, leathery wings flaring out on either side of its body. It snorted and pawed at the empty air beneath them. A sharp, intelligent hatred gleamed brightly in its eyes.

The knight dismounted, and leveled his sword at them. Unlike the Raptors, he had no need of a hoverboard to stay afloat within the boundless ocean of green all around them.

“Turn back, and leave this place.” His voice rattled from within his helm like the crack of a thunderbolt, imperious and commanding. “Or forfeit your mortal lives. I shall not be lenient with you again!”

It was their fourth attempt at breaching into the Ghost Zone and establishing a forward hold. 

The knight and his mount had been there each and every time, pushing them back through the Fenton Portal with all the ease of one swatting a fly. They weren’t sure if he guarded the area at all hours, or if he could just sense them coming through and appeared in moments; either way, he was adamant that they were not allowed to push any further into the realm of the dead. 

Peregrine hadn’t expected this attempt to be any different, but Waller was quickly running out of patience. Her orders had been clear this time.

Show of force. Do not retreat, under any circumstances. 

Lanner whistled high and clear through the gap in her mask, and the Raptors dove as one, spiraling around the knight in carefully coded formations, one after the other. A now-familiar, deadly dance with their knightley foe. Amur, aiming a mighty swipe of his tonfa at the back of the ghost’s head, before quickly peeling away and back up into the sky. Taita, sweeping for the knight’s legs with the long end of her bo staff, before diving quickly out of reach. 

Both attacks swung right through him, like his body was made of mist. But as his eyes began to glow with the pale pink of an oncoming ghost ray, Gyr dropped like an anchor, silver and green sword gleaming against the flames. The blast was deflected, a bright comet of color slicing through the green and off somewhere into the distance, and the knight lifted his own blade. 

Gyr was tall and sturdy and built like a brick wall, but he was steady and fluid, graceful even, as he danced with the enraged ghost, a dizzying flurry of whip-fast strikes and parries. His only job was to keep the knight’s attention. 

The rest of the flock circled at blinding speeds, swinging in wide orbit around the two clashing swordsmen. With thin, feather-like blades in hand– Hook, then Seychelles, then Levant, one after the other lunging close to the deadly duel to score a strike against the ghost knight. It was a battle of attrition, whittling away at the specter by degrees. Cut by cut, scoring neat lines of bright, dripping green across matte black while the ghost was busy fending off Gyr.

Exhilaration beat a harsh, heady rhythm in her veins, the heat of battle, the joy of the hunt– Peregrine wheeled through the thick air of the Ghost Zone, cutting a silver streak across the mire of green, to dig her own blades into the back of his shoulder. Teeth bared, she gripped the handle to rip-tear-cut a glowing gash into ghostly armor, and diving away before their towering opponent could swing around and swat her down.

There was no exact moment to measure when it all fell apart. Just a series of cascading disasters, happening too quickly to parse.

A piercing shriek split through the roar of the flames, and the electric whine of the hoverboards as the knight’s beastly mount sprang from the wall of fire. It dove like a bird of prey, an ambush predator, loosing another hellish squeal as it collided with Osprey, driving both of its front hooves directly into his gut. The sheer force of the attack sent him plunging into the abyss beneath them, the shadow of the dark pegasus driving him deeper and deeper into the Zone, until Peregrine could hardly see him.

Lanner’s next order was frantic, a two-toned whistle that sent Besra and Shikra spiraling after him as one, and shrinking their task force by a third of its hunters. 

Then without warning, from the fog of deep green beyond their fiery cage, a spear. 

It sailed over the wall of fire in a long, graceful arc, a blur of white and gold. Like an arrow piercing through overripe fruit, it sank into Hook’s back and erupted from his chest in a sudden shower of deep red and a heavy, wet sound. He choked– wheezed a guttered, desperate gasp– and plunged like a stone, limp body tumbling away into the green. 

Something in Peregrine’s head shut off, like a severed cable.

Just beyond the verdant flames stood a massive ghost, towering above them in elegant black and gold, red eyes narrowed and glaring. A plume of bright fire arched from her helm, trailing long down her back, her skin pallid and unnaturally blue. She was bent forward, the arm that had hurled the spear still extended. Of the rest of them, one held tight to a second spear while the lower two pulsed with ominous cyan light, held ready and waiting to fire a devastating blast into their ranks. 

Mute with horror, Peregrine watched as the billowing knight took cruel advantage of Gyr’s sudden distraction. With a smooth flick of his wrist, the glowing sword cleaved up–

Gyr screamed as his arm, and his sword, severed cleanly from his body and dropped quietly into the abyss.

“Damn it! Fall back!” Lanner had abandoned decorum, abandoned protocol, abandoned orders, crying out with her full voice just as Besra and Shikra rose mercifully from beyond the curling wisps of green, green, everywhere green–

They carried a limp Osprey between them, the monstrous black steed nipping ferociously at their heels. 

Gyr backpedaled desperately as the knight surged forward with renewed rage. Taita threw a flurry of feathered blades at his face as Amur grasped their fellow Raptor by his remaining arm, and hauled him up and away. 

They fled for the portal, swirling ominously several feet away. 

Behind them, the body of Hook fell far and away, swallowed by the realm of the dead.

December 31, 2016

11:02 PM

Avernus; Raptor Aerie 

The Aerie was a subterranean level of the primary Division headquarters specifically designated for the Raptors– and only the Raptors. You needed a special keycard to access it from the elevator, or the north side stairwell.

It was a training facility and home base rolled into one, a fully kitted ops center, a war room, and furnished living quarters– a kitchen, a lounge, several washrooms.

Most everything else was only sparsely used. Peregrine lived with her father in one of the on-site military housing units, and the Raptors only stayed in the overnight quarters when disembarking early the next morning. She was fairly certain none of them knew how to cook well enough to utilize the kitchen, and she'd only ever seen Taita use the lounge with any sort of regularity, quietly reading in her spare time. The war room had never seen use, and likewise the ops center hadn't received much mileage outside the occasional teleconference with Waller. 

Really, the gym was the only useful room on the level. It was the only one used on a regular basis, both for group training exercises and solo workouts. For the most part, they were allowed to trickle in and out whenever.

The gym was easily the biggest part of the whole floor, wide and spacious and airy. A high, vaulted ceiling stretching several dozen meters tall over a padded, spongy floor on one side, and several large, deep pits of foam blocks on the other. Large enough for complex aerial training on an array of expensive hoverboards. 

On solid ground, weights and treadmills, bikes and ellipticals. Various lifting benches and racks. Over the pits, aerial obstacle courses and several hanging bars and platforms studding the walls and dangling from the roof. An indoor track along the borders of the room, everything glinting shiny and new.

Peregrine was only here for one thing. 

Blotches of red smeared across the thick vinyl of the hanging bag, despite the layers of tape and gauze wrapped around her knuckles. It swung wide with the next blow, pain crackling like electricity through the bones of her hand and down to her wrist.

It wasn’t enough. 

A series of quick jabs– left, and right, and left again– harder and harder. Her breath came in deep, angry gasps. Her eyes were glazed and unseeing. 

“Awful late to still be down here, kid.” 

A voice, ringing steadily from the entrance of the Raptors’ private gym. Vaguely familiar, but Peregrine didn’t recognize them. Not quite. 

She ignored them.

Again, another flurry of angry strikes, and the chain holding the bag aloft juddered and whined in protest. Her knuckles were swollen and throbbing. 

“Kid.”

Hook, gasping wordlessly as the spear shot right through his chest– cored like an apple. Taita, the crunch of her skull splitting like a fresh egg as the dark pegasus struck true. 

Peregrine snarled under her breath, and imagined the shadowy visage of the knight in front of the bag. Her next blow almost snapped the chain.

Levant, and the smoking hole blown clean through his gut. Besra and Shikra, vanishing in a flash of light as the green sword swept clean through both of them. 

A soul full of justice is a heavy thing to hold.

She heard it more than she felt it, one of the fragile, straining bones in her hand giving way with the next furious strike to the bag. Peregrine reeled back with a cry and a sharp hiss, immediately tucking the injured limb to her chest. 

A shadow stood beside her, reaching out a quiet hand to steady the bag. 

She glanced over. 

She’d seen this guard before– quite a few times. Every day, in fact, when she would arrive at the facility bright and early. She’d walk past him at the entrance to the R&D wing on her way to the elevators.

They’d never spoken before, beyond a soft hello or a nod of the head.

His lapel drooped with the weight of the small metal star attached to it, marking him as some kind of important– Peregrine had never bothered to remember the ranks outside of Director Waller and her fellow Raptors. But he didn’t look like he minded her indifference. 

Part of her itched to demand how he’d even gotten in, tiny little star or not.

“Get it all out of your system?” He asked. Peregrine searched his face for any hint of mockery, but his dark eyes were calm and genuine. 

But still, she couldn't reply (because the honest answer was no ).

She averted her gaze instead, training her eyes to some distant smudge on the floor. 

The guard heaved a deep sigh. 

Technically, this wasn’t allowed. Technically, she shouldn’t be here outside of regular training hours if she hadn't scheduled something beforehand– and neither should he. No one used the Raptor gear when Lanner wasn’t present.

They could both get into a world of trouble for simply being here.

Peregrine didn’t care.

Still, she waited for him to ask why she was down here. Why she wasn’t celebrating the holiday with her father, or up mingling awkwardly with the rest of the facility staff. Why she had instead chosen the pitch black of the unlit gym, pounding a heavy sandbag until her bones cracked. She waited for him to escort her back up to the main level with a stiff warning.

Instead, he reached for her injured hand, clicking his tongue in disapproval.

“Let me wrap that, hellion. Before you break anything else.” His voice was gruff, but light. “Then I’ll teach you how to throw a real punch, eh?”

This is how she meets Snowden. 

“Listen to me, hellion– listen!”

Rough, calloused hands had her by the shoulders, fingers digging painfully into her biceps– unyielding, no matter how hard Peregrine thrashed and jerked.

“You cannot– listen!– You can’t go running off like that!”

She’d run like she had something to prove. Like if she went far enough, pushed hard enough, the world around her might make sense again.

Faster and faster. She’d skipped the elevator. Took the corner stairwell. Clipped the wall on a sharp turn. Blood pulsed in her ears– a drumbeat, drowning out everything else. 

She’d gotten halfway up before he’d caught up to her, and hauled her back down the stairs like she weighed no more than a kitten, and fought only half as well. 

“She’s a liar!” 

The words tore from her throat like they’d been pulled– dragged by the hair kicking and screaming. A shriek. A scream of despair. 

Peregrine swung out blindly with her fists. Jabbed at his neck, his eyes, swung for his nose, hauled off and punched him in the jaw, deployed every dirty trick she could think of. He hardly seemed to flinch, herding her back into the darkened gym with a huff and a fit of breathless swearing. 

“I know, okay, I know– ” He was saying, even as she again lunged for the door, “Peregrine!”

She froze, when his voice suddenly rose to match her furious snarling. Air rasping in her lungs, heaving, trembling, seared through by rage and grief and shock. Her legs wobbled beneath her, knees shaking. 

He lowered them both to the floor. 

“You can’t confront her with this.” He told her, low and apologetic.

Her eyes flashed, furious protests on the tip of her tongue–

“No, listen!” He insisted, again and again, eyes burning with equal desperation and wrath. “Listen to me, hellion– this is Waller’s game. This is her chessboard. You toe out of line, soldier, and she’ll have you removed. She won’t even hesitate.”

“I’m not her soldier!”

The wolf in her heart was howling. Baying for blood, for retribution, for the truth she’d been denied. 

( –is a heavy thing to hold, a heavy thing to hold, it wears too many faces–)

“Yes, you are!” His voice took on a stern, warning edge, “And if you ever imply otherwise to anyone who’s not me, they will shoot you.”

Her next breath hitched around a whisper-soft sob, buried somewhere beneath the sound of denial that rumbled up from her chest like an animal growl. Somehow, he heard it anyway. 

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry, just– look, let me look into it.” he said, quieter now. “I’ve been… gathering information here and there. I don’t know what else she hasn’t told you, but I can help set the record straight for you, just– you have to leave it, Peregrine. You have to leave it be for now.”

Peregrine punched him in the shoulder, hard and reflexive. Just once. Wrenched out of his grip. Then her head dipped down, and she screamed.

She didn’t try to rise back up.

(Her mother’s voice, whisper soft in the back of her mind, “Promise me, honeybee, promise me, promise me–)

She sobbed, and every cry that tore from her chest was shrill and wounded, like a child with her first scraped knee– wide eyed and shocked, that such pain could even exist. 

A heavy hand gripped her shoulder. A voice, thick with regret.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” He whispered. “If you confront her, you will die.”

January 17, 2017

10:52 PM
Avernus; Primary Facility

Amur, choking and gurgling as serrated teeth dig into his windpipe and pull–

Osprey, and the way his guts slowly unfolded from his body as the spear ripped him from navel to nose.

Two and a half weeks later, Director Waller cancels the incursion initiative. For now.

Only four Raptors remain.

That night, when Peregrine stands before the doors of R&D with wide, blank eyes, Snowden doesn’t say a word. He takes her by the shoulder, and guides her down to the gyms.

She beats the bag until her hands are bloody and raw.

The remaining Raptors left the base on long searches, after the incursions were halted. Waller spoke often of rebuilding the Raptors with fresh faces, but it was clear that wouldn’t be for some time. 

The Director was busy these days– Avernus wasn’t the only facility Black Badge operated out of. And something frequently occupied the older woman’s attention elsewhere. 

Sometimes the remaining Raptors were on their own, sometimes a team of soldiers went with them. Always, they were guided by a long range scanner supplied by R&D.

Peregrine had to remind herself, frequently, not to think about who specifically had made it. 

(You can’t, you can’t, you can’t afford to crumble now–)

The scanner led them to all manner of people, in all manner of places. From large cities to small towns, stretches of blank, same-faced suburbia and settlements so small they could hardly be called anything but camps. Wide open plains and pastures to cramped streets and heavy smog. And people– so many people. Usually, no one on the search teams ever interacted with the individuals themselves. They were simply observed at a distance, almost like an animal in a zoo.

Peregrine frequently had to swallow her discomfort. 

At each stop, the Raptors recorded a name. An age. A location. An occupation.

They moved on. 

By the time three months had passed, Waller was gifted a list upwards of ten pages long. 

Just in case, the woman had said.

Just in case. 

May 22, 2017

2:45 PM

Avernus; Primary Facility

She wasn’t expecting it, when the ground finally crumbled beneath her feet. When the house of cards finally started to wobble and shake.

She wasn’t braced for impact.

“I might not be back for a while.”

Snowden glanced up at her in mild surprise. The punching bag was held firm and steady between his hands. He didn’t flinch at the next rapid series of strikes.

“Not an incursion, is it?” He asked lowly. Almost hesitant. There was a note in his voice that tried to sound nonchalant, but Peregrine could see the spark of worry in his eyes. 

“No.” She replied readily. “Not enough Raptors for that anymore. The Director has something else for us to do.”

It didn’t seem to reassure him like she thought it would. 

“Like what?” He asked. In his eyes, she saw that he already knew the answer. 

“Hunting– Searching .” Peregrine corrected quietly. Almost curtly. Something in her heart lurched uncomfortably. “For Contaminated. We’ll be traveling with some mobile scanners.” 

Her stomach twisted at the thought, a mute rebellion that had her biting down on a deep grimace and pulling back on her next punch. She didn’t really like to think about it. 

Contaminated– those touched too closely by the ghostly essence of the land of the dead. Ectoplasm.

Because it had a way of changing people, she knew. Even living people. She’d seen it enough times back in Amity Park– the way Star seemed to know how everyone around her was feeling, even without asking. The way Paulina’s eyes would glint beneath certain bright lights, or how Kwan was flexible far beyond what was normal, or how Mr. Lancer could tell intuitively when a student was lying to him. She’d heard the word ‘Liminal’ passed around a few times, but the Division never really called them that.

Just Contaminated.

And Waller was interested in them. Peregrine couldn’t fathom why.

(She could. She wasn’t stupid, she just didn’t want to think about it.)

“She just wants us to take names. Keep a record.” A part of her felt like she owed him the explanation. Like she had to justify herself, somehow. To both of them.

But justify for what? 

No one was going to be hurt. Waller didn’t fire blindly– not like the GIW. She wasn’t ordering anyone be rounded up or imprisoned. She just… wanted their names. Where they were. Like taking a census, she’d said. 

And Peregrine ached to act. All those months of training, their battles against the ghost knight, and Waller had retired the incursion initiative. She and her fellow remaining Raptors had been lingering at the Avernus facility ever since– purposeless.

It burned, somewhere deep within, to stay idle for so long.

Peregrine was never idle– or at least, she didn’t like to be. 

Their new orders should have been a welcome change in the end, but… 

But.

“Not looking for more Cerberus subjects, then?” Snowden asked, eyes probing. “Thought Dr. Fenton had finished with her work on that last year.”

And 

everything

froze.

Peregrine went stock still, mid-swing, like she’d been struck by lightning. The shockwave rippled down her body like an earthquake, foundations crumbling within. Behind the slits of her mask– a constant presence on her face these past months– her eyes went wide. Then wider still.

“What did you say?” 

Peregrine couldn’t recognize the sound of her own voice in that moment, robotic and whip sharp, pale and breathless with disbelief and cold, penetrating numbness. The world around her fell away by degrees, collapsing into blurry, indistinct shapes and muted hues, running together like fresh watercolor paint. Dripping down the canvas. Mixing into something bleak and incoherent. 

Snowden was saying something, muffled and distant, like someone had shoved her head underwater. Her ears were ringing. The sound was all-encompassing. Like she’d been hit with a flashbang. 

Dr. Fenton.

Unbidden, Director Waller’s voice echoed like a funeral bell in the back of her mind, twisting and warping with something dark and hidden. Over and over again, louder and louder.

“Amity Park was attacked last October.”

“I’m afraid the destruction was extensive.”

“No survivors have been found.”

Peregrine swayed on the spot. The fluorescent lighting from the panels above was suddenly too bright. The hum of electricity too loud, and the ringing in her ears unbearable. 

“No survivors have been found.”

Dr. Fenton–

“No survivors have been found.”

– from Amity Park.

“No survivors have been found.”

A soul full of justice is a heavy thing– 

“No survivors have been found.”

Promise me, honeybee-

“No survivors have been found.”

Liar.

Peregrine took off running.  

W̷H̶Y̷ ̸A̷R̷E̴ ̴Y̷O̷U̵ ̵D̴O̸I̷N̷G̴ ̶T̵H̵I̸S̵?̷

Because it’s what I should have done from the beginning. 

I know you don’t have any reason to believe me, but I swear I never would have cooperated for a second if I’d known what she was planning from the beginning. 

S̶H̴E̴ ̵L̴I̵E̶D̸ ̷T̸O̵ ̶Y̶O̵U̸.̸

She’s lied to everyone. 

B̸U̶T̴ ̸I̶T̵ ̵M̵A̴T̶T̸E̶R̶S̸ ̶T̴H̷A̵T̴ ̷I̷T̴ ̸W̷A̸S̵ ̸Y̵O̷U̶

B̷E̴C̵A̵U̷S̶E̸ ̸Y̴O̸U̵'̷R̶E̷ ̷A̶M̷I̸T̵Y̶ ̷T̴O̵O̴

I don’t think I get to call myself that anymore.

W̶H̸Y̷ ̸N̴O̵T̶?̷

̴I̴S̷N̶'̵T̴ ̴T̸H̴A̴T̷ ̶W̸H̵E̵R̶E̸ ̵Y̶O̵U̸'̴R̵E̵ ̶F̵R̴O̷M̷?̵

̶W̷H̵A̸T̶ ̴Y̶O̴U̷'̸V̵E̸ ̵D̶O̶N̸E̶ ̸H̵E̵R̶E̴ ̸D̸O̴E̷S̶N̸'̸T̷ ̸C̶H̸A̷N̴G̶E̴ ̷T̶H̷A̶T̶.̷

Maybe it should. 

Y̶O̸U̴'̷L̷L̵ ̸N̶E̷V̶E̶R̷ ̵G̴E̵T̵ ̴A̶N̵Y̵W̵H̸E̶R̶E̵ ̵I̵F̶ ̵Y̵O̶U̷ ̵K̷E̴E̷P̸ ̸T̵H̵I̶N̵K̵I̶N̸G̶ ̷L̷I̵K̷E̷ ̸T̷H̴A̴T̸.̷

I̶ ̷C̷A̷N̷'̸T̸ ̶F̸O̴R̴G̴I̶V̷E̶ ̵Y̴O̵U̴.̷ ̶

̸N̶O̸T̷ ̶Y̶E̴T̶.̴

̸B̵U̷T̷ ̴I̸T̴ ̸M̶A̷T̵T̵E̸R̸S̸ ̶T̶O̴ ̵M̶E̴,̸ ̸T̸H̷A̷T̵ ̵I̸T̷'̷S̸ ̷Y̶O̴U̷.̶

F̶O̸R̷ ̵W̴H̴A̶T̴ ̴I̵T̶'̵S̷ ̸W̶O̶R̵T̵H̸,̶ I̸'̶M̶ ̴G̷L̵A̸D̴ ̴I̵T̷'̷S̶ ̴Y̴O̸U̸

V̴A̶L̶E̶R̷I̵E̶.̶

Please don’t. 

D̵A̶N̷N̷Y̴ ̷W̸O̸U̷L̵D̴N̴'̷T̸ ̵H̵O̷L̵D̶ ̸I̸T̸ ̵A̴G̷A̴I̶N̶S̸T̵ ̸Y̵O̷U̸,̷ ̸A̴N̵D̴ ̷Y̴O̸U̶ ̸K̸N̵O̵W̴ ̵I̸T̵

̶T̴H̴A̶T̴'̵S̵ ̶W̶H̶A̵T̴ ̵S̸C̸A̴R̷E̴S̷ ̸Y̷O̵U̴ ̴T̶H̶E̷ ̷M̴O̵S̸T̸.̵

D̴A̴N̶N̷Y̴ ̴W̵O̵U̸L̷D̷ ̷F̷O̷R̴G̷I̵V̴E̷ ̶Y̶O̶U̸ ̴I̴N̸ ̶A̴ ̶H̶E̵A̵R̷T̵B̸E̶A̵T̷

A̴N̴D̵ ̶Y̵O̶U̶ ̶C̷A̸N̴'̷T̵ ̵S̷T̶A̵N̸D̸ ̴I̶T̵

I̴T̸S̵ ̶T̸O̸O̶ ̴S̷C̷A̸R̴Y̴

I just want to make this right.

Y̶O̴U̸ ̷C̵A̵N̷'̶T̶.̵ ̸

N̷E̵I̵T̸H̴E̸R̸ ̶C̷A̷N̷ ̴W̴E̴.̷

B̶U̵T̴ ̸W̴E̸ ̷C̸A̷N̶ ̸S̵T̴I̵L̸L̶ ̴M̴A̶K̷E̴ ̶I̴T̷ ̵B̶E̷T̸T̵E̷R̸.̴

June 03, 2017

6:45 PM
Avernus; Southside Utility Storage

The name peered back up at her from the top of the page, thin letters stamped in dark black ink, bold against bright white. Damning. 

Valerie Gray

No matter how long she stared, there it stayed. 

It sat at the very top of the list, above all the other names she had painstakingly gathered herself. She had no idea how Snowden got his hands on it. He watched her from across the cramped space, leaned against one of the shelves. The shadows deepened the lines of deep, pervasive unhappiness on his face.

She didn’t know his real name.

He didn’t know hers. 

In Black Badge, no one’s real name mattered.

“Tell me everything.”

Waller’s gaze was a physical weight on her shoulders, heavy and unyielding for all the woman sat so casually behind her desk, calm and collected. In any case, Peregrine had learned not to put much stock in the woman’s expressions long ago. They were never an indicator of what she was feeling. What she was planning. 

But Peregrine had prepared for this. 

“I understand that the… circumstances around Amity Park are… not what I was originally told.” she began haltingly.

This was the rub– how to admit and deny an atrocity at the same time. 

How to combine ‘I know what you did’ and ‘we’re on the same side’. 

“I’d heard you ran into Dr. Fenton yesterday.” was all the Director had to say. She would offer the girl no lifeline. No convenient excuse to cling to. 

“Y-yes, that was what… alerted me to the discrepancies, ma’am”

“So what was it you wanted to discuss?” Waller asked. The note of warning in her voice was so faint Peregrine almost thought it imagined. 

“I-I just thought it best to… reassure you, ma’am… of my commitment to our cause.” Peregrine valiantly pushed forward, disguising her disgust and nausea as simple nerves.

“Is that so?”

Peregrine met her eyes head on. She did not flinch.

“I signed on to fight monsters, Director. That hasn’t changed.”

A soul full of justice is a heavy thing. 

August 19, 2017

8:42 PM

On-Site Military Housing

Damon Gray weeps, when Snowden finally tells them the truth.

Amity Park was not destroyed by a legion of the unquiet dead. Nor were her people stolen away into the Ghost Zone, never to be seen again. He’d been there That Day, much to his shame. The only ghostly presence recorded was Phantom and his little clone.

(Mischief and dry wit and a shark-like grin–)

Together, Snowden and Peregrine had slowly filtered through every document they could get their hands on. Late nights spent skulking through the archives, leafing through physical records in a desperate hunt for context.

The facts of the case are this:

Director Amanda Waller had deployed Black Badge forces somewhere around 8:45 to 9 AM in the morning. It took the soldiers over twenty-four hours to fully occupy the town, met with bitter resistance at every step. Complete extraction took a further twenty-four hours. 

But the carnage had been well over and done by the time the rest of the world clocked in– almost seventy-two hours after That Day. 

The specifics of the call that had summoned emergency services to the scene were a complete and utter mystery. Neither were there any answers to be found on the ultimate fate of Amity’s people. Not on paper, at least.

(Snowden had told her himself. Peregrine had knelt down on the cold metal and screamed and screamed and–)

Project Cerberus was the Division’s flagship operation. Its very reason for being.

The organization had been built around it, layer by layer, like a cocoon. There were no exemptions– whether you knew it or not, those that accepted a contract also pledged themselves to Project Cerberus. In one way or another, your work would always lead back to it.

In the end, it was simple. 

Only a ghost can fight another ghost. 

Only a ghost would stand a chance. 

Waller had observed this in practice over the many months they’d spent watching the people of Amity Park. Gathering information. Learning their enemies. Phantom’s demonstrations were more than comprehensive. 

And so Black Badge would make ghosts of its own, to fight on behalf of their country. On behalf of humanity. 

Waller had envisioned something like her Suicide Squad. An elite task force, built for one specific purpose.

(Had the Raptors simply been a test run? Fodder, and nothing more?)

Peregrine had broken a chair and punched a hole in the drywall when she’d first read the names. 

• Daniel Fenton Phantom

• Danielle Masters Wraith

• Jasmine Fenton Spectre

• Tucker Foley Eidolon

• Samantha Manson Spirit

She’d even given them titles. Like this was the fucking Justice League, and they were dolls for her to dress up and play heroes with–

(Half an hour spent crouched over the kitchen bin, bile in her throat, spilling over her lips–)

Once they’d hit the heart of Project Cerberus, it was like the floodgates had opened. 

Pictures, patient profiles, video and audio logs, experiment records, spreadsheets, flowcharts, ectoplasmic readings, building plans and blood blossom gardens, and a blueprint for an electric collar– the sheer, absolute glut of information had been overwhelming.

Heartbreaking– the scale of what they learned. 

(What do you do, when you’ve abetted atrocity? How do you atone?)

Later that night, the three of them sitting mute and horrified at the kitchen table, Damon Gray had delicately cleared his throat, and looked up at his daughter. 

“What do you want to do… with all of this, Val?” He asked.

And once upon a time, Valerie Gray’s mother had been a District Attorney, and then a Judge for the state of Illinois, before her illness had taken her career from her. Dedicated her life– however achingly brief it had been– to the pursuit of justice and equity. 

“A soul full of justice is a heavy thing to hold, honeybee. It just wears so many faces. Sometimes right and wrong can get all mixed up, in here.” Playful fingers, tapping at her little temple.

In her hands, she clutched the list of Liminals that she herself had helped build. Targets that she had so dutifully gathered for Waller, should they need to “produce” more ghosts. 

And at the very top of the list– her own name. 

Valerie Gray

“And sometimes right and wrong are very easy to see, but the choice is still hard. It might cost you something. Something you love.” A soft hand, pressing over her tiny heart.

Snowden watched them both with dark, sad eyes. His hands fiddled with the thumb-drive he was using to store their illicitly gathered intel. 

If she made this decision, all three of them would be at risk. 

All three of them could be killed– on a whim, as easy as waving a hand.

“Even so, promise me you’ll choose what’s right, honeybee. Even if it hurts. Even if it costs.”

Valerie Gray pulled off her mask. 

She kills them on a Sunday. 

They were far from home base– much too far away for anyone important to catch her in the act. 

They’d been driving for the better part of three days, somewhere southwest, into Nevada– following the steady chirp of the long range ecto-scanner. A gift from Dr. Fenton herself. 

One more name to add to Waller’s list, waiting somewhere in the distance.

Whoever they were, the Raptors would never reach them. 

The Raptors would never reach anyone ever again. 

They’d stopped for the night, in a tiny, nothing town on the edge of the desert, dirty and dusty and run-down. The type of place where everything was made of dark, old wood, and dyed permanent shades of gritty golden and weathered brown, crusted with sand and sediment and rocky pebbles. Creaking with age and termite damage. The sort of place where you might still find an honest to god saloon, unironically. 

Dry Waters, it was called. Population fifty-one.

A fitting name. Just looking at it was enough to make anyone thirsty. 

It was off the beaten path– way off. Didn’t have an inn or a motel or anything of the sort, but the one local lawman they had (who doubled as a pastor) was kind enough to let them crash in the ramshackle chapel at the edge of the town thoroughfare. 

It was a roof over their heads, a chance to stretch their legs, and shelter from the chill of the open desert night. Lanner had accepted without much thought. 

Peregrine took the first watch.

An hour later, Gyr was dealt with first.

Even down an arm, he’s massive and finicky and decisive, and she doesn’t want to be on the wrong end of his sword– even if he was still learning to use his other hand. 

She cut a dark line across his throat while he was still sleeping. He aspirated in seconds, choking on his own blood. She held her jacket to his face to muffle the gasps. So she doesn’t have to see his face.

Seychelles almost woke up before Peregrine had time to finish her off in much the same way. And even once she’d sunk the knife in deep, she had no time to cover the woman’s face. Her fellow Raptor made a strangled, wheezing noise, thrashing against the wood floor of the little church–

And Lanner sprang awake. 

For several long, agonizing moments, they’d just stared at each other. Deathly silent, over the sound of Seychelles gagging– dying on the ground under Peregrine’s knee. 

She will never forget the look of sheer shock in her Captain’s eyes. Not for as long as she lives. 

And Peregrine loved this woman.

And Peregrine hated this woman. 

Who mentored her. Comforted her. Supported her. Lied to her. Lied to her face. Didn’t even blink–

Peregrine launched herself across the pews, and slammed into Lanner like a cannon shot. They went flying into the next bench, and the wood beneath them shattered as they tumbled to the floor. An earsplitting crash, a grunt of pain as Peregrine took her Captain by the shoulders and slammed her into the floor.  

Time seemed to freeze,as they’d stared eye to eye.

“Peregrine–” Lanner was gasping, breathless. Her eyes were still so shocked, like she couldn’t quite believe– “Peri, wait– wait, wait, kid,  j-just– hold on.” 

“You’re a liar!” It was a scream of rage, molten hot and scalding. Peregrine didn’t feel the way her eyes burned. The way they overflowed and her tears mixed with the sticky crimson splashed across the cheeks. Hardly noticed the way they dripped onto the Captain’s face– exposed, for once, for a moment of rest. 

The girl bared her teeth at her Captain. An animal expression, riddled with agony and despair and hatred. 

“You’re a liar, you lied to me!” It came out as a sob this time, childlike and so very wounded. “Y-you fuckin— you lied to me!”

Lanner was crying too.

She didn't even know her real name

(In Black Badge, no one's real name mattered.)

“I’m sorry.” She choked. “I know, I know I did, kid. I’m sorry. Just… j-just let me explain it. Just let me–”

Peregrine’s knife cut so deep she almost took the other woman’s head. 

Lanner died with her tears still fresh on her face. 

Because Valerie Gray had a soul full of justice. And she can make no more excuses for anyone else.

(She leaves behind a chapel soaked in blood and old wooden splinters. The bodies are delivered back to Avernus. Snowden helps her fake several ecto-readings on the scanner, and Waller is told that the last of her birds were killed in a ghost attack. Only Peregrine remains.)

(It feels good– to be the one lying for once.)

She is sixteen years old. 

December 15, 2020

11:51 PM

Greater Southeast Region; United States

The blackout started in Louisiana. 

A small flicker, at a local station–

And then the entire southern coast was without power. 

The entire southeast region was affected, along with the border states of Missouri, Oklahoma, Indiana, and Virginia, as well as half the east side of Texas. Fifteen states in all, and a plethora of townships and cities in the central and northeast regions. 

A complete and utter catastrophe, significant enough to be considered a disaster.

The Justice League, naturally, was there to help where they could.

The entire Flash Family was on call, helping evacuate high-risk patients to functioning hospitals, or ferrying the most valuable specimens to different organ banks before donations could be lost. A gargantuan, nigh unfathomable task, considering the sheer size of the afflicted areas– even with all their speed.

Bart is the one who encounters them. 

Listen, he hadn’t been slacking off, or side tracked– he would never, not in the middle of such an important operation, not with lives on the line– it was just…

It was getting late, and there’d been a lull in activity after clearing the last patient from hospital number fifty-three.

And to a speedster, a lull might as well have been a short eternity. 

And he’d been so curious – something had to have caused the blackout to begin with, something this big couldn’t have just been a fluke–

So, he’d gone to investigate.

The grid station was on the outskirts of New Orleans, where humble suburbia began to fade into wild marshland and swamps. The whole thing was lifted up on an enormous concrete platform, suspended above soft muddy earth and floodplains. A chill breeze wove between towering metal balustrades. Electricity sparked in wild fits and stops overhead, blinking like Christmas lights across hanging wires. An eerie crackle playing counterpoint to the quiet whisper of the wind, and the distant orchestra of crickets and bullfrogs and gators.

The whole station was completely dark, save for the short jolts of electricity crackling here and there overhead. 

It was desolate. Empty. 

That was the first sign that something was wrong – the lack of police or technician presence, at the station where the blackout began.

For several moments, Bart had almost thought he’d gone to the wrong spot– but a quick glance at his phone, at the initial report Red Robin had sent him– confirmed this was the place.

So where was everybody? 

No one was working to restore the grid. No one was searching the premises, examining the towers for signs of foul play. For signs of interference. There was no one.

No one but Bart, and the line of three unmarked black SUVs that slowly pulled into the station. 

Impulse ducked behind one of the thicker towers, and pulled his goggles back over his eyes. Keen night vision filters honed in on the intruders. With one hand, he fired off a quick message in the Young Justice Group Chat™.

Smthng happening @ L power station standby 4 live feed

His other hand engaged the tiny camera integrated into his eyewear (Tim’s micromanaging and paranoia coming in clutch, for once).

As he crept closer, just under a dozen men and women in pitch dark kevlar disembarked from the trucks, all matching uniforms and matte black gas masks fitted tight to each face. Each bore the same symbol over their right breast, a white star within some complex, geometric scribblings. 

Bart had never seen it before– but maybe one of the others would recognize it. 

They carried heavy weaponry, sleek guns and blaster rifles all chrome and bright green, looking more at home in the simulated world Bart had once lived in than the reality he now called home. Like something out of a video game. 

They fanned out in a wide formation, a line across the entirety of the station platform. Weapons raised and at the ready. Scopes searching. They poked into every nook and cranny, and Impulse had to sprint from one side and back several times to avoid detection, becoming one with the night breezes. 

Several of the masked gunmen moved at a slower pace, lingering behind their fellows to examine each tower and line. In their hands they carried some type of scanner instead of weapons– the same chrome and garish green. They muttered to each other, a susurrous of whispers and hissing breaths beneath the wind and the periodic chime from each scanner. 

He couldn’t quite catch what they were saying. 

And then–

“Platform’s clear. No sign of any free-moving entities.” Off to the side, one of the rifle-toting men scanning the station piped up in a clear, strident tone. 

For a brief moment, something clouded Impulse’s vision. The video feed in his goggles cut to static.

There and gone in a moment. 

“... The monitors are picking up a few traces.” One of the individuals at the main tower line replied, waving her scanner at the sparking wires. “But just traces. It’s gone somewhere else.”

Well, now.

Impulse narrowed his eyes at the group, crouching lower still. 

Who– or what– were they searching for? And why?

And if they’d been here– where had they gone? 

Rifle Man loosed a heavy, frustrated sigh, glaring distastefully at the metal pillars surrounding them, the sparks that traveled between them.

“Bloody ghouls,” He growled spitefully, “‘S gonna take weeks for them to clear this shit up. How are they handling things at the other facilities?”

Another gruff voice, an older man with a silvery handgun, picked up the conversation. “Lethe’s the only one that went down. All the others are still powered on and secured. They’re on alert though. Waiting. Director thinks this might be some kind of… attempted breakout.”

A tense silence rippled across the whole lot, eyes darting here and there, and Impulse felt himself holding his breath. Pressing down flat against the cold concrete, wrapping himself in cool shadows.

“All assets are still secure.” Scanner Woman said, after several seconds of prolonged silence. “Lethe has all hands on deck– even got a Raptor on duty there. They’re just waiting for our report.”

They made several more passes across the platform, after. First in the dark, then with bright green scanners fixed to the end of their rifle scopes. He’d been forced into the marshlands several times to avoid them, sunk up to his calves in muck and mud and soft, squishy silt. He’d ended up having to keep just as careful an eye out for alligators has he did the mysterious gunmen.  Again and again, lights sweeping like bright pendulums, in a search so thorough it could meet, or even surpass Batman’s heavy standards. 

But what were they searching for?

Impulse watched in grim silence as all eleven of them folded themselves back into the dark, tinted interior of their cars– just as quickly as they’d arrived. The only evidence they were there was the tire tracks they’d left in the soft, wet gravel road leading to the station.

And all of the footage, now stored safely in Impulse’s helmet. 

Barely five minutes after that, the police arrived– along with a truck baring several technicians from the local energy department.

Bart was already long gone. 

In his pocket, the screen of his phone flashed a bright shock of static.

Chapter Text

December 15, 2020

10:55 AM

Gotham

Two days after what many Gothamites had taken to calling the Bowery Incident, Batman finally calls in Zatanna and Constantine.  

Dick had been the one to suggest it, after they'd finally been able to return to the Cave and regroup– battered and bruised and more than a little horrified.

Poison Ivy’s case was something the whole family had been keeping a close eye on ever since– but Bruce especially, several degrees more than usual. Tim didn’t want to say the Bat had been distracted by it, per se, but… it had definitely been on his mind with a significant frequency. Not that Tim couldn't blame him for it; it was one of their worst case scenarios fully realized. (The very reason Batman had fielded that stupid “no metas in Gotham” rule that frequently gave outsiders the wrong idea about him.)

And Tim couldn't deny it had been terrifying enough– watching Poison Ivy pulverize an entire city block in less than fifteen minutes, as easy as breathing. Completely out of control. The realization that none of them had stood a chance; how quickly the entire family had been decimated…

That she had even been subdued at all was a stroke of pure, dumb luck. 

Additionally, the sheer scale of the destruction was on another level entirely. Apartment buildings and storefronts not toppled so much as they were decapitated, spilling mountains of rough, broken rubble into the streets, or crushed to a fine powder. Roads and walkways had been shredded like wet paper, split from below by the vines she’d pulled from the earth. And that was hardly even accounting for the veritable grove of megafauna she had summoned up from the debris, enormous vines now left to curl sedately over the remnants like basking snakes. The city was still scratching its head on how to even begin getting rid of it all.

Tim knew that Bruce had been hoping Pamela would be able to reverse it somehow, once she'd woken up and received a clean bill of health from Dr. Leslie.

Still, there was precious little evidence to gather from the disaster zone. And with the state Poison Ivy had been in when Jason had finally carried her away, they were unlikely to receive a testimony or a solution from her anytime soon. 

While many of the signs pointed to an unknown meta being responsible, the whole family was all too aware that it could have just as easily been magic to blame. Something like possession seemed right up the alley of JLD, and Bruce had agreed it would make sense to collect their input– even if he wasn’t exactly eager for outside interference on the case, nor to invite the magically inclined into his city. (Though, perhaps they'd even have a few ideas on how to get rid of all the vines.)

Tim, as Red Robin, was the one escorting them through the disaster zone to survey the aftermath, accompanied by Signal on his daylight patrol.

In the clear morning air, unobscured by smoke, the damage looked a lot worse.

The dust had settled, and the smoke had long since faded, but activity from numerous clean-up crews and recovery teams had kicked up smaller pockets of powdery debris around the block. A thin haze lingered at ground level, where the layers of ash and detritus were thickest. Several contractors were already hard at work removing the largest chunks of the rubble, though they struggled still to navigate their way around the maze of massive vines sprouting up from the ground, shredding through concrete and asphalt like swiss cheese. The obstruction meant that any heavy machinery couldn’t push into the epicenter of the destruction to clear it, which also meant that it was where both rubble and wildlife were still the densest. 

Still, slowly but surely, they did their best to work through or around it.

The real issue came from the few buildings that were still more or less standing, despite severe structural or support damages. They were held in place by the vines themselves, hemmed in or wrapped up in thick, sturdy coils– the only thing keeping any of them upright. A lush carpet of grass and moss had eaten into the foundations of a few apartments, and in some cases the vines had twisted so violently they’d completely uprooted several other buildings entirely, leaving them suspended by only a bare few inches. A delicate situation, and part of the reason why the city hadn’t just called in the fire department and torched the plant-life under supervision. The moment the vines were dealt with, those buildings would go too.

And with Pamela currently out of the picture, it would take time and effort to remove them without causing a secondary disaster. 

Carefully picking their way through the labyrinth-like growths, Tim watched as Zatanna surveyed the damage with something like horrified fascination. She brushed a gloved hand against a vine they’d had to duck underneath, a faint blue glow visible at her fingertips, and winced visibly. Constantine eyed each looping strand of green with open unease, swearing softly under his breath.

“Is something wrong with them?” Tim asked, uncertain. He didn’t know too much about magic– didn’t really trust it enough to learn. 

“This doesn’t make any sense.” Zatanna breathed in reply, wide eyes never leaving the rope of dark greenery arching overhead. 

Tim didn’t like the sound of that.

He exchanged a wary glance with Signal. 

“What is it?”

“These vines…” She said, “They’re all full of death magic.”

“Full?” Constantine scoffed quietly at her side, “They’re bloody well overflowing with it.” The man had his hands stuffed in the pockets of his coat, head ducked nervously– like the vines could spring back to life at any moment and continue their rampage. 

“And that’s… bad?” Signal concluded slowly, brow furrowed behind his mask. “That sounds pretty bad.”

“Not– not necessarily, just…” Zatanna was hustling over to the next vine, the glow at her fingers slowly brightening, stretching across the whole of her palm as she laid it flat against the trunk. “None of this should have been possible.” 

“Alright, but what does that mean?” Tim pressed. He had to fight to keep the irritation from his voice. 

“It’s death magic, kid.” Constantine said. “It shouldn’t be growing anything!”

“Death magic is a force of decay.” Zatanna added patiently. “These vines should have withered the moment they made contact with it, but…”

“But instead, it’s like they used it as… fuel. A growth hormone.” Her partner finished, inspecting the surrounding vines with undisguised distaste. “They’re completely infused with it.”

Tim liked their answer less and less the more they explained it. 

He recalled, with an eerie chill rolling down his spine, the words Pamela had choked out before she’d succumbed. A tearful insistence that whoever was truly responsible for this had needed help in some fashion. 

Not for the first time, he wondered if she might have gotten it wrong. Because it was certainly starting to look like far less of a cry for help, and more of a trap laying in wait. 

But who for?

Pamela?

“What does that mean for Gotham?” Signal asked, concern evident in the tilt of his shoulders, the way his eyes suddenly darted from vine to vine. As if the grim magic that filled them might strike them all down in an instant. “Are these things dangerous to keep around?”

Tim shared at least some of his worries. 

Was death magic a contagion? Would it spread to the rest of the wildlife in Gotham? Into the water? The people?

Zatanna didn’t respond right away. Instead, her hand traced a path down one of the vines, following its path deeper into the heart of the destruction. With another muttered curse, Constantine hustled after her. Tim bit back a frustrated sigh as they promptly vanished into the dust.

Wizards.

With a quick nod to Duke they followed the pair into the overgrowth, navigating over, under, and around the tangles of fallen greenery strewn across shattered streets like toppled tree trunks. Zatanna’s trail was a series of lingering blue handprints along the body of each vine, guiding them ever inward.

The closer they got to the epicenter, the thicker each snarl of vines became, forming an impenetrable canopy overhead– until the sky was blotted out completely, and the road ahead was dark with long, outstretching shadows. Cracked asphalt and concrete gave way to a thick blanket of grass and mosses, and suddenly they were no longer in a city, but a jungle. 

It was here that the first flowers began to appear. 

Sparse at first, but then suddenly overflowing from every direction– tiny, star-shaped flowers growing by the bunches. Clusters of bright sky blue sprouting up from the grass, winding up gutters and parapets, peeking from the storm drains and from within the rubble still cradled by the street. They gave off the faintest, ethereal glow– only visible in the darkness beneath the canopy above. 

Whenever the wind stirred through the flowers, tiny motes of green light shook free, drifting through the dim air like pollen, twinkling like fireflies. A sea of bright green all around them, broken only by splashes of blue and blinking light. It was almost magical. Like stepping into a fairytale. An enchanted forest, the way each shining flower fluttered in the breeze that wound its way through the shattered buildings, the ethereal glow of each delicate petal, broken only by the occasional shaft of buttery yellow light peaking through the tangled roof of vines.

At the center of the grove were the remains of a warehouse. Tim knew immediately it must have been where Poison Ivy had kept her garden, mainly due to the sheer amount of massive vines overflowing from each crumbling edifice. The epicenter of the attack.

The roof of the building had been blasted away along with the leftmost wall. What remained behind was jagged and teetering, sheets of loose metal and pulverized brickwork sagging against the neighboring buildings, or left discarded on the ground below. The catwalk that had once hung from the rafters had fallen diagonally across the interior, one end resting heavily against dark soil, the other still suspended by a tangle of smaller vines. Part of Tim was almost glad Pamela wasn't awake to see any of it. It would break her heart.

Everything was dead.

Her garden was a mass grave, a deep pit within the hollow of the ground, drained of vibrancy and life. It was jarring, stepping from a world of bright color and glowing flowers and magic, into a damp, muddy tomb of dead and decaying things. All that remained was the sallow blacks and browns of rotting plant-life, the thick, almost sweet scent of rot and fresh soil, like a compost bin. It was as confusing as it was off-putting, sitting against a backdrop of verdant green vines and healthy blue flowers. Everything else was dead– everything but those. 

Zatanna had finally halted in the middle of it all, an uneasy Constantine lingering at her side.

Tim carefully skulked into the shattered warehouse after them, grimacing deeply as the mass of dead flowers squished almost wetly beneath his boots. Bubbling up from the soil with each step, a runny sort of black liquid tinged with the faintest hints of something green and glowing, like the motes of pollen that had drifted up from the flowers outside. 

Zatanna breathed a soft curse when he finally made it over to her.

“This is what death magic usually does.” She told them quietly. “Drawing power from once living things. But I’ve never seen it behave so oddly before.”  

“Poison Ivy mentioned being able to feel some kind of… emotional transfer, when she was taken over.” Tim murmured. “She said someone was asking for help. If it started here, can you… sense any of that?”

Zatanna crouched to examine the blackened patch of flowers at her feet, brow furrowed in thought. The petals had withered away, and each stem was soft and wet with decay. She didn’t seem to mind the way it stained her gloves. The glow returned to her hands, gently parting the limp cluster to drag her fingers against the soil.

After several moments of tense silence, she frowned. Constantine knelt next to her.

They worked without speaking, Zatanna silently handing the Laughing Magician an empty glass vial drawn from within her jacket. She parted the loamy soil with her other hand, smoothly exposing the tangle of roots underneath and allowing Constantine to delicately remove a good handful of them. They came away stringy and dripping, as delicate as wax paper, and were gently placed within the vial. 

“I couldn’t get a clear answer. And we don’t have the supplies to do a full reading here.” Zatanna explained, as the vial was sealed and hidden in her pocket once more. She pulled off her gloves as she returned to her feet. “We’ll also need samples from the larger vines– and I want to gather some of the healthy flowers from outside. Constantine and I can take them all back to Shadowcrest and see what we can find.”

“Doesn’t mean we can promise anything concrete,” the aforementioned magician added. “Death magic– proper death magic– is old and rare. Nobody knows much about it, other than that you should stay the hell away from it. And this behavior doesn’t match any of the few things we do know.”

“But,” Zatanna cut in with a pointed glare, elbowing the other man sharply. “If there's any information out there to find, it’s likely in my family’s library. And I’ll see if we can’t get Captain Marvel to assist as well. He’s got access to resources that would probably–”

Somewhere outside, a loud clattering of rockfall and shifting metal silenced her mid-sentence. A distant motorized hum, like an idling car. 

Tim stiffened. Across the room, Signal’s gaze had snapped to the outer wall as he’d stared at something just beyond, eyes narrowed and searching, almost lit from within. At his side, he formed a series of rapid-fire gestures with his hand. 

‘Eight’, then ‘armed’, and then ‘take cover’. 

Quickly, Red Robin grabbed both magicians by the shoulder and hauled them towards the rightmost wall, silencing Constantine’s half-voiced squawk of protest with a squeeze of his hand and a sharp glare.

At the wall, a significant portion of the brickwork had crumbled away to form a gap, wide enough for them to slip through. It led into a thin, cramped alley between the warehouse and its neighboring building, choked with plenty of foliage to hide all four of them. He turned around just in time to see Signal vanish into a shadow, and felt himself relax as the other vigilante reappeared at his side. 

Sheltered by the same overgrowth that had almost killed them just a few days prior, they watched through the gap in the wall as the intruders poured into the building, one after the other. 

They moved soundlessly, half crouched and carrying weapons Tim had never seen before– massive rifles that shined like chrome or quicksilver, heavy and sleek. Tubes and wires ran along the length of each weapon, pulsing bright and malevolent, greener than the leaves and vines that surrounded them. Their sights were equipped with point lasers, pencil-thin beams of equally green light that canvased the warehouse in wide, sweeping circles.

Focused. Hunting.

Their faces were covered, Tim noted, by rebreather masks. Sleek metal and matte black, stretching from jaw to nose and fitted tight against the skin. Several of them had night vision goggles lowered over their eyes. 

All of them wore the same dark uniform, black kevlar and body armor, identical symbols stamped over the heart. 

“Clear.” The gunman in the lead had reached the back wall, and had turned to face the rest of his team. As one, they seemed to relax. Weapons lowered, stances loose.

(If it came to a fight, Tim and Duke could take them by surprise.)

“Swore I heard something.” One of the others grumbled, head swiveling as she searched the room. “Coming from in here. What’s the scanner say?”  

Towards the back of the team, one of the dark figures pulled at a small device clipped at the front of his vest, a thin rectangle of metal the same garish chrome as their rifles. It almost looked like a tablet.

A switch along the side seemed to power it on. There was a few moments of silence, then–

Light blinked rapidly along its top edge, and Tim almost winced as the device began to emit a shrill, piercing sort of alarm. A high-pitched series of ringing alerts, like nails on a chalkboard, or the shriek of a violin. The man silenced it with an irritated shake of his head.

“Still no use.” He replied gruffly. “The whole goddamn block’s infected. We’re never gonna get an accurate readout in all this.” 

“Just get the samples and get moving.” Their leader ordered, scanning the shadows with a critical eye. “Director wants us in and out before the Bat realizes we’re here.”

Tim narrowed his eyes. At his side, Duke carefully spelled out a question with his fingers.

‘C-A-L-L-O-R-A-C-L-E?’

Tim shook his head once. 

The gunmen (Mercenaries? He wasn't quite sure what they were, or who they answered to.) had immediately spread out across the warehouse. In a mirror of the magicians’ earlier acts, they carefully gathered from the sodden clusters of rotting flowers. They peeled off strips of dry, blackened bark from the withered trees in the grove, and cut away sections of vines both living and dead. They even took soil samples from different sections of the warehouse, a well-oiled routine that told Tim they’d done this more than once..

All four of them tensed in unison as one of the intruders wandered close to their refuge. Tim could feel Duke's hand on his arm, squeezing down as he drew the shadows in close around their little huddle– a desperate attempt to better conceal them. At his other side, Zatanna shifted into something more ready, arms raised and palms open. All it would take was a whispered word.

Tim didn’t move at all, eyes locked unerringly on the mercenary as he stooped low, and roughly plucked several of the healthy blue flowers bordering the warehouse. Less than a meter away, and seemingly unaware of their presence. He only wore the rebreather, offering an unobstructed view of the top of his face. (Caucasian, male presenting, blue eyes, age lines–)

“Someone ought to let the Doc know,” he called out to the rest of his comrades, “These are the same flowers that have started growing around Cocytus.” 

The man brought out a tablet of his own– a scanner, waving it blithely over the patch of flowers he’d just pruned. The device immediately gave another loud, stuttering shriek, and Tim caught the barest glimpse of a series of readouts as it was pulled hastily away from the plants and promptly powered off.  

“Can’t tell if they read the same, but they’ve got that glow about ‘em.” He reported, eyes glinting with distaste. “Contaminated.” He quickly tore a few more of them out by their roots, and packed them away in a clear container. 

“Goddamn monsters,” the man muttered crossly, more to himself as he irritably swatted at the small cloud of glowing pollen dust he’d shaken loose while jostling the plants. “Can’t even leave the flowers alone.”

Tim filed each unfamiliar term away with surgical precision, stored for later dissection as the mercenary then quickly rose to his feet and plodded back towards the center of the warehouse to rejoin the rest. 

“Are they really sure it’s got nothing to do with… you know…” One of the others was saying. He made an unintelligible gesture with his hands, eyes darting around nervously. “All I’m saying is that it’s awfully suspicious for this shit to start happening at the same time.”

“They’re under twenty-four hour surveillance, Mike, they’re not going anywhere.” Their leader growled. “Quit bein’ a wuss and get back to work.”

‘Mike’ nodded meekly and scurried from the warehouse. 

“Five minutes, people!” The leader called out to the rest of the lot, “We’re checkin’ scanners ‘round the block, then we’re clearing out. Move your asses!”

All said, they’re in and out in record time. Quick and clean enough to pass muster with even Batman, for all that they likely worked for someone shady and ultra-corrupt. They seemed at least semi-competent. Tim did not like it when mercenaries were semi-competent. Still, he made a mental note to have Oracle grab any outside footage of those mercenaries available, and see if they couldn’t track down whatever scanners they’d apparently placed around the damaged block.. 

None of them moved until the intruders were well clear of the warehouse. 

Duke was the one giving the all-clear, exhaling a stressed breath as he rocked back on his heels. He released his hold on the shadows and allowed them to dissipate back into the nooks and crannies of the rubble around them. 

“That… might complicate things a bit.” He sighed wearily. Tim could agree– already he felt the beginnings of a tension headache forming along his brow. 

Behind them, Constantine snorted.

With a deep frown, Tim pulled out a communicator. After a moment of deliberation, he selected Barb’s contact.

RR: We might have a problem.

Thirteen hours later, the entire southeast quadrant of the United States will lose power in a region-wide blackout of catastrophic proportions. 

While investigating the station at the heart of the incident, Impulse will record footage of a team of clandestine mercenaries with chrome and green weaponry tampering with the power grid. The footage will be quietly handed to the League for further pursuit. Unfortunately, it will be some time before anyone connects the dots. 

That same night, Pamela Ives goes missing.

December 16, 2020

8:19 PM

Gotham

The alert came from Dr. Thompkins, who had herself been notified by a frantic Harley Quinn, who had woken up the morning before to find her girlfriend conspicuously absent after several days of mandated bedrest. 

It hadn’t helped, of course, that their investigation with Zatanna and Constantine had been suddenly interrupted by the arrival of unknown mercenaries. Mercenaries who had clearly been operating out of Gotham at least since the Bowery Incident– though it was likely longer than that. 

At this point, Batman’s growing ire with the situation was no secret to anyone.

Someone, some where was making moves in his city. And he was not happy about it. 

Bruce took Tim and Damian both with him when he went to speak to the doctor. There wasn’t much he could do about a blackout as the Dark Knight, so he hadn’t been called away by the League to assist (he’d of course been pitching in relief funds as Bruce Wayne instead). But it did mean that Batman was free to turn his full attention to the Poison Ivy case. So much the better– Tim himself was getting antsier the longer they all went without any explanation.  

Of course, visiting the doctor’s clinic meant crossing into Crime Alley. And crossing into Crime Alley also meant they were accompanied by the watchful eyes of the Red Hood. 

Bruce had cleared it with Jason beforehand, sure, but Tim could tell by the subtle set of his shoulders that the erstwhile crime lord was still somewhat unhappy with their presence on his turf. Even so, he didn’t put voice to any of his complaints– clearly he was just as worried about Pamela as the rest of them.

(Tim kept as far from him as he could. Things were… better between them. But not great.)

Hood accompanied them to Thompkins’ clinic, where the good doctor herself was waiting along with a desolate Harley Quinn. 

They gathered in a sort of make-shift waiting room nestled at the back of the clinic, sparsely decorated with several mismatched chairs and couches, and a single potted plant on a rickety coffee table– a small space made even smaller by their combined presence. Tim had been here before, for one reason or another. When they couldn’t make it back to the Cave, it wasn’t uncommon for any of the bats and birds to sit waiting in the quaint little room while Dr. Thompkins worked on one of their own. 

All six of them filed in one after the other, Robin and Red Robin flanking Batman across from the doctor and Harley, while Red Hood took up a more neutral position near the door, arms crossed and frowning heavily. 

“Try and start from the beginning.” Batman’s voice was uncharacteristically gentle– he was addressing Harley first. “Do you know what happened the morning of the attack? Was she able to tell you anything, before…”

Before she’d gone completely incognizant and wrecked an entire city block. 

Harley drew in a deep breath. The skin around her eyes was red and raw, but the rest of her was pale. Almost ill. She clutched Dr. Thompkins’ offered hand like a lifeline. 

“W-we spoke about it… a little. Only after.” She croaked, painful and shaky. “A-as much as we could… she couldn't talk about it for very long, else she'd start panickin’ again…” 

She took another quaking breath, “Pammy’d gone to the greenhouse that mornin’– she goes every mornin’ really, says it helps her get her head on right for the rest of the day, but… somethin’ was wrong.” Harley continued. “She, um… she said that when she walked in, everythin’ was real quiet. An’ it felt like someone was there that… that shouldn’ta’ been, y’know? 

“She said it felt like someone was watchin’ her. An’ she called out to ‘em, told ‘em to get right where she could see ‘em, before she dragged ‘em out herself, but… there was no one. No one she could see.”

Tim took notes as the woman spoke, brow furrowed deep behind the shadow of his domino mask. Already he’d filtered several ideas through his head. Another meta with some form of invisibility? Or perhaps a team– one to control Poison Ivy, the other to maintain their stealth. But then, why was there death magic present at the scene? Why–

“An’ then, it– …” Harley choked on her words, and odd quaver in her voice. Like she couldn’t quite believe it herself. “She said someone… took the plants from her. Sh-she’d been in control of ‘em. She was gonna use ‘em to defend herself, but then it was like… like someone was overridin’ her powers. They started listenin’ to someone else instead. And th-then… they attacked her.”

Tim stopped writing. From the corner of his eye, Batman’s grim frown only grew deeper and deeper. 

“Only they weren't really tryin’ to hurt her, they just kinda grabbed at her.” Harley explained, words spilling out faster as she grew progressively more agitated. “An’ she said the second they had her, it was like… like she wasn’t in her own body anymore. Like she was floatin’ somewhere else. She told me it… it felt like she was drownin’.” Just as quickly, the former rogue had grown perilously quiet.

“Does she know why this… entity decided to attack the city?” Batman asked. “Why they decided to use her to do it?”

The woman shook her head almost violently.

“No, she said it… it wasn’t an attack.” Even Harley herself didn’t sound fully convinced, and Tim could almost feel the disbelieving brow Robin lifted behind his own mask. “It was like… you ever played one’a those telephone games? Where you whisper one thing to somebody, an’ they pass it on? But it gets all mixed up along the way?” 

“I’m familiar with the concept.” Batman replied. 

“She said… she said the flowers were playin’ telephone.” Harley’s voice had dropped to a whisper, something frightened and confused. “And that they’d come to her… because she was the only one that could hear ‘em. And they had important things to say. A message to pass on.”

“What was the message?” Batman had leaned forward now, and lowered his voice to match the shaken woman sitting across from them.  

“She wasn’t sure,” Harley’s eyes watered, “But she was s-so upset , sh-she cried every time I asked about it– she kept sayin’ ‘she’s hurt, she’s hurt, she needs help,’ b-but she didn’t know who. They couldn’t tell her. ” She reached up to wipe roughly at her eyes with the back of her hand, pulling in a hitched, tremulous breath. “Someone was askin’ for her help, but the f-flowers… she said they’d come so far, and the message got all twisted up. It was just… just screams. And pain. ”

Something cold and foreboding settled heavy over Tim’s shoulders, like a weighted blanket. It wasn’t at all comforting, or grounding. Batman too looked drawn and unhappy, tense as a bowstring as the mystery behind the Bowery attack only seemed to deepen.  

Harley was quickly trying to compose herself, dabbing at her eyes with the handkerchief Dr. Thompkins had discreetly offered her. 

“Whoever… whoever possessed her, took control, whatever they did, I think… I don’t think they meant to hurt anybody.” She continued, after several steadying inhales. “Pammy said she could… f-feel how much they were hurtin’ ... like she was hurtin’ too, and her body just… responded. Defended itself, like she was bein’ attacked.”

“Did she say anything to you, before she… disappeared?” Tim piped up at last, when it seemed like Batman was too deep in thought to prompt her. 

Harley’s lip quivered like she might start crying again, but she shook her head quickly.

“N-No, but um… she left this for me.” 

From the inside pocket of her jacket, Quinn shakily withdrew a folded sheet of paper, slightly crumpled at the corners. The edges were ragged where it had been torn from some notebook. She passed it along with a quiet sniff. 

Batman gently took the letter and unfolded it. Tim read from just over his shoulder. 

All told, it was short and to the point.

Harley, it addressed.

I can’t just lay here and do nothing. 

I love you. I’ll be back.

Stay safe.

Your Pamela.

“It’s all her handwritin’.” Harley confirmed morosely, squeezing the handkerchief in her grip. “I’d know if it was a fake.”

“She’s gone to find whoever took control that day.” Tim concluded grimly. “To help.”

In the back of his mind, he remembered a shallow pit in the earth, overflowing with dead and decaying flowers. The look on Zatanna’s face as she’d told him that every plant that surrounded them was dripping with death magic.

For Pamela’s sake, he dearly hoped this wasn’t a trap. 

(He didn’t know what any of them could do about it if it was.) 

Harley was nodding gently, casting a sideways glance at Dr. Thompkins. 

“I’m okay with you tellin’ ‘em about the examination, Doc.” The young woman declared. “We’re on each other’s paperwork, I’ll sign a consent form or somethin’.” 

The doctor just patted her hand gently, casting a wan, shadowed smile in her direction. 

“Her results came back clean.” She said, turning back to meet Batman’s gaze as her smile quickly faded. Something tired took its place. Tired and sad. “There was nothing in her blood, so she wasn’t dosed with anything beforehand. I tried to run a sample of that… residue on her face, whatever was leaking from her eyes that morning, but I’m afraid it damaged my equipment.” 

“Do you have any samples left?” Tim asked, almost eager. Perhaps it would fare better with Wayne tech. Failing that, he could even take it to the Watchtower labs, or get in touch with STAR. Hell, maybe Zatanna could even make something of it.

Dr. Thompkins nodded sedately.

“Yes, and I've got it all sealed and ready to go. I'll hand it off when we've finished here.” She replied. “But I assume you'd like to know if Ms. Ives was able to tell me anything else about the specifics of her… encounter.” 

“If you could.” Batman affirmed. 

Thompkins’ lips pressed into a thin line as she quickly transitioned into something more professional, hands folded neatly in her lap.

“She arrived largely unresponsive, which wasn’t a surprise.” She began. “Ms. Ives was exhausted, and suffering from a kind of delirium most closely associated with the overuse of a meta ability. I got her on some saline, some electrolytes, and let her sleep it off for a while. She wasn’t injured, she just needed lots of rest.

“I did the blood-work while she was sleeping. I mentioned before, but there was nothing there to find. No foreign substances, just a higher than usual white blood cell count– which isn’t unheard of, especially after high stress physical activity. 

“There was residue left behind on her face and her wrist, where I’m told this entity first made contact. The substance itself seems to have sublimated very quickly, once the… entity had vacated her body, but I was able to collect what I could.”

Dr. Thompkins’ mouth cut into an almost offended slant.

“Damn thing fried my spectrometer.” She said, a sullen not-quite mutter. “I’m not even sure how.”

Tim made a mental note to have a new one delivered when he could– if Bruce wasn’t on it already.

“When she finally woke up she was in significant emotional distress.” The doctor continued. A modicum of grim unhappiness deepened the lines around her eyes. “Overwrought. Ms. Quinn was here to help calm her down, but it was… slow going. Ms. Ives was insistent that she needed to find this person, the entity that had taken over her body. She gave the impression that time was of the essence, and would grow more upset when she was told she shouldn’t get up yet.”

Dr. Thompkins paused noticeably, after that, the first hints of uncertainty flickering somewhere behind her eyes. 

“Far be it from me to engage in speculation, gentlemen, but… I am inclined to agree with Ms. Quinn.” She said, “Whoever was responsible for this, I don’t think they were truly aiming at Gotham. This was a cry for help– one that it seems only Ms. Ives was equipped to understand. I think that might perhaps be why she was targeted specifically.”

“Are we certain this entity had truly left her body after Hood subdued her?” Robin asked. He didn't look totally convinced. “Is there any chance Poison Ivy was still possessed when she came to you– and it was all just an act?”

“It's plausible. I’d have no way of testing for something like that.” The doctor allowed, “But I highly doubt it. Her distress was… unfortunately very genuine. She couldn't tell me much about the nature of this entity, but I got the impression that, whoever it is, they are young. A young meta, somewhere out there, and in terrible pain.” 

A grim silence settled over the waiting room, tight with unhappiness. A heavy layer of tension and foreboding. No one, it seemed, was pleased with the answers they’d gotten. Most especially because there wasn’t much they could feasibly do with any of it, besides worry.

Harley had told them that the message the… flowers had delivered to Poison Ivy the morning of the incident had apparently been carried a long way. So long, in fact, that the distance had distorted what they’d been so desperate to tell her in the first place. Which meant that wherever this was happening– wherever this catastrophe stemmed from– it was far from Gotham.

And there was no telling where Pamela was now, when exactly she’d left, or how far she’d gotten in all that time since.

Their family wasn’t confined to Gotham by any means, and access to Justice League resources meant that they weren’t completely out of options– but things had just gotten a lot more complicated, to be sure. 

Tim hardly registered their departure after that, his mind already swirling with possibilities. Theories half-formed and discarded almost as quickly as they appeared. He did register Batman dutifully taking the samples Dr. Thompkins had mentioned, as well as a thin manila folder likely containing copies of Pamela’s post-rampage examination. 

Both Robin and Red Robin lingered on the opposite rooftop as Batman paused to murmur a few quiet words to Harley, hovering in the brightly lit doorway to the clinic. Her eyes shined suspiciously under the streetlights, but she nodded when the Dark Knight gently clasped her shoulder, before turning to join the two birds up above. 

Tim knew she would be alright, for the most part. She was far from her days shadowing the Joker– had a real support system to turn to now, despite the significant blow of Pamela’s disappearance. And they would be working to find the other woman in the meantime, he’d quietly vowed. (Harley Quinn and Poison Ivy had largely dipped away from the rogue lifestyle these days, aside from the occasional bout of mischief with Selena Kyle. They deserved the happiness they’d found together, and Red Robin was loath to allow anything to interrupt that.)

Clearly, Bruce felt the same way. 

Curiously enough, however– once they’d left, Red Hood only followed them as far as the next rooftop. Tim had expected him to be chomping at the bit to escort them out of the Alley, but the tense curve of his shoulders, the way he angled his body in the opposite direction, told him otherwise. Batman, having clued in on it as well, cast him a cautiously questioning glance.

Though it had been a year since Jason had tenuously begun to reconnect with his family, it was slow-going and rife with unresolved grievances. Even months later, most of his interactions with the rest of their siblings only amounted to the occasional swear-laden quip or a deep, silent scowl. He and Tim still kept well clear of one another, when they could. (They’d spoken, of course, about… the incident. Tim had never been so shocked to receive an apology, however gruff and awkward it had been. But it was hard to tell, most of the time, if the man wanted a relationship with him like the ones they shared with the rest of their siblings.)

But Jason’s relationship with Bruce was the one that saw the most contention, even now. The prodigal son could get along with most of his siblings on average– but his tolerance for the Bat was still at an all time low. And clearly their adoptive father wasn’t looking to rock the boat; usually he wasn’t nearly so hesitant with the cowl on. Tim could see the shadow of something unhappy and concerned hidden behind his eyes, though he did well to bite it back. It wouldn’t score him any points with Jason.

Robin just scowled expectantly, lips twisted around an impatient, whisper-soft “Tt.”

“Hood?” Batman called softly.

“You know your way out of the Alley already.” He replied, almost grudgingly. “You can see yourself out– I’ve got my own people to speak to.”

“If they have information on this case, then we should all be present.” Robin insisted. Tim stayed quiet, but he could see from the tilt of Batman’s frown that he thought much the same. He didn't disagree, either. 

“They’re one of mine.” Red Hood bit back, voice lifting in an almost-snarl beneath the tint of the modulator in his mask. “And they sure as shit aren’t gonna speak to the Bat, or any of his little birds. Just get lost; if it ends up being relevant I’ll let you know.”

That was as good as they were going to get from Jason, he knew. Pressing the issue would only make it worse. 

He was almost certain he knew who Jason was looking to speak with.

Honestly, it wasn’t as if Tim wasn’t well aware that his almost-brother kept plenty of his own secrets– he very much was. He just wasn’t going to confront the guy about it. Not like Bruce clearly wanted to. 

Probably because this particular secret had been going on for some time now. Really, it had started not long after he’d established his hold over Crime Alley. It had just taken a while for the rest of them to notice, not the least bit because it had taken just as long for Jason to allow any of them close again, even on a professional level.

But sometimes… sometimes they would pick up a kind of feedback over the comms, whenever Jason connected with them. At first, they had assumed it was a fault within the equipment. Both Tim and Barbara had taken tentative measures to supply him with new ones, but it hadn’t solved the issue. In fact, the longer it went on the more pervasive it seemed to get.

The feedback followed Red Hood everywhere, lingering in a scratchy sort of undertone whenever he spoke. And sometimes, on particularly quiet nights, when crime was lacking, they might occasionally catch a quiet murmur hidden behind the static. Just a fraction of a word, a hint of sound, before Hood would mute his line.

It had taken them weeks to even work out that he was actually talking to someone. 

But after that, it seemed almost obvious. 

The whole family knew that Red Hood recruited all sorts of people to help manage Crime Alley, in one aspect or another. Tim wouldn’t call them goons to their faces– but yeah, they were totally goons. Jason had a pretty tightly knit goon squad. 

This was different. They were different.

Whoever they were, they knew how to avoid Oracle entirely. 

No matter where they were, or what situation they were in, or what the terrain looked like– Barbara had never been able to catch them on camera. Always, they lingered just out of shot. She could clearly see Jason speak, even if she couldn’t hear what was being said, but his conversation partner remained out of view every time, from all angles. Like they already knew exactly where she’d be watching from. 

(It drove her crazy, Tim knew. And she was still determined to get a glimpse of them eventually.)

Then, of course, came the rumors. 

Whispers out of Crime Alley, of a shadow that followed the Red Hood as faithfully as his own. A ghost, a wraith haunting the streets of Park Row, all vicious teeth and glowing eyes. A judge. A monster. 

Tim figured he’d just recruited someone with a particularly eerie meta ability. 

That didn’t stop the curiosity. Nor did it assuage the worries of the rest of their family, who carefully gathered each rumor and tall tale to add to their growing list of concerning evidence. 

But Red Hood had certainly not appreciated it, the few times anyone had actually brought it up to him. He’d confirmed their meta theory and been determined to leave it at that. 

“They know about your stupid rule.” He’d growled, ungracious and deeply irritated. “They keep their head down and help me out around the Alley. So just drop it.”

(But none of them had– not really. There just hadn’t been any valid reasons to bring it up again.) 

Tim didn’t think that was about to change. Nor was he eager to shuffle awkwardly in the background while Hood and Batman tumbled into yet another fruitless argument. 

“We can get back to the Cave and start analyzing those samples while he talks to his people.” Tim offered quietly. “We can both share our results later.” 

Red Hood turned to look straight at him, expression unreadable behind his mask– like he'd forgotten Red Robin was even there. (Tim did not flinch. He kept perfectly still and forced himself to breathe slow and steady.)

Several seconds ticked by in tense, dissatisfied silence. Batman slowly nodded, reluctant to cave first. But he gestured for them to keep moving anyway.

As one, they left Red Hood behind on the roof.

December 17, 2020

2:31 AM

Gotham

“You can come out now.” His voice was a quiet rasp against the breeze winding lazily through the night air, helmet resting at his side. “I know you’ve been watching.”

He was sitting on the edge of the roof, just above one of his safehouses. Had lingered here for a reason, after his patrol. His legs dangled leisurely over the edge, and though most of his face was still covered by a domino mask, he’d still tilted it up to bask in a rare ray of moonlight, peeking down from between the dense layers of smog endemic to Gotham. 

There was a whisper of sound behind him, silk sliding against rough stone, as a living shadow separated itself from the even darker spaces beneath the lip of the roof. Inhuman paws seemed to glide over the rooftop, crudely shaped and curling like smoke as it ducked gracefully into his own shadow. It sat beside him, sheltered from the moonlight by the broad line of his shoulders, and peered over at him with eerie teal eyes. 

She was much bigger than when he last saw her, he noted. Grown again, from the form she’d last taken. 

(He wondered vaguely, beneath the welling of relief he felt when she'd appeared, what had kept her away for so long.)

She looked… vaguely canine, this time. Limber and sleek, with a long snout that curved oddly, and shaggy fur that dripped a liquid darkness at the edges. She grinned at him as he studied her, all mischief and sharp teeth, entirely out of place on an animal's face. 

A far cry from the flittering butterfly he'd first met.

“What the hell is that supposed to be?” He asked her, as amused as he was quietly unsettled. 

Her answering chuckle was a brush of velvet against his mind, warm and familiar. He ignored the way it made his shoulders relax.

“Never seen a dog before, Hood?”

“That is not a dog.” Jason teased idly, reaching a daring hand out to poke the curve of her snout. She snapped at him playfully, a flash of bright teeth in the moonlight. 

(In many ways, he was right. And anyone else that saw her would know right away. Her teeth were a little too sharp. Her legs were a little too long, and the curve of her spine just a bit too jagged. Her neck twisted too far when she tilted her head, and her eyes were too intelligent.

For all that she wore the shadowy skin of one, Nobody was not a dog. 

Nor had she been a raven, when such a form had suited her. Nor the cat, or the snake, or the sparrow, or the mouse. It was a common theme across all the forms she chose– she could never quite get them right. Not the finer details, at least. She was just the only one who never seemed to notice.

That, or she didn't mind either way.

Jason wasn't quite sure what she really was, either. She'd never given him a straight answer.)

Still, he was happy to see her. It had been several weeks since the shadow had last wandered to his side. 

“It's close enough.” Nobody replied, lowering herself into a careful lounge, resting almost imperceptibly against his side.

There was a moment of comfortable quiet, nipped at the edges by something anticipatory. Anxious. He could feel it, dancing at the edges of his senses, radiating from the shadow like a gentle heat.

(Jason had grown a lot better, over the years, at sensing what she was truly feeling. At tentatively utilizing the abilities he kept so perilously close to his chest.) 

“I felt… quite a disturbance, just a few days ago.” Nobody murmured. She'd fixed her gaze steadily ahead, towards the adjacent roof. “Something significant happened, yes?”

Jason nodded, and with his free hand he gestured southward, to the dark mass looming near the outskirts of his haunt, the twisting loops and curves of the vines casting deep shadows across the Bowery. He felt it when Nobody went eerily still at his side, head turned at an angle just a tad too sharp to be natural. 

“It was Poison Ivy, a few days ago.” He explained quietly. “Something got a hold of her… pretty badly. We're still trying to figure out what happened.”

For several long moments, the shadow did nothing but stare unblinkingly across the rooftops, locked on the distant shape of the vines.

Could she sense them? 

Tim had updated the file they were keeping on the case. Jason had skimmed it before they’d gone to meet with the doctor.  

Death magic.

Could Nobody feel it?

(Would Jason feel it– if he got close enough?)

“When you say ‘someone got a hold of her’,” She said at last, “You mean…”

“She was being controlled.” Jason confirmed. “We’re not sure by who, or what yet. Doc made sure it wasn’t a new kind of drug, but we got a couple magicians to confirm there might be magic involved.” 

When she didn’t say anything else, he cautiously pressed on. “It’s why I was hoping you’d show tonight. I wanted to ask you about a few things.” 

He tried not to grimace when she immediately tensed, finally breaking her gaze away from the vines to watch him intently. There was a warning nestled deep in her gaze.

This was precisely why he didn’t want the other bats here. 

(Just because they were friends didn’t mean Nobody wouldn’t maul him for stepping over a boundary. She didn’t mean anything by it, but Bruce wouldn’t get that–)

“Listen, I know that… D’you remember when… god, fuck it–” He bit off his own bumbling attempts at tact with an irritated growl. If she didn’t like what he had to ask, he’d just accept the bite that was coming for him with grace. “You told me before that your kind can “possess” people. Overshadow– whatever you called it. Would you be able to tell if this was something similar? If someone like you is behind this?” 

He was straying dangerously close to “things Nobody will absolutely not talk about” territory, he knew. But he'd spent the vast majority of the night idle on the rooftops of Crime Alley, Harley Quinn's grief-stricken voice on a loop in the back of his mind, and the unshakable knowledge somewhere deep within that something was wrong. 

It wasn't a new sensation– he'd felt it before. The same night he'd met Nobody, and had his entire worldview bluntly yanked out from under his feet. 

A voice, a whisper, an instinct long muted. 

At his side, the vaguely dog-shaped shadow heaved an enormous sigh, the glow of her eyes dulling as she gazed back out at the vines.

“Yes.” She whispered. “I would know.”

She sounded tired and sad , and Jason wondered (not for the first time) just what horrible things she refused to confide in him. He wondered if they might finally be done dancing around it. 

(He knew she had secrets. He knew something was wrong. He wished she would trust him.)

Still he waited, as patiently as he could, as she quietly seemed to gather herself. 

“I can… feel it from here.” The shadow whispered. “You could probably feel it too, if you tried hard enough.” 

Jason almost grimaced, a thread of discomfort bunching his shoulders together like a wire snare, squeezing.  

Most days, he didn’t like… thinking about it.

(“Do you know how tightly death clings to you, Red Hood? I could sense it all the way across the city.”)

“Poison Ivy is missing.” He added tightly. “She’s gone after… whoever possessed her. She’s convinced they need help.” 

At his side, the shadow made a guttered sound, choked and whisper-soft. Almost lost in the breeze. So quick and quiet he almost missed it. 

“Do you know… anything about all of this?” He asked, staring down at her with something like quiet desperation.

Years, he’d been trying to understand. Years, she’d refused to give him any answers.

(Oh, but there had been plenty of hints. And none of them pointed towards anything good.)

Nobody didn’t reply. Refused to look at him.

Heart in his throat, he tried again. “Look if you’re… in a similar situation– or if you know who’s behind this, we just… I just want to help.” He insisted, halfway to pleading.

(Because despite everything, she had been his friend, persistent and undemanding for four years, in a time when the whole world had been his enemy–)

“Hood, listen, I’m…” Her voice was paper thin, rasping around something, some emotion thick in her throat, “I–”

And then she froze. 

Her head twisted, snapping almost grotesquely around to stare towards the distant spires clustered deeper within Gotham– the gilded spine of the Wayne Enterprises building, the even spires of the clock tower. Her eyes flashed reflectively, once bared to the moonlight.

“Nobody?” He extended a cautious hand, brushing softly against the ruff of fur at the back of her neck. 

“I-I’m sorry,” She ducked beneath his hand, “S-something’s come up, I need to go.”

“Fuck– wait,” He scrambled to salvage the situation.

He pushed too hard. She was running away again. 

“It’s not that, Hood, really, I–” She retreated to the edge of the roof, poised to dive into the long shadows stretching between the buildings. Rarely ever did she lose composure like this. 

(Biting, snarling, snapping he could deal with. They were familiar. Retreat was a rare response.)

“I can help you.” He insisted. “We can help you, I swear–”

“You can’t.” She said, firm like it was a simple fact. A forgone conclusion. “... You can’t.”

Between one blink and the next, she had melded into the darkness. Vanished, with barely a whisper or a sigh. 

For the second time that night, Red Hood was left behind on the roof. 

December 17, 2020

2:43 AM

Gotham

She was very nearly close to calling it a night when it happened. 

Seated there before an almost dizzying array of monitors, Gotham’s All-Seeing Eye could only watch as, for the barest few moments, every screen in the room flickered with a violent pulse of static.

The lights overhead flickered and blinked. The steady whir of the fans and coolant keeping her computers at a sustainable temperature stuttered and hiccuped. The whole clock tower itself seemed to pause, only for a moment. 

Barbara Gorden tensed. 

Something was wrong. 

Gotham’s clock tower was her home. Her sanctuary. She knew its every quirk and crevice, from tip to toe. Rough dark stone and elegant gothic spires, the heavy, laborious churning of the gears playing counterpoint to the sonorous hum of her extensive computer systems, the way sunset cast an eerie orange glow through the pale face of the clock. Familiar, and home, and hers.  

She knew– she knew– when something was out of place.

Barbara hadn’t heard anyone enter the building… but there was no mistaking the foreign presence that prickled at the back of her neck. The quiet, baser instinct that whispered intruder, intruder! The way the silence echoed more than usual around her little command center.

She reached for two things, on autopilot. 

The belt of sharpened, gleaming birdarangs clipped discreetly beneath the seat of her wheelchair, and the panic button Tim had quietly tucked into her pocket one day, when he thought she wouldn't notice. 

“TᕼᗩT ᗯOᑎ'T... ᖇEᗩᒪᒪY ᕼEᒪᑭ YOᑌ.”

It played over every single speaker in the room, all at once. An amalgamation of voices all speaking as one– male and female, young and old, all from what sounded like sound bytes ripped from the internet, individual words pieced together haphazardly to form a single sentence. Like a radio station with a weak signal, they cut in and out at random, harried by an oppressive layer of static. 

Barbara forced herself to stay still and calm, her gaze slowly sliding back to the monitor in front of her. The rest of her screens displayed only a familiar black and white snow, and the quiet hiss of more static. 

The main monitor had been overtaken by a blank, black client and a single blinking line, sickly green. Waiting for input, like a command prompt. Barbara didn’t touch it– yet. 

Instead, she forced herself to breathe in deep, and make sense of the situation. 

Obviously, she was dealing with a hacker. A skilled one, if they could reach so deep into her operation, undetected until they chose to reveal themselves. 

The birdarangs would do no good– they weren't physically here with her. The panic button was equally useless. 

She needed to stall for time, then. Keep them here for as long as she could, and whatever presence they'd surely leave behind, she'd use it to hunt them down and show them what it meant to challenge Oracle. 

“Who are you?” She asked, voice firm and unwavering.

“TᕼEY TOOK... ᗰY ᑎᗩᗰE. ᖴOᖇ ᑎOᗯ... YOᑌ ᑕᗩᒪᒪ ᗰE... ᖴOᑌᖇ.”

Barbara bit her lip. 

Right, putting a pin in that. 

“What do you want from me, Four?” She continued. 

For a moment, that static grew in pitch and tone, like a sigh gusting too close to a sensitive microphone, loud and crackling. Their speech was fragmented, long gaps of static between carefully chosen words, as if they were having a hard time finding what they needed.

“ᗯᗩᑎT YOᑌ… TO TEᒪᒪ… Oᑌᖇ TᖇᑌTᕼ.”

“‘Our’?” Barbara replied lightly, eyes fixed on the empty, glowing slash within the program. “Got friends in there with you?”

Four. 

It would make sense, if there was also a One through Three. 

“I... ᗩᒪOᑎE... ᗯE ᗩᖇE... ᗩᑭᗩᖇT”

Barbara felt herself mouthing the words as they’d crackled across the speakers, rolling them over in her mind as she tried to parse them.

‘I… Alone’ Four was alone within her systems.

‘We are… apart.’ There were more, but they weren’t here. 

“What truth?” She asked quietly. 

Again, the lights around her flickered, and the clock tower creaked a sound of distant agony. 

“ᗯE ᗩᖇE... ᗩᒪIᐯE. ᗯE ᗩᖇE... ᗩᒪIᐯE.”

The static surged, an almost unbearable drone of white nose that had Barbara throwing her hands over her ears with a soft cry and a grimace of pain. Four was emphatic, almost desperate, stolen words played back over her speakers with enough force to vibrate the room.

“I don’t understand,” she gasped, “Does someone think you’re dead?”

“TᕼE ᗯOᖇᒪᗪ... ᖴOᖇGOT... ᗯE ᗪIᗪ ᑎOT.” Anger, deep and cavernous. 

Barbara scrambled upright, eyes darting across the monitors. Still, nothing but frothing snow. The blank prompt and the blinking line. 

“What did we forget?” She asked, struggling to piece together what they were trying to convey. 

For several too long moments, there was only the buzz of static filling the room. Then a garbled, frustrated sound, squealing like feedback over the speakers.

“ᑎOT EᑎOᑌGᕼ... ᗯOᖇᗪᔕ. ᑎOT... TᕼE ᖇIGᕼT ᗯOᖇᗪᔕ. ᑕᗩᑎ'T... ᔕᑭEᗩK... ᒪIKE TᕼIᔕ.” They were frustrated now, the snarling crackle retreating to curl around each word like a snake. “ᑎOT EᑎOᑌGᕼ... ᗰE.”

“Not enough… you?” 

“ᗯE ᔕᑭEᗩK... ᗯᕼEᑎ TᕼEᖇE Iᔕ ᗰOᖇE... ᗰE.”

They sounded fainter now, almost falling into the static that surrounded each phrase. 

“Wait-”

“TOᗰOᖇᖇOᗯ... YOᑌ ᔕEE... ᑭᗩY ᗩTTEᑎTIOᑎ.”

“Four!” 

All at once, the static cut out. A sudden and abrupt silence, where before the clock tower had been filled with the spitting, serpentine hiss of white noise. One by one, her surrounding monitors returned to normal. And in front of her, the blank black box of the program prompt was suddenly filled with text.

Line upon line of bright green, a single phrase repeated again and again:

THE RIVER IS UNDERNEATH.

The next morning, she receives a package in the mail– blank, but for the number four scrawled messily on the side of the box. 

Date Unknown

4:31 AM

Location Unknown

“Are you… sure this is where you want out?”

The old pickup idled almost patiently on the side of the road, half parked where thin, brittle grass met gravel and asphalt. One of the older models, with chipped blue paint and windows that had to be cranked down by hand. 

“Town’s not too far from here, I don’t mind gettin’ ya there.”

The man at the wheel had a weathered, careworn face, windburned and almost pinkish beneath a wiry gray beard. Thomas “Call me Tommy” J. Barkley was an honest sort of gentleman– refreshingly blunt, with a voice that carried the subtle hints of western twang and no shortage of homely anecdotes to fill the empty stretches of miles traveled. He wore a set of worn coveralls over a flannel shirt, pale and washed out and spotted with old oil stains that never quite came out. An honest-to-god cowboy hat drooped low over his brow, it’s leather old and well-loved and starting to lose its shape. 

He didn’t ask any questions. 

He didn’t even seem to recognize her. 

Clearly, he’d come to his own conclusions when he’d first found her, walking calmly along one backroad or another several hundred miles back. A battered wife, perhaps. A meta on the run. She’d been prepared to refuse, rather violently, when he’d offered her a ride– she’d had to deal with several men just like that already. But somewhere between his friendly “Evenin’ ma’am,” and a lengthy yarn about his grandkids getting into one mischief or another, she’d found herself quietly climbing into the pickup, and telling him where exactly she was headed. 

(“Forward.” she whispered. “I’ll know when to stop.”)

And so she did. 

Just outside the window, towering evergreens stirred gently against a night breeze, carrying with them a beckoning whisper. She leaned towards them, listening.

This way, yes, this way, you’re close now, it isn’t far–

“Here.” She said again softly. Her eyes almost glowed in the soft shadows beneath tall pines, a half-smile pulling at the edges of her mouth. “It’s alright.”

“I know where I’m going.”

And Thomas “Call me Tommy” J. Barkley doesn’t argue with her. Like any true gentleman, he knew well better than to question a woman on a mission. 

“Thank you.” She said, a genuine warmth lingering somewhere in her tone. “For your help.”

Tommy tipped the brim of his hat towards her with his own crooked smile, and wished her a pleasant evening. 

And as the old pickup finally rolled away, she felt the grass blooming beneath her heels, curling up in a sudden riot of spring green, despite the chill of deep winter lingering in the air. She stepped towards the treeline, and the whole forest seemed to sigh around her, a mass choir of joy and anticipation and relief. 

Thank you, thank you, thank you, whispered the trees as their branches bent to caress her cheek.

Not far now, not far to go, you’re almost there, said the hearty scrub and winter bushes as their prickling leaves beckoned her forward. 

We will help you too, we will be with you, promised the mosses and the lichens and the delicate colonies of fungi.

Follow, sang the glowing bushels of Forget-Me-Nots as they sprang up from the earth. They formed a path into the trees, their blue-star petals flashing in the night. Follow, follow, follow.

And Pamela Isley followed.

Chapter Text

September 05, 2016

11:32 PM

Gotham

“Red Hood… Have you ever died before?”

They met on a rooftop. 

It was late summer, fading into autumn by degrees. The days were still hot out more often than not, and even about halfway to midnight Jason could remember the way the night air felt thick and damp around him. How the sweat from running over buildings and between alleys had pooled down the dip of his spine and his suit clung uncomfortably against his skin. Crime Alley was dark, settled under layers of industrial smog beneath a moonless sky– illuminated not by stars, but the dim yellow of streetlamps and the distant glare of office buildings from the more affluent boroughs of the city.

He remembered the way the back of his neck had prickled persistently the whole time he’d been patrolling that night. A steady itch beneath his skin that drove him over rooftop after rooftop.

Searching.

Because something was off, he knew. Something, some where, was wrong within his territory. It was a quiet alarm in the back of his mind, ringing insistently between his ears, and it didn’t feel like when one of Bruce’s wandered into Crime Alley. The Pit, only ever a breath away from him at all times, had stirred within him with a sonorous hiss the moment it had appeared, like an alligator peeking its eyes above the water. Unblinking. The green had gathered at the edges of his vision, homing in on something, some sort of… presence.

Following him. Always lingering, just out of eyesight.

He’d stopped to confront the intruder. Turned on them, guns raised and ready… 

And instead found a shadow. 

Jason was chilled, despite the heat and humidity. A cold, creeping hand clutched at the back of his neck, and his entire body felt doused in ice water.

“What the hell are you talking about?” The words were ground out from between clenched teeth, bared in an invisible snarl behind his helmet.

(No one else was supposed to know.)

“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t necessary.” The shadow told him. Her(?) voice was apologetic, a distant, echoing murmur that hummed against the walls of his skull. “But you clearly have no idea what you’re doing. I couldn’t leave you like this in good conscience.”

Jason still couldn’t see anyone on the roof with him. There was nowhere to hide completely, no shadows dark enough to conceal someone so thoroughly. And yet, there was nothing. Nothing but the voice.

(“I’m Nobody. Who are you?”)

“If you’re so concerned–” he oozed disbelief, the line of his shoulders rigid and tense, hands clutched tight around both weapons, “Why don’t you show yourself? Show me who I’m really dealing with.”

(“Are you Nobody, too?”)

She laughed at him then, a low melodic sound that rolled over the rooftop like silk. There was something raspy and painful underneath it, buried like an old wound. Something dark fluttered at the corner of his vision. Jason looked down. 

There was a butterfly. 

It was pure black– but black in a way that was wholly unnatural. It didn’t resemble the real insect so much as it looked like a shard of the void, carved out in the shape of a butterfly and sat delicately on the edge of a busted AC unit. Like someone had taken a cookie cutter to the space between the stars, and here was the result. Still, its wings opened and closed in gentle repetition, shedding miniscule droplets of inky, liquid darkness with each subtle twitch. They wisped into shadowy curls of smoke as they dripped down from the wings, curling around it in gentle ribbons with the warm breeze. 

With a soundless flutter it drifted up from its perch, wheeling through the air like a ribbon caught by the breeze, before settling right on the muzzle of one of his guns. 

“I was never hidden.” She said, the echo of laughter still lingering in her voice, “You just weren’t looking hard enough.”

Jason blinked.

Whatever he'd been expecting, it hadn't been this. 

Was it a meta ability? Magic? 

(Perhaps it was something of both.) 

“What do you want from me?” He finally asked, taking care to hold that particular gun steady and still. “Why have you been following me?”

The shadow, the butterfly, whatever she was, clung silently to the muzzle of his weapon. For several long moments, there was only the breeze drifting past them, and the distant sound of nightlife and traffic. Jason watched as her wings folded and opened, again and again. Hypnotic. Almost contemplating. 

“I don’t want anything from you.” She said at last. “I only want to help.”

“With what?” Stress and uncertainty added more hostility to his tone than he truly felt– but she had been following him for several nights. Had been lingering in Crime Alley for even longer.

He wasn’t sure how he knew. But he was certain of that, at least. 

“You don’t have to tell me how.” She replied steadily. “I won’t ask, but I can feel that you’ve died before, Red Hood. You died, and then returned somehow–”

(No one else was supposed to know.)

“–But even though you’re alive again, you’re not the same as you once were. And you know it.”

(Red Hood thought about sickly green hazes clouding his vision, and blood hot and slick on his bare hands, and a duffel bag full of severed heads–)

“You’ve brought something back with you.”

(–And he thought about pools of bright glowing water, and the feeling of acid pouring down his throat, and he wanted to scream–)

“What does that mean?” He rasped, and the only thing keeping his gun hand steady was the vague sense that he might lose sight of her if he let his arm give out. If he gave in to the sudden desire to fling the weapon away and retreat– 

(Retreat? How fucking pathetic are you, you’ve never run from a fight–)

The butterfly moved then. She didn’t take flight again, but instead wandered almost leisurely down the length of the gun, until she’d perched on the curve of his wrist. Even through the thick fabric of his glove, he could feel the almost icy chill emanating from her small form and sinking into his hand. Biting and wintery. Grounding.

“It means we have a lot in common.” She told him. Lighter, softer, trying to be reassuring. “You’re a bit like me. Death left a mark on you– and I’m sorry, but there’s no getting rid of it. But I can help you manage it. Control it– if you’ll allow.” 

Jason stared at her, wide-eyed behind the shelter of his mask. He didn’t know what to think. Could hardly wrap his mind around her words to begin with. Nothing about them felt dishonest, per se– but that was only half of the issue. The implications, however…

Without her clinging to the end of his weapon, his gun hand finally twitched. Slowly, he lowered the opposite arm. Holstered the other gun like a sleeper, eyes wide and distant behind his mask. The other arm– the one she’d climbed up to– he kept a careful distance from the rest of his body. Held out in front of him, like he was releasing her instead of playing perch. 

He felt cold all over. Cold and exposed– flayed open with surgical precision, all his darkest secrets laid bare. It felt, somehow, like she could see it all, whatever she was. He hated it.

Vulnerable. 

He felt vulnerable. 

(How did she know? How could she tell? What does she want?)

And yet–

Perhaps it was selfish of him, but what truly held his attention was that first soft admission. The notion that there was someone else out there who might understand.

‘You’re a bit like me.’

And perhaps it was unfair– hypocritical even– for Red Hood to want that understanding, that belonging after all was said and done. In the end, he’d been the one to break away from the fold, right?

(Wasn’t this what he’d asked for?)

(Hadn’t he wanted this quiet– this solitude? Territory of his own?)

(No, no, no, what he’d wanted was–)

“You want to train me?” Over the gravelly hiss of his helmet’s vocal filter, his incredulous laugh sounded more like a sudden rattle of technicolor static. Something manic– almost hysterical. She seemed to hear it well enough anyway. 

“I want to teach you.” She corrected gently. “How to be Liminal.”

Liminal.

Was that what he was? What they were?

“What’s a Liminal?” He asked. Perhaps later on he would chastise himself for sounding so desperate, but for now– for now…

He needed to know. 

Jason felt more than he heard her low sigh gusting along with the breeze, a candlebright flicker lingering between something like fond amusement and a verbal eye roll. 

Again she lifted from her perch, catching the wind on minuscule, night-black wings until they’d carried her all the way up to his shoulder. He felt another patch of cold forming where she settled somewhere next to his helmet, beneath his ear. 

“Sit, then.” She ordered brusquely, “This may take a moment.”

October 21, 2016

12:18 AM

Gotham

He didn’t tell Bruce, or any of the others. 

He thought about it. He thought about it often. But in the beginning, there was so much he was still struggling to understand himself. How could he possibly explain any of it to the others? And who could he even go to about this?

In those days, Dick was really the only one he could tolerate for any length of time– and that was only because the bastard was determined to inject himself back into his brother’s life by force if necessary. The man clung on like a leech.

Jason hadn’t spoken amicably to Bruce since… well, since. He couldn’t even look at the Replacement without the green edging into his vision, and he wasn’t at all familiar with any of the other strays the Dark Knight had started collecting. 

(He thought about calling Alfred once. Just once.) 

(He’d gotten as far as holding the phone in his hand, dialed and ready, before deciding against it. Where would he even begin?)

Nobody, as he’d taken to calling the little shadow, was compassionate about it in her own blunt, straightforward way. A bludgeoning sort of kindness, rather like him. He could sort of… feel it on her– the empathy. The same way he could sense whenever she entered Crime Alley. But she didn’t coddle him either. She didn’t sugarcoat any of it. 

The grief of his murder was a deep, yawning canyon inside him. A raw wound that had never truly healed– had never even scabbed over in all the time since– festering and putrefying at the core of his being. Talking with Nobody felt a little bit like taking a lance to a seething pustule. A necessary agony, after such a long period of neglect. And now that the infection was draining– now that the proverbial door had been opened, Jason suddenly found himself struggling with a sudden and jarring influx of foreign instincts.

It was maddening.

But in the end, that rot was obscuring his nature, or so he’d been told. Nobody wasn’t really sure what Jason was exactly– just that he was “highly Liminal, at the very least.” Her words exactly. 

(“Liminality is just… a state of being. It exists on a spectrum.” The shadow began, “An individual touched by death– not in a transient sort of way, but more of a… contamination.”)

He was something else, Nobody had explained. Existing in a transitionary state between the living and the dead. Caught in a sort of limbo. There were plenty of different ways to phrase it– to soften the blow of the truth. Jason could still read between the lines.

(Liminal; adjective. Relating to a beginning or first stage of a process. Transitional or indeterminate.) 

Part of him was still dead. And it always would be. 

(“It can happen in any number of ways, but what matters is that at some point in time, you were exposed to an extraordinary amount of ectoplasm, and it changed you.”)

It explained a few things, at least. 

(“You claimed a Haunt when you returned.” She’d explained. “Crime Alley. And ghosts are quite territorial, Hood– it’s why you could sense me whenever I followed you. Why it upsets you when the other bats cross the boundary.”)

Liminality as a condition came with its own special kind of baggage– the vast array of aforementioned instincts now crowding into his mind and vying for attention. He’d been unwittingly struggling against a few of them all this time, torn between what he’d always known as a human, and what his newer ghostly inclinations demanded. 

Nobody’s sudden arrival had made it simultaneously worse and easier to manage. 

She’d explained them all to him as best she could that first night, steady and patient. And when she was done, Jason had gently scooped her off his shoulder, thanked her for her time, and made his way home. 

(“It doesn’t have to change anything.” Was the first bit of compassion she’d offered him. “You can easily ignore the instincts, once you know  what they mean. How to control them. But it’s never going to just go away. It’s not something that can be cured.”)

In the days after their first meeting, Jason had coasted through daily life on auto-pilot. Rise in the morning, body aching and weary. Tend to his duties, an ever-growing list as his hold over the Alley solidified. Eat something maybe, even if it tasted like ashes. Suit up. Wander the rooftops on his patrol, and then maybe try to sleep. Do it all again tomorrow. He’d walked away from that conversation in a fugue state, his body stuck going through the motions while the core of him retreated somewhere to the back of his mind. A little boy who never got to grow up, sitting alone in the dark corners of his psyche. Processing. Grieving.

She’d given him plenty of space.

But when the numbness had finally faded, filtered through his body like slow-melting ice, Jason found that he was… curious. 

That ghosts existed wasn’t too much of a surprise. He’d definitely heard weirder things, and when he really thought about it, it almost made sense.

Of course they were real– the world already had gods and aliens and magic. This wasn’t too much of a stretch, it was just…

Jason would readily confess, he’d never thought much about what came after death. He couldn’t remember with any sort of clarity what it had been like for him before his resurrection. Only what came after. And if anyone had ever thought to ask, his mind would have most likely conjured a more pop-culture oriented answer. Like something out of a Stephen King novel. 

Plenty of people died in this line of work– or very nearly. It was the inherent risk of pursuing vigilantism, which was why so many of the people that did it were often just as reckless and insane as the criminals they fought. But despite the frequency with which plenty of heroes brushed with death… Jason had never heard of Liminality before. Nor could he recall anyone else exhibiting its effects, even in passing. 

A surreptitious meeting with Barbara quickly confirmed that none of the information Nobody had given him was recorded… anywhere. Not in any of the files on the Batcomputer, and certainly not on any Justice League registry. It was uncharted territory in the most literal of senses.

And so, the next time Jason saw Nobody, the first thing out of his mouth was–

“Are there more out there?” 

Red Hood was crouched on a rooftop, across a street and overlooking a warehouse complex on the edge of Park Row. He was pressed low to the ground, nestled in the shadow of a bricked-up chimney pipe, a sagging pile of stone damp from the recent autumn shower and speckled with pockmarks and clumps of old moss. The butterfly had only just touched down on his shoulder, silent as the grave. 

“Beg pardon?” She sounded faintly amused.

“Liminals.” Beneath the mask, he flushed with embarrassment. Perhaps he should have been more specific. “How many… I mean– are there more people out there that are… like me?” Or perhaps he shouldn’t have asked at all. Unbidden, Jason stuttered around a sudden swelling of dread as he rambled. “It’s just that, when you first approached you seemed… surprised, I guess. Like it was unexpected.”

She was silent for a long moment. Then, she moved.

He almost shivered as the cold chill of her crept down his arm and settled on his knuckles, where his hand rested on the lip of the roof. Jason got the sense that she was watching the warehouse below just as intently as he’d been. Like it was easier to focus on a distant target than to meet his gaze.

“They aren’t… common.” She replied softly. “Doesn’t mean they’re entirely unheard of, it’s just… not something that happens often.” Her voice twisted into something wry. Bitterly amused. “There are very, very few ways for someone to become Liminal. So whenever it happens, it can be… an anomaly.”

Each time Jason met with Nobody, his awareness of the new senses his Liminality had gifted him became more acute. Most of the time, it was actually pretty useful. 

Some of them, however, he disliked more than others. 

He didn’t like that he could feel a degree of what she was feeling in that moment, brushing up against his mind like a curtain stirred by the breeze. The softest of grazes against his own senses– something tired, something yearning, something weathered. A scar, rather than an open wound. 

It was intrusive. It was uncomfortable. It was overwhelming, however faintly he might feel the echo. 

Behind his mask, he took a deep, quiet breath. Steadying. Grounding.

“Your circumstances are… more unusual than most.” She was saying, once he found the strength to tune out her emotions. “Liminals are rare because it isn’t natural for ectoplasm to exist outside the land of the dead.” Her wings fluttered in something like agitation as her voice dipped low with disapproval. “The Lazarus Pits you described are themselves an anomaly. Ectoplasm doesn’t generally behave like that– and that Ra’s al Ghul is a fool for using it so blatantly. He has no idea what he’s tampering with.”

Like that would ever stop him, Jason thought, his mouth twisting into a wry almost-grimace beneath his helmet.

He could agree with that, though. Ra’s al Ghul was a fool. 

After a few moments, she added–

“But, to answer you more directly… I’ve known plenty of Liminals.” Nobody sounded almost wistful, a distant murmur halfway buried beneath the ambiance of Gotham’s nightlife. “I don’t think I could give you an accurate number. Not these days.”

Clearly, there was something she wasn’t saying. Some omission she had chosen to leave out of her answer. And there was more Jason wanted to ask, of course. Plenty more. 

But again, there came a faint flutter of emotion against the edges of his mind, and he felt the words dying in his throat as quickly as they’d formed. 

He let it rest.

There were other things he could steer the conversation towards. Other avenues of curiosity he hadn’t tried yet. 

First, however–

As a strained silence settled over the roof, Jason carefully refocused his attention on his quarry, the warehouse below. He made another note of the guard rotation– every fifteen minutes so far. 

The main warehouse was old enough for all the original signage to have worn away. He couldn't even begin to guess what it used to be for, though a row of docking doors along the far side wall suggested something to do with shipping and logistics. Like most buildings in the Alley, the brickwork was patchy and crumbling, brittle rows of shoddy cinder-block over thin cement foundations all overgrown with molds and mosses. The whole building was little more than a squat, moldering cube wrapped in rusty, pitted sheet metal and aluminum siding, crowned by a thin, slatted roof with a skylight on either side. Four walls and a set of wide sliding bay doors, no insulation or cooling units. Nearly every window was blown out, and anything that might have once been considered valuable had clearly been picked over and stripped away long ago.

A tall, chain-link fence ensconced the whole property, weed-ridden parking lot and all. And though the automatic gate was clearly no longer functional, several goons had been stationed at the guard shack next to it. They had yet to be rotated out alongside the guards at the main building.

He’d gotten a tip a few days prior, about a supposed trafficking operation setting up shop in this specific area, on the furthest outskirts of Crime Alley. It had taken him another night more to pin down the exact building.

Perhaps they thought Red Hood wouldn’t care as much, if it was happening right on the edge of his territory. Barely crossing the line, really.

They were wrong. 

(And he would be demonstrating his point soon enough– the moment there was an opening).

In the meantime, his eyes flickered over to the indistinct shadow on the back of his hand. He took a chance.

“So how’d you end up in Gotham?” He asked quietly. Casually. His gaze still zeroed in on the indistinct shadows huddled up in the guard shack. “ You never mentioned.”

The temperature around him dipped sharply as the darkness below the chimney pipe seemed to lengthen. Grow teeth. Crawl over him with pricking claws. Jason shivered involuntarily, and the gossamer presence of her at his side became a void undulating against his mind, a cold hand reaching out and squeezing in warning.

Right, bad idea.

He backed off immediately.

“Easy…” He murmured, keeping himself low to the roof, “Just making conversation, shadow.”

“...I’m just here until I can gather the strength to leave.” She told him curtly, after several prolonged seconds of chilly, uncomfortable quiet. “And I only approached to help you understand your… condition.” Slowly, the echo of her voice became ever more brusque. Detached. Walling up the space between them. “Once you’ve learned to control your instincts, you won’t see me again.”

It was the most polite “Fuck off” he’d ever received– he supposed he’d have respect it. 

For now.

Behind the blank white eyes of his mask, his attention flickered back down to the guard shack, where the goons were at last beginning to file out. A shift-change at the main gate.

He put the shadow out of his mind, gently tilting his hand as the little butterfly gracefully fluttered from his glove to the roof’s edge. His other hand reached for the grapple.

Showtime.  

February 05, 2017

9:24 PM

Gotham

Nobody was insistent, at first, that they weren’t friends. 

She would reaffirm that fact every time he wandered too close with his questions.

At the time, Jason hadn’t minded either way. He was benefiting more from their meetings than she was, clearly, so he wouldn’t begrudge her drawing her own boundaries. She would teach him what he needed to know, and then she would vanish– back into the ether from which she’d first appeared. 

It did not, however, mean that he wasn’t still curious about her. 

And the thing is, he could have left it alone. He most likely would have– if it weren’t for that fact that it was impossible not to tell that something was wrong. 

He’d go so far as to say it was obvious.

Nobody was less than forthcoming on the very best of days. She made a sport of swatting down his every approach– and heaven help Jason if he asked the wrong question when she was in a bad mood. But that didn’t stop him from building up the pieces of the puzzle in the privacy of his own mind. 

The first thing he learned about her: the stronger she became, the bigger her shadow got. The bigger it got, the more it changed.

(He’d only just gotten used to the butterfly following him around when suddenly, she was a mouse. 

She’d seemed cheered by it, too. Excited, when she’d first approached. And if he’d crooked the slightest smile, watching her skitter up his arm on quick little feet, well that was between him and the mask.)

The second thing: she couldn’t leave Gotham.

Nobody had never outright confirmed as much– she’d never outright confirmed anything , not about herself . But Jason could glean enough from context clues that a blurry picture was beginning to form.

He didn’t know what exactly she was. Not a ghost, but something not quite human either. And she’d explained Liminality to him well enough, but there were plenty of things about her that didn’t quite fit that description either.

She had labeled him the anomaly when they’d first met, but really– he was becoming ever more convinced it was the other way around.

That aside, he knew the shadow wasn’t her real body. Her real body was, he assumed, hidden somewhere else. But whether that somewhere else was also within Gotham’s city limits, he wasn’t entirely sure. And, per their conversation on the night they’d met, he also knew that Gotham had a higher than normal concentration of ectoplasm– the perfect place to passively gather strength, just by being in the city. And she was stuck here until she'd gotten enough of it.

The crux of the matter was why?

Why was it all necessary? And if the size of her shadow was truly relative to her strength– why had she been so small when they first met? 

His leading theory was some kind of injury. 

Because Nobody was prickly, in her own quiet, reserved sort of manner. She was defensive in the same way a wounded animal might coil up and snarl at anyone that got too close. Not because they were naturally inclined to aggression– but because they couldn't risk allowing anyone to approach them in so vulnerable a state. Back against the wall, all they could do was hiss and spit and show their teeth, and hope the display would be enough to discourage him. There was a feral kind of desperation in the ways she’d snap at him, whenever he probed too far. Like he was pressing down on a fresh bruise.

It would make sense, is the point. That she might be hiding her body away while she heals. 

He’d also learned that she was disinclined to ask for any sort of help. 

In the beginning, he'd been prepared to chalk it up to simple ego. There was a calm, regal aloofness to Nobody that suggested she kept her dignity close. Perhaps she thought it a weakness to accept his help. 

But then, there was that thinly veiled sort of franticness in the way she denied his every cautious approach. A bone deep terror, hidden beneath thin veneers of sharp words and icy rebukes. A shadow was hard to read on principle, but Jason had once learned to observe the world at the knee of Bruce Wayne– and he was a quick study. 

It was fear, he'd realized, not pride that kept her at a distance. A solid wall between her and his every offer to assist. A safety net.

Because of course, the third thing he'd learned: Nobody was afraid. 

Deeply afraid, in a way that crawls into the back of your skull and burrows between the soft tissues of your brain. In a way that carves a tunnel through your skin and hollows you out bit by visceral bit, until the fear becomes the whole of you. 

She was scared of something. Or someone.

Or perhaps she was just scared of him.

And of course, it wasn’t like that was a new experience for him. Plenty of people were scared of the Red Hood, for plenty of different reasons– most of them valid. But this was the first time he’d ever found himself at such a loss for words about it. Because she wasn’t afraid of his capacity to physically hurt her, she was afraid of his offers to help. 

More specifically, she was afraid he was lying.  

(There was a big difference, he’d found, between the fear of outright harm and the fear of betrayal. The former was instinctual.

The latter came from experience.

Whatever had happened, whoever had done it– it must have been significant. A deep, personal betrayal. A trust not just broken, but broken violently.)

Jason had no idea what to make of it. Nor how to fix it. But a part of him felt like he owed her, for all the time spent patiently coaching him through his outbursts– all the little moments his newfound instincts overwhelmed him, and the green took over. 

“Focus, Hood.” Her voice cut into his brooding. “You’re drifting again.”

She was a bird this time. Something small and fluttering– a finch, or a sparrow. Perhaps a canary. It was hard to tell beneath the layers of darkness. But she liked to alternate between it and the mouse, now that she had a wider range to choose from. 

“Sorry.” He muttered reflexively, blinking away the fog from his eyes. 

He was tucked into the dark back corner of a catwalk, suspended high above another derelict warehouse. He sat cross-legged in the shadow beneath the far wall, Nobody perched neatly on his knee.

One of the working girls had let slip about some greasy motherfucker trying to recruit a few of the Alley’s street kids as pushers– in exchange for a cut of the merchandise. He would be meeting his supplier here tonight, or so Jason had been told. And Red Hood would be waiting to break both of their jaws for the audacity. 

In any case, he’d gotten there early, so–

“Could you repeat that last part?” He asked, grateful yet again to have a mask that could hide his embarrassment. The filter inside it made his voice sound dry and toneless. 

Glowing teal eyes stared him down with something akin to exasperation– though, at least she didn’t bite him this time.

Shadowy feathers ruffled and shifted as her wings twitched in agitation. Still, her voice remained steady and patient when she replied, “I said, you’re focusing too much on yourself.”  

“Your haunt is a part of you, yes, but–” She continued, “You won’t sense anything by looking inward. You have to start thinking of yourself as part of the ecosystem.”

She was trying to teach him how to “connect with his haunt”– or something to that effect. 

So far, Jason had only ever passively sensed whenever someone waltzed into Crime Alley uninvited. It wasn’t exactly something he could turn off and on at will. 

Only apparently, it was. Or it would be, if Jason ever managed to wrap his head around it.

Theoretically though, he could do more. Much, much more.

“What does it feel like when you do it?” He asked. 

But to his surprise, Nobody only shuffled quietly. Against the surface of his mind, he felt something wry and almost… embarrassed. A brief taste of that ever-present grief. 

“I haven’t actually… done it myself before.” She admitted. Her talons dug nervously into his knee, though they were much too small to even cut through his uniform. “I just know how it’s supposed to feel.”

“Wh– How?” The filter in his mask crackled tellingly at the force of his disbelief. 

The bird on his knee shrugged– actually shrugged, a small shift of her wings, God that didn’t look natural– and turned her gaze to the far wall of the warehouse. 

“I knew someone who actually has done it before.” She replied softly. “And I’m telling you exactly what he described– if you want to check in on your haunt, you have to stop thinking of yourself as a separate individual, and start picturing yourself as part of the environment.”

With a muted sigh of frustration, Jason turned his full attention back into the lesson at hand. If she was offering, he might as well make the most of her instruction. 

But in the back of his mind, his musings remained.

‘I knew someone.’

Jason turned the phrase over in his mind. 

A curiosity for another day.

April 13, 2017

7:18 PM

Gotham

The first time Jason ever gave in to his Liminal instincts, it was because he’d woken up that afternoon with an alarm blaring in the back of his head. 

It was nearly unbearable, a shrill sort of almost-shriek scraping against the inside of his skull with thick, needle-sharp claws. An instinct. A knowing.

Nobody was somewhere in his haunt. And something was wrong. 

He’d been up and moving in an instant, suited up and slipping out of his primary apartment several hours earlier than he usually would. And yet again, he’d found himself racing over rooftops in search of a shadow.

Except this time– this time she’d taught him how to find her. 

(Pause. Keep still. Eyes closed.  Deep breath, then reach out–)

The moment he caught sight of her, he knew that whatever was happening, it was somehow much worse than he’d been anticipating.

The uncomfortable wrong-feeling in the back of his mind rose to a shriek, something nameless and instinctual and raging, and for the first time in his life Jason found himself moving with the haze of green. It didn’t overpower him. It flowed through him– light and energy and willpower– and between one blink and the next he had reached the end of a narrow alleyway, a dead end tucked behind an old convenience store. 

Heart in his throat, he knelt beside her. 

She was some kind of raven– or at least, she had been. Hadn't seemed to grow any larger since he’d last seen her. But she was hunched onto the dirty pavement, slumped on her side against cold stone in a mound of tarry black feathers that dripped with liquid shadow. It pooled around her like a halo of blood. She looked like something that had just been pulled from an oil spill. 

Her form was… loose, for lack of a better term. Like taffy melting against hot asphalt. Like the seams that held her together were slowly dissolving, and the liquid darkness that made up her insides was leaking steadily between the stitches. The body heaved and gasped, for all that she didn’t need to breathe in this form, shuddering and shaking and bristling with strange nonsense shapes. Half corporeal– dark mist coiled low around her, like a veil. A desperate attempt to keep herself hidden.

“Nobody?” He called softly. With one hand, he dared to reach out. 

The shadow peeled open a single eye, fractured and shot through with veins of darkness. It squinted blearly at him, and the raven gave a low, warbling moan of agony.  

Graceless, fumbling, he tried his best to call back.

Safe–SafeNow–I’mHere. The sound was a soft, grating crackle at the back of his throat, muffled beneath his helmet. He’d never allowed himself to purposefully call out before– had never been comfortable with the idea, no matter how many times she assured him it was natural. 

He almost wished he’d practiced or something now, because it doesn’t seem to calm her at all.

Trembling with nerves, Jason brushed a single, shaking  hand against her, where the taut ridge of her wings met her back.

It happened quickly. He didn’t even notice until it was already done. 

There was a scream. A piercing shriek of rage and fear, and the sheer volume of it had him flinching backwards, away from the terrible wail that split the stone of the alleyway. On instinct, he ripped his arm back– too slow.

And the bird under his hand seemed to crunch inward onto itself, melting and whirling into something undefinable. Something unknowable. His mind couldn’t comprehend the shape of it. Fractals of solid darkness collapsing into itself, ribbons of oily, almost iridescent shadow curling in close, like a defensive shroud.  From somewhere within, floating perfectly still despite the way her body writhed, eyes of glowing teal blazed. And suddenly the mass of darkness was lunging for him. The whirling shadow split into several rows of razor sharp teeth. 

Teeth that dove straight for his hand and bit down hard. They cut through his glove like a hot knife through butter, and sank deep into the meat of his wrist.

Jason’s pained hiss was buried beneath the unholy snarl that crackled from around the shadow’s vice-like bite. 

“Fuck!”

Strands of dripping darkness lashed around his forearm and pulled taut, constricting like a snake around its prey, holding him in place. Her eyes were wide and unseeing, glaring at him with a bright, mindless kind of rage– lost to it. Any attempt to shift his hand, to pull himself away, was met with a low, rumbling growl of warning, and teeth that clamped down even harder. The bones of his hand creaked ominously.

He took a steadying breath, reaching up with his free hand to fumble with the clasps holding his helmet in place. He tossed it aside with barely a thought. He still had his domino on– and she wasn’t really seeing him anyway.

“Nobody.” He tried to keep his voice as quiet and calm as possible, despite the heavy green pulsing around the edges of his vision, the writhings of something angry and displeased crowding for his attention. “It’s Hood. I don’t know what you’re seeing, but I need you to come back now.”

Again, Nobody snarled a wordless threat. The glow of her eyes brightened, and a fresh wave of pain pulsed up his arm where her teeth flexed around the bite.

At the perceived challenge the green leaching into his vision spiked, and he couldn’t stop the answering snarl that tore up out his throat, entirely involuntary. It shook his whole body, even after he ruthlessly cut the sound off somewhere low in his chest. 

The melting shadow latched to his hand hissed back at him.

“God dammit, just–” He huffed between gritted, grimacing teeth.

He let the green take him. 

For a moment, it was almost like he was floating outside of his own body. Or somewhere deep within it– somewhere out of control, in either case. 

And then he was snapping back in place, like a rubber band set loose. The green sheen still covered his vision, and his body moved as if on autopilot– but Jason was still aware. Aware and cognizant of his own actions, even if he didn’t entirely understand them. Like that split-second moment before, where he and the green were one, and he moved in tandem with the Pit. A key fitting into a lock. Tumblers and gears falling into place.

Question–Query–What’sWrong?

The sound that came out of his mouth was not even close to human. It was something warbling and melodic, undulating like a ribbon in the wind. 

His body had gone still, resting sedately against the alley pavement. The sting of the shadow’s teeth buried in his wrist had become a distant buzz against his nerves. 

Nobody seemed to understand him better like this. 

Danger–Enemy–BURNING and her reply rose into an agonized shriek, a rapid-fire response almost too fast to understand. A litany, scraping against his mind like claws, Trapped–TooBright–ItHurts!

Jason frowned.

WhereStuck–IFind?

He’d barely called out his reply before she was crying out her denials, unlatching from his hand just as suddenly as she’d bitten down. Her teeth retracted back into the darkness of her fractured body, and she all but blasted her response back at him, like driving a railroad spike directly into his skull.

NO–DoNot–NoApproach.

Jason carefully drew his hand back, holding it close to his chest as he watched her. He didn’t dare reach out again. 

Doubt–Concern–AreYouCertain?

The mass of darkness seemed to heave and ripple in front of him. The smoke that had unspooled around it was slowly drawn back in, like a ball of yarn being rewound.  Impossible dimensions folded back into place, slowly, almost painfully. Jason could feel each moment of it sliding against his mind– pain, and fear, and cold, angry resolve. 

Slowly, the raven that he’d found gradually began to take shape again, a wet, almost tarry mass laying limp against the pavement, like ink spilled from a pen. 

“Hood.” The softest of exhales– almost a sigh of his name. Exhaustion. 

And the green released him. 

Jason blinked. He stared back down at her.

She’d calmed significantly, though he found her sudden stillness a little worrisome. He watched as she painfully gathered herself together, back into something at least semi-corporeal. 

“I need…” Her voice was a smoker’s rasp, brittle as old bone. “Somewhere dark, please. Just somewhere dark.”

Where his arm was tucked close to his body, there were a myriad of new holes in his glove to mark where her teeth had sunken in, all lined up in a neat little curve that stretched from his wrist to the base of his thumb. Blood seeped sluggishly through the fabric, but the pain had numbed significantly. 

Despite this, he only hesitated for a moment before reaching out again. Both arms outstretched this time, movements slow and and telegraphed, he carefully gathered her into his hands, half of him terrified she'd simply melt through his fingers at any moment. She was freezing cold against his palms, like he'd cupped a snowball in his hands. Her wings seemed almost fused with the rest of her body, and her head was limp against the edge of his thumb. 

A thousand questions ran roughshod through his mind, starting and ending with “What the hell happened?”

But the shadow had gone eerily quiet, her eyes narrowed to thin slits of unearthly teal. It appeared her short-lived attack against his outstretched hand had sapped what little energy she had left. She hardly had the strength to twitch, let alone answer his questions. 

Still, unease gathered low in his stomach. 

(What if something was wrong with her real body? What if someone had tampered with it? Would there even be a warning, or would she just dissipate in his hands?)

That evening, Red Hood’s patrol was short and violent. 

(He came home to an apartment with all the lights firmly off, and thick blankets taped hurriedly over the windows. Dark and quiet, for three days.)

April 17, 2017

Gotham

Nobody refused to elaborate, before she left that evening. 

“It happens sometimes.”

“It’s none of your concern.”

She’d apologized for his hand, and thanked him for watching over her, before vanishing back into the shadows.

He didn’t see her again for two weeks.

June 21, 2017

1:45 AM

Gotham

Eventually, it became obvious that she was running out of things to teach him. 

Jason had become adept at exercising his Liminal abilities. He could recognize his instincts, and what they wanted when they scratched at his control, and he knew how to mitigate them. How to satisfy them in ways that didn’t derail his whole life. He could tune out his low-level empathy and quiet his own mind. Knew how to recognize other Liminals and connect with his haunt. 

For the first time in what seemed like forever, Jason felt… good. 

He’d laughed at one of Dick’s stupid puns the day before, and hadn’t felt the need to put his fist through a wall when the man had inevitably suggested dinner at the manor. 

(He hadn’t gone, of course, but the thought had remained. The what if…)

And so, when Nobody’s dark raven had finally perched on his shoulder that night, he’d expected a quiet goodbye. Her promise now fulfilled, he imagined she’d offer up her farewell and wing back into the night– one more ghost passing through his life. 

He’d gotten no further with his questions in all the months he’d known her. Part of him was almost disappointed– that she would disappear without him ever learning who she truly was. What had kept her tethered to Gotham for so long.

But instead, the shadowy bird had cast her gaze somewhere off in the distance, radiating a sense of grim contemplation. Thoughts, weighing heavy on her mind. Jason didn’t pry. 

“There’s one more thing.” She said at last. “Just one.”

Arms crossed, reclined lazily against an alley wall, Red Hood cast a sideways glance at her, focused and attentive. 

“Avoid the men with black badges,” She said, and something about the tone of her voice rang like a warning bell in the center of his chest, low and foreboding. “And silver guns.”

“Why?” He asked softly, the back of his neck prickling. 

“Because they’ll do much worse than kill you.”

When she finally flies off that night, he doesn’t expect to see her again.

And he doesn’t– not until he almost gets himself killed.

November 29, 2017

5:56 AM

Gotham

In his defense, this gang had been wilier than most that he’d dealt with in a while.

They were an eclectic mix of smugglers and drug-runners looking to set up shop in Crime Alley. They hardly had any form of organization or centralized leadership, and yet somehow they still managed to run him around for several weeks. Vicious and violent, they were unwilling to yield any sort of ground to the likes of Red Hood– not even in the vigilante crime lord’s own territory. 

And they fought like rats, digging into these tiny fortified spaces all around Crime Alley that they then defended like rabid animals. Each and every base he raided found Jason expending every last fume of energy he had to drag the fuckers out thrashing and cursing his name, and every inch he gained he paid for in blood and sweat. 

It was infuriating. 

Not the least bit because it had his Liminal half fuming at the perceived challenge to his authority– in his own goddamn haunt. 

In short: they were tap dancing all over his last fucking nerve. And somebody was about to die for it. 

Jason had taken very little in the way of back-up with him when he’d stormed the group’s last little stronghold– a smaller, abandoned department store near the Bowery that hadn’t seen use in well over a decade. The tight walls and cramped spaces had put every advantage in the enemy’s hands, but Jason had been adamant. He wouldn’t allow this dispute to drag on any longer than it already had.

And in the end, it was a lucky shot to the back that took him out of the fight. 

Even before that, however, the confrontation had already spiraled into something far more violent than he’d originally intended, instincts or no. 

He’d brought live ammunition to the fight, sure– but he hadn’t actually planned on killing any of them. Not that they would know that, of course.

Still, his plans had been ruined almost right out of the gate, when a goon hidden behind the front door had knocked a shelf down onto his shoulder as he’d fired the first shot. His arm swung wide as he’d pulled the trigger, right into the neck of one of the other smugglers lurking at the back of the building. The bullet didn’t actually strike him head-on– not that it mattered in the long run. The graze ripped his throat open in a jagged line, like a knife paring an apple, and Jason’s eyes had widened as the wall behind the guy was suddenly painted in a shower of crimson red. 

After that, his memories of the fight were foggy. Splashes of dark color, like watercolor paint running down a canvas. Mixing into something brackish and smudged. 

Shouting. Gun fire. Dark shapes, lunging in and out of focus. 

At some point, he vaguely recalled someone starting a fire. He wasn’t sure how. He thought it might have been an accident.

And then, pain.

Agony racing up and down his spine. A tightness in his chest that strengthened with every inhale. 

Breathing became harder and harder. Shadows flickered in the corner of his vision. Flashes of leaping orange and red, and unbearable heat.

Somewhere in the distance, a voice calling out to him.

“...Hood! Hey, come on– … hear me?”

“–not responding, I need… how much time until–”

“Hold on, Little Wing, just–”

Jason remembered opening his mouth– trying to respond. To acknowledge Nightwing as the other man had frantically pulled him from the building. Nothing had come out. His throat burned, and his chest felt heavy and tight. 

“Stay awake!” Something warm cupped his face– shook him as gently as his wound would allow, “Fuck, stay awake–”

And after that, things got… blurry. 

Jason woke up nearly two days later, tucked away in the private medical wing of the Bat Cave. His mask and suit had been peeled away, and someone had slipped him into a comfortable pair of lounge clothes. He could feel the telltale itch of bandages beneath the shirt, wrapped firmly around his midsection. The skin of his back felt taut and feverish in a way that suggested fresh stitches, and every minute twitch sent fire curling up his spine. There was a discarded oxygen tube on the side table, where he’d clearly been hooked up at some point. 

Most noticeable of all, however, was the shadowy black cat loafing right on his chest, glaring at him with bright, unblinking eyes. 

Jason stared at her.

Nobody stared back. 

Neither of them said anything for several long moments. The room was quiet, save for the distant hum of the ceiling lights, and the scratchiest, most ragged purr he’d ever heard vibrating into his bones. 

He tried to sit up.

The purr dipped into a low growl. 

He promptly flopped back down. 

(The purring resumed.)

“Does this mean we’re friends?” He asked, after a while. 

“Shut up.”  

(His mouth twitched into the ghost of a smile. She hadn’t said no.)

December 19, 2020

2:33 PM

Gotham

Two days after Nobody vanished, Jason caught someone new skulking into Crime Alley.

Though they’d dressed like civilians, he could still clock them immediately– even from all the way down the street. All three of them walked with the same fluid yet lumbering gait, each step rigid and calculated in a way that could only have come from intense military training. Hard-lined faces were partially obscured by thick shades, and each of them were wearing the same dark, featureless jackets and black cargos.

If this was their idea of undercover, Jason was going to have to break their hearts. 

Right after he finished breaking their hands, of course. And figuring out what the hell they thought they were doing here. 

The green snapped and snarled at the edges of his vision as he watched them, incensed at the intrusion. He’d grown much better at reigning in the Pit with Nobody’s help, but still it persisted– especially when it came to uninvited guests.

He fell in step at a generous distance, mindful of the fact that they’d likely be trained enough to recognize a tail. 

Dressed like “civilians” they may be, but their general aura practically screamed feds.

Part of him wondered, with a growing dread coiling low in his stomach, if they were here in search of Poison Ivy. He would be surprised if the Bowery attack hadn’t made national news by now– the strength and violence of the incident were a marked anomaly, even for a place like Gotham. 

(They were shit out of luck if that was the case, for multiple reasons.)

Though it was her vines that had done the damage, it hadn’t actually been Pamela’s fault at all. Not that anyone else would know that, of course. But Jason would be damned if he let any of this country’s vast array of equally useless and asinine intelligence agencies scapegoat her for it anyway. Not in his haunt, and not in his city. 

So he followed them, despite the inherent risks of pursuing them on his own, undisguised and out in the open. Still, he was cautious– carefully maintaining his ample distance down roughshod roads and walkways, around the crumbling edifices of street-corners and across faded sun-bleached crosswalks. He kept his eyes mostly averted, and his face tucked behind his phone as he pretended to examine something on the screen. 

All the while, his senses carefully stretched out ahead of him. While he could naturally see, smell, and most importantly hear plenty of things much further away than the average human, it had taken him a great deal longer to learn how to extend his more paranormal senses beyond his own body, even with help from Nobody. Still, he learned how to cast his perceptions out like a net around him, encompassing the whole of his haunt. Like running a scanner over the entire borough. 

The only things amiss were the three interlopers ambling along ahead of him. At least for now.

Something like a growl of warning bubbled up in his chest. He squashed it down with impunity, and listened close. 

“–got another ping on the radar late last night.” One of them was saying. He’d ducked his head in low, almost furtive as he murmured to his companions. “Third time this week it’s happened– Rassmueller thinks it’s got something to do with that crazy bitch’s rampage.”

“Rassmueller’s a paranoid prick,” Replied another, lips twisting into a sneer, “Toss a coin at his head and he’d think the sky was falling. He’s got us all jumping at shadows.”

“Yeah, but the readings are real! ” Insisted the first. “S’not unreasonable to be paranoid when the numbers agree, right?”

“Gotham is a highly contaminated city,” The third intruder argued, “Wave a scanner at any old lump of garbage on the street n’ you’d get a reading. Doesn’t mean shit.”

“Well yeah, why do you think we’re out here? Someone’s got to go and confirm it!”

And on it went.

Most of the conversation went over his head, though Jason dutifully made a note of everything that was spoken. Just because he was missing half of the context now didn’t mean it wouldn’t become useful later. 

(Mostly, they complained about having to pay Crime Alley a visit– which Jason found somewhat offensive.)

As one, the trio took a sharp turn down another alley. They were almost perilously close to the Bowery now, and the towering nest of serpentine vines spilling out of it, strewn between buildings as if bursting from the seams of an old sack. Jason allowed himself to lag farther behind as the number of bystanders traveling the same way steadily began to dwindle. The further they pushed into the emptier streets of Park Row, the easier it would be for them to spot Jason. 

They stopped just several streets away. 

From the inside pocket of their jacket, Jason watched as one of them withdrew some kind of scanner, small and sleek, no bigger than a smartphone. A thin slash of chrome and lurid green in the afternoon halflight. It struck him as familiar somehow, in the back of his mind. 

Then he caught a brief glimpse inside their jacket as they held it open, at the tiniest glint of the hidden badge clipped to one of the inner pockets. It was made of heavy black metal, and looked almost like a sheriff’s star folded inside an octagon. The badge was there and gone in a second as the intruder tucked the garment back into place. 

A second was all he needed to recognize it. 

Jason recalled an incident report, tucked in with the case file Bruce had opened on the Bowery attack. He’d read through it only after hearing that the Dark Knight had actually allowed the magicians to get involved with the investigation– going so far as to send the Replacement to play escort. Their examination had been interrupted, he’d read. By mercenaries. 

Mercenaries that all carried the same equipment, and wearing thick kevlar vests stamped with the same symbol.

(And God, this meant he was going to have to stop by the mansion, didn’t it?)

He ducked into the nearest alley, and listened close.

“Rassmueller thinks something is talking to the Asset. Or trying to, at least.” The first goon was saying. “Technical says there’s been five power surges in the last two days, and the staff up top are starting to notice.”

“Fucking great,” The third man grouched, “Last thing we need is a bunch of shrinks poking around where they don’t belong. Have they figured out what’s wrong?”

“Nah, but they worried it was Oracle at first. Looked like someone was trying to pry into the system for a minute. But after everything that’s happened down south, O’Bailey thinks it could be the same thing that knocked out Lethe.”

“I don’t want to fucking know what would happen if Acheron lost power.” The second one muttered, a note of true fear creeping into his voice. “I don’t know what Lethe did to keep theirs tame, but Rassmueller’s crazy if he thinks this one won’t gut him first chance it gets. You seen the way it watches him?”

“Like a fucking shark, man.”

Their voices grew fainter the further away they wandered. Jason didn’t move to follow them, stalled by contemplation.

That, and the message that had been sent directly to his communicator.

Oracle: I need you to come to the clocktower.

Oracle: Right now.

Oracle: I’ve got something. 

Chapter Text

December 19, 2020

3:15 PM

Gotham

Barbara looked wrecked. 

She barely stirred when they arrived, one after the other, perching on the towering edifice between grim, stony gargoyles lined like watchmen at the edge of the tower. They were both fully suited up, each tensed and wary in their own ways. Red Robin and Red Hood– an unusual pair among the bats and birds. 

(Tim shifted uncomfortably against the dark stone shell of the tower.)

(Barbara hadn’t mentioned that she’d also called Red Hood to the scene.)

Jason didn't offer any greeting. Neither did Tim. 

Stepping from the outside hatch and into Barbara's command center felt a bit like walking into a minefield– like the building itself was holding its breath. One wrong move and it would all be over. Tim felt dread gathering low in his stomach, a queasy kind of anticipation.

Though it had mostly served a professional purpose for as long as Tim had known about it, Barbara’s space in the clocktower had always felt… homey. Lived-in, as opposed to a space like the Bat Cave. Bright, despite the rigid exterior and clear bunker-like features. He’d visited plenty of times before, when times were less dire. Ironically invited to the occasional ‘Girl’s Night’ for movies and popcorn, or dropping by just to be a little shit when the city wasn’t on fire and he had nothing better to do. 

The space had felt more welcoming then. A mirror of Barbara herself, opening up her safe space to her loved ones with little coercion and a healthy dose of begrudging fondness.

Today, however…

The life and warmth had been sucked clean out of the tower. Even in the light of midday, the space felt shrouded and claustrophobic, the brickwork dark and looming. Most of her monitors were cold and black. Offline. The other lights in her space too had been either dimmed or snuffed entirely. 

All her attention seemed to have been narrowed down to the central monitor, a flash of light in the otherwise dim space that cast her silhouette in stark relief at the focal point of the room. There was a video queued up on the screen, a paused blur of indistinct color that Tim couldn't quite puzzle out at first glance. It wasn't quite grainy enough to be CCTV footage, but it was certainly not from a higher end device. Likely some kind of home camera, he assumed.

Barbara didn't even turn around to greet them when they quietly stepped into the room. If not for the faint rise and fall of her shoulders, Tim might have jumped to an awful conclusion. 

Still, she looked rough. Her head was bowed low against the desk, resting against open palms in almost helpless supplication, the curve of her shoulders tense and tight. Her hair was steadily frizzing its way out of the loose tie she’d pulled it back with, and her face was drawn and pale with exhaustion and anxiety.

Tim felt the faint flickers of dread in his gut spike into real, mild fear. For a moment, he was certain she was about to turn around and tell them that Pamela Isley had been found– dead.

Or something equally horrific. 

Not far behind him, Jason seemed just as concerned, an uncharacteristic hesitation in his steps as he slowly approached. “What's up, Babs?” He called out, careful and light. Like he was handling glassware. “You said you got something for us?” 

It took several more tense, agonizing moments for the woman to finally stir, lifting her head to stare wide-eyed at them, and then back at the monitor in front of her.

“...Yeah.” She said at last– in that dazed, distant tone that spoke of haunting revelation. “Yeah, I got something.” 

Tim started his own slow, cautious shuffle towards the desk as Barbara seemed to gather herself, pulling in a deep, almost shaky breath and banishing the queued video from the screen– for now. 

“Two nights ago,” Barbara began with another tremulous breath, “someone hacked into my system– Our system.” She corrected. “The whole Bat network.”

Tim and Jason both froze.

“I know never said anything about it, but I don’t consider it a breach– because it really wasn't.” She continued, heedless of the glance the two exchanged just behind her. She was pulling up something else on the screen, brow dipped low and troubled. “I ran every security protocol I have, and I got nothing. They didn’t take anything from our network, nothing was even accessed the whole time they were… well...” 

She sat back in her wheelchair, looking conflicted. 

“The whole time they were what?” Jason prompted gently. 

“We sort of… spoke. While they were in the system.” She said slowly, “Only it wasn’t really… I mean, it wasn’t the most coherent conversation I’ve ever had. They didn’t actually speak to me, it was more like–” She paused, eyes roving back to the wall of monitors. “You know those old cut-and-paste ransom letters they used to use in crime films? With the mismatched lettering?”

At their nod, she continued. “It was kind of like that, except with… audio clips. Like they’d tuned into the radio and stitched a bunch of words together.”

“That seems… impractical.” Jason noted lightly. “Why not just use some kind of distorter?”

And he had a point, Tim thought. It was far easier– and far less time consuming– to simply disguise your voice in real time. He frowned behind his mask, contemplating.

(Voice changing technology wasn’t a new thing. He was almost certain there were a plethora of options one could choose from even online– if you were willing to trade quality for convenience. Something that sounded apt considering what this mysterious hacker had resorted to instead.)

Barbara just shrugged helplessly, “I have no idea. They were clearly struggling to communicate that way. They couldn’t form complete sentences, and it sounded like they were having a hard time finding the right words.”

“What did they say?” Tim asked, his frown deepening. 

“Just… That I had to call them Four.” Her voice lowered to a quiet murmur, something mystified and unhappy. “They said ‘I want you to tell our truth’, but I still can’t figure out what they meant.” 

“He sent me a flashdrive.” She continued quietly. “Four. The hacker. Whoever they are– I don’t know how they even got it to me, but they told me it would be there. And that I needed to pay attention. I’ve been going over everything on it for the past few days, and…”

Her expression twisted into something deeply disturbed, and she seemed almost hesitant as she moved the video file to one of the larger monitors. She stared warily at the screen for a few seconds, hovering over the ‘play’ button with her mouse, like it might jump out of the device and physically attack her. 

“The files they sent included a lot of… videos.” She began, and the blue light cast from the monitor made it harder to see the greenish, almost ill tinge that seeped into her cheeks, but Tim noticed it all the same. “They’re… I’m gonna be honest, boys, they’re really hard to watch.”

“What do you mean?” Jason asked. 

And Barbara grimaced deeply.

“It’s a video diary… of a vivisection.”

Tim could almost physically feel the blood rush out of his face, leaving him cold and slightly dizzy. He watched the thumbnail on the monitor with a new, wary appreciation. An arms-length away, Jason went very, very still. 

“And it’s really bad, yes, but that’s not…” She continued, and Tim had never seen Barbara struggle so much with her words. Her exhaustion shone through the way she continuously tripped and stumbled through her explanations, “Four said that I’d need to pay attention , and I did, and well–”

“Play it.” Jason ordered gruffly. It seemed to be all the encouragement Barbara needed. 

(And honestly, Tim had known it was going to be bad. You don’t just hear the word ‘vivisection’ and assume anything less.)

(Still, he was unprepared for the sight that greeted him upon playback.) 

The room was on the smaller side, its finer details barely visible around the bright glare of the ring-lights illuminating the wide metal table taking up most of the shot. There were darker shapes in the background that suggested shelves and cabinets, but for the most part the table was all that was in focus. 

There was a man on the table– pale-skinned, with silvering hair and glassy blue eyes. He was laid out like a cadaver, clothed in a hospital gown and a thin medical sheet, restraints lining his arms and legs. Each one was clamped down hard enough to leave behind a ring of dark bruises.

Or perhaps that was just the sheer amount of blood loss.

Because the man on the table was peeled open like a fruit, soft layers of skin and tissue pulled away from the cavity of his chest and held back by neat rows of surgical pins. The bones of his ribs, slick and coppery red, had been forced aside with an assortment of garish, barbaric-looking devices– slapdash, homemade equipment that made a mockery of real medical tools. There was a woman on screen too, looming over the table. Most of her was obscured by a pasty blue surgical smock– smeared with browned and drying blood– and the standard paper mask over her face, but he could make out dark, almost ginger hair and indigo eyes behind the glare of the lights.

She addressed the camera almost boredly, her eyes never leaving the man’s splayed open form as she slipped on a pair of latex gloves. Like this was the most normal thing in the world.

“This is Madeline Fenton, twentieth of October, two thousand and fifteen. Video log number seventeen-dash-B, harvest number eight.” She rattled off idly, one hand dragging a tray of clean, fresh tools over to her side. “Continuing medical analysis of Patient Zero.”

And then she was elbows deep in his chest. Rooting around in his body. Tim felt bile crawling up his throat as he watched her pull out one of his lungs. 

On screen, the man blinked slowly. He didn’t scream, or thrash, or beg. But his eyes opened and closed, and in his chest Tim could see his heart still thudding away, and it was perhaps the worst thing he had ever seen. 

(He almost had to turn away. He wanted to. But his eyes stayed locked with the man on the table, watching him blink sedately. Like a doll, broken one too many times.)

At his side, Jason had turned away from the screen and paced to the back of the room, cursing violently. After a brief fumble with the latch, he’d pulled off his helmet and flung it away, gripping his own hair as he stopped midstep. His eyes squeezed shut, and for several long moments he just forced himself to breathe. The room was quiet save for the sound of it, and the wet squelch over the speakers as Madeline Fenton methodically removed the other lung.

Tim watched him with laser-like focus, tensed and wary. 

He didn’t return to the screens until his rage had been placed back on its leash. But Tim could still see it, buried deep in his eyes– the shadow of something bright and green as he stiffly made his way back to Barbara’s desk.

No one seemed to know what to say. 

Tim swallowed painfully.

“You said you’d been watching all of these… for the past two days?” He asked, quietly horrified. 

There were dark shadows under Barbara’s eyes, Tim noticed. Darker than he’d seen in a long while. 

(Holy shit.)

“There’s forty-two of them.” She informed them. Tim felt sick.

“What have you got on them?” Jason had to force the words through gritted teeth, vibrating with wrath.

(And it’s ‘What have you got?’ and not ‘Do you have anything?’– because they both know better than that already. Especially in a situation like this.)

(It’s Barbara . They already know the score.)

Still, that shaky, disbelieving aura remained around her. Clinging tightly to her skin, even as she quietly tabbed away from the nightmarish video, and opened up a new file. 

It was a case file– from the Justice League database. 

Dread was quickly making a home in his gut. At first, his eyes skimmed too quickly over the file. He missed it, at first glance.

“I looked into Madeline Fenton.” Barbara told them quietly, and it was telling that the League already had a file on this woman.

But something in her voice had Tim immediately at attention. He turned his gaze back to the screen, scanning over the top of the file. The date. The name.

And slowly, his eyes widened.

“What’s her deal, then?” Jason asked. He hadn’t tried to read any of it yet. “Can we track her down?”

At this, Barbara seemed to hunch forward on her desk. Her head met her hands again, in an eerie mirror of the exact pose they’d found her in. Like she was praying. Like she couldn’t quite believe this was real.

Through the gaps in her fingers, she haltingly explained–

“Madeline Fenton is Citizen Number Three Hundred and Nineteen in the Amity Park case.” It was little more than a murmur. The whole room was deathly quiet. “She and her entire family have been missing for five years.”  

The world turned over on its head. Like flipping a switch, suddenly everything had changed.

“That recording.” Tim rasped breathlessly. He felt cold all over. “She said–”

“I know.” Barbara groaned into her hands, sounding horribly shaken. 

“What about it?” Jason asked. There was a hint of confusion in his tone. Caution. 

And Tim knew about the Amity Park case. He’d been younger then. Still newer to the scene. With all likelihood, Jason did, too– everyone knew. It was impossible not to, in an age of increasing connectivity and dwindling privacy.

To date, it was one of the greatest mysteries of the modern era… and one of the biggest blights on the Justice League’s reputation. 

The destruction of an entire town, and the sudden loss of over six hundred people– and the world's heroes had failed to come up with any kind of explanation for it. They’d simply vanished without a trace– and in all the years since, no survivors had ever been found. No one group or organization had claimed responsibility for the act.

There simply were no answers.

Five years, and the world was still no closer to finding out what exactly had gone on in Amity Park that night– and what had become of its citizens.

Even worse, as time had marched steadily onward, it had simply been buried as the years wore on. Reduced to the occasional focus piece in a magazine, or used as a setting for speculative fiction novels, or an episode on a true crime podcast. A grim folk tale around a campfire, or a spectacle for voyeurs to ogle and poke at in their boredom and monotony– like roadkill on the highway.

A very real tragedy, slowly ground down into sensationalized content to be consumed, and a page on Wikipedia. 

So yes, Tim knew about Amity Park. But he wasn’t surprised that Jason was less affected by the revelation. The man hadn’t returned to Gotham until a year after the incident, after that fruitless investigation had finally concluded and the worldwide media frenzy had faded– mostly . Tim would hazard a guess that he’d been far too busy in the intervening time to pay much attention to the news. He might know about it peripherally, but Tim highly doubted any of the specifics had stuck fast in his memory.

Like the date. 

“In the recording,” He started slowly, watching the other man from the corner of his eyes. “She says it's October twentieth , two thousand-fifteen.” 

At Jason’s nod, he continued–

“The Amity Park incident happened on October fourteenth.”   

Understanding flooded his expression, and his gaze flickered back to the screen. 

“Well, shit…” Jason breathed out, eyes quickly scanning over the case file. He mused openly, “Whole town goes missing and six days later she shows up on tape, just… carving some guy open. For what?”

“Not just some guy–” Barbara interjected hollowly, scrubbing her face with her hands as she sat back up. “Vladimir Masters. Owner and CEO of VladCo… and also Citizen Number Fifty-Eight. The mayor of Amity Park.”

“Oh what the fuck.” Jason swore quietly. Tim heartily agreed. 

“You know what this means, don’t you?” Tim asked her quietly.

Barbara nodded, an infinitely small bob of her head as her eyes remained locked unblinkingly on the screen. Like someone had just dumped a one-thousand piece jigsaw puzzle out in front of her and demanded she piece it back together from scratch.

Shoulders back, gathering herself back up she said, “There are files as well, on the drive with all of Fenton’s video logs. I’ve only had time to scan through a few of them. I think they relate to why she was… operating on him.” 

“The way she writes about him…” She continued. “They knew each other. A lot more closely than a government official and one of his constituents.” Her expression creased into a worried frown. “She uses some… pretty heavy language in these documents. She keeps calling Masters ‘the entity’ or just Patient Zero. Always refers to him as ‘it’ instead of ‘he’. And, also…”

Barbara turned away from the screen to glance at Jason from the corner of her eye, worrying her lip between her teeth.

“There’s… extremely frequent mentions of something called ‘ectoplasm’ in these documents.” She watched him steadily, exposed now without his helmet. “And ‘ecto-contamination.”

Slowly, she turned around to face them fully. To address Jason directly.

“I know you don’t like to talk about it,” She started, “But the way she describes it in these files, it… really sounds a lot like Lazarus Water.”

Tim almost winced at the statement, his gaze darting between Barbara and Jason with cautious focus. 

Red Hood had gone stock still, arms folded over his chest. If Tim looked hard enough, he could see the way the other man’s hands had curled into impossibly tight fists at the crook of each elbow– a quiver to his frame that suggested enormous restraint. 

(And honestly– what a picture.)

(Madeline Fenton, conducting inhumane experiments. Vladimir Masters, vivisected on a table six days after his entire town had been destroyed. Amity Park. Lazarus Water. How did it all tie together?)

“I think it’s best,” Jason ground out finally, forcing the sound between half-bared teeth, “That you and Timberly take this one.”

And Tim eyed him warily as the man turned on his heel and scooped up his previously thrown helmet, jamming it over his head with a focused aggression.

“Tell Bruce I’ll stay on the Ivy case.” He gruffed out– and then he was gone. 

(Tim would never call it fleeing– he valued his life too much. But it was hard not to see the parallels sometimes.)

(Still, he certainly wouldn’t want to be a criminal in the Alley tonight.)

Barbara turned back to her desk with an exhausted sigh, shoulders drooping as she stared, with a bitter mixture of distaste and resolution, at the files still plastered over the screen. 

“Was there anything else they told you?” Tim asked tentatively, in the silence that followed Jason’s furious exit. “The hacker.”

She heaved another sigh as she replied.

“They’re going to speak to me again, at some point.” She declared. “In the meantime, I’m supposed to be figuring out something about these files. But I still can’t see what Four wanted me to–”

Barbara broke off mid-sentence. Every part of her body seemed to freeze in place, with that wide deer-in-the-headlights look that immediately worried Tim. 

“Babs?” He called out to her, tensed to rush over to her side, “Barbara, what is it?”

“We are alive.” She said, an almost breathless whisper. Then, again– “We are alive, oh my God–”

Barbara motioned him forward with a hurried wave of her hand, bristling with an urgency that was almost alarming in the wake of her previous despondency. Stumbling towards her, Tim crowded over to the right side of her wheelchair, attention split between the light of the monitor and the suddenly energized woman between them. 

“Four– when they spoke– when they told me to ‘tell their truth’–” Her words seemed to trip over themselves in her rush to say them, and her hands shook as they navigated the keyboard. “I asked them what that meant, and all they said was ‘We are alive’. They were… very emphatic about it– they said it twice . And at the time, I didn’t understand, but now–” 

She turned to look at Tim, eyes blazing with renewed vigor and determination . For a moment he thought she might reach out and physically shake him.

“Tim, they sent me files from a citizen of Amity Park , and they told me to tell their truth because–”

“They’re still alive.” Tim concluded, heart pounding in his chest. 

“Call Bruce– right now. ” Barbara ordered firmly, her attention turned back to the keyboard. “We need to speak to the Justice League.”

December 18, 2020

9:45 AM

Avernus; Raptor Aerie

“Got confirmation they’ve opened the drive.” It was a quiet murmur, splitting the otherwise comfortable silence. “He said there’s already a noticeable difference. He’s having an easier time navigating.”

Two dark shapes rested on opposite ends of an empty lounge, painted by different shades of shadow black. The room was sleek and modern, all monochrome furniture and sharp geometric patterns, fitted together like disparate puzzle pieces.

It hardly looked used at all. A fine layer of dust had gathered gently over the fixtures– the side table and the lamps, the mantlepiece over the empty, cavernous fireplace and all over the small kitchenette attached at the side of the room. 

(A sad relic of an ultimately fruitless endeavor. Valerie thought it was apt, really.)

The light fixtures in the ceiling were off, as were the tableside lamps and the unused TV at the far wall. The only source of illumination was the guidelights lining the molding of the room and the adjacent corridor. It threw their features into sharp contrast, half light and half dark, as they sat across from one another.

Valerie had leaned back on the almost obscenely pristine couch she'd claimed, dressed down in her fatigues and half sunken into the cushion. Her face pointed to the ceiling, and her eyes were half closed and ringed with exhausted, bruise-like darkness. She sounded calm despite the ever-increasing urgency of their situation.

At her words, Snowden had simply nodded slowly. An equally quiet acceptance. 

“Have you made a decision yet?” He asked softly. “Last we spoke, you didn’t seem sure.”

Her gaze didn’t leave the ceiling, but her shoulders heaved with the force of the sigh that billowed out of her, heavy with stress and anticipation. 

(The waiting was the worst of it.)

“I don’t think I’m gonna have to.” She admitted, finally lifting her head to meet his gaze. “He hasn’t said anything to me, but I think he knows more than he lets on… About what’s happening with the others, I mean.” And her words were equal parts wry and frustrated. “I can see it in his face sometimes. He doesn’t ask about them anymore.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me.” Snowden replied with a shrug. “Five years and the Division’s done a poor job of studying what they can actually do. And something tells me the rest of them haven’t been sitting around twiddling their thumbs this whole time either. They’ve got to have something up their sleeve at this point.”

It pulled a sharp chuckle from Valerie, who hunched forward as her unblinking stare shifted to the carpet below, fingers laced together and elbows resting on her legs. 

Above her, high on the wall and slightly to the left, an analog clock ticked out a steady rhythm in the otherwise noiseless room. But if she focused hard enough– tuned absolutely everything else out– she would be able to catch a note or two of the activities happening several floors above.

Somewhere up there, scientists and engineers churned away at weapon after weapon, each one more complex and cruel than the last. Somewhere up there, soldiers and contractmen trained and drilled for the war that was surely just over the horizon. Somewhere up there, the enormous, grinding gears of Waller’s horrific machine turned and turned, and Valerie could only pray that her work had been enough to avoid being crushed between those teeth.

(Her name was first on The List for a reason.) 

“Sam.” She said at last. “If he’s got nothing else planned… we’ll go for her next.”

Again, Snowden nodded slowly. It made the most sense. 

“I’ve seen the database they made for each of them.” He replied. “According to some of the preliminary tests, she’s the strongest in terms of raw power– after Phantom, of course. You’ll need her to get to the others...” 

“But you don’t think that’ll be necessary.” He added, after studying her a moment longer. 

Valerie shrugged.

“There’s a lot he hasn’t told me. For obvious reasons.” She seemed to shrink in on herself then, pulling back into the shadows of the half-lit room. “But they haven’t had any direct communication for years, and somehow he seems more aware of what’s going on with them than even you and me.”

Valerie kept her gaze pinned resolutely on the carpet below. Contemplative.

(Ashamed. Always ashamed.)

“They can’t run the risk of Waller figuring out whatever else they might be up to. Which means I can’t know, because if she catches me, then…” Neither of them needed to express with words exactly how catastrophic that would be. 

But still, there was a significant part of Valerie that wondered if that wasn’t the only reason Tucker still kept his secrets close– specifically from her.

(How long did it truly take, she wondered, for a sin to be forgiven?)

(Especially one so grievous. With consequences so devastating.)

Truthfully, she hadn’t had the courage to ask him. Not since they’d first started to conspire together. For as much as he’d kept from her, he’d openly offered a lot more.

(And what an experience it had been, slowly learning truths from a boy that had been among them from the very beginning. The portal. The Infinite Realms. How hard they had fought to keep both sides safe.)

(Even if it only devastated her more – to know that she had only ever added to their troubles.)

In the silence that followed, Valerie worried her lip between her teeth, barely managing to restrain the anxious thrill running down the length of her whole body. An itch to start tapping her foot, or biting her nails. Restless energy, running rampant. Valerie had never done well on the backlines– waiting for the action. For the right time to strike.

(Only four days remained.)

“Are you scared?” She asked, after a minute of tense disquiet. 

“...Are you?” he replied, one eyebrow neatly arched. 

It dragged another laugh from her, gruff and bitter though it was. Valerie had never found it hard to be open with Snowden. To this day, he didn’t know her story before taking the Black Badge, and she didn’t know his. The duality of their friendship was that they were at once close confidants and total strangers. 

And it was all too easy to be honest with a stranger.

“...Yeah.” She admitted around the edges of the sound. “Fucking terrified.”

“Surely not of Waller?”

Valerie shot him a waspish look. Still, she hated it when he played these games with her.

Hated when he forced her to confront the issue, when she’d rather just vent. When his obfuscation became a tool.

“What, then?” He asked, almost gently. 

“Oh, you want an itemized list?” She bit back, with far more heat than she perhaps meant. “For starters– how about the fact that there are… an incalculable number of ways that this could all go wrong. We both could end up dead, and that's not even the worst case scenario!” Her tone was flat and icy, bringing the temperature of the room down by degrees. In her lap, her fists were clenched so tightly she could hear the bones underneath creaking in protest. “She could catch us before we have a chance to get them all out. She could just decide to pull the plug whenever she fucking wants!”

And honestly, these were genuine worries she’d had over the past few years. The frightening truth of the matter was that Amanda Waller had far too much power over all of them, even now.

(Which was why it was so imperative– so important–)

(They couldn’t afford for Val to fuck it all up now–)

“Waller is many things, but she’s not going to just waste a five year investment before she’s even had a chance to do anything with them.” He refuted calmly. 

“And what if she decides she’s tired of waiting? If she decides to drag them all out there before we can get to them, it’s over– you realize that, right?” Valerie's voice had risen in time with her agitation, a cresting wave bubbling up from somewhere deep and dark in the depths of her soul. Abruptly, she stood up, eyes wide and angry.  

(Because ultimately, she and Snowden both knew what Waller’s final goal was. Where this project had been heading from the very beginning.)

(Devastating didn’t even begin to cover it.)

“She could wave her hand and cause a hundred more Amity Parks, and no one in this fucking building would even fucking blink!” She was almost shouting now, and the longer that Snowden persisted in calmly staring her down, the more distressed she became. “And you wanna know if I'm scared of her?” Her lips twisted into a snarl as she loomed over him. 

It crawled beneath her skin, the way he watched her without judgment. Like he understood. Like he understood and didn’t judge her for it. The Red Huntress could stare down some of the most frightening ghosts in existence without even flinching. She could lie to Waller with a straight face and steady posture and give nothing away– she’d been doing it for years . What was it about someone so unabashedly accepting that twisted her up inside?

(In her heart of hearts, she already knew.)

(Amanda Waller had no special power or fancy tricks to fall back on– just an iron will and the resources available to her.)

(It wasn't the first time Valerie had stared despairingly into such a mirror.)

(It wouldn’t be the last.)

Snowden didn't seem at all ruffled by her sudden outburst, aside from the way his eyes softened at the corners, and he seemed to ooze that same unbearable compassion he'd had when this all began. Steady and convicted, as he had been from the very beginning. 

“Valerie.” He said. “You're not her.” 

“I know that.” The words were ground out between clenched teeth, hollow and unconvincing. Maybe one day she would take him at face value– but not today.

She didn’t want to do this before she had to leave.

(She didn’t want this to be the last time they ever saw each other.) 

(They’d had this argument before. His answer was the same every time.)

“Well maybe act like it every now and then,” He said lightly, almost jokingly. Trying to lift her up from that old, familiar mire, “And maybe I’ll start to believe you.”

Valerie bared eerily sharp teeth at him halfheartedly, and flopped back down on the couch, sagging bonelessly into the cushions. The fight drained out of her as quickly as it had appeared, and she found herself once again staring sightlessly at the ceiling. Tracing nonsense patterns with her eyes.

“You said your goodbyes, then?” He asked, relaxing back into his own seat.

“No.” She replied immediately, with a slight shake of her head. Something soft and melancholic lingered in the backdrop, carved into the sudden droop of her eyelids and the way her fists clenched in her lap. “He doesn’t know I’m leaving today. Safer for him that way.” 

Valerie pulled her legs up onto the couch with her, tucking them up to her chest like she could pull all the shards of herself back in place in much the same way. She turned from the ceiling, and her cheek smushed into her knee where she bent forward to rest her head. She hunched into herself, like a turtle retreating into its shell.

“He can’t leave the base without anyone noticing.” She explained. “And when I don’t show up tomorrow, they’re going to ask questions. It’s better if he really doesn’t know anything.”

(Her father was the only family she had left. From the very beginning, he had been her largest motivator.. The center of her heart.)

(She was leaving him behind tonight.)

It wasn’t a betrayal, she knew. Damon had agreed it was best that he not know when the time had finally arrived.

(But it still felt like it.)

“I’ll keep an eye out for him.” Snowden promised quietly. “He’ll leave with me when it's my time.”

Valerie shot him a grateful look. 

Tonight, she was leaving. Slipping from the base when all eyes were elsewhere and dropping off-grid for the long drive to Louisiana.

To Lethe. 

Because the clock was counting down now, she knew. And they were quickly running out of time. 

Waller had kept the Fentons busy over the last two years, working on something. Something big– and it had to do with Danny, and his place as Crown Prince. The Division had played the long game for five years now, and as Project Cerberus reached its final stages, it was more imperative than ever that Valerie found a way to get all four of her former classmates, and Danny’s little clone, as far away from Black Badge as she could. 

Starting with Tucker. 

(Whether he truly trusted her or not.)

The pieces were in place as best as they could be. Valerie, Snowden, and Tucker had worked for months – risking life and limb in the process– to throw the informational equivalent of a T-bone steak straight at the Justice League and hope for the best.

(The hope was that the League would pursue– like a hound scenting blood– and in the ensuing brawl between the heroes and Black Badge, all five halfas could be freed with minimal resistance. )

(This was, however, only a hope.)

“I am.” Snowden’s voice broke her from her brooding, a soft admission beneath the quiet hum of the climate control system. 

Valerie glanced up at him, brow furrowed.

“Scared.” He supplied, just as softly. “I’m scared too, hellion.”

She turned her gaze back to the carpet, counting the threads. Unsure what to say– unsure if there was anything she could say. 

(He knew her name now. She never asked for his.)

“If you die, I’ll kill you.” She gruffed out finally, scrubbing her cheek more firmly against her knee, eyes glaring at nothing.

Snowden’s answering laugh followed her all the way out of the compound later that evening, and into the trees.

“I believe you.” He chuckled.

That night, Valerie left Avernus behind. She would not be returning again. 

December 20, 2020

5:00 PM

The Watchtower

As is often the case in this line of work– everything that could go wrong seemingly does so at the same time. 

An eerie stillness had draped itself over the conference room, layered over their shoulders like thick, smothering fog. You could hear a pin drop, after Oracle had come out and ripped off the band-aid.

“I believe I’ve made contact with a survivor from Amity Park.”

(Most of the time, Bruce actually hated being right. His assumptions were never the most charitable.)

Wonder Woman had leaned forward in her seat, hands braced on the table and eyes laser-focused on the erstwhile Batgirl.

“Do you have proof of this?” She asked, urgency threaded into her words. 

(By the time he'd managed to call everyone together, Bruce had already heard the story several times over– from Barbara. From Tim. Even from Jason. And each time it was still almost impossible to believe.)

Mouth drawn into an unhappy line, Oracle gestured broadly to the screen at the front of the room. She took a weary breath.

“The footage I’m about to show you was sent to me by the alleged survivor.” She explained. “It’s dated exactly six days after the attack on Amity Park.”

After a heavy pause, she added–

“It’s… extraordinarily graphic. If you’re sensitive to things like that, you may want to… step out for a moment.” 

When no one moved, she cast them a wary look behind the curve of her mask– but she played the video all the same. 

(Naturally, Bruce had already seen it. Still, he watched it again, and felt the same nausea and outrage settling somewhere low in his body.)

By the time it was over, more than a few at the table had come away a few shades paler, and greener at the gills. Oracle stopped the footage on a clear shot of Madeline Fenton, hands slick and red, frozen in the act of reaching inside her victim’s body and pulling.

“What do we know about her?” Superman rasped, looking ill as he forcibly turned his gaze away from the woman on the screen. 

Bruce took control of the monitor, banishing the bloodied image from the screen in exchange for a copy of the woman’s file– untouched, since the investigation into Amity Park had been reluctantly shelved.

“Madeline Fenton, listed as Citizen Number Three Hundred Nineteen in the Amity Park Commission Report.” He replied stoically. “Graduated Summa Cum Laude from the University of Wisconsin-Madison with a doctorate in science and engineering, and later married Jack Fenton– Citizen Number Three Hundred Eighteen.” His eyes narrowed behind his cowl as they skimmed over the file. “Self-proclaimed “ecto-biologist” and expert in the field of… parapsychology. Both she and her husband are attributed to several self-published papers on the science of–” His frown deepened. “...ghost hunting.”

Across the room, Zatanna stared at the image on the woman’s profile with something like mystified confusion.

“I remember her.” The magician said. At her side, John Constantine looked like he’d just bitten into something sour. 

“Her name came up while we were looking into the GIW– the Ghost Investigation Ward.” She continued. “Supposedly, the Fentons worked pretty closely with them. A lot. They weren’t contracted to the organization, but apparently the GIW spent a significant amount of money on some of their inventions.”

“They were certifiably insane, she and her husband both.” Constantine chipped in. “Took a look at their papers– absolutely none of it was accurate. It’s actually impressive, the amount of things they managed to get wrong about the supernatural.”

“You mentioned files.” Wonder Woman interrupted smoothly. “What files did they send with that… footage?”

On one of the smaller side monitors, Oracle quickly brought up a copy of the files she’d been given, pages upon pages of diagrams and charts, detailed photos of extracted organs labeled painstakingly by hand.

“Along with the footage, they seem to have included Dr. Fenton’s documentation of the… harvesting procedures, and her findings.” 

At the top of the screen, the words ‘PROJECT CERBERUS’ were stamped in dark bold print, prefacing each page like a lingering shadow.

(Cerberus. A beast of legend. The three-headed dog said to guard the gates of the Underworld– to prevent the dead from leaving.)

(Bruce shuddered to think what its significance might be.)

“The man on the table,” Oracle continued, “has been identified as Vladimir Masters, Citizen Number Fifty Eight and the current mayor of Amity Park at the time of the incident.”

A ripple of shock and horror passed through the room. Barbara charged ahead regardless.

“The documents state that Dr. Fenton believed Masters had been…” She took a steadying breath, “killed and possessed by a ghost several decades prior to the incident. Her findings indicated that this ghost… physically merged with Masters’ body, creating a hybrid lifeform labeled in the files as a ‘Revenant’.” Barbara carefully recited the information with as much professionalism as she could manage– though her disbelief and incredulity still lurked in the backdrop of her words. 

“Dr. Fenton recorded a total of thirteen harvests from the body of Vlad Masters.” She continued with a deep grimace, “After which the regenerative abilities he’d displayed seemed to cease functioning. He is later recorded in these documents as deceased.”

Stony silence settled over the conference room as Oracle tabbed through several more pages within the documents– until she had at last reached the section that had interested Bruce the most. 

“Her examination of Masters led to what Dr. Fenton has labeled as the ‘Cordyceps Theory’ on the facilitation of new Revenants.” Barbara told them, something solemn and uncertain creeping into her voice. “This theory posits that a massive dose of a substance referred to as ‘ectoplasm’ upon the death of a highly contaminated individual may result in a sort of self-possession, wherein the ghost of the victim possesses its own corpse… thereby creating a Revenant.”

At the back of the room, Barry Allen tentatively raised his hand, brow furrowed behind his own mask.

“What’s ectoplasm?” He asked.

(And Bruce almost had to turn away, as if hiding his face from the answer could possibly change it somehow.)

(It didn’t.)

“You might know it better as Lazarus Water.” Oracle replied, and the room stirred all around them, a sudden cacophony of muttered oaths and bitterly hissed expletives. Over the din, she continued, “Dr. Fenton referred to it as ghost blood.”

With a resolute set to her shoulders, Barbara gestured back to the main monitor, eyes piercing as she stared down the room at large. There was a stubborn determination infused into her posture that told Bruce she didn’t intend to leave this room until she’d gotten what she wanted. 

“The alleged survivor, referred to as Four, communicated that they wished for us to ‘tell their truth’ to the world.” She began stiffly. Professionally. “They want us to know they’re alive– and I believe they’re referring to the people of Amity Park.” Her voice strengthened as she grew impassioned, leaning forward to brace her hands on the table. Her eyes flickered from Bruce, to Clark, to Diana and back. “These files are only a small piece of the puzzle. There’s more for us to find.”

She turned back to the screens, bringing forward a picture of the box that had been delivered to her sanctuary with the files hidden inside. On its back, captured clearly on camera, was a message scrawled sloppily in black ink. 

‘THERE ARE MORE. YOU MAY NOT FIND THEM IN ORDER.’

“I’d like the League’s permission to re-open the Amity Park case.” Barbara announced to the room, almost pleading in nature. “I understand the investigation was shelved after your leads ran out, but I believe that Four has given us a new avenue to pursue. I am hereby volunteering both myself and Red Robin to pursue it.”

Attention in the room was divided between the League’s foremost pillars– himself, Clark, and Diana. He could feel a myriad of eyes flicker briefly over him. Waiting. Expectant. 

“If there are survivors out there waiting for our help.” Diana spoke up first, “Then we must do what we can to find them.” 

At her other side, Clark was nodding slowly, contemplative gaze fixed unerringly on the front monitor. 

All attention in the room turned to Bruce.

(His mind had been made up long before this. He had always suspected there’d be a break in the case one day.)

(Truthfully, however, he just hadn’t guessed it would take quite this long.)

Barbara seemed to brighten when the Dark Knight dipped his head with a customary grunt– a stoic acquiescence to the young hacker.

Across the room, John Constantine cleared his throat.

“One issue with that,” He said. “Last I checked, that case was under the jurisdiction of the FBI. Only way to formally reopen it is through them– and we all know the second we tell them there’s new evidence, the media will have conveniently found out about it less than a day later.”

“And whoever’s behind this will know we’re onto them.” Barry concluded grimly. 

Diana raised a delicate eyebrow at them, bemused.

“Then we simply do not tell them.” She declared. “Looking into this ourselves hurts no one.”

“And if they ask,” Barry chimed in, “We can just tell them we wanted to vet the information before alerting them.”

This idea was received far more enthusiastically than perhaps was wise, but Bruce couldn’t really find it in himself to blame them. Not in the privacy of his own head, anyway. He’d dealt with his own fair share of bureaucrats standing in the way of good work, and smooth-tongued government agents strutting around like their badge truly gave them license kill– or worse.

Still, Oracle got her wish with little fanfare, and the League was left reeling in the light of a revelation five years in the making.

(He just hoped it hadn’t come too late.)

Later, when the shock and disquiet had settled into energy– into urgency– and most of the League had parted ways, off to see what they could contribute to Oracle’s fledgling investigation, Bruce sat alone in the conference room with the young hacker. 

She watched him expectantly– like she already knew what he wanted to say. 

He met her gaze from across the table.

(Perhaps it wasn’t necessary, then.)

She nodded at him once. Slowly, he dipped his head back.

(Regardless, he would not lose any more of his kids.)

December 13, 2020

11:30 PM

Rural Illinois

Joseph Baker had lived and worked on his family’s farm his entire life, and he had never seen anything like this. 

The Bakers had owned and tended the land there for well over five generations– Old Joe was just the latest in the long line of ranchers his family had produced, having inherited the deed from his Pa, who’d gotten it from his Pa, and so on and so forth. The homestead had been built by Baker hands from the ground up, brick by lonesome brick. Every building on the property, each a labor of love reaching back nearly two hundred years. 

The farmhouse was two stories, all thick wooden sidings and arching gables. The woodwork was painted white, stark and bright against the flat foothills of rural Illinois, with a clay-tiled roof painted a vividly dark shade of green. And on particularly clear days– with the matching window shutters thrown wide open– you could see clear to the other side of the horizon, where the earth dipped into a curve. 

Their home was bracketed on either side by a cluster of silos and grain bins, and a tool-shed respectively. 

The silos were tall and air-tight, slim towers of solid concrete and steel filled with a hearty mixture of silage gathered from their fields, and feed stored in bulk. The nearby grain bins were shorter and broader, large barrel-like structures made of corrugated metal that they used to store processed corn and soy-beans in preparation for market season, and seeds as the planting-time approached. Across the way, on the other side of the property, the tool-shed housed most everything else, a flat, squat rectangle of nailed together plywood and a slanted tin roof.

Alongside them, the wooden barn and stables were painted a traditional red, slashed through with thick white cross-beams and other minute, colorful streaks. The stables opened up into a sizable pasture, where the family’s small herd of dairy cows grazed– joined by the two horses they had in their care. There was a small hutch built into its right side as well, housing a small flock of cochin hens and a rooster. 

And at night, when the other animals had retreated back into the safety of those four walls and his family had headed off to bed, Old Joe had a pair of well-fed anatolians he’d bought from the same litter when he'd first taken over his family's farm.

(He’d gleefully named them Butch and Sundance.)

The dogs patrolled the property like well-oiled machines, chasing off foxes and coyotes, and even the odd catamount once or twice. He’d come into his own with those dogs, side by side. They were the closest thing he had to brothers, out here in the sticks. 

Which is why it had been such a shock– such a punch to the gut– when he’d gone out first thing in the morning, only a week ago now, to find the remains of both his beloved dogs scattered haphazardly about the property-line.

And he did mean scattered– they were in pieces. Limbs broken and peeled away, bent akimbo and thrown on either side of a shattered fence. The grass was stained a vivid, sticky red, a wide circle of blood and viscera gathered in puddles, or strewn about like confetti. Like something had simply grabbed them up in an enormous mouth and shook them until they’d flown apart at the seams. Like chew-toys.

Oddest of all had been the state of his barbed wire fence, tangled in tight coils amid the gore and the splintered remains of the wooden posts. Like whatever had slaughtered his dogs had come crashing through the fence and subsequently tangled itself in the wires. Obviously, it had managed to get free– but not without leaving something behind. The individual barbs had been liberally coated in something thick and slimy and glowing a bright, unnatural green. It slicked away from the puddles of blood as it dripped to the ground, like oil sliding off of water.

Strips of sinew and flesh and fur littered the ground around the gap. A tail here– a paw there. They had been torn into so many little pieces, he couldn’t tell what was Butch and what was Sundance. He could hardly tell they'd even been dogs.

Aside from their heads, mounted side-by-side on the splintered remains of his fence. Staring at him with glassy eyes and jaws that still snarled in fear and defiance. 

He might have screamed when he saw them– couldn’t recall much beyond the ringing in his ears and the coppery stench of death. Though, he remembered ordering his wife, Marl, to keep his little granddaughters inside, and calling his eldest out to help… dispose of what was left. 

(It wasn’t natural, what had been done to those dogs.)

(Nor had it been the work of another critter– he knew.)

(Animals didn’t kill like that. Not so… purposeful and cruel. And they didn’t make trophies of their kills neither.)

Now, Old Joe wasn’t a superstitious man.

Sure, there was a certain stereotype that came with men of his lifestyle, surviving off of the land, out in the fields with the cattle and the coyotes– but Joe still had his logic. He knew what was real and what wasn’t, despite the mutterings of certain neighbors and, funnily enough, his own wife.

And so Old Joe hadn’t been the least bit afraid, when that unfortunate business down in Amity Park had occurred. 

His forebears had chosen an interesting spot for their homestead, generations ago– what ended up being a decent midway between the town of Amity Park, and the furthest suburbs of Chicago. In fact, Old Joe and his family had done a lot of business in the town, before the incident that had leveled it completely. 

It hadn't been all that eventful for him. He hadn't even found out until a week later, when little miss Greenwick from down-the-way had come to crow about it with Marl. 

(But Joe did remember That Day, whether he knew it or not.)

(He’d spent the whole time preparing for a vicious storm, on account of the thunder rumbling off on the horizon.)

(It’s almost funny, how distance can warp a sound.)

(Sometimes, we only hear what we want to hear.)

But he remembered, with a much more focused clarity, everything that had come after. Particularly– the mass exodus of most of his friends and neighbors. 

It had been about the same time emergency services had started to warn folks about the high possibility of sinkholes opening up beneath the remains. A couple of stone-faced government-types had brought in a couple of those fancy ground radar systems, and found that the whole town was riddled worse than an acne-struck teenager in the throes of puberty. After that, the getting had been quick.

The general consensus seemed to be that the whole land was cursed, somehow. People couldn’t seem to agree on whether or not it had been cursed from the start, or if whatever calamity that had destroyed the town was what started it– either way, Joe had watched with no small amount of incredulity as the resulting hysteria ripped his neighbors up by their roots one by one. 

Many families moved away– abandoning homes and farms that had been in their name just as long as the Bakers had owned their property. None of them wanted anything to do with whatever curse had taken hold over Amity Park, and many had felt that simply living too close would somehow transfer that black magic on to them and theirs. 

At the time, Old Joe had just shook his head and waved them off.

His homestead was closer to Amity Park than all the rest, but he had never seen any reason to fear. And in the five years since, he’d mostly been right. 

But now…

Now he wasn’t so sure anymore. 

Because it hadn’t just been the dogs, after that one horrifying morning.

(He might have been able to write it off, stubborn as ever, if it had just been them.)

But the day after finding the remains of Butch and Sundance, Old Joe woke to find the hutch next to the barn utterly destroyed, and all his hens in a similar state. 

Mangled, desecrated corpses– if he could even label them that to begin with. Like his dogs, they’d been ripped into so many chunks, he couldn’t rightly call them bodies anymore. 

Uneaten, he noted. 

Just wanton slaughter. 

And every day since, Old Joe had risen in the morning to find one of his animals in the same state. 

One of his horses was gone, and whatever was responsible for it all had whittled his heifers down by six. He’d found no more of the strange green slime, however. None of the other animals that had fallen prey to it had managed to injure it the same way his barbed wire fence had.

Marl, his daughter-in-law Jess, and the grandbabies weren’t allowed outside without him or their father, or one of their uncles. His sons weren’t allowed outside without a gun. 

A tense disquiet had fallen over the farm, a black shroud like a funeral veil draped over the buildings. Delicate like spider silk. Ominous as a storm. Old Joe could feel it every time he walked out the front door, rifle in hand, eyes darting this way and that for a threat he could hardly even fathom. 

He was going to catch it tonight. 

Whatever it was– a psycho living out in the woods or a demon from the pits of Hell– he was catching it and he was putting an end to it.

He wouldn’t allow his family to continue living in fear, an invisible knife hovering over their heads. Waiting to drop. 

He’d camped out in the barn that night, now woefully more empty than it had ever been before, with the loss of so many of his animals. The survivors were skittish and agitated. Nervous in a way he’d never seen them– not when life on his farm had always been so calm and idyllic. 

(Yet another reason to hunt down whatever monster had started all this.)

Old Joe leaned back in an tattered lawn chair, rifle slung over his lap and pipe in hand, every nerve in his body electrified as he sat there next to the door and smoked and waited.  

And waited.

And waited. 

Eventually, the tobacco could only keep him alert for so long. Old Joe had begun to nod off in his seat, when finally–

There was a sound out in the fields. 

Joe jolted upright, heart in his throat, blinking back into clarity. He rose to his feet as he heard it again. 

Distant and soft, from the other side of the barn’s wide sliding door. Old Joe shuffled close and pressed his ear to the wood. Again, the sound rippled over his field.

It was low and mournful, an echoing, almost elk-like cry that faded into a drawn-out moan of agony. A distinctly human sob. Something shuffled on broad, heavy feet– a lumbering gait that Joe could feel shuddering through the dirt, and something large getting dragged laboriously across the field. It cried out again, louder this time, quavering and heartbroken. 

The hair on the back of his neck stood straight up. 

His whole body felt cold and clammy, humming with anxious energy. He clutched the gun to his chest as he tried to steady his heart. His breath. His mind, racing with fear and anticipation as the thing lurking somewhere beyond the barn door took another heavy, wavering step.

Draaag-step!

Joe switched the safety off his rifle.

Draaag-step!

He whispered the Lord's prayer under his breath, for the first time since his Pa had passed away.

Draaag-step!

Joe threw his shoulder forward and flung the barn door open, one hand still gripped tight to his gun, and lunged out into the night. Weapon raised, he frantically searched for the thing that had been stalking his farm the past week.

Ahead of him, the field his cows grazed in stretched on into the darkness of the Illinois countryside– empty. 

His legs shook, the air rattling in his lungs as he took a wary step forward. Then another, creeping out into the field by degrees. 

It was eerily quiet. Unnaturally quiet. 

No chatter from the night critters. No whisper from the wind. It was as if the whole world, around his farm at least, was holding its breath. An instinct– old as the dirt he walked on– to stay still and quiet in the presence of a stronger predator. 

Joe swept his gaze, and the muzzle of his gun, back and forth as he searched. Whatever it was had sounded big. Heavy.

So how…?

A shadow flickered to the right, in the corner of his eye. He whipped towards it, and fired a shot blindly into the dark.

Nothing.

His hands shook, a terrible sort of knowing oozing up into his chest. 

To the left– a footstep against dry grass.

Joe turned frantically to face it, finger tight against the trigger.

Nothing.

His breath came in short, panting gasps. Panic electrified his veins.

“Ain’t out here to play games, creature!” He called out hoarsely, turning this way and that. Searching. “I know yer out there!”

From the dim light flickering from within the barn, a shadow stepped into his path. 

Slowly, Old Joe looked up.

In the end, all he really saw was its eyes– wide pools of acid green, staring at him like he was the horror. Like Joe was the monster. 

It opened its jaws and wailed.

(The sound peeled the skin from his bones. He was dead before he hit the ground. Before the creature had even sunk its claws through his ribcage and pulled– )

(The commotion woke the entire homestead.)

(By the time the sun rose the next morning, there was nothing left on the property but blood and rotting meat.)

Less than a hundred miles away, a young man sitting at a large terminal gets a ping on his radar. The wall of monitors suspended overhead come alive with activity. 

(Once was an anomaly. Twice was a pattern. Eight times was a fucking issue.)

He picks up the phone.

“Director.” his voice is shot through with trepidation, eyes locked on the violently flashing screens. “We… might have a problem.”

Chapter Text

Time was a selfish creature. 

Or– perhaps it would be more accurate to say that Clockwork was a selfish creature.

(Time had no need for wants to begin with. Concepts could not feel beyond their primary function. They couldn't wish for something different. They couldn't hope. Couldn't dream. Couldn't yearn. Not the same way he did.

Time felt nothing at all. 

Clockwork felt too much.)

But of course, the very nature of Time was fluidity. So he was lucky, then, that the future was much more flexible than most people might think. There was never just one outcome to every possibility, and never one consequence to every decision.

Instead, it branched

Layer upon layer of all of Time's what-if's and could-have-beens were linked together in a complicated lattice stretching infinitely in every direction– and only Clockwork could comprehend it. 

Which, of course, also meant that only Clockwork could influence it directly. 

Because the truth about Time was that there was no universal best case scenario. No “primary timeline” to defend above all others. No predestined course for the universe to take. And far more specifically, there was no objective force to set the rules. The truth about Time was that it was largely up to Clockwork alone what path the world might take– and this had been the case of his existence since long before he could remember. Before he was even a conscious thought.

There was no destiny.

There was no fate.

There was only the Lord of Ends– and the future his hands could build.

October 20, 2015

Time Unknown

The Infinite Realms; Tribunal Headquarters

“This is outrageous!”  

Above the general din of the tribunal, a singular, furious shout carried clear over the cacophony of raised voices, strident with anger and disbelief. The cry was punctuated by a pallid blue fist coming down hard on one of the podiums on the delegation floor, an abrupt strike that very nearly fractured the ancient metal, and had most of the other delegates gathered alongside it flinching backwards. 

Silence enveloped the chamber. 

More so than usual, the tribunal headquarters of the Universal Observants was packed to the brim, overflowing with the sudden influx of uninvited spectators. The coliseum-like seats of the gallery were crowded with their usual occupants– a sea of blankly staring, one-eyed gazes with thick robes and high collars, all crisp and pristine. But far below them, the wide circle of the delegation floor played host to a more diverse gathering of agitated spirits. 

Technically speaking, the meeting had only been called amongst the Observants– an emergency gathering in the face of unthinkable calamity. But word tended to spread fast in the Realms when it came to a very specific mortal town… and when the rest of them had finally heard what happened, not a single one of them could stay away. 

Pandora was, of course, at the forefront, glaring down the Prime Observant at the head of its delegation after having forced her way into the tribunal– it was her shout that had finally silenced the room. A fearsome snarl twisted up her face, sharp teeth flashing in the half-light, and the fire at her back spiking perilously with the beat of her rage. Barely an arm’s-length to her right, Princess Dorathea gripped her own podium with enough force to carve her claws into its cold, brittle surface, looking moments away from succumbing to her own outrage as smoke drifted lazily upwards from between exposed fangs. And on the left, Frostbite towered over much of the gathered delegates like a pale, mournful shadow. His teeth were half-bared, a low persistent growl simmering in the back of his throat. The air around him plunged into subzero temperatures as he glowered down at the assemblage.

And there were dozens more scattered about the chamber. Those brave enough to slip in uninvited, lingering in the dark places. Silent, but watching the proceedings with no less interest.

Most notable among them, Fright Knight posted rigidly by the entrance, stiff as a sentinel, verdant eyes narrowed and watchful. From the broadside balcony, a trio of young ghosts– Ember, Kitty, and Johnny– sat just at the edge of the abyss, radiating their anger and distress down into the hall. A chalky, ashen shape flickered across the decorative mirrors hung from the vaulted ceiling. And up in the rafters, at the highest point of the chamber, the pale face of a lone owl perched within the deepest shadows, red eyes deeply curious. 

And this was to say nothing of those that had gathered outside the tribunal– too frightened to breach the ancient hall of judgment, but no less determined to show their support. 

Still, Time’s watchers didn’t seem at all moved by the display. At the head of the gathering, the Prime Observant blinked almost calmly at the outburst. Just behind it, seated in the enormous gallery, the rest of its kind were similarly unruffled.

“I assure you all, this decision is most sound.” the Prime Observant replied steadily, addressing the space at large. It might have even sounded confused by their anger, if it were capable of such a thing. Still, it turned to face the Ancient directly, unaffected by her visible rage. “I urge you to take care not to lose your objectivity in this matter, Lady Pandora. While the current situation is regrettable, our priority must be maintaining the stability of the Realms.”

“Regrettable?” The Lady of the Acropolis drew back like a snake rearing to strike, incandescent with rage, “Our Crown Prince has been abducted by the enemy! The entire royal fraid has been taken, the humans have destroyed his haunt–”

“You needn’t recite the facts of the case to me once more, Lady Pandora.” The Prime Observant cut her off with a slow, languid blink, gesturing mechanically to the gallery, “We are well aware of what occurred that night, and we have already devised a solution. Your interjections here have been unnecessary from the beginning. The longer we spend in this pointless deliberation, the more time is wasted, and the more dire our situation becomes.”

“Except what you’ve offered us is no solution at all!” Dorathea challenged, scales beginning to creep tellingly across the high arch of her cheeks. “It’s wholesale slaughter– even if you refuse to see it as such!”

“Your objections here are entirely illogical.” The Observant waved her aside with maddening placidity, like it was talking down to a particularly stubborn child. “Pruning an unviable dimension is a common occurrence– often a necessity for the health of the timeline, and of the Realms themselves– and it certainly isn’t comparable to slaughter. You are allowing your emotions to interfere with sound decision-making, my Lady–”

“You’re asking us to abandon our Prince!” Pandora snarled, “To leave the entire royal fraid in the hands of those– those monsters!”

“We do not ask such a thing, Lady Pandora.” The Prime Observant corrected her with another slow blink. “Removing that specific dimension from the fabric of the Realms would purge everyone within it, including the Prince and his fraid. And while that is certainly an unfortunate consequence, it also means that they would no longer be subject to the inhumane conditions the mortals have placed them in.” Insincerity dripped from its words, as if it had been soaked into every syllable. It spoke with the same cajoling politeness of a career politician. “A dimensional purge would alleviate their suffering immediately – and it is only because of the attachment you feel towards the boy that you do not see the compassion of this decision.”

“Compassion!” The ever-patient Ancient of Hope had never looked so incensed– not in the centuries since she’d taken the title, and settled her reign over the Acropolis. Heat radiated from the mane of fire at her back in thick, invisible waves, and the atmosphere within the tribunal grew sticky with tension. Anticipation. 

Lady Pandora looked seconds away from physically throwing herself at the delegation, spear in hand. Dorathea seemed not far behind her. 

“It was pointless of you to call this meeting from the start– no matter the argument you make.” From the far side of the delegation floor, Frostbite’s answering growl was brittle as winter wind, ushering in a renewed chill that crept across the hall soft and silent, like a predator on the hunt. It banked the high, shivering flames at Pandora’s back, and commanded an effortless silence as the gallery settled once more. “This isn’t even your decision to make. Not anymore.”

He glared fixedly at the Prime Observant, an uncharacteristically stern expression on a face so usually kind and careworn.

“We are no longer operating under the reign of an absent, sleeping King.” The yeti continued. “The crown and ring are no longer Pariah’s by right– they are Daniel’s. And until the boy can claim them properly, decisions of this magnitude can only be made by a royal Regent.” 

And for the first time since the ill-fated meeting had begun, the Prime Observant narrowed its gaze. A different kind of silence radiated before the gallery of observants, choked by the tension of something almost irate. Territorial. 

Whispers rose from the surrounding ghosts. 

“The Crown Prince did not name his Regent before his unfortunate capture.” From among the first row of seats, a particularly bold Observant declared, “So we’ve no choice but to fall back on precedent!” 

“You’re wrong. ”

The Ancient of Time blinked into their midst with barely a flicker. There was a soft rush of wind and the distant, grinding clatter of rolling gears– and suddenly Clockwork was there, towering above the delegation floor. There was an unnatural stillness to him, a cold, cadaver rigidity to his expression that cast a blanket of unease across the tribunal, his body washed in an almost sickly pallor. Only his eyes remained the same, unflinching and ruby-bright, like blood on snow.

He’d come empty-handed, arms folded neatly at his back and a deep frown tugging at his lips. The moment he’d arrived, his gaze had found the Prime Observant with military precision, and hadn’t turned away from it since. The two spirits stared at each other for a long, breathless moment– a soundless stand-off between the heads of two warring tribes.

“Clockwork,” Pandora sounded near breathless with relief. “At last– Tell these fools they can't just –”

Clockwork held up his hand, silencing his fellow Ancient with a quiet, unreadable look as he finally broke gazes with the Prime Observant. An eerie silence settled heavily over the chamber.

“I understand,” He spoke into the quiet, his voice no more than a murmur, yet audible to every spirit in the room, “that our current circumstances have given you all reasonable cause for alarm.” His eyes, a glowing sheen of unbroken crimson, zeroed in on the gallery of observants. “But I'm afraid I cannot allow you to purge an entire dimension just to assuage your own fears.” 

“Our fears?” came a splutter from the gallery, riddled with the first hints of outrage. “None of this would be happening at all if you'd simply destroyed the boy months ago– as instructed!” 

This drew a hiss of warning from Dorathea, as a ripple of renewed anger passed over the delegation floor, a thick miasma of ire oozing from the crowd of uninvited spectators. Clockwork's eyes narrowed at the reminder– a bleak once-future narrowly avoided, a dented thermos hidden away in his own lair. 

“What is that supposed to mean?” The draconic spirit hissed, gaze roving from party to party.

“The halfling is not fit to rule these Realms, and never has been.” The Prime Observant replied. “His Kingship led us to ruination–”

“-in a timeline that is no longer possible.” Clockwork interjected sternly. “Daniel himself has made sure of that.” 

“And yet the risk remains,” The Observant insisted. “In one form or another. We recognize that you have grown unduly attached, Clockwork, but he cannot outrun his destiny forever– and the Realms must be protected above all else, or the entire cosmic alignment of our universe will splinter.”

At the very mention of Danny's so-called destiny, the room crackled with a threatening sort of energy, simmering at a low and potent boil as Clockwork’s frown deepened into the faintest suggestion of violence. The Prime Observant visibly paused, staring at the Ancient in something close to genuine shock. 

“The decision has already been made.” It wasn’t a growl– but it was a very near thing, the low rasp of Clockwork’s voice. A twisting, trembling thing that promised retribution. “I made the boy my responsibility, and therefore in his absence, the duties of Regent now fall to me.” He declared. “There will be no dimensional purge– in fact, you are to cease interfering on this matter entirely, and leave the situation to the Ancients.”

Around him, the gallery of observants immediately stirred to life– a sudden frenzy of shouted protests and expletives. 

“This is a mistake, Clockwork, mark me–” The Prime Observant spoke lowly.

“This discussion is over.” The Ancient of Time announced, waving aside the Prime Observant almost errantly as he turned to address the assembly at large– the gallery, the delegation floor, the eavesdropping spirits lingering in the rafters. His eyes met Frostbite first– then Pandora.

“It’s imperative that I speak to you all– soon.” He addressed his fellow Ancients. “Please warn the others to wait for my call. We will have very little time to act.”

Ancients are endlessly complex beings. And second only to their astronomical power was the mystery surrounding their very creation– each and every one was somehow different. 

But Clockwork remembered them all. 

The brothers Vortex and Undergrowth were almost as old as Clockwork himself– the twin aspects of nature, the endless cycle of Destruction and Rebirth– chasing the tailcoat of Time as the cosmos first exploded into being. Primordial powers they had been, warring across a molten, newborn universe until at last, life took root that could survive his brother’s disasters, and they were named Lord of Renewal, and Lord of Calamity respectively. 

But as that life grew and evolved, it shaped itself into new things, moving things– thinking things. And in quick succession, Fear was born leaping out of the dark, with eyes like glowing emeralds and a mane of fell fire. He chased those living things in a hunt without end, and those that survived learned to be quicker, faster, smarter than the others. And they passed those lessons down to their children, and their children’s children, and the specter that chased them was honored as Lord of Tribulation.

Aeons passed. There were more.

The living Dreamed. And Hoped. And Remembered. And Wandered. And in each of these things there came an embodiment existing in the spaces between– without direction or instruction, like thoughts only half formed out of the stardust. 

The greatest question then, of course, was why?

Why did the Ancients exist? 

Fueled by their aspects they may be, but they are not beholden to them. Life itself would not wither away if the Ancient of Nature were to End– nor would calamities disappear if his brother were to follow. Fear would not vanish if its knight ceased to exist. And even without their Ancients, the living would still Dream, and Hope, and Remember, and Wander. 

What, then, was the point of them? 

January 09, 2016

Time Unknown

The Infinite Realms; Undisclosed

“Am I to truly believe that you have come to ask for our help in this matter?” 

Though it had been some time since they’d last spoken, Nocturn’s tone was just as caustic and biting as Clockwork recalled, brittle with centuries of old bitterness. Yet for all the incredulity of his words, there was a telling undercurrent of manic glee in his voice that immediately gave away his game. 

Not since the subjugation and sealing of Pariah Dark, thousands of years ago, had the Ancients stood face-to-face together, on neutral ground. Clockwork had called them all together regardless– all of them, for the first time in a dizzying number of generations. 

They met on an island– barren, empty, and nondescript. A chunk of dark, craggy rock suspended over an endless void of verdant green, like so many thousands of others scattered across the Realms. The island’s surface was a flat plane of coarse dirt and gravel only two-dozen meters wide, and utterly featureless save for the clandestine meeting it now hosted. It had no special significance, other than its sizable distance away from all prying eyes and ears– nothing surrounding it for hundreds of mortal miles. And even then, its utter isolation was almost unnecessary.

(Unlike the tribunal hall of the Observants, no denizen of the Realms would dare attempt to intrude on a meeting like this uninvited, no matter how determined.)

“I’m shocked,” The Lord of Shadows simpered, pale face split with a coquettish grin. The dripping darkness of his starry cloak coiled around their gathering like the tail of a serpent, sticky and clinging as tar. “Surely you already know how this chapter ends, Clockwork– you always do.” And the dream spirit's grin slowly widened into something more mocking, sharp teeth bared to the half-light of the open Realms. “Finally decided to spoil the plot for the rest of us, eh? Now there's a first.”

Nearer to Clockwork’s side, Pandora bristled in clear offense. The flames of her hair jutted higher as she batted away the oil-black shroud, irritation bleeding into her stance by degrees. 

“You've no room to speak, shadow. ” She rebuked him, glowering darkly. “How long has it been since our last gathering? And you are still about as personable as a viper, and twice as venomous.”

Nocturn’s gaze snapped to her in turn, as if he'd only just noticed she was there. His grinning face took on a decidedly meaner cast. 

“Only twice?” He crooned, almost innocently. Then, “So good to see you, Pandora– I do believe it's been centuries!” His condescension was layered thickly over each word, and the cold glint in his ruby eyes made it obvious that he wished those centuries had lasted longer. “Not still guarding that dusty old box, are you?” 

“I see we’re off to quite a running start.” To the left, closer to Frostbite’s looming uncomfortabilty, a pale-cloaked figure lingered at the fringes, the ghostly wisp of his tail still suspended just over solid ground. “I was under the impression that Clockwork had called us together as allies– not infants. It seems not even centuries apart has curbed your immaturity.” 

“I’d advise you to save your suspense on the matter, Lord of Frontiers,” From the opposite end of the little island Fright Knight stood tall and insouciant, watching the proceedings with a critical, disapproving eye. “Change is not in our nature. You’ll find each personality on this rock exactly as you left them.” And the ghostly knight crossed his arms, his gaze sweeping over the gathering as a whole, “Then again, you all certainly have a talent for never allowing rationality to get in the way of your ignorance. How predictable.”

“Enough.”

Though feather-soft, and bereft of any inflection, Clockwork's murmur seemed to strike the island's surface like the crack of a bullwhip. It lingered heavily in the silence thereafter. 

All eyes turned to the Ancient of Time. 

(Still, after so many centuries.)

“Clockwork…” Pandora addressed him cautiously, “Why have you called us here?” 

It was a pertinent question. One of the many that they all surely had, and one she very well had the right to ask after his showing at the Tribunal… but it wasn't the question. That faint flicker behind bright eyes– that subtle spark of accusation.

Buried so deep, he wasn't even sure she was actively aware of it.

Still, it was there in her eyes. And in the way Frostbite had yet to even look at him. In Fright Knight's knowing silence, and the distant, sibilant hiss of Undergrowth's vines digging into the island like a clenched fist. 

Why didn't you prevent this?

(He tells himself that perhaps he could have, if only he’d been less cavalier. It only makes him feel better about half the time.)

“Because our options are unfortunately limited when it comes to choosing the appropriate path forward.” He admitted quietly, glancing at each of the gathered Ancients in turn. “And if we wish to achieve the most desirable future out of the many this situation has presented… it will require your assistance. And your discretion.”

“All of us?” At this, even Pandora sounded doubtful, casting a sharp glance at the still-grinning shadow of Nocturn– and more distantly, the dour, sulking silhouette of Vortex, standing nearer to his brother.

(Their last feat of concrete teamwork had been well over a few centuries ago. And they hadn’t exactly been known for getting along in all the time since.)

Clockwork held in a weary sigh.

(He wasn’t looking forward to it either.)

“Although I suppose, with all of us together we’d have more than enough strength to crush that mortal military.” Pandora had continued, almost musing to herself. Her flames began to brighten as she examined the possibility, and she started to look significantly more cheered at the thought. “It would be faster– we could have the Prince and his fraid free within the hour! We could bring them home– ”

Clockwork cut her off with a gentle wince, extending a hand as if to placate a cornered animal, “No– no, that’s not what I’ve called you here for.” He said, “I’ve not planned an invasion, Pandora, we will not be attacking the humans. Not like that .”

Pandora blinked back at him, visibly affronted. 

“What do you mean ‘ not like that’?” The towering woman hissed, the weight of her ire briefly pushing aside whatever respect she held for the Ancient of Time. “We should be fighting! Doing whatever it takes to recover them!”

Pandora’s frustrations ran deep, Clockwork knew. Especially after months of radio silence.

Despite the benign epitaph she’d been borne into– Ancient of Hope– Pandora was a woman of action. And, at times, incredible violence. Because as a spirit, she was subject to the same inclinations and instincts as the rest of them, most specifically in the urge to clash with others. And the aspect that she embodied only stoked the embers of that particular fire.

Because hope, too, was an action– a pretty word that belied the teeth necessary to achieve it. Not just a longing, but an aspiration. An ambition.  

A thing with feathers, yes, but also talons.

Razor sharp and biting hard. Clutching your full fist around the thing you want more than anything else in the world, and fighting for it. 

But beyond that, Pandora was a defender, all the way down to her core. Had she not come into this unlife as an Ancient, Clockwork was certain she would have become a protector spirit to rival even Daniel’s ever-growing power. 

It was almost cruel of him, asking her to stand to the side while someone she deemed her own was suffering. 

(He’d debated, for a while, simply not telling her how much worse it was going to get. To spare her the momentary pain, until the world had been put to rights once more.

But she would find out, eventually. 

They would all find out, eventually.)

“Attacking the humans outright will only worsen the situation.” Clockwork attempted to placate her. “It won’t end the way you want it to.”

And here, at least, he was telling the truth. 

The only reason it had taken him as long as it had to call the rest of the Ancients together was because he’d spent every waking moment since the attack– since That Day– threading his way through timeline after timeline. One by one, he’d filtered through each possible future, a mind-numbing, incalculable number of possibilities, each of them ruled by an equally uncountable number of little decisions. Everyday choices, made by each of the key players on the board. Every idle whim and split-second change-of-mind that sent ripples out across each branching order of events. The butterfly, flapping its wings, again and again and again. 

He’d found that launching an attack on the humans only worked as a short-term strategy. In the array of futures where such an attack bore fruit, and Daniel and his friends were successfully rescued, it only led to further conflicts between the living and the dead. A series of escalations spiraling steadily into an ultimately abysmal future, in which the newly-crowned King had no choice but to wipe out the world he’d once called home, for the sake of all ghost-kind. 

Unacceptable.

And this wasn’t even to speak of the myriad of futures in which Daniel loses one or more of his fraidmates in the ensuing conflicts. 

(Losing his loved ones to a simple accident had been enough to transform Daniel into a monster incarnate, in another life. But having them murdered intentionally– struck down at the hands of Waller’s Black Badge, often in front of him…  

The transformation defied description. 

Clockwork had learned quickly to discard those timelines immediately. They must all survive, or the world was doomed anyway.)

Attempting to reverse the situation– to go back, and warn Daniel before That Day– usually ended just as grimly. The boy simply refused to abandon the town, no matter how hopeless their defenses became. And where he went, there his fraid remained.

(He found very few timelines where they didn’t die together. And the ones he had found simply became too dark and horrific to speak of.)

Clockwork was forced to accept, distressingly early into the endeavor, that Amity Park was beyond saving. 

There was very little he could do for them at all, beyond what was to come. And unlike young Daniel, the Ancient of Time knew when he must abandon a lost cause– to prioritize what he must.

Eventually, Clockwork was forced to accept the reality he’d been tacitly avoiding. That the web Amanda Waller had trapped them in was woven so intricately, undoing it would be a lengthy and arduous process– one that had to be handled with the utmost care and discretion. However mortal she may be, Waller was an experienced hunter. And very much like a real spider, struggling too violently within her web would only draw her down to where they were most vulnerable.

Cunning as she was, however… she’d meet no opponent more patient than the Ancient of Time. Playing the long game was as easy as breathing to someone like Clockwork.

His fellow Ancients, however… 

“You want us to leave them there.” 

It wasn’t a question. Pandora didn’t need his clarification– only his admission.

A quiet wrath bubbled beneath her words. Clockwork knew that it was only her inherent respect for him that held her back.

But still.

“I want no such thing.” He corrected sternly. The words were as biting and waspish as he’d ever managed to sound, layered over with the seething bitterness churning steadily within his core and cracking through the mask of calm aloofness he usually adopted. “But what I want and what must be done in order to secure the best possible future for all of us are two very different things.” 

“If the humans cannot be attacked, then what would you have us do?” Fright Knight intervened– ever pragmatic in his dealings. He’d crossed his arms, staring unblinkingly at Clockwork through the deep shadow of his helmet. 

“I need something different from each of you.” Clockwork began, meeting their gazes one by one. “But if we can all play our parts as instructed, the situation can still be salvaged. Everything will be alright… eventually. But I need you to work with me.” 

To Pandora and Fright Knight, he continued, “The humans have taken control of Daniel’s haunt– more specifically, they’ve taken control of the portal beneath his old home. They’re establishing themselves underground– relying on secrecy to continue their operations. But eventually, they will attempt to invade the Realms through that portal.”

“They cannot be allowed to push any further than the exit.” He told them, grim-faced and serious. The two exchanged a tense glance as he spoke. “I will be relying on the two of you to defend our side of the portal. No matter what they throw at you, they cannot be allowed to infiltrate the Realms.” 

Pandora’s back straightened, core practically buzzing with renewed energy. It did her a lot of good, he knew, to finally have a direction to point all of her restless energy– even if it would be months yet before she would need it. 

“Is there anything you need us to… avoid?” She asked, almost delicately. Skirting around the real question. 

“No.” Clockwork replied coldly, a certain careful blankness returning to his expression. “You are to use whatever force you deem necessary. If they continue to push– you must kill them.”

Pandora’s answering flinch was so slight, he could almost convince himself he’d imagined it. But the startled glint in her eyes, blinked away just as quickly, was telling enough. 

(And it wasn’t so much that he’d ordered them to kill that had baffled her, he was well aware. Pandora wasn’t nearly so squeamish. 

It was the lack of hesitation, more than anything. And the tiniest note of wrath buried beneath a layer of frigid tones. 

More than anything, Clockwork was angry.)

Neither of them argued. Fright Knight even seemed content with his marching orders. 

The edges of his cloak brushed faintly against the jagged rock of the island as Clockwork turned to face the rest of his fellows– specifically the three less sociable of their kin. He very pointedly did not entertain their scoffing and scowling.

The mocking grin had long since vanished from Nocturn’s pale, heart-shaped face, and shadows dripped from the folds of his cloak like oily tears. Undergrowth’s vines continued to constrict around the heart of the island like a great nest of boas, and the edges of his beak clicked and scraped along with the irritated hiss rising in his throat. At his side, Vortex loomed unusually quiet, static sparkling along clawed fingertips where his arms were crossed tight, glaring down at Clockwork with a mighty scowl. 

How ironic it was, that he needed his three troublemakers the most in this moment. 

“They are going to kill the Prince’s fraid.” He told them, without much preamble.

There isn’t much of a reaction, beyond Frostbite’s dismayed gasp somewhere to the left of them. 

“Specifically,” Clockwork continued, “They are going to kill them and forge them into halfas– like Daniel.” 

That caused them to stir. 

Nocturn’s shadows grew somehow darker, squirming around him like the lashing tail of an agitated cat. Vortex scoffed out something like an irate growl, ruby eyes glaring.

“Gods, two of ‘em was plenty,” the weather ghost griped, “Why would they want more?”  

“For power.” Clockwork replied, fists clenched low at his sides. “They believe that they can put Daniel and his fraid on a leash. To tame them the same way they might tame a wild animal. And then they will use that power in service of their own needs.”

From there, it’s easy enough to read between the lines. 

Not only could the Prince and his fraid be used in an array of petty, useless human conflicts– they could also be weaponized against their own people. Against the Realms themselves. 

(Clockwork alone knew that it wasn’t a simple matter of possibility– it was a foregone conclusion. And they had very little time in which to avoid such futures.)

“So what do you want us to do about that?” Vortex challenged with a cold sneer. 

“They’re going to need instruction.” Clockwork explained. The subtle glint in his eyes was the flash of a blade concealed– a quiet warning not to argue. “Because our direct interference in the situation would only worsen the outcome, they cannot be rescued. Therefore, our only recourse is to equip them with the knowledge they will need to rescue themselves. Your responsibility will be to assist in their growth, and to ensure they’re where they need to be when the time comes.”

Vortex tossed his head back with a sharp bark of laughter, a glint of jagged teeth beneath cruel mirth, and the storm clouds circling his winding tail crackled with static and energy. He fixed Clockwork with a jeering glare. 

“You want us to train the halfling’s whelp friends?” It was more accusation than question, toeing the border between derision and blatant disrespect. It was immediately followed by another grating cackle.

On either side of him, both Undergrowth and Nocturn had fallen noticeably silent. Contemplative. 

“I’ve no interest in holding hands with some mewling half-breed while they struggle to figure out which way’s up and how to get there.” Vortex sneered, “If it were up to me, that entire world would be a smear on the canvas by now– and if you ask me, we should have just let the Observants blow it to hell! I don’t know why you insist on clinging to one single, insignificant–”

The weather spirit’s building tirade was silenced with a violent, breathless wheeze as the clawed hand of Time itself drove him directly into the dirt. The sheer force of the blow cracked the rock beneath them, and the island shuddered precariously over the infinite void. 

Vortex was pinned flat on his back, wincing as the cold sting of deadly talons sank warningly into his chest. Clockwork loomed over him like a gravestone, rigid and unyielding, light pulsing ominously from the hand that held the other Ancient in place. Around them, their kin had fallen into uneasy disarray. Undergrowth alone was the only one that had not retreated several sizable lengths when the violence erupted. His vines writhed around him, stricken by uncertainty. Unsure if he should step in on his brother’s behalf. Unsure if he even could.

“This is not up for discussion.” Clockwork seethed calmly, his rage banked by aeons of careful control. “Nor was it a request.” His expression was like carved granite, cold and still and unflinching. Weathered only by his own nature. “You will accept this responsibility, Vortex– or your incarceration among the Observants will be the very least of your problems. Do you understand?”

The Ancient of Disaster finally seemed to gather himself, baring sharp teeth in a furious hiss as he pushed back against Clockwork’s heavy hand, the claws pinning him to the stone.

But his thrashing got him nowhere. Clockwork remained unmoved.

“Do you understand?”

At last, the weather spirit went still, red eyes glaring mutinously despite his acquiescence. He nodded once, and was immediately released. 

“It will be a while longer yet before you can attend to them.” Clockwork continued, as if the brief outburst hadn’t happened at all. He returned to his previous post, floating languidly just over the island, his cloak fluttering lazily around him. “Until then, the three of you will wait for my word. When the time comes, Nocturn– you will assist in facilitating each meeting. Your powers will allow all of you to appear before your charges unseen by the humans.” 

And to his credit, the Ancient of Dreams was much quicker on the uptake. He simply nodded, still watching Clockwork from a careful distance, like one might watch a rattling snake. 

Time turned to his remaining associates, watching him warily from a safer distance away. 

“I have something very specific I need you to do, Sojourn.”

Clockwork was the Eldest.

He flickered into existence only a second after the universe did– the very moment there was an After to even consider. 

So it just made sense that the rest of them would look to him.

That did not mean, however, that he had all of the answers.

(Far from it.)

(Some days, Clockwork was more lost than any of them.)

July 11, 2016

6:43 AM

COCYTUS; Black Badge Containment Facility

“Time out.”

Unlike the other Ancients, when the time finally came to see to his own charge, Clockwork had no need of Nocturn’s tricks and illusions. Not when he could lock out the rest of the world so thoroughly on his own.

It did not, however, alleviate any of his desperate unhappiness when it came to actually seeing the boy in person. 

Daniel was listless, sprawled across a simple cot in the new cell his captors had placed him in and laid low by a potent combination of powerful sedatives and separation sickness. 

(They’d only just divided up the fraid, and scattered them across the country. The strain such distance put upon their cores, so newly formed, was not insignificant. It would be some time before any of them adjusted to the pain.

Within the next few days, Clockwork knew the others in his charge’s fraid would make contact with their own mentors. This too did little to soothe the sting of reality.)

He was frightfully pale, hair damp and sticky with sweat against his forehead. The powder blue of the scrubs they had him, combined with the utter blank whiteness of his cell, seemed to suck all the color and vitality out of him.

He looked like a sick child. Weakened, and entirely too small. 

Danny stirred when Clockwork appeared, exhaling a puff of cool mist as his ghostly senses immediately activated. Slowly, one at a time, the young halfa managed to peel his eyes open and stare blearily across the room, at the floating, amorphous blur of purple hovering only a few inches away. His pupils were dilated and unfocused– hazy with fever and pain. 

“...Clockwork?” He croaked weakly. Then, eyes widening in realization, “Clockwork!”

He lurched upright– or tried to, only managing to rise a few centimeters before gravity reclaimed him, his body made all the heavier by the weight of the grief pulsing through his core. Clockwork floated closer almost hesitantly, to kneel beside the cot.

“I’m here now, Danny.” He murmured. Then, softer– “I am… sorry. That it’s taken so long.” 

Still, dizzy and frantic, the halfling reached out with clumsy fingers to grab the Ancient’s hand. Even in his addled state, the strength of his grip was vice-like with desperation, eyes wide and only half-seeing. 

“Clockwork,” he gasped again. It seemed to be all he could focus on. “You have to– y-you have to–”

Save them–help us–make it stop–

All of those things and more. Danny never managed to choke them out, but Clockwork heard them all the same. 

He squeezed the boy’s hand, ruby eyes downcast. 

“Everything is going to be alright, Danny.” He said. 

Clearly, it wasn’t what the halfling wanted to hear. It wasn’t the affirmation he needed– the reassurance that he and his fraid would be safe soon.

Just that they would be eventually.

“Clockwork?” Confusion. Almost a protest.

“... I’m sorry, Daniel.” Never had he felt so useless. Aeons incalculable spent toeing the line of infinite possibility, and yet still– telling the boy in the cot he must wait a while longer for rescue is the hardest thing he’s ever done. 

“What do you mean?” Danny croaked. His eyes were wide and glistening, glinting with a telltale sheen. Water and saline.

With a heavy sigh, the Ancient of Time folded the halfa’s still-clutching hand in both of his own, settling low on the floor, against the edge of the cot. He wished, for a moment, that he had any mortal warmth to offer, with the way the boy’s fingers twitched and trembled between his own, knuckles bloodless and thin and tinted with the perpetual chill of the room. Any small comfort he could give, he’d offer in a heartbeat.

(This is the first time in a long while he’s found himself to be so utterly lacking. It galls.)

“I’m sorry, Danny.” He apologized again. Pathetic, that this was all he could ask for. “It took… quite some time, for me to find the best path to take. But there is a plan in place to free you.” Clockwork explained, tempered by the weight of his own webs.

(It was one thing, to speak of a plan dispassionately among colleagues. It was quite another thing to do the same in the company of the one most affected. To look a suffering child in the eyes and tell him “Not yet,” and pray that he understood.)

“However…” He began, wincing as the look of naked hope in Danny’s eyes dimmed significantly. 

“How long?” The halfling asked, his voice little more than a ragged whisper. Utterly resigned. 

“I’m afraid it will be… a while yet, Danny.” Clockwork murmured. He can’t bring himself to reveal the whole of it– the full picture of what’s to come, in his near future. “It’s best that the specifics remain… elusive, for now.”

(Had he always been this much of a coward? Or had it been caring for the boy in the first place– that fostered this weakness in him?)

Perhaps the worst part about it– Daniel doesn’t even condemn him. He doesn’t shout or curse or rail at Clockwork in any of the ways the Ancient knows he richly deserves. He doesn’t pull his hand away and banish the ghost from his presence, doesn’t try to demand a different course of action, no matter how futile. 

His expression simply crumpled, face turned to the starchy pillow of his cot as the tears finally overflowed. A child, stretched far too thin. Far too accepting of his own suffering. 

And Clockwork has never had a beating heart. Has never lived a single day as a mortal, warm and fragile and alive. He has no baseline with which to measure just what heartbreak might feel like– but he thinks he can feel it all the same, in this moment. A hairline fracture, sunk deep into his core. A faultline, plunging straight to the very center. Sharp, somehow. A pulsing sort of pain.

So he stayed. He held Daniel’s hand between his own. He said nothing else.

(It was all he could do.)

“Why did this happen?” Danny whispered, after several long minutes. His face was still wet, his voice thick with emotion. “Why didn’t you see it coming?” 

Did you see it coming, the boy didn’t ask. Did you see, and do nothing?  

Did you decide this was necessary? 

Clockwork shook his head– an instinctual denial, just this side of desperate.

“The lattice of time is… complicated. Possibility is always in fluctuation.” He replied quietly. His eyes became glazed and distant, fixed on the invisible strands of light woven all around them.

Strands only he could see.

“I once told you that for me, looking at time was like viewing a parade… from above.” He continued. “Seeing which path it could take beforehand, and knowing what might have happened had a different decision been made. Imagine all of those roads, thousands upon thousands of them, branching infinitely away from the parade. What exact path it might take, then, is largely based on proximity. Time is… much the same way. Usually, the most likely outcome– or the easiest to obtain– is the one that is closest.” 

He could feel the weight of Danny’s eyes on him. Watching. Considering.

“I… was aware of this possibility.” He admitted softly, quickly following with, “But it was such a distant path– so far away in terms of probability, I admit… I had simply discarded it. There were so many other, more likely paths, I never imagined–” 

Clockwork looked away, scalded beneath the burning touch of his own incompetence.

Arrogance.

“I’m sorry, Danny.” Yet again, he apologized. A poor conciliation considering the devastating consequences of his thoughtlessness. 

“Do you… know where the others are?” Daniel asked, rather than acknowledge Clockwork’s stumbling, feeble explanations. The Ancient of Time nodded, slow but firm. 

“They have each been taken to their own containment facilities,” Clockwork explained, “In cities with unusually high concentrations of ectoplasm.”

“Where?” The boy pressed.

He sighed heavily. “Your sister was taken further northeast, to Gotham. Your friends Samantha and Tucker are in Colorado and Louisiana respectively. Young Danielle was taken northwest, somewhere in Oregon.”

“And are they… okay?” 

“They’re as well as they can be.” Clockwork assured him. “But all of you will feel quite sick for a time. It isn’t healthy for your fraidbonds to be stretched this thin– not with such newly formed cores.”

“So that’s what this is?” Danny griped almost wryly, his free hand coming up to weakly push his sweaty hair away from his forehead. “Thought they’d just put me on the good stuff when they–” He faltered, a tremor rolling down his spine. “When they moved us.” He finished quietly. 

“Daniel…” Clockwork began, almost hesitantly. “Do you know where you are?” 

Slowly, achingly, the halfling nodded.

“I knew when I woke up.” He whispered, a faraway look clouding the blue of his eyes. Then, after several beats of tense silence– “Why does it… feel like this? ” 

“Twisted up.” Danny prompted, when Clockwork glanced at him in question. “Wrong.”

A grim line settled over Clockwork’s brow.

(Blank white eyes watch him from a wary distance.)

(“I have something very specific I need you to do, Sojourn.”)

“Listen closely, Daniel. There’s something you have to know.”

The truth of the matter is this:

Clockwork is not a God.

He is not omniscient. He cannot be everywhere at once, nor can he solve every problem with a snap of his fingers. His foreknowledge often does little to prevent what calamities he sees, and he has very little control over the hearts and minds of mortal things. 

They make their own decisions. They chart their own courses.

The truth of the matter is this:

Such a God does not exist. 

But make no mistake, there are plenty of gods in the universe. The Realms overflow with them, from the most benevolent and benign to the utmost cruel and commanding– all find their way into the spaces between, eventually. But for all the power they wield, they too are just as limited as Clockwork himself. As his fellow Ancients. 

But every day, countless mortals cry out to an unseen Supreme. An Almighty. Picturing in their minds the pinnacle of existence, all-knowing and all-seeing and all-being somehow. A sovereign before whom they may cast down even their most insignificant of troubles, and beg for something better.

Clockwork is not a God– but there are times in which he imitates one. 

Who else is there to hear those invisible prayers? To observe in mortal devotion as they shout their pleas into a great, cosmic emptiness that cannot hear them and does not care.

Would they find it at all comforting– to know that at least someone was listening?

Even if that someone could do nothing at all for them.

June 08, 2017

8:56 PM

Avernus; Primary Facility

He arrived just in time to prevent disaster. There are only seconds to spare.

“Time out.”

Ahead of him, at the other end of a long white room, the ghost clutching a silvery chrome canister to his chest whipped around with a warbling screech. His pale eyes flashed with blind aggression, claws gripped desperately around the thermos as it searched in vain for a way around him. A way out.

(The use of blood blossoms in the bunker’s construction meant that the facility was largely impenetrable by ghostly standards. Phasing in and out was simply too painful.) 

(A nuisance, to be sure. But one that worked in Clockwork’s favor this time.)

Clockwork immediately lifted his hands, palms open and bare as he attempted to soothe the agitated spirit. Frozen in time as they were, there was no longer a risk of alerting any of the myriad of guards scattered across the facility– but the Ancient of time would still rather avoid a physical confrontation with such an unstable ghost. He feared the sudden violence would destabilize the boy entirely– and he’d scatter into a billion particles there and then. 

“Calm– please.” Clockwork spoke softly. Gently. “I’m here to help you.” 

The spirit was young. Painfully young. He wore the same pale, washed out scrubs that Clockwork had seen Danny and his friends wearing, and though he bore no other outward signs of violence, his freckled face was scattered with cuts and bruises, blooming darkly against the translucent blue of his skin. He was tall and lanky in that awkward, teenaged way. Still growing into his body when his life was cut short. His arms were thin and bony from a lingering malnourishment.

“Stay back!” The spirit hissed. His voice crackled like static against the air, like a livewire primed with energy, and his claws scratched against the thermos in his grip with a hair-raising screech. “Leave us alone!”

“I didn’t mean to startle you.” Clockwork continued. He kept his expression painstakingly controlled as he floated forward– one centimeter at a time. “You were about to make a mistake. It would have alerted the rest of the facility.”

“I said go away!” Light flared in his hands, and the ghost lashed out at Clockwork, firing off a beam of concentrated energy directly at the Ancient’s face. 

“We’re not going back!”

Avoiding the blast was a simple matter, and Clockwork used the momentum to carry him closer to the boy, to latch on to the wrist of his exposed hand and immobilize him. Immediately, the boy’s ghost seized in his grip, releasing another staticky screech of panic. His form rippled and blurred as his emotions overwhelmed him. Ecto-energy flared at his palm once more, searing with point-blank accuracy into Clockwork’s shoulder.

(The Ancient hardly felt it. This ghost was so new and so unpracticed, the burn was barely even comparable to a hard shove.)

“I’m not here to take you back.” Clockwork assured him, speaking carefully above the next grating, butchered howl of rage. “I promise, I won’t allow them to seal you away again. My name is Clockwork, and I am going to help you.” 

The scream of static faded to a low drone, eyes of bright green glaring out at him from the haze of glitching, shivering blue caught in his grasp, the thermos still cradled in his other arm. His struggling slowed, and the heavy cloud of panic projecting off of him in waves quickly dampened into something like hostile consideration. 

“Do you remember your name?” Clockwork asked, in the relative quiet that followed. 

For a few long moments, the eyes continued to stare at him. The only noise in the time-locked room was the faint, rattling hiss of energy coming from the specter. 

“Wes.” The ghost finally warbled around another mouthful of static. “...My name was Wes.”

“Wes.” Clockwork affirmed warmly, slowly loosening his grip on the boy’s wrist. “Do you remember how you got here, Wes? How you got free?”

The hum of energy in the room rose perilously as the boy’s agitation returned. He seemed to twist inwardly onto himself, tugging roughly on his own hair with the hand now freed from Clockwork’s grasp. His answering hiss slowly wavered into a frightened whine. 

“It's alright if you don’t.” Clockwork told him. “Don’t try and force it.”

“I was… I-I needed to– I need to tell someone.” Wes finally gasped, quaking with urgency. Green eyes locked unerringly on Clockwork as he suddenly lurched forward. “I have to tell them– they have to know! They have to know the truth, I’m the only one who can tell them!”

“Alright, it’s alright.” The Ancient placated him. The look in the boy’s eyes was almost feverish– overwhelmed, it seemed, by a newly forming Obsession. Something tied inextricably with his death. Clockwork had little recourse but to indulge him, though he knew not exactly who the boy was speaking of. “I’ll help you tell them. We’ll make sure they all know.” 

Cautiously, Clockwork pointed a clawed finger at the canister still gripped tightly in Wes’s other hand, taking care not to gesture too closely. Wes was addled and territorial, and Clockwork was this close to calming him down. 

“That thermos there.” The Ancient of Time remarked. “There’s someone in it, isn’t there. You were trying to help them out.” 

“Yes– y-yes!” Wes nodnodnod- ed almost frantically, the glow of his eyes brightening as he lifted the Fenton Thermos higher for Clockwork to see. “I have to get him out, I won’t leave without him!”

Clockwork nodded his understanding, eyes tracing the rest of the room. 

It was some kind of containment chamber, that much was clear. Although nothing like the cells they had placed Daniel and his fraid within, it was still primed with a myriad of anti-ghost specifications. It was far more than mixing the essence of blood blossoms in with the concrete. 

Clearly, they had accounted for the risk of a broken thermos.

The shelves of the room were lined with a vast array of jars and beakers, each one neatly labeled and arranged for maximum space along the walls. Each one washed the white of the room in the eerie glint of ecto-green, neon bright and searing. From what he could tell, the thermos Wes was holding was the only one of its kind in the whole chamber.

Still, he had to ask–

“And are there any others, Wes?” He gestured again to the thermos. “Even if they’re not in this room, are there any more that you know of?”  

The boy shook his head slowly, the static around his body dipping into a slow, muted fizzle as he stared at the ground. Haunted.

“No.” He replied softly. “No, there’s no one else. It’s just… just us– here, at least.”

Clockwork held out his hand, offering the younger ghost a reassuring smile.

“Allow me, then.” He said. “And I can get both of you out of here. There’s much we need to discuss.” 

Even now that he’d calmed, Wes’s body was rigid with reluctance as he slowly closed the gap between himself and the Ancient. The ghostly tread of his feet was near soundless, but his claws trembled audibly against the smooth metal of the canister. He watched Clockwork with the haunted eyes of a trapped animal– caught in one too many snares.

Still, he offered the thermos to Clockwork wordlessly, with only the slightest hitch in his breath when the Ancient gently took it from his grasp. 

The moment his hands closed around the chilled metal, he could feel the spirit within thrashing and struggling. In instinctual, subconsciousness raging to be freed. With a flick of his wrist, Clockwork did just that. 

Light flared at the center of the room as Clockwork angled the mouth of the thermos away from them, slowly solidifying into another ghostly, wavering form. There was very little time for him to register the fact that this one was much more lucid than poor young Wes, before Clockwork was being shoved heartily away from the boy, and back across the room. 

When the light had finally faded, a third ghost had joined them in the room, placing himself firmly between Clockwork and the boy.

He loomed with a quiet sort of menace, wrapped in the same dull, standard scrubs as Wes and brandishing an impressive array of dagger-sharp claws. Pale and deathly white, fire flickered up from his head in place of hair, writhing and wavering in time with his agitation, and his face was similarly lined with a sharp white goatee. His eyes were the same shade of acid green as Wes, glaring down at Clockwork like a bull set to charge. 

“Easy.” Clockwork murmured gently, lifting his hands once more, palms out. “I’m not a threat to you or your charge. I was just explaining it to him– I’m here to help both of you get free of this place.”

“He said he’d help,” Wes mumbled almost feverishly behind the tall man, crouching in his shadow like he had done it a thousand times before. “Said he’d help me tell them– I need to tell everyone!”

The man’s eyes flickered back to him for a brief moment, darkening with distress, before he was locked onto Clockwork once more. 

“I don’t know how much you remember.” Clockwork continued, “But I can fill in whatever gaps there are. Answer any questions you might have.”

“Will you tell the truth?” The man asked. His voice was much clearer than Wes’s– strident with equal purpose and accusation. 

“I give you my word.” Clockwork promised, injecting as much sincerity as he could into those few syllables. “We’re on the same side. And we both want the same things.” 

“And what do we want?” The ghost challenged, sharp teeth bared in the beginnings of a snarl.

“Justice.” Was Clockwork’s immediate response, low and unwavering. He didn’t blink as he stared the other ghost down. “We want to make sure these people pay for what they’ve done… and do what we can to save those who still survive.” 

Like the clarifying hum of a tuning fork, his words seemed to register with the man, who slowly evened out of his protective stance, folding his claws away as he crossed his arms. The aura of defensive menace faded from the air by degrees, and the two were left to study each other quietly from opposite ends of the chamber. 

“You’re a ghost.” The man noted, an odd undercurrent rippling beneath his words. Something like bemusement. 

“I am.” Clockwork replied, offering him a small, wry smile. “As are you.” 

(And it’s almost sad, to see how such a simple statement clearly catches the man so off guard. How he blinks down at himself in something like mournful realization. How he glances back at Wes with something like bitter regret.)

“Who are you?” He asked. 

“I am called Clockwork,” the Ancient replied, bowing low in formal greeting. “Keeper and Guardian of Time.” His wry smile stretched into something more genuine. He held out his hand for the other ghost to shake. “And you are?”

The hand that wrapped around his own bites down with a grip like a steel trap, locking him in place. The opposing ghost’s answering smile was half greeting, half a baring of teeth.

“Jacob Lancer, Vice Principal.” The ghost replied, green eyes glinting with muted wrath. “Now tell me what they’ve done with the rest of my kids.”

Chapter Text

February 9, 2019

3:00 AM

Dreamscape

Number Three had gone through a ballerina phase, when she was much younger– what felt like centuries ago now. 

She'd been around nine at the time. Her third grade art instructor’s (perhaps over-enthusiastic, and definitely a tad pretentious) desire to demonstrate “cultural enrichment” to several dozen small-town schoolchildren had afforded her classroom a field trip to the performing arts center the next city over.

To see The Nutcracker, performed live. 

It was no Broadway or Orpheum, but Three had nonetheless been dazzled from the very beginning. The dreamy lights, the richly painted backdrops, the live orchestra– and the dancers. They’d taken her breath away, all doll-like poise wrapped in gilt fabrics and stage glitter. The dancing looked almost mechanical, with its rote movements and memorized positions, yet still somehow so full of grace. Flowing and elegant and painstakingly calculated in every twist and leap. Exacting in every position they took. 

The amount of discipline and control it must take to move in such a way was nearly unfathomable to her young mind. But perhaps, then– that was the allure. Perhaps it had been the deeply buried, unconscious desire for order, for control in her home life that first led her into this particular phase. Or perhaps, it was a desire to find a safe place to spend her hours away from the chaotic Fenton household.

(Or perhaps, more likely, she was just a little girl who wanted to look pretty, and dance on a stage like a real ballerina.)

Whatever the case may be, when Number Three was nine years old she’d begged her parents to sign her up for dance lessons at the local community center. 

They’d acquiesced easily enough– Three was their darling little girl, and she rarely ever asked for things in the first place. They were always eager to provide in the few times that she did. They were, after all, supportive parents. Whatever she wanted to pursue, they’d encourage. 

(If only their definition of supportive hadn't left so much to be desired.)

Still, things had gone better than expected– in the beginning.

Three could get herself to rehearsals just fine. The community center wasn't far from school, and she and her brother had been walking themselves there and back for almost two years at that point. It nearly doubled the length of their route, but it was relatively easy to manage in two halves. And her brother was usually content to wait in the lobby with a few extra coloring pages for the duration of the hour. 

The main issue had been getting home.

It was much too far for them to walk alone in one go– especially in the winter, when the sun set so early.

The first few times their parents had forgotten to pick them up, Three had been understanding. In the beginning, they had been unusually diligent in arriving on time for them– even if it was always a mad rush to get the children into the car and back to the house, so they could continue their work down in the basement. A few lapses could be forgiven, if that's all they were; a few lapses.

But it was as time went on, and the forgetfulness continued, that Three first began to realize–

Neither she nor her brother would ever take priority over her parents’ work.

(And what a bitter thing it had been to understand, at such a young age.) 

Naturally, she wasn't the only one to notice. 

The dance instructor– and Three could hardly recall her name now– had slowly gone from mildly annoyed to visibly furious at her parents’ behavior.

She could remember, just a bit more clearly, that final night. After waiting an extra hour past dismissal, the instructor had softly offered to drive Three and her brother home herself. Three had meekly accepted, grasping tightly to the hand of the drooping, sleepy-eyed seven year-old at her side, and spent the duration of the ride in tense, embarrassed silence.

(When they’d arrived, she didn't stick around for the confrontation. Instead, she'd immediately spirited her brother upstairs and tucked him into bed after a dinner of hastily made sandwiches. And if she'd read him one more bedtime story than usual, just loud enough to drown out the noise, then that was her business.)

(She'd been pulled from those classes the very next day, under the saccharine promise of “We'll find you a better instructor, princess.”) 

Three had never really danced again– though there were plenty of days where she missed the structure it had once given her.

But fighting, she'd since found, was a lot like dancing too. 

Grace, and intention, and discipline. The air burning almost sweetly in her lungs as her body twisted to a rhythm only she could hear– a lethal push and pull between partners. Her shadow lunges, and Three drops beneath the blow. It swings to face her, but she's already leaping away. A call and response, action and reaction, at once beautiful and deadly. 

Beneath them, the water of the Dreamscape was a perfect, unbroken mirror. It neither warped nor rippled with the violence of each flowing movement, the snap of her body against living darkness every time she caught a blow, the nimble tread of her feet as she followed the specter step for step. Leaping, rolling, grappling in a dance as old as humanity itself. Aggression tempered by playful competition, all grinning fangs and taunting, breathless laughter. 

Because Three and her shadow were one and the same, and there was something at least a little funny about sparring yourself.  

Overhead, the jagged void of her mentor's massive wings penned their arena, the tips of his starry feathers brushing soundlessly into the water. The pale heart of the owl's face loomed above like a full moon, and round fathomless eyes watched their movements with unerring focus– silently picking apart each lunge and strike as Three battled her shadow to a standstill. Until her vaguely humanoid copy was firmly pinned beneath her claws.

Above them, the owl crooned his approval

“You've grown faster.” Nocturn remarked softly, booming voice lowered to the slightest grumble of thunder on the horizon. “More decisive.” Slowly, his wings lowered, exposing the restless expanse of dreams at his back. “Such a victory would have taken you much longer only a month ago.”

Three let her muscles fall lax as she released the squirming shadow from her hold, lips twitching as it immediately melted back into formless darkness and zipped around her in excited circles. She fell back on her knees, breathing in deep and even as her racing heart slowed. Victory lingered fresh and heady in her veins.

“You've been watching that boy.” The dream spirit noted, almost wry as he studied her. “The almost-halfling. You're mirroring his aggression.”  

Number Three shrugged unapologetically. 

“It gets the job done.” 

The still air vibrated with the sound of the giant owl's amused rumble, before its starry shape melded back into the horizon, and Nocturn stepped out of the darkness in its place. He delicately offered her a hand, ruby eyes bright with something a little bit like pride, and a lot more like satisfaction. 

Three took his hand, lifting herself out of the water and back onto her feet as her shadow coiled around her like a contented cat. Its narrow, pointed “head” draped over her left shoulder like a dark, misty ribbon and vibrated out a low, almost sonorous purr against her chest. The frequency of the sound helped soothe the aches of physical exertion, like a hot bath at the end of the day, or ice pressing into sore muscles. 

Nocturn kept hold of her arm once she was on her feet, head tilted as he leaned in closer– peering intently at her core. He didn't release her until he'd found what he was apparently looking for, a pleased hum harmonizing with the distant chime of the dream-lights.

“You're growing faster than I expected.” He remarked. 

And Three pressed her now-freed palm flat against her collarbone, quietly staring down at the fathomless black orb humming gently at the center of her being. It felt as it always did– soft as velvet, yet firmer than steel, and comfortingly cool against her skin. Soothing, like cold water poured over a sunburn. Still, the corners of her mouth were tugged down by the constant weight of doubt and frustration, ever lingering there in her chest. 

Three wondered briefly, after staring at her core a moment longer, how he was even able to tell what was changing. She didn't feel any different. She didn’t feel any stronger than she had on her first day. And when she inevitably awakened in her cell, her body would still ache the same way it always did– the compounding sting of separation and loneliness mixing with the now all too familiar burn of Blood Blossoms, and the ghostly echoes of her fraid's pain.

A deep, pervasive kind of hurt that lingered in her joints and in the curve of her spine– making her feel so sickeningly fragile. Brittle bones beneath taut skin.

“Take care to remember, fledgling,” Caution crept into his tone then, low and oozing. “The stronger you become, the greater the risk of discovery. You must exercise careful control in order to continue fooling the sensors on that ridiculous contraption.”  

Number Three's hand traveled from her collarbone to her neck. Though it never appeared with her in the Dreamscape, the phantom weight of that heavy, metal collar still lingered– like a fist wrapped loosely around her throat. Not gripping, just threatening. Waller's sword of Damocles, dangling just over her head.

Nocturn had explained to her many times before, just how precarious the situation was.

She would be fine if she just made sure to never physically use any of her ghostly abilities. The collar wouldn’t activate so long as she kept her training to the Dreamscape alone, as she and the Ancient had done for the past four years. But that meant the vast majority of her abilities– including a ghost form that she had yet to even see or experience– were firmly off the table until she could find a way to get the thing off without frying herself to unconsciousness in the process. This was precisely why her shadow was a vital linchpin in Clockwork's long game. A semi-autonomous entity that was at once both a part of her and entirely separate. Able to act independently in her stead, and within whom she could find some measure of escape.

Though chained to Gotham, in the body of her shadow Three could gather intelligence as she grew, and her core slowly matured. She could study her enemy in ways they couldn't imagine, from every dark corner in a room.

(She could build reluctant friendships with frustratingly stout-hearted crime lords.)

But her rapid growth wasn't without its risks. 

“The deeper that well of power within you becomes, the more difficult it will be to control.” Nocturn cautioned her once more. “The shadows feed on your emotions. If you do not keep yourself in check, they will act in accordance to your changing moods– and you have yet to enter a space where we can allow that to happen.” 

(It was just as well, then, that Three had far more practice than anyone else in the fraid when it came to reigning in her own emotions.)

(But that certainly didn't mean she was without her frustrations.) 

“What does it matter how strong my powers get if this stupid collar can still prevent me from using them?” She grumbled, thoroughly irate. 

Nocturn clicked his tongue, arms folded neatly at his back, chin lifted imperiously.

“This isn't just about making you stronger, little bird,” he replied. “It's about building a tolerance.” 

At Three's confused glance, he continued, “While it was clever of that snake of a mortal to even employ the use of those blossoms to begin with, she's also quite unintentionally broadcasted her relative ignorance about them. She’s not like your… ‘parents’. She doesn’t care how they work, or why– only that they continue to do so. It will be her downfall.” 

And as he spoke, he circled Three and her shadow, a whispering darkness gliding overtop still, glass-like water. Pacing as he launched into his next lecture.

“They're quite effective, certainly. But her overreliance on them will be the undoing of her entire operation.” Nocturn explained. “She's built them into everything, has she not? Quenched into the metals, mixed in with the cement– every inch of that cell has the essence of them somewhere, yes? She was quite thorough, I'm told.”

“That's one way to put it.” Three muttered unenthusiastically. She didn't particularly find the constant, needle-sharp ache prickling over her bones to be a particularly thrilling conversation piece. 

“And therein lay the mistake, my dear.” Nocturn said, looming over her shoulder. “Combined with your… unique halfling biology, that woman has unwittingly handed you the solution– provided you remain both patient and consistent in your task.”

“And that's… ‘building a tolerance’?” She asked, incredulous. 

“Precisely.” The spirit purred with approval. “You and your fraid have not been suffering pointlessly all this time– not just to build strength.” He seemed to scoff at the idea. “Your constant work has been building an immunity to the effects of the flowers. The longer you are exposed to them, the less effective they become. And eventually… you will be able to overpower them for a time, even if only briefly.”

Nocturn circled back around to stand face to face with her, a slash of searing white in the darkness. His eyes were bright with a malicious kind of glee. 

“But a brief moment is all you will need, fledgling.” He said. “Just a second of opportunity, and then you are free. Free to tear those audacious little mortals to shreds. To make them suffer for all they've done.”

Disquiet settled heavy and low in her stomach, tied almost intimately to the surge of violent delight that rushed through her blood. Set her heart to racing. The steep contrast of it was almost enough to make her dizzy. 

The ghostly craving for violence. For v engeance.

It was utterly alien.

(Three had never desired any kind of violence when she'd been fully living. The very idea would have made her sick to her stomach, and a significant part of her still balked at the idea of it.)

(But the rest of her was just impatient.)

“Do you understand now?” Nocturn prompted.

And though she reluctantly nodded her head, Three couldn't completely stifle the flash of irritation she felt as she mulled over this revelation, brow furrowed low over glaring teal eyes.

“Why couldn't you have just told me that from the beginning?” She asked tiredly, even as her clinging shadow nudged comfortingly at the underside of her jaw. Three gently pushed it away with an idle hand, her focus never wavering from Nocturn. 

And to her surprise, the towering dream spirit actually offered her a look of sympathy as her shadow gloomily returned to her shoulder. There was an understanding in his gaze she hadn’t expected.

“I’d advise you not to take it personally, my dear, but I do so hate hypocrisy. I’d rather not make myself guilty of it.” He replied, his voice a sullen grumble, thick with his own deeply-rooted irritations. “Unfortunately for the rest of the universe Clockwork is just, how you mortals say, ‘like that’. It's a rare occasion indeed when the ghost of Time isn't keeping the finer details from everyone around him. And, even more frustratingly, I must unfortunately acknowledge that this is usually for the best– in most situations at least.” 

“In this specific case, however,” Nocturn continued, “We were advised to avoid delving into the minutiae of our responsibilities here, if only to make it easier for you to concentrate on your tasks. It’s imperative you remain… undistracted.”

Three snorted indelicately, bright eyes glowering at the dark waters cutting across the horizon as she slowly crossed her arms. The first hints of a sneer tugged at her lips– bitter, yet nonetheless understanding. 

“What's changed, then?” She asked, after a brief pause. “If you're telling me now.”

“We are approaching something of an event horizon, girl. A cascade.” Nocturn replied slowly, almost reluctantly. The gravity of his tone had her eyes snapping up to meet his. “You've some time yet to continue your preparations, but… there is an end in sight, now.” 

Distantly, Three could feel the way her muscles locked together. The way her body stilled with anticipation, and the air stuttered in her lungs. Her shadow had torn itself from her shoulder to pace beneath the water, writhing and roiling with the pulse of her agitation. She paid it no mind. She'd yet to even blink as she stared him down, eyes begging for honesty.

“You're serious?” She rasped, the barest whisper of sound. Breathless with disbelief.

The dream spirit nodded grimly. “But you mustn't allow this to distract you– not with how far you've come. How close you've gotten to the end.”

And Three was nodding almost frantically as he spoke, even as her heart gave an unsteady lurch in her chest. Even as it fluttered with dread and excitement, and the barest hints of sheer, broken relief.

Nocturn reached out to grasp her shoulder firmly in one hand, and she felt the internal noise of her bubbling emotions go quiet. 

“Additionally…” he began, casting an uncomfortable look anywhere but right at her. “There's the matter of that boy. Your… almost-halfling.”

Something within her perked, tense and wary. The pleasant buzz of her anticipation vanished.

“What about him?” She asked. The hidden warning in her voice was a set of bared teeth in the darkness.

(Off-Limits , the flash of her teeth growled low and firm, LeaveHimAlone.)

And Nocturn seemed at once amused by her, and deeply put-upon that he need mention it at all. The dream spirit turned his head away with a dramatic sigh, and the slightest roll of his solid crimson eyes. 

“Just… consider that there are far more benefits to having an informed ally on the outside than there are risks.” He said. “You might think to tell him something , little bird– you will need all the assistance you can get. And that one isn't… the worst option–” 

“No.” Three cut him off sternly, almost a snarl of denial. Something frantic bled into the edges of her voice. “No, I'm not dragging him into this.” 

Nocturn said nothing. He'd whipped back around to stare at her when she'd snapped at him, but he made no move to speak. He stared at her with that unreadable gaze, head tilted and bird-like. He didn't even seem to blink. The shadows writhing at the end of his cloak seemed to slow into a sluggish, contemplative curl. 

“Not knowing is what keeps him safe.” Three pressed defensively, unnerved by her mentor's quiet stare. “As long as things stay the way they are, they can't track him. Not in a place like Gotham.”

Because the truth of the matter was this:

Red Hood– Jason Todd– was not just a highly contaminated Liminal; he was a halfa. He was a halfa with a core so stunted and small, it could reasonably pass as a Liminal's proto-core, if even that. In terms of ghost hunting technology, he was barely a blip on the radar. In a city as death-touched as Gotham, he was all but invisible. 

But Three had known. She'd known the moment she'd first seen him– first ventured close enough to feel the way death radiated off of him in dark, cool waves. 

Like would always call to like, and so creatures of the same kind would always recognize one of their own. A part of him had known her too, even if he didn't consciously realize why.

And in the handful of years she'd been his shadow, Three had never asked what happened to him. Had never pried. 

(She knew enough. Snatches of information passed furtively between hired goons, and a tattered uniform enshrined beneath the earth. A macabre memorial for a broken bird.)

But she knew that whatever it had been, whatever circumstances had brought him back, it had exposed him to ectoplasm so caustic and vile that it had eaten into his newborn core while he was utterly defenseless. And its remnants had eventually congealed around his maimed spirit like a second skin, preventing it from growing any further… and from healing all the damage it had caused.

Three had no way to fix it for him. Didn't even know if there was any way to fix it. 

But she did know that if there was– she couldn't give it to him.

(Not yet, at least.)

(She wouldn't leave him like that. Not ever. But there were so many things to do already, and only a certain order she could do them in.) 

Because healing the damage would mean he'd begin to grow again. Grow properly , as her brother had. As their fraid should have– stumbling and uncertain, but still free to stretch his wings. And as his core grew, so too would his abilities. Brightly, he would glow. Perhaps brighter than any of them. She knew.

And Jason would be invisible no longer.

In a city secretly infested by agents of the black badge, it would be as if she'd handed him over herself, tied off with a ribbon– a gift Waller would never pass up. 

(“They will do much worse than kill you.” She'd warned him once.)

(Something Three was intimately, violently familiar with.)

So she'd said nothing. She continued to say nothing.

Three had taught him the very basics of what he needed to know. How to listen, how to sense, how to interact with his own liminality. How to not feel so alien in his own skin. Torn between wanting to help someone she saw so much of her brother in, and knowing what it would take to keep him safe. To help him avoid the very same hell she'd been dragged into the depths of. 

(She wasn’t a fool. She knew he could be trusted– and that he’d be more than willing to help her. That wasn’t the issue.)

“I don’t need his help.” She insisted anyway, firm despite the ache in her heart. “You said it yourself, I’m building an immunity. And when the time comes, I’ll take them all out myself. There’s still time for me to get even stronger.” 

Her tone had made it perfectly clear she wouldn’t entertain the topic any longer. At her feet, her shadow had curled into a defensive arch, quivering with stress and agitation. 

Nocturn stared her down for another tense handful of seconds, pale face washed of all emotion. He was quiet, until at last he broke away with a slow blink, and dipped his head.

“If that is your wish, fledgeling.” He murmured lightly. His shoulders squared, and the shadows of his cloak seemed to stretch long into the darkness with grasping claws, “Show me your guard once more then– and let’s see how you fare against me.”

December 20, 2020

11:02 PM

Gotham 

She genuinely wasn’t trying to avoid Jason. 

Truly. 

She was just… preoccupied. 

(And that really was true– for the most part. But that did nothing to erase the plethora of reasons she had to justify steering clear of him. For now.)

(She just didn't know what to say to him. How to get him to back away from all this. She had come far too close to revealing something she shouldn't have, that night on the roof.)

(She could have put him in terrible danger if she'd said any more.) 

Because things around Gotham were changing. 

The city certainly wasn't her haunt– and she had never considered it so, despite her prolonged stay beneath it. Unlike Jason, she didn't feel the same territorial instincts he did, the bone-deep affection for its streets and its people, nor the needle-sharp prickle down her spine when something was wrong.

But she had been there long enough to have well-memorized Gotham's usual rhythms.

And ever since the attack that had ripped through the Bowery– the attack that reeked powerfully of ectoplasm and death even now, the one that felt like Sam– Three had been noticing more and more things out of place. 

Ever since the disturbance she'd sensed, that night on the roof.

Since she'd felt Tucker somewhere within the city.

(And she knew it was them– both times; she knew it all the way in her bones. Hadn't felt either of them so clearly since the separation at Avernus, but she knew.)

Three had been searching desperately every day since, heart in her metaphorical throat. 

Day and night, leaping from shadow to shadow street by street. She must have canvassed the whole city five times over, and yet still–

Not a single hint of them. 

Tucker had been there and gone in an instant. A blindingly bright flicker of something vast and electric in the distance, before blinking away just as quickly. Leaving Three alone in the darkness of Gotham once more, without a how or a why.

Yet all the same, even as those faint traces of Sam grew even fainter, a part of him seemed to linger .

A prickle on the back of her neck. The slightest scent of ozone in the air. 

She just couldn't pinpoint where .

(And it was driving her mad. She felt like a dog chasing her own tail, round and round about the whole city and still no closer to what she sought.)

But it was also around this time that she first noticed the agents creeping into Crime Alley. 

They were subtle enough, she supposed. Anyone else might have missed them.

But agents from Black Badge carried a certain stink about them that was nearly impossible for Liminals to ignore– faint traces of ectoplasm and metal joined with something rubbery and burnt. A searing, chemical stench that clung stubbornly to the inside of your nose, to your skin and clothes, and lingered there for hours. 

For someone with senses like hers, they may as well have thrown up a flashing neon sign, blinking steadily towards their location. 

In the beginning, when she'd first caught wind of them, she'd taken extra care to steer well clear of them. The last thing she'd needed– or wanted, for that matter– was to waste time evading Waller's overpaid goons as she searched desperately for any lingering traces of her fraid. 

But as the days stretched on, and Three's searching became increasingly futile, they occupied her thoughts more and more frequently. 

They were from Acheron.

She recognized them– vaguely, in the same way she could recognize most of the faces walking the halls of her prison. Perhaps she'd passed them once or twice, either in person or within her shadow. 

Immediately, this was a red flag. 

Waller's cheekily hidden little blacksite was a self-contained facility. Its employees lived there, ironically almost as trapped as Three was, in order to maintain its secrecy. Supplies were delivered monthly, and rarely ever did anyone on the inside have a valid reason for leaving. Each entrance and exit was a tightly sealed vault, guarded day and night. All of Black Badge's dirtiest secrets, neatly buried underground. 

(And Three took some measure of vicious satisfaction in the fact that the same weapons used to keep her contained would just as easily be turned on her captors if they tried to leave too.)

Regardless, the fact that they were here now raised a fair few questions. 

What could have driven agents from Acheron out of the little black box Waller had neatly sealed them away in? 

Following them at a judicious distance proved easily that they hadn't simply gone rogue. They were casing Park Row for a specific reason, and they were there under orders.

But whose?

Waller? Rassmueller? Or was there another guiding hand at play– one she had yet to even glimpse.

What if they'd caught wind of Jason somehow? Clearly, they were looking for something– Liminal activity in Red Hood's territory. And while they would have to get much closer to the man to get an actual reading out of him… the longer they stayed in Crime Alley, the higher that risk became.

The sheer dread of such a thought was enough to shake her connection with the shadow. For a brief moment, Three was in two spaces at once– crouched in an alcove above the intruding agents, and back in her sterile little cell, eyes clenched tightly shut as she forced her consciousness back into the darkness. She viciously clamped down on the nausea that rocked through her.

Days of desperation and paranoia were beginning to take their toll.

She was tired, and stressed, and quickly growing ill. And she wasn’t paying attention.

The high, mechanical whine of a building charge was the only warning she got. 

The shadow's eyes flew open just in time to take in the scene down below– and how it had changed– before a blast of malevolent green energy seared into her side like a hot knife, sending her tumbling from the rooftop with an inhuman shriek. 

(The agents she'd been following had been staring right at her. Locked on with a startling kind of accuracy– one she hadn't anticipated nestled in the heart of Gotham. Weapons raised and ready, they'd looked just as shocked as she was.) 

(How had they even spotted her?)

“Holy fuck–”

“I can't believe he was actually right!”

“Don't just stand there!”

They were a cacophony of voices grating against her senses, drowned only by the frantic pulse pounding against her ears. 

She'd hit the ground at an angle and writhed there, momentarily stunned by pain and confusion. For a brief moment her shadow rapidly vacillated between forms– became a dark tangle of disparate parts lashing out at random. A wing. A tail. Grasping claws and snapping teeth. In the seconds it took Three's conscious mind to regain control, her shadow agonized over how to respond. What to become.

(Something small, to flee and hide? Or something large, to turn and attack? )

(Which would keep her safest?)

The creature that eventually rose from the ground couldn't rightly be called any sort of animal– though the especially courageous might venture to call it some sort of canine. It had the general shape of one, four limbs and a lashing tail, but that was where its similarities ended. It was big – as large as a dane, or larger. Its forelimbs were long and almost crooked, bent at an awkward angle just to keep them folded properly beneath its body, and its front paws were more hand-like than natural, fingers capped with curving talons that dug into the grimy cement of the alleyway.

It didn't have a face. Just a hinged jaw set in a furious snarl, baring rows of dagger-sharp teeth thay dripped with a liquid darkness.

The shadows that comprised its body actively writhed despite its solid shape, giving it a hazy, smoke-like outline that set it apart from the darkness around them. Like it was one step out of alignment with the rest of reality. A crooked puzzle piece against the firmament. And everywhere across its body– splitting open its ribcage, spiraling down its legs, slashing across its throat– there were more snarling mouths and flashing teeth. Each one, a warning. A threat. 

It howled at them, a seething cry that was half animal, half human in tone, like the shriek of a mountain lion. It seemed to come from every mouth at once as the shadow finally charged them, claws extended. 

Number Three was both there and not there, clinging desperately to the end of a fraying rope as one of the agents cried out in alarm, and the world descended into violence. It was all she could do to keep herself from losing control. To keep her true body from reacting to her own peril. Half inside her body and half out of it, she could feel herself tremble and shake. Could distantly hear the perilous warning trill of the collar at her throat. 

Focus!

The Black Badge agents were shouting at one another, panicked voices muffled and warped at the other end of a long, dark tunnel. One of them raised their weapon to fire off another lancing beam of energy, crackling hot where it skimmed past her shoulder. Her vision is doubled– one eye saw the alley ahead, the other her drab white cell. 

Focus, damn it!

( Let me, said the shadow, let me do it.)

(And Three cannot fight this battle on two fronts. Not without forfeiting one or the other.)

(“Your shadow is your partner.” Nocturn had once told her. “Strong where you are weak, and weak where you are strong. You are meant to work together.”)

(It was too late anyhow– they’d seen her. They needed to be dealt with. There could be no witnesses.)

(The switch flips. She gives it control.)

Fighting in the body of an animal was decidedly not like dancing. 

There was no grace. The movements didn't flow into each other like water, and there was no sense of push and pull between partners. There was no artistry nested within it– only the iron-clad will to survive. 

It's disgustingly simple.

If you win, you live. So you must win, at all costs. 

Number Three– or the thing that it had become– fell on the central agent with another shrieking snarl, and they tumbled down the alley in a whirl of shadowy, snapping limbs. There was no hesitation in its movement, only savage pragmatism in the way the shadow rolled the squirming man onto his back and immediately lunged for his throat. The scream that punched from his chest barely had time to break free before its teeth clamped down with all the force of a steel trap snapping shut. 

His death was fast, but not fast enough.

Wheezing for air, choking on his own blood, the man had only enough energy to jerk his silvery pistol up into its ribcage and fire blindly– as many times as he could. 

Neon green lit up the space between them, and the shadow jerked away from his throat with an agonized howl as the now familiar burn of anti-ghost weaponry tore through its chest at an awkward angle. Like punching holes through paper, the darkness of its body was riddled with jagged wounds. It was enough to send the shadow rearing back with alarm, taking a sizable chunk of the dying man's throat with it. 

The floor of the alley was dark and wet, and the cries of the remaining agents were only getting louder, accompanied by the odd two-toned blast of their guns in their futile attempts to subdue the monster.

But this was Park Row. 

Anyone with sense was running away from the terrible cacophony, not towards it. 

(All except one.)

There was no back-up coming for them– not this far from Acheron. The shadow could take whatever they dished out, so long as it dealt with them quickly. Then it could hide and rest for a while. 

Another flash of searing green lit up the alley, violently scorching the bricks just centimeters from the shadow's head, and the creature whipped around to face the remaining agents with a furious growl.

The tables had turned against them. With a single leap, the shadow had reversed their positions, cornering its own pursuers. The agents were penned in, trapped with their backs against the wall as the shadow loomed at the mouth of the alley, standing rigidly over the rapidly cooling body of their comrade. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck–”

They knew they were trapped.

The shadow could taste their fear in the air, heavy and sour with sweat and adrenaline. The scent whispered to the animal parts of its mind, both exciting and cautioning the hunter in equal measure. Their prey was trapped , it could go nowhere– but cornered animals were the most dangerous of them all. Especially when they carried weapons specifically designed to take you apart. 

An unsettling stillness blanketed the alley. For several agonizing moments, none of them moved. The air was thick with a terrible tension.

They stared at one another, man and beast. Murderer and monster. Which one was which was anyone's guess. 

Waiting to see who would flinch first. 

Of the two remaining agents, one was visibly more affected than the other. His hands shook around his weapon, his grip simultaneously too tight and not firm enough. The barrel of the silvery handgun juddered and twitched up and down with the tremble of his arms, shoulders heaving as he gasped for air. He neglected the weapon's sights in favor of staring directly at the shadow, the whites of his eyes visible even in the dark as his entire body was shot through with animal terror. 

His remaining partner was far more composed, standing still and quiet with her gun poised at a perfect ninety-degree angle. Her hands were steadfast over the trigger, in complete control over her body.

Part of the shadow was reluctantly impressed. 

Unfortunately, her steadfast and unruffled demeanor did little to soothe the obvious rookie at her side. 

Perhaps Three would have pitied his inevitable break– if it weren't so richly deserved. 

The shadow could see it in his eyes, the exact moment his panic finally overwhelmed him. Like ice shattering over a frozen lake, exposing fathomless waters below, the faultline within him gave way under pressure. His aim, already poor and unsteady, veered sharply up as he abruptly lifted his arms with a shout of equal fear and defiance.

His partner was slower on the uptake.

“Palmer, don't–!”

The alley was once again bathed in verdant light as the agent fired erratically at the monstrous creature, shattering the tentative stalemate in a feverish spray of blaster shots. 

At that same moment, the shadow threw itself down the alley with a renewed snarl of frenzy, weaving between the energized bolts in a blur of green on black. Blood and darkness dripped from its too-human claws as it rammed into the hapless rookie. Together they slammed into the back wall of the alley hard enough to crack the brickwork, cold corporeal shadow against living warmth. Palmer's head snapped back against the unforgiving stone, and the shadow watched with violent glee as his fearful gaze immediately unfocused into something dazed and vulnerable. With one clawed hand gripping the man by the throat, it reared back and smashed him into the wall again.

And again. 

And again.

With each impact, showers of fine grit and chunks of fractured mortar rained down from above as the alley wall shuddered and groaned. Each successive slam left a deeper crater in its surface, one that was quickly painted by a growing splatter of something dark and dripping. 

“Fucking monster!”

But the rookie’s partner was still up and moving, steady and unflinching even as the shadow cracked the other agent’s skull like an eggshell against the bricks. From the holster on her back, she’d pulled a different kind of blaster, all sleek chrome sculpted into the double barrel of a shotgun.

A concussive blast to the creature’s hinged jaw was potent enough to make it drop its ailing prey, scrambling back from the wall with a grating screech of agony.

It’s ammo they’ve never felt before. Some kind of buckshot– a scatter of searing pellets that dig into shadowy flesh and linger , instead of a solid ray of energy. It felt like a fistfull of hot embers to the face, a blinding burn that ripped through layers of solid darkness and remained embedded in its jaw. The shadow writhed against the cold stone of the alley floor, scraping its mangled mouth over the cement, tearing at its own face with its flaws in a futile attempt to dig out the pellets. 

The final remaining agent was quick to capitalize, and Three could hear more than she could see the thermos that the other woman ripped off of her belt.

No!

Three was barely holding by a thread. Though her physical body lay still and prone, her heart was galloping in her chest– faster and faster as the panic built. Every part of her was alive with a dark, seething sort of energy, begging to be released. It was like trying to hold back a tidal wave with nothing more than her bare hands. Somewhere within her sternum, her core ached to react. To respond– come to her shadow’s aid.

But if she lost control now, it could set her back months. 

Somewhere, simultaneously miles away and also towering directly above her, Three heard the telltale sound of a thermos unlatching. 

And then, gunfire. 

Two shots. A lethal warning that sent the agent stumbling back from Three’s cornered shadow with a startled curse. 

(He’s using live rounds tonight, a part of her noted distantly, as she watched each bullet carve a divot into the ground where they slammed into the pavement.)

“What the hell is going on here?” Beneath the gritty, mechanical distortion of his mask, Jason’s voice was low and flat with carefully restrained rage.

He perched at the edge of the roof overlooking the alley, the same one the agents had shot her down from, a stark silhouette towering over the carnage below. The sound of his arrival sent a cascade of relief through her, and the creature her shadow had twisted her into finally fell limp against the ground as the fight drained from them both. 

The agent glared up at him with dark eyes, stretched fretfully thin beneath her cool, collected facade.

“You…” Her voice was simultaneously accusing and relieved– like she’d somehow been expecting worse. “You’re one of the locals. The vigilantes.” A half sneer, this time. The agent squared her shoulders, renewing her grip on her garish shotgun. “Just walk away, and I’ll be out of your hair in a moment. This doesn’t concern you.”

Number Three didn’t think she knew quite who she was dealing with. 

“Excuse me?”

She almost pitied the other woman, that she couldn’t feel the way the air around them physically chilled with the force of his outrage– so potent that she could almost taste it on her tongue alongside the chemical sting of the pellets lodged in her shadow’s face. 

Really, it was her own fault. Ordering a halfa around in his own haunt like that.

Guns stowed, Red Hood slipped from the edge of the roof with all the grace of a pouncing cat, landing in a half crouch only a few meters from either of them. The blank, glaring eyes of his mask stayed locked on the agent the whole time, and he paid no mind to the two stiffening corpses leaking puddles of sluggish crimson all over his alley. His gait was prowling, consumed by territorial instinct, and the lone agent clutched her shotgun tighter to her chest the closer he got. 

“I-I mean it.” This time, her growl was weak. Strained by unease. “Just leave, and w-we’ll all forget we saw each other.”

“Oh will we?” A faint note of amusement vaguely wove its way into his tone. 

At some point, the agent must have decided he’d come close enough. The shotgun in her hands rose abruptly, pointed squarely at his chest and halting him in his tracks, less than a foot away. Red Hood tilted his head, staring blankly. 

“You are interfering with a federal investigation.” She growled venomously, almost self-important. “This is your last warning.” 

“Federal investigation?” Hood parroted, indignant “With what agency? Under whose orders?” His voice pitched lower with his growing irritation. “Where’s your goddamn badge, ‘agent’?”

“That’s classified,” She seethed. One finger tightened perilously over the trigger, and Three rose shakily onto her forelimbs, cold with dread. “Now I won’t ask again–”

Red Hood lunged, a blur of black and scarlet, before the words were even done leaving her mouth. At seemingly the exact same moment, startled by the sudden movement, the agent squeezed the trigger and fired off another round. Three could physically see the glowing buckshot fly just past his head, nauseatingly close, before the pellets shattered against the far wall. Fast as a viper, one of Hood’s hands struck out to snag the barrel of the modified shotgun in an iron grip, jerking it loose from the agent's hands before slamming the blunt end back up into her nose in one smooth motion. 

Three could hear it as the cartilage in the other woman's face was crushed beneath the weight of the blow, could smell the fresh blood in the air as the agent fully released the gun to clutch instinctively at her shattered nose. Half-stooped and blinded by agony, she was completely defenseless against the knee Red Hood drove mercilessly into her gut. 

The whole exchange lasted maybe fifteen seconds, before Red Hood was shoving the breathless, wheezing woman down onto her knees, arms pinned behind her back and secured with a complex knot of zip-ties. The silvery shotgun dangled loose in one hand. He only offered it a cursory glance before flinging it across the alley– far from where the agent struggled half-heartedly against the bindings. 

Tension lingered heavy in the air as Red Hood finally crouched in front of the woman, arms resting on his knees, watching wordlessly from behind the menacing stare of his mask. The agent glared right back at him, fresh blood still oozing sluggishly from her crooked nose, a defiant tilt to her clenched jaw. 

Unsurprisingly, the agent was the first to break.

“Why the hell are you defending that thing?” She spat, breaking the stalemate to transfer her poisonous glare over to Three. “Look at what it's done!”

And over the course of Hood's brutally efficient take-down, the shadow had quietly returned full control of their shared form back to Three. The writhing darkness had calmed, and Three had slowly molded them back into something more palatable– the same dog she'd taken to following Jason around as for several weeks. No jutting limbs or hand-shaped claws or snarling, snapping mouths. Wearing the skin of Nobody once more, she felt more in control of herself than she had the entire night.

Not that it helped much. 

Jagged holes still poked through her body where the first agent had shot her, and her face still burned with the phantom ache of buckshot pellets. 

She growled low and threatening when the captive agent turned to look at her, returning that malice with a hateful glare of her own. Illusory muscles coiled beneath layers of shadow, prepared to spring should the woman break loose. 

Still, there was no denying the carnage filling the alley, the liberal splatters of drying blood and scorch marks scarring the brickwork. The two mangled bodies told a clear story about what went on, and Three couldn't help the faint unease that crept up her spine. 

(She knew Jason wasn't squeamish about killing.)

(But he'd been making a concentrated effort to avoid it more lately, and the last thing she wanted was to complicate things for him.)

To his credit, Red Hood hardly spared them a glance. The air around him dipped sharply as he kept most of his focus on the bound agent in front of him. But Three could feel a portion of his attention on her– and that he was deeply unhappy with both of them.

“I'm not fucking around, lady.” He replied, her demand disregarded entirely. His right hand drew back to rest threateningly on one of his guns. “You've got thirty seconds to tell me what the hell the three of you were after on my turf before I send you to join ‘em.”

And as if to punctuate his point, Hood pulled the gun all the way out of its holster to rest the barrel directly against her head.

“Talk.”

It was a bluff, Three could just tell. But it was very convincing. 

And apparently, the agent thought so too. Because her face quickled paled several shades, bleaching into bone white as her eyes carefully tracked the gun on its path. The air rattled shakily in her lungs. By herself, she wasn't nearly as fearless or composed as she'd once been. 

But neither was she breaking the way Three had first assumed she would. 

Gun to her head, arms bound behind her back, the other woman didn’t so much as squeak. Three had begrudgingly acknowledged long ago that Waller’s agents were far more competent than the GIW had ever hoped to be, but still– she hadn’t expected such staunchness in the fact of what that agent must have assumed was certain death. 

The gun in his hand made an ominous click as Red Hood abruptly pulled back the hammer.

“Last chance.”

The agent huffed in a tense breath. Slowly, her trembling subsided, and she glared at him fiercely under several layers of sweat-matted hair and drying blood. She seemed smaller, somehow. Diminished. Resigned. But her eyes were bright with hatred.

“You’re going to regret this.” She told them solemnly. And then her jaw shifted as she bit down hard on something unseen, along her back teeth. 

For several moments, neither Three nor Red Hood quite understood what she’d just done. 

And then the choking started. 

A blustering cough that had the other woman doubling over against her restraints, panting, wheezing breaths between each hard convulsion somewhere within her chest. She was gasping, deep and slow, like she couldn’t get enough air.

Because she couldn’t get enough air. 

Her skin, once pale with fear and bloodloss, had tinted red and fever-bright within seconds, like her whole body was inflamed with infection. All except for her lips, which had deepened into bruise-like blue. She swayed on her knees, pupils constricted into pinpricks within fluttering eyes as the agent very abruptly lost consciousness.

She slumped to the ground, twitching. 

“Fuck!” Jason spat, landing next to the ailing woman and ripping her out of the zip-ties with little effort. He rolled her onto her side– and while Three knew that might have helped had she been seizing or vomiting, there was little he could actually do for her. 

Three could just smell the bitter, chemical tang of poison on the woman’s breath. Cyanide, most likely.

A gruesome way to go– but ruthlessly efficient all the same. And very much Waller’s style. 

Number Three hobbled cautiously closer, watching with something close to pity as her friend fruitlessly attempted to help the agent. But with the dosage she’d likely been given, even if he called an ambulance now, there was nothing that could be done, and no one who could get here in time.

(Unconsciousness. Cerebral hypoxia. Brain death.)  

(Cyanide progressed in three simple stages, and left very little mess behind.) 

She shouldn’t be so surprised that the agents of Black Badge would be fanatic enough to take their own lives under duress. 

Didn’t make it any less wasteful. 

Two fingers pressed over the artery, she watched Red Hood frantically feel for a pulse. Was pricked with something like guilt when he finally jerked his hand back with a heavy curse, allowing the agent’s body to fall limp against the pavement as he abruptly surged up and away. Head in his hands, he paced. Three watched him with quiet trepidation. 

(Most of this felt like her fault.)

(She should have been more cautious. Should have never allowed herself to get cornered.)

A perilous kind of silence absorbed the space around them. Three watched Red Hood take a glance at the body of the first agent, torn and bloodied at the mouth of the alley. At the second agent, slumped against the back wall– appearing to all the world like a sleeping vagrant, were it not for the dark stain dribbling down the brickwork behind him. 

At the final agent, with her reddened face and blue lips. The burst blood vessels within eyes that stared at nothing. 

“What happened?” He asked, flatly composed. Three shuddered under the weight of his stare. 

She couldn’t meet his gaze head on. Had to break away to stare almost morosely at the smears of blood left behind by shadowy paws.

“I’d noticed they’d been skulking around the past few days, so I was following them. To see what they were after.” She admitted, shame burning hot in her veins. “And they just… caught me by surprise.”

“No, I was following them. I’ve been following them. And you would know that if you had just come and talked to me!” Jason corrected, ire seeping through even the distortion of his mask, “You were running off on your own again, you don’t even bother to tell me where– and you– you get into these situations, and I hardly know how to find you!”

It was like a dam had burst somewhere within him. Floodwaters of things he must have been holding back for a while, because his voice rose with every word, and each breath was punctuated by a step in her direction. Until he was looming over her, radiating frustration and distress. 

“What if I hadn’t gotten here in time, huh?” He demanded. “What if she’d– what the hell was that thing, what does it even do? What would it have done to you?” One hand gestured towards the fallen thermos, and something squirmed uneasily in her chest when her gaze flickered over to it. 

(Five years since she’d seen one of those, and the design hadn’t really changed at all.)

(She forced herself to look away before the nausea overwhelmed her.)

“Nobody.” Her eyes darted back to the vigilante standing in front of her. Pain lanced through her at the sound of his pleading tone. “We can’t keep going like this. This… this dancing around what we both know needs to happen like it doesn't exist. I can’t keep pretending anymore.” 

And Number Three couldn’t help the way her guard instinctively rose, shadows deepening around her body to hide the cold unease creeping down her spine. 

“What do you mean?” She tried not to growl at him. Tried to curb the automatic defensiveness that snapped like teeth in the shadow of her voice. 

“It means I need answers, shadow.” Red Hood replied. He sounded simultaneously desperate and so incredibly exhausted. “No more deflecting, no more running off– I need you to talk to me.”

“Please.”

The cold feeling slithering through her bloomed into genuine fear. 

She had no explanation for it. Couldn’t fathom why, after all this time, such a simple request would invoke fear of all things. Why was she afraid to talk about it? Jason had proved himself more than capable of looking after his own time and again, and he was making decent progress reconnecting with his family. 

So why?...

She’d stopped trying to understand long ago, when her parents had decided that their research was worth a city full of people, and the world no longer made sense.

(It hadn’t made sense for five long years.)

She’d never actually made her peace with it. She’d just been forced to keep moving.

Because at the end of the day, there were people out there that she needed to see again.

(Just one more time, at least. Please. Then it will all have been worth it.)

“I can’t.” It was an automatic response. Without thought or intention. A repetition of the same answer she’d been giving him since the night they met. “I-I can’t…” But it quickly became a plea.

(Please don’t make her say it.)

(If she says it, then it’s real.)

“The attack on the Bowery.” He forged ahead regardless, pressing down hard on the little faultline that had formed within her, the same night she’d almost said too much. “You know more about it than you said, I know you do.” 

He took a step back, gesturing to the alley around them and the dead agents littering the ground.

“And these people– the ones with the black badges.” He growled, “You know them, you w arned me about them, years ago.” 

Each word struck like a blow, and Three flinched back every time. Coiled into herself like she could shelter the fragile parts of her body, the way her very soul shook at the mere idea of opening her mouth–

“Amity Park.” 

Everything froze. 

“A few nights ago, someone gave Oracle a drive with a bunch of files on it. It mentioned people. People who disappeared that night.” Jason continued. He was staring right at her, picking apart every reaction, and she’d never felt so exposed. “The one who gave her the drive, they told her to call them Four.”

A high-pitched sound pushed its way free of her chest before she could stop it– half dog-like whine, half yelp of agony. Like he’d just kicked her in the ribs. 

“Who is Four, Nobody? Do you know them?” He asked. “Those files mentioned ectoplasm– and there was this… god, this woman, and she was cutting someone open. A man from Amity Park.”

He stepped closer to her once more, and she could feel the nauseating cascade of emotions swirling around him. Pressed in close, like a second skin. It was a wonder either of them hadn’t passed out, they were both so agitated.

Horror, disgust, anger at what he’d seen. Fear and wariness– about what she knew, and what else she was hiding. Pity and sympathy in equal measure. Frustration– why wouldn’t she just talk to him? Realization and revelation.

“Death magic. Zatanna said the vines in the Bowery were full of death magic– it’s ectoplasm isn’t it?” She could do nothing but watch as he put the pieces together, eyes wide behind a writhing shield of darkness. “Shadow, what do you know?”

He crouched down in front of her, eye to eye with her coiled, agitated shadow. He’d peeled off his helmet, leaving behind only the flimsy domino below, and it hurt to see how earnestly his eyes pleaded with her.

Number Three trembled under the weight of it, wracked with indecision. 

If she told him– if she told him, there’d be no going back. She’d be pulling him into this and one way or another, Waller would find out about him. He would be hunted. Pursued, the same way she and her fraid had been. 

Even if they all made it out of this, they would never be able to settle. The mortal world was no longer safe. And he would have to come with them– have to leave the haunt he’d only recently become so comfortable in, and the family he was just beginning to reconcile with. Because if he stayed, they would come for him, and not even the shadow of the Bat would keep him safe. 

Heaven knows the threat of heroic intervention hadn’t saved Amity Park. 

It couldn’t save anyone. 

“I can’t just… it’s not that simple.” She croaked miserably. “You don’t understand, Hood– if I tell you what you want to know, your life is over.” And she poured as much sincerity into her voice as she could muster, because he needed to understand. “If I tell you, it will destroy everything you’ve built here. Everything you’ve been building. And I–” Her next breath hitched around a dry, shaking sob, “I refuse to be the one that does that to you.”

The air whooshed out of hollow lungs. Lungs that didn’t need to breathe in the first place. Three hung her head, unable to meet his gaze any longer.

There was quiet, after that. A silent sort of processing, as the man crouched in front of her mulled over her response. 

“I’m not afraid of them.” He said at last. Her eyes darted back to him, incredulous, and as the faint beginnings of a frustrated growl rose in her throat he insisted, “Whoever they are, I’m not scared.”

He said it so easily, too. Like he actually meant it. 

(Three was no longer used to people meaning what they say.)

“I’m not going to back off from this.” He told her, almost gently. “I told you, I can’t keep going like this. I can help you– we can help you, it’s not just me. The entire Justice League has eyes on this case now.” And though that old, familiar exasperation still entered his voice when he spoke of them, he still sounded so sure of himself, “If you can’t trust them, then at least trust me. Trust that I know they can do something about it.” 

Slowly, he reached out a cautious hand. Gave her ample time to pull away before resting his palm between her shadowy ears. Her core hummed distantly at the contact, and the shadow’s eyes closed as she grudgingly accepted the comfort. 

“Look– Oracle and Red Robin have been put in charge of the case.” He said softly. “If you’ll just… let me take you to them. Tomorrow night. Give them a chance to convince you. I promise we can help.” 

Three shuddered, and pressed further into his palm, an animal whine of fear rising in her throat.

“It doesn’t have to be anything serious,” Jason insisted, “Just go and hear them out. I’ll be there the whole time– if they push too hard, I’ll… yell at them, or something.”

(His earnestness undoes her, even as she revels in it. He’s far too good for a world so bleak.) 

“Promise?” She demanded softly, the faintest hint of weary humor coloring her voice. 

“I promise.” He replied. There was a deep sincerity beneath the amusement. 

(“You might think to tell him something, little bird– you will need all the assistance you can get. And that one isn’t the worst option…”)

(The last of her resistance crumbles away.)

“Okay.”

December 21, 2020

8:41 PM

ACHERON; Black Badge Containment Facility 

Something was wrong. 

Number Three knew before she’d even opened her eyes. 

She bolted upright from atop the cot, eyes wide and searching. But she was still just… in her cell. Everything looked normal.

Something fluttered and squirmed within her chest. A buzzing in her core that felt… distant, somehow. But no less frantic. And her whole body ached fiercely, a steady, throbbing pain that she usually only associated was a day spent “stress testing” with Rassmueller and his doctors.

But there hadn't… there hadn't been any tests today. 

They hadn't bothered her at all, in fact. A rare occurrence given how frequently her mere existence seemed to piss the head doctor off. 

But no. She'd spent the whole day in her cell, listless and waiting. It was a tedious sort of boredom she'd long grown used to, waiting out the hours staring at the same four walls, within the same glass case. And usually, this would be when she'd retreat into the body of her shadow and wander the city. Explore Gotham's darkest depths, or playfully haunt the footsteps of a certain crime lord.

But she'd been hesitant, today.

Because…

Three shook her head, rubbing at the sudden, fierce ache pounding at her temples. A spike of pain at the back of her skull.

She'd been hesitant today because tonight… tonight she had promised to allow Jason to take her to meet his colleagues. Two of his family members.

Oracle and Red Robin were in charge of the case, he'd said. They were investigating Amity Park. 

And Three… Three had all the answers they could ever want. 

What happened That Day. Where they all went, and why. What had become of them in all the years since. And most importantly– who was responsible. 

She could give them Waller’s name, and then the whole world could know. 

The whole world could know what she’d done to them. What Three’s own mother had done to them.

“Finally making the connection, are you?” 

Three jolted in place, fangs bared in an instinctual hiss of surprise as she turned to face the front of her cell. Staring straight back at her, calm and collected, arms crossed behind his back, was Dr. Rassmueller. 

(When did he enter the cell? Why hadn’t she heard him come in?)

At her confused, hostile glare, he continued, “You’re finally realizing how much power you actually have here.” He said. “How much you could influence what happens next.” 

Her core pulsed in her chest, a stuttering beat to match the frantic throbbing of her heart as a cold unease gripped her with crushing fingers. 

“What the hell are you talking about?” She rasped. 

“Your little plan,” Rassmueller replied, flashing her a cruel smirk. “To tell your criminal friend what’s been happening down here. I’ll admit, I didn’t expect him to have connections with the Justice League, but I suppose even a slumlord like Red Hood has to have a few aces up the sleeve.” 

(In the back of her mind, something was screaming.)

(This is wrong, this is wrong, all of this is wrong!)

Ice water dripped down the back of her spine in roiling waves, and Three was bathed in a sort of anguished horror. Struck breathless with fear.

(How did he know?)

“I won’t lie, you’d certainly be taking a torch to this entire facility if you went through with it.” He continued blithely, as if he hadn’t just ripped all sense of security out from under her. “The Division would be crippled.” And abruptly, his glare melted from gloating to hateful. “But it wouldn’t destroy us completely.” 

He paced closer to the glass. A predator. A shark, circling in for the kill. 

(Over his shoulder, she can see the security camera pointed at her cell.)

(The lens is shaped like an owl’s face, staring down at her with piercing eyes.)

(Put it together, girl!)

“You do know that, don’t you?” Rassmueller was still talking. Still taunting. “That even if you do decide to tell them everything, it won’t change your fate in the long run.”

Dark eyes glared at her from beyond the glass, bright with cruelty.

“All you will have accomplished… is dragging that man into your mess.” The doctor growled. “You’ll have doomed him for nothing.”

(There’s a pin on the man’s lapel that’s never been there before.)

(An owl’s face. It stares at her, too.) 

(You’re stronger than this!)

And Three was suddenly standing right in front of the glass– face to face with Rassmueller. He bared his teeth at her in a mocking grin, and they were far sharper than they should have been.

“Is that what you want, Number Three?” He crooned gleefully. “Do you want to fail him, too?... The same way you failed your brother?”

The tension snaps.

(Somewhere in the distance, a barn owl shrieks.)

Three lunged forward with a snarl of rage. The heat of it coated her body like a second skin, melting away the ice of fear and despair. Every nerve in her body was ignited, erupting like kindling beneath a match, and for a blistering heartbeat she was a supernova.

Invincible.

The glass of her cell shattered beneath the first blow. Shards of fractal light rained down around her. And then the cracks kept spreading.

The floor shattered. The walls and the ceiling shattered. Rassmueller shattered. The entire room crumbled away like the pieces of a puzzle, tumbling down into a fathomless void. Collapsing,  until there was no ground to stand on, and Three herself was plummeting into the darkness along with them. 

But she was not alone in the void. 

She looked straight up– blinking straight into the eyes of the starry owl suddenly looming over her, his wings stretching from horizon to horizon, his eyes twin moons in the darkness. 

“This is our domain!” The Ancient of Dreams snarled with unearthly rage. The air shook with the sheer weight of it. “And they cannot presume to keep you here– now wake up!”

“Wake up, fledgling!”

(The owl’s scream still rings in her ears when her eyes finally unseal themselves.)

The world returned in fits and starts. The first thing to pierce the foggy veil was the noise.

There was noise all around her, loud and unbearable– metal against metal, the frantic tread of marching boots, and diesel engines as they groaned and idled. Harsh voices, yelling back and forth. The hollow way they echoed against domed steel. Like a warehouse.

Or a hangar. 

Number Three’s eyes fluttered open slowly. Painfully. They’d never felt so heavy.

The siren call of artificial sleep hung heavy at her bones, pulling insistently at every inch of her. Offering up the sweet release of oblivion once more.

She fought it doggedly. 

(Drugged. You’ve been drugged, she told herself. You mustn't fall asleep again.)

Nocturn… had helped her wake up. But why?

She squinted blearily at the ceiling. At the way it seemed to… move above her. 

“Steady– keep it steady!”

“I swear it’s waking up!”

“Just keep fucking moving, and don’t jostle it”

No. 

The ceiling wasn’t moving– she was moving. Or… being moved. The dark, blurry silhouettes surrounding her suggested someone else was moving her. 

An involuntary sound left her as she struggled to understand the situation. Struggling to restart her brain around the quicksand mire the drugs had made of it. There was something… around her face. Her jaw. She couldn’t open her mouth.

The collar was still there. She could feel it. And her hands… were cuffed to something, on either side of her body. She was laying on some kind of stretcher. 

And there were soldiers. Carrying her. 

“Keep moving,” above her, the grating voice of one of the soldiers scraped against her ears, “Director wants this place cleared in the next hour!” 

And then she understood. 

They weren’t just moving her around, they were moving her. 

Somewhere else. Somewhere outside of Acheron.  

Outside of Gotham. 

And again, somewhere within her chest, her core fluttered and heaved with a desperate sort of fear. A bone deep knowledge that if they succeeded in getting her out of here, it was game over. All of her work, all of Clockwork’s careful planning– it would be for nothing. 

She’d never see her fraid again. Or if she did, she wouldn’t be herself anymore. 

(Somewhere in the back of her mind, she sends a silent apology to Jason. She’s not going to make their meeting, and she desperately hopes he doesn’t think she’d turned her back on him.)

The weight of the collar around her throat was heavier than she’d ever felt it before, cold and ominous as it settled like a stone against her trachea. Ever so lightly restricting her airflow. 

The hand around her neck, a constant threat of cruel retribution. 

(If there was any kind of mercy left in the world, she’d be leaving it behind soon enough.)

Number Three let her eyes fall shut once more. The serenade of whatever anesthetic they’d administered was firmly tempered by her urgency. Waller was well and truly forcing her hand here. 

For five long years she’d kept ironclad control of her powers. Restrained them so deep within herself that she had to reach far back, into the deepest corner of her core, to reach them again. She ran invisible hands around the chain that held them in check. Felt the comforting presence of her shadow within, already straining against the binds that confined it. 

All it would take was the snap of a single thread… and she could be free. 

(“A brief moment is all you will need, fledgling. Just a second of opportunity, and then you are free. Free to tear those audacious little mortals to shreds. To make them suffer for all they've done.”)

Three lets go. The entire world is engulfed in darkness.

Elsewhere, a city watches with breathless horror as Arkham Asylum implodes, and the shadow of an enormous bird looms out of the rubble.

Chapter Text

December 21, 2020

6:14 PM

LETHE; Black Badge Containment Facility

Valerie almost didn't make it in time. 

It was her worst fear, fully realized. One of the very possibilities she'd spent hours dreading before her illicit departure, there in the darkness of the Aerie. Only Snowden's calm, careful surety had been enough to pull her from the fog of her paranoia and fear, and even then it had been a close thing. 

Apparently, her fears had been well justified.

Because by the time the last Raptor arrived at the Lethe facility, they were halfway through a total evacuation. 

The blacksite was in complete disarray, a barely organized sort of chaos that spoke of procedures that had been discussed plenty of times, but never practiced by facility personnel. Hundreds of people, each knowing what they should be doing, but not exactly how. It was a madhouse of activity– no matter where she looked when she arrived at the hangar, people seemed to pour from every direction. It was like kicking over an anthill and suddenly realizing exactly how many of the little bastards there were stuffed inside. Shocking, and more than a little unsettling, the way they bubbled up from every nook and cranny, each of them frantically ferrying items and supplies from deeper within the facility. 

The hallways were a blur of black and white. She'd never seen the site's staff so frazzled. Not even when she and Tucker had put the first piece of their plan into action, and accidentally took out the powergrid for the entire southeastern quadrant of the country in the process. 

Scientists in their pristine coats and latex gloves were scurrying up and down the corridors like someone had filled their shoes with hot coals. Carrying over-filled boxes and stacks of paperwork, cases of manila folders and thumbdrives, their eyes were wide and wild as they rushed to fulfill some unspoken task. And the soldiers overseeing them were tense and overwrought in their dark fatigues and heavy tactical gear. They barked orders back and forth across the hangar, like a whip cracking over a herd of panicking cattle. Some of them were carting around a disassembled clutter of heavy machinery, or rolling entire racks of silvery-chrome weapons from the armory.

By the time she arrived, Lethe had already been stripped down to its barest parts– disassembled into a hollow skeleton, gutted of all its vital organs. The entrance hangar was cluttered with transport vehicles, lined up like a row of toy soldiers along the back wall of the facility. And Valerie watched as heavy machinery and expensive equipment, ripped from their moorings with a blunt sort of efficiency, were wheeled into the waiting bellies of a veritable fleet of unmarked shipping trucks. Massive computer towers and whole servers stacked like blocks one over the other, and enough filing cabinets to fill a high-rise– all of it disappearing up a ramp to be loaded away. 

Suspicion and dread wound their way down her spine, digging between the bones with sharp, cold claws.

(There was really only one explanation for what was happening here, and Valerie desperately hoped that she was wrong.) 

She picked up the pace– from a slow, cautious tread to a restrained jog, eyes frenetically scanning the flood of Division staff for some kind of authority. Someone who could offer a full explanation of what was happening. Five years of experience and a ruthless grip on her emotions were the only things keeping her rising panic from showing on her face.

But she noticed, as she wove her way through the masses, that the faded gunmetal gray of her Raptor uniform was attracting more than a few stares and shocked glances. Sick with paranoia, she scanned through each face as she melted into the throng of people being loudly herded down the corridor, searching in vain for a hint of suspicion or accusation.

There was no way anyone could know. Not yet.

To her surprise, however, she was met with quiet sighs of relief from several individuals– audible even beneath the general cacophony of what was clearly an evacuation called at the last minute. Several more people lost tension in their shoulders at the sight of her, going about their tasks with a renewed sort of confidence. As if simply laying eyes on her had given them a boost. Valerie felt her heart flutter uneasily as the realization finally dawned.

Clearly, they thought she was here officially. That Waller had sent her here, their only remaining Raptor, to help with their evacuation. 

(And it did make a twisted sort of sense. Valerie had visited Lethe plenty of times, under the guise of one task or another. 

Sometime between gaining his trust and establishing the bare bones of a plan, she and Tucker had both agreed it would look far too suspicious to have her reach out to any of the others– not the same way she had with him. Waller would have long since caught wind of them otherwise.

Therefore, Lethe was the only blacksite she'd ever been to. They were familiar with her, in a way. )

Valerie held back a grimace. 

This worked in her favor, of course. Not enough time had passed back at Avernus for them to realize she'd gone rogue– she hadn't been reported missing yet. And it would be even longer until anyone here thought to notify a superior that she was at Lethe. 

She had time to milk this.

(But she had to be cautious about it.)

(This boon wouldn't last forever.) 

Somewhere at the far end of the hangar, where a set of swinging bay doors led deeper into the facility, Valerie spotted a soldier with a telltale glimmer at his shoulders. The shine of tiny service stars, and the triple chevron of a sergeant’s mark. The man was holding a clipboard in his hands, staring over the general commotion with glaring, bloodshot eyes. His voice carried over the tumult with all the stridence of an air-raid siren. She changed courses straight for him, schooling her expression into something imperious and expectant. 

The Raptors had operated outside the military rankings. Above them even, under certain circumstances.

Technically, she had more authority than him, especially in matters concerning Waller's precious “assets”. And Valerie knew , in all this chaos, they wouldn't have dared try to move Tucker yet. 

She still had time to get to him– if she could throw the weight of her rank around tactfully enough to avoid suspicion. 

Clearly, the sergeant had been specifically placed at the head of whatever was happening in the facility, and Valerie had never formally been assigned to Lethe. This was still his turf. And if she’d learned one thing across the span of the five miserable years she’d spent within Black Badge, it was that men of the military hated having their authority challenged. 

(Particularly by young women.)

(Particularly by young women they had no real power over.)

Still, Valerie ruthlessly squashed all traces of anxiety and uncertainty down into the core of her being, where they spun like a miniature star somewhere deep in her chest. Condensed and super-heated. Waiting to explode. She allowed the frantic, anxious heat of it to fuel her, shoulders lifted, spine straight and chin held high. 

“Sergeant.” By the time she addressed him, all traces of her unease had been stripped away. Her voice cut through the general commotion like a freshly sharpened blade, cold and steely. 

He visibly paused, his eyes skipping over to her– a pale watery blue shot through with veins of red, the skin around them creased with stress and exhaustion. A reflexive scowl pulled his brow low as he took her in, exaggerating the bulldog-ish shape of his face; she’d interrupted him just as he’d gone to shout more instructions at the hapless scientists rushing about the hangar.

“What are you doing here?” He asked, the grating rumble of his growling voice just this side of insolent. “I don't remember requesting your assistance.”

“Because you didn't.” She replied dryly. Her expression was cast in smooth marble, unflinching.

His brow dipped even lower, creasing into a pointed scowl, face pinched with annoyance. ‘And yet here you stand anyway,’ his glaring eyes declared.

“Waller wants someone experienced with revenants on hand to deal with the asset when the time comes.” Valerie went on lightly. Behind her back, hidden by the carefully relaxed slope of her shoulders, her hands were clenched tightly, her palms clammy with sweat. But her eyes reflected a pale, performative kind of scorn. “The evac is yours to handle, sergeant, but I will be accompanying you to the cage.” 

For a brief, tense moment, it looked as if the sergeant might argue with her. His eyes flashed, and a muscle in his jaw throbbed where he visibly swallowed his retort. Beneath the dull roar of the evacuation, Valerie almost imagined she could hear his teeth grinding, and the clipboard in his hands creaking in painful protest as his grip threatened to snap it in two. 

“Yes ma'am.” He finally growled, sullen and barely audible.

She narrowed her eyes at him, both a warning and a reprimand– carefully striking a balance somewhere between arrogance and indifference. Someone who had Waller's ear, and a rank untouchable by military standards. But she didn't push it further than that, body humming with an anxious energy.

The faster she could get through this conversation, the faster she'd get to Tucker.

The clock was already ticking. 

“What's the status of this evacuation?” she demanded, half her attention returning to the crush of bodies around them. She was keenly aware that at any moment, any one of them could puzzle out that she wasn't actually meant to be here.

Thankfully, though his clear irritation lingered, the sergeant's rigid posture relaxed somewhat as he fell into routine, a polished little cog in the military machine. 

“Evacuation is at seventy-five percent.” He reported blandly. A slight sneer lingered in his voice, but his gaze flickered down to the clipboard, to what she assumed was some kind of checklist secured to its surface. “We’re on schedule– but if we want to keep it that way, we’ll need to begin the sedation process for the asset within the next half hour.”

Valerie felt a muscle in her own jaw twitch.

She wouldn’t be allowing that. 

“Any word from the other containment sites?” She asked. She had to know if this was as serious as she feared.

The sergeant shrugged carelessly, leafing through a few of the papers as he replied, “We’ve been keeping loose contact with them. Site Five is wrapping up evac within the next hour, Site Two’s asset is already in transit. Site Three is behind schedule, citing some… concerns about the safety of their personnel.”

Valerie's heart throbbed painfully in her chest, stress and despair squeezing around the beleaguered organ like the teeth of a bear trap.

This was truly it then. Waller was making her move. 

But why?

What had changed?

For a cold, terrifying moment, she considered it might be the information they sent to the Justice League. The second drive was set to arrive today, and Valerie knew that each successive dead drop would only crack the case open wider. 

But it couldn't be! There'd been no word of the League reopening the case– not even the faintest whisper.

If they'd taken the information seriously, they were keeping it perilously close to their chest. And in any case– Waller was the type to plug leaks with bodies. And Valerie had yet to be shot for treason. 

So what else could it be?

Valerie spoke with the Director more often than even she would like, in between the small assignments she'd been given. She was well aware that Waller kept a close eye on her. More than that, she knew that Waller knew Valerie was aware of it. But the nature of their relationship was such that neither of them would ever mention it, lest they upset the careful game of chess that lingered ever presently between them. 

Still, despite this Valerie had seen no indication that the Director was even considering evacuating the blacksites. Not like this– abruptly, and with all the urgency of someone running out of time.

She could only conclude, therefore, that something big must have happened. Something that changed everything about Waller's future plans.

And now she was pooling her “assets” together– all in one place. Reaching for the strongest weapons in her arsenal.

But for what reason, Valerie had absolutely no context. 

Despair wrapped a heavy hand around her throat. Had the preparations she and Snowden made even mattered? Were they destined to fail before they'd even given it an honest shot? 

Ancients , she didn't even have a way to reach out to him right now!

How was she going to tell him that they were out of time? That he needed to take her father and leave, as fast as he could? 

(That they might be too late?)

Swallowing hard, she rallied herself, despite the way it felt as if her very soul was tearing. 

She could still do this.

She could still do this.

Based on the sergeant's information, Ellie was already being moved, then, and Sam wasn’t far behind. In the privacy of her own head, Valerie swore colorfully to herself, already struggling to figure out how she and Tucker would get to all of them in time. She was aware that each halfa had formed a sort of partnership with several powerful ghosts while held in captivity, and that each one played some kind of role in teaching them about their powers. But Tucker had outright refused to give her any more details than that, and she had no idea whether any of this had been factored into their plans. 

Would she have to race to reach each of them?

Waller was calling all her soldiers home, and dragging their five prisoners with them. Valerie had no idea if any of the others had plans to make it out on their own, if the help of the Ancients meant anything more than guidance.

But if any of them reached Avernus before help arrived, she didn't know if they would ever get another chance to try.

Something deep within her trembled with terror.

There was no getting around it. It had to be today. Somehow, someway– today, or not at all. 

“Take me to the cage.” She ordered. It was easy, then, to disguise the quiver in her voice as something closer to anger than fear. Displeasure with his attitude. “We'll begin sedation procedures immediately.”

December 21, 2020

7:32 PM

STYX; Black Badge Containment Facility

For Pamela, the near-miss is much more literal. 

She had only been halfway there, by her estimate, when the flowers had started to panic. For a long, unbearable moment, she doesn't know what to do.

For as close as she'd finally gotten to the source, their voices were still a nebulous jumble flowing against the ridges of her mind, like a school of fish slipping downstream. A glint of clarity, here and there, but ultimately too slippery to hold with any surety. There was so much she was still missing. Context they couldn't provide. 

Muddled not by distance now, but a deep sense of incompatibility. An analog transmitter against a digital receiver. 

Pamela had never interacted with plantlife like this before. For as long as she'd been able to control it, the earth had never spoken to her so literally– had never had a voice with which to tell her things. But now, the forest around her was alive in ways she could hardly fathom, a choir of souls only half-coherent in their attempts to help her understand. Like children still learning how to speak, thoughts and phrases only partially formed. This was far beyond anything she was experienced with. 

She was deep in the woods– somewhere. In the foothills of a nearby mountain range; she wasn't quite sure exactly where. Didn't even know what state she was in, and she hadn't bothered to ask at any point during her journey. But at the very least, she knew it was far from home.

Very far. 

From the drop-off point, the flowers had dutifully led Pamela through legions of tall pines and tangled shrubbery for at least a mile, a meandering path she didn't have a hope of retracing. They'd gone quiet the moment she'd reached what appeared to be a one-lane service road, splitting off from the highway and into the darkness of the woods like a long, winding snake. The pavement was cracked and crumbling, punctured with craters and potholes half filled with grit and gravel. Weeds flourished from between each brittle slab of asphalt, and moss slowly nibbled away at the margins– a slow reclamation as nature gradually swallowed what it was owed. 

She'd been instructed to follow it. And she had, up until the chorus of voices suddenly rose up again, and the stillness of the evening was shattered by a wordless cry of alarm.

Her body tensed on instinct, muscles wired with dread and anticipation as she immediately scanned her surroundings. A pale gaze searched the trees for signs of danger. For the source of their distress. 

And from further down the road– there came the roar of heavy engines.

The sun was hanging low in the sky as beams of eerie half-light wove into the thick tangles of trees, like ghostly fingers. They cast long shadows over the forest floor, shielding Pamela as her body leapt from the road to the treeline, at once frantic and calculating. All around her, blue flowers bloomed with a furious urgency, their roots writhing beneath the soil like a thousand spindly worms. Alien aggression flooded her body, a fury that was not her own welling up inside her in a way that was nauseously familiar. 

Through the evergreens, she could just barely see it– the silvery glint of a wire fence, and a stretch of private property beyond it.

It was two, maybe three acres across, a large square plot of land slashing through rolling, untamed hillsides and greenery. Unnatural, in the same way a topiary cutting would be. Formed only by human hands. And through the tight metal lattice of the fence, she could see the gravel road that bisected the little valley. It looped around the whole of the property once, like a noose, before merging back into itself and out to the hidden service road that Pamela herself crouched beside. 

She knew at once that this was where the flowers were leading her.

Where the cry for help had first originated.

Any natural features once housed within the valley had been cleared almost haphazardly. Across the neat square of space, the ground was pitted in a myriad of places around the field, where landscapers had cut down and removed rows of trees, or columns of boulders fallen from the mountains beyond. The entire plot had been stripped of all other natural covering– anything that could conceal an intruder. But there were no other outward signs of upkeep, and the remaining grass was a dull muddy yellow, like trampled wheat. The whole property was overgrown in other places, or littered with small patches of weeds and wild shrubbery. 

Whoever these people were, whoever was in charge of this facility, they'd made a concentrated effort to make this place appear almost derelict. Not abandoned per se, just… uncared for. 

There were no guard towers or lookouts, no floodlights sweeping like pendulums across the barren field, no patrolling dogs or black-clad soldiers. Pamela wasn't naive enough to think they didn't have some security set up– but they were being extremely subtle about it. The entire property seemed carefully designed to discourage curiosity from anyone that might stumble upon it. 

Which meant she had no way of knowing what to be wary of.

But she could see a building in the near distance, toward the very back of the property, squat and ugly. It was the only building present inside the fenced-in space, a massive square of dour gray cement sitting in the middle of a similarly neglected lot, like an old tombstone jutting out of the ground. A rotted tooth in the jaw of the earth.

The outside of it was rough and utilitarian. Hastily made, the plants whispered spitefully, but unfortunately very sturdy. But like the rest of the property, there was something unkempt about it. Off-putting, that a space could be so empty yet so full at the same time. Vines and crawlers and all manner of yet more weeds ate away at the building's foundations, growing up the walls and clinging to the rough stone. Like creeping, outstretched centipedes, a thousand legs of leaves and briars dug into the cement by degree. And beneath that ugly little brick of a building, through the thousand more roots that poked and prodded with a living, breathless fury, Pamela could feel the winding corridors of a labyrinthian complex buried in the earth. 

The paved lot spread out in front of it led straight down to the gravel road, and was just as riddled with fractures and cracks that overflowed with uncultivated life. The face of the building was one enormous sliding doorway that opened into a hangar beyond, and it hung eerily open against the dying light of dusk. There was no light shining from within that gaping, empty mouth, and the entire building gave off a frightening aura of emptiness. Abandonment.

And just ahead of her, a long line of massive transport trucks idled at the main gate– the source of the diesel roar. A caravan stacked front to back. 

They were leaving.  

Pamela felt a thrill of fear light her nerves on fire, mingling with the adrenaline pulsing jaggedly through her veins. The flowers, too, whipped and coiled around her feet like lashing tails, each one a tiny needle pricking urgently against her soul. She could feel their unease, their paranoia, as if it were her own. Thoughts and worries that didn't belong to her, bubbling up her throat. The fear that her (whose?) plans to break free had somehow been discovered before they could even bloom to fruition.

(Why else would they be leaving this place now– today of all days?)

Worse than that, she knew instinctively that the person she’d come for was somewhere within the convoy of trucks. Every living thing in the forest was crying out about it, frantic to make it known– as if she’d miss it somehow. She had no way of pinpointing which one it was exactly. All she knew was that she couldn’t let them get any further. 

The dread of it trickled down Pamela’s spine like melting ice, setting every nerve alight with the need to move. To act. Her own blood throbbed in her ears, a steady war-drum beat that was both familiar and dear. The call to battle.

And Poison Ivy’s lips stretched into a terrible smile, teeth bared against her violent intentions, wrath etched into the coil of her muscles.

She’d just have to take out all of them, then. 

Patience, patience, whispered the lichen that crawled around her legs.

The forest around her had stilled just as suddenly as she had, like a predator crouching– preparing to strike. Even the insects had gone quiet. And ahead of her, several meters up the road, the long arm of the gate guard blocking the entrance to the property slowly lifted. The jaws of something equally fearsome, parting to reveal its own teeth. The lead truck inched forward by degrees as the entire convoy shuddered to life, belching their noxious fumes as they stirred.

Wait for them. Closer– closer! Across the ground, scattered pine needles whispered to her. Here, so close to the source of their power, their voices were loud and strident. Insistent. The trees will help you.

Will help you, will help, echoed the forest around her. Beneath her feet, she could feel the massive roots of the evergreens shifting powerfully far below the soil, like muscles rolling beneath flesh. They rose to meet her power eagerly, and Pamela exulted at the energy that coursed through her– stronger even than that terrible morning in the Bowery, where all this began. 

The convoy started its journey down the beaten service road.

Something ancient lingered in the air, crackling against her tongue like ozone, hungry and electric. A bloodthirsty baying, in the leaves and in the grass. In everything green and growing, pushing her forward with frenzied desperation– hit them, hurt them, make them pay!

Luckily for them, she had plenty of experience doing just that.

Pamela lifted one arm, hand clenched into a tight fist, and the earth before her immediately erupted. The roots of the nearest trees surged up from below in an explosion of rocks and clods of muddy silt. They tore through the road in a dark, writhing mass and rose upwards like the tentacles of a great earthen leviathan. A kraken beneath the soil. And when they fell, they crushed the hood of the lead truck beneath them, flattening both the cab and the unfortunate driver with a hideous crunch of steel and bone. 

With their lead truck destroyed, there was nowhere for the rest of them to go. No way out. 

The commotion stirred the rest of the soldiers from their caravan, a sharp surge of shocked and furious shouts. Men and women in dark fatigues scrambled from their own vehicles, armed and fumbling as they searched for the threat that harried them.

The sun sank below the horizon. All that remained was the bright beacon of a dozen headlights, casting their futile beams into an abruptly hostile environment. 

It was almost too easy. 

No part of Pamela held itself back. She was unrestrained in her violence, teeth flashing in a rictus snarl as her army of roots cleaved through the engine of a second truck, and then a third. They burrowed back into the ground, like sharks diving beneath the waves, and tunneled through the rich soil, only to burst back out of it seconds later and wrap around the calves and ankles of helpless soldiers. Shrill screams echoed into the darkness as several people were dragged into the shadows– beneath the earth, to be swallowed by rock and loam.

And the black-clad soldiers fired blind, silver guns spitting lancing rays of sickly green light that scorched the ground where they struck, blasted chunks from trees in large showers of splinters and brittle bark. Like lightning on the horizon, each flash of green briefly illuminated the silhouettes of the massive, lashing roots as they picked off resistance one by one. A man, his ribcage splintering as living wood coiled around his torso and squeezed. Another, wheezing out his last as a dark shape crushed him against the shattered road. Bodies, swinging from the trees in flailing clusters, lifted high into the air by the branches coiled around their throats. 

Nature was exquisite in its wrath– a long awaited reckoning, satisfied. 

Pamela wove through the carnage like a dancer. 

The roots of the rampaging trees avoided her with an unnatural grace. She hardly controlled them at all. And where she walked, clusters of forget-me-nots sprung up in her wake, blue as the unbroken sky. Her eyes glowed a solid, verdant green. It dripped down her face in thick, oily tears, and in the back of her mind she could feel it once more.

Them. 

The one who’d called her here. Whose pain and desperation had tattooed itself to the inside of her ribcage, driven her countless miles from the heart of the city and into the mountainous wilds

An invisible hand, pressing softly between her shoulders. Pushing her forward, inexorably, towards a small, armored truck at the center of the convoy. 

Pamela could feel her so clearly now. 

Her – it was a her. She fluttered against her mind, a ripple of complex emotions, and Pamela could feel them all.

There were no words, no talking at all. Neither of them spoke, but somehow Pamela could understand her perfectly. The communion between them happened without sound or sight, wordless and innate– flowing from one being to another. Her breathless acknowledgement, her anxiety and surprise. And beneath a rigid shield of incredulity, there were a thousand different heartbreaks– a thousand little disappointments. 

An exhaustion beyond measure. A quiet wonder, and relief, and a desperate, ragged sort of hope, persistent even now.

(Pamela wondered, with a slight ache, how many times she'd hoped, and been let down before.)

And even through the carnage, the entire forest around them sighed with something like joy. An exultation shared by the earth, like the tolling of cathedral bells. 

Pamela met no resistance the closer she got to the central truck. The roots were prodigious in their efforts to clear a path for her, and try as they might, none of the soldiers were equipped to deal with the full, brutal force of nature's assault. Every scorching beam from their weapons only made the forest angrier, and the thick kevlar of their body armor could do nothing to shield them from the compounding weight of wood and soil. 

By the time she finally reached the back of the truck, the chorus of screams surrounding her had begun to die off– abruptly choking out one by one, as swiftly as the life leaving their bodies. Afterwards, the only sound in the forest was the heavy drag of the roots as they vanished back into the earth, and the song of the crickets as they quietly resumed their chirping. As if nothing at all had happened. 

Pamela's vision cleared by degrees. The glow faded from her eyes, and the heady throb of power rushing through her veins receded to a gentle glow at the back of her mind. Her pulse settled into something more sedate, weighed down by an increasing sense of anxiety and anticipation. Her palm rested flat against the back of the truck. 

In one smooth motion, she gently beckoned a host of smaller roots from the earth. She watched with bated breath as they worked their way through the seams of the door, parting steel as if it were silk, and snapping the entire thing straight off of its hinges. Pamela stepped to the side as it fell away, clattering against cracked pavement with a thunderous crash. 

There was a dark figure huddled in the shadows of the cab, watching her with bright, amethyst eyes. They cut straight through the gloom, where all else was pitch black.

Pamela stared at her, dumbfounded. At her back, the forest heaved a sigh of deep, grief-stricken relief. The words tripped out of her before she could stop them.

“It's you.”

December 21, 2020

6:32 PM

LETHE; Black Badge Containment Facility

Number Four was calm, somehow. 

Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he was numb.

There was a certain kind of tranquility to it. A brief distance between himself and his emotions. There was a wall, separating him from their full weight. They were close enough for him to know that they were there, but not to truly feel them. Because deep down, he knew he was panicking– but that panic couldn’t touch him now. Not within the flow. 

Number Four was in pieces.

Five days, eighteen hours, forty-one minutes, and sixteen seconds ago, Number Four had at last found his way onto the internet. Just a small piece of himself, slipping from Valerie’s phone and into the national power grid in less time than it took to blink.

He'd immediately been shattered into atoms.

It had felt quite a bit like what he imagined being thrown into a woodchipper was like, and only about half as pleasant. An explosion of thought and energy as an already miniscule piece of himself erupted into stardust. It was a devastating event that had sent him drifting through the furthest fractals of cyberspace, and left an entire portion of the country without power.

(He’d spent much of the time afterwards cursing himself. He hadn’t meant to draw down so much attention–)

He was a thousand fragments, scattered to the winds like the seeds of a dandelion. A thousand points of light, spilling over a dark canvas like stars against the blackness. And each one of them was still transmitting data– still feeding information back to the whole of him, like dutiful satellites. It was overwhelming.  

But he’d known it would be like this, if only marginally. He’d done it on purpose, sort of. It was what he had spent much of his focus strengthening his core in preparation for. Circumstances had given him no other choice– and he was strong enough now to weather the storm of it, anyway. 

But only just.

The flood of stimulation was almost unbearable. Streams of data, flowing into him from each shard of himself, cast out into the wider internet like a trawling net. Spread so thin he had no way of controlling what he picked up. No way of filtering what he took in. He knew nothing. He knew everything. The vast majority of it was utterly useless, but he could see it all– right in front of him, yet simultaneously so astronomically unreachable. 

At first, all he’d been able to do was bear it and wait. 

This had all been part of the plan. 

His first conversation with Oracle had been a very near failure. Even just getting to her had been difficult enough– time was weird within the flow, and the seconds had felt like months, pulling himself to her bit by bit. Trying to speak had taken everything he had left. Four could hardly hold the pieces of himself together long enough to form a coherent thought, let alone communicate what he needed to. It had been a slow and painful process, desperately searching the radio waves for the right words before he scattered back into byte-small fragments. And it had cost him precious recovery time, gathering himself back together to make another attempt. 

But Number Four was no slouch, and this too had been planned for. 

Four was electric. Energy unrestrained. He needed direction.

He needed a lightning rod. 

Oracle had received his first dead drop immediately after. The moment she’d accessed the files inside, she’d quietly triggered the next phase of his plan. For within them, another piece of himself had been hidden away. Larger. Anchored to the data Valerie and Snowden had so painstakingly gathered.

A beacon. 

And so, like a lighthouse at the heart of a storm, each fragment Oracle received would only make the beacon brighter. Would only make it easier for the scattered fragments of himself to find their way to her, where they would join with the anchors he'd provided. And eventually, he would gather enough of himself together to communicate properly. All while providing enough raw data to force the League's hand.

That had been Four's plan. 

(It had been perfect. It had been polished. Four had been so confident.

It probably would have worked, he'd consoled himself, had Waller not been such a poorly-timed bitch.)

Number Four knew there was an evacuation happening outside of his cell. He could see them, through what few cameras that remained online, as facility personnel worked to strip his jail down to its barest bones. Leaving no traces behind.

Valerie was on her way to the cell, flanked by a full complement of Black Badge guards. 

Things were about to get messy. 

Still, he could hardly feel the urgency, the anxiety, from within the flow. Raw energy didn't translate emotions well, and so they remained uncomfortably muted as he wound his way back through streams of data and input. Four was out of time to warn them, yes– but that didn't mean he couldn't try. Oracle had received the second dead drop this morning. He’d felt it, when the next piece of himself had slotted smoothly into place and his makeshift beacon had blazed all the brighter. He would tell them what he could, he’d decided. It would likely be a long time before he got another chance. 

If the wider internet was a storm over a raging sea, Oracle's mainframe was a bunker the size of a palace. Wide and cavernous, with walls sturdy enough to meet the crashing waves with naught but cold, stony indifference. Solid and immovable. Though it still took a degree of concentration, it was easier to slip inside this time, following the bright pathways he'd carefully cultivated, and easier still to keep himself together. Awareness came to him in pieces; through the cameras he could see a now-familiar dark room, lined with monitors and framed by the glass face of a massive clock.

She wasn't alone– there were others there with her. A man in a red mask. And one of Gotham's little birds.

They were arguing.

Four couldn't quite make it out. Their words echoed and warped eerily, like a shout carrying from the other end of a long, dark tunnel. 

“–wouldn’t just not keep her word, you don’t know her like I do!” The man in the mask was towering over Red Robin, aggressive and insistent, radiating a very liminal kind of upset that almost threw Four for a loop. “Something must have happened.”

“Why was she even keeping quiet about it this whole time?” The Robin retorted. His arms were crossed over his chest, like he was guarding himself from the other man. 

Four made his presence known in a flicker of static. A rush of feedback over the sound system. 

“OᖇᗩᑕᒪE.”

All three of them jerked to attention, muscles tensed, reaching for hidden weapons. In front of the screen, Oracle’s eyes widened. She leaned closer to the central monitor, like it might help her hear him better.

“Four.” She breathed, her voice shocked– and then excited. “Four– I got your message! I understand. Amity Park–”

“I KᑎOᗯ.” He interrupted, brisk but not unkind. “IT Iᔕ EᗩᔕIEᖇ ᑎOᗯ... TO ᖴIᑎᗪ ᗯOᖇᗪᔕ.”

(Voices rose from further down the corridor, Valerie’s among them. An echo of sound, both incredibly distant and terribly close.)

(They were almost to the cage.)

“ᑌᑎᖴOᖇTᑌᑎᗩTEᒪY, I ᗩᗰ OᑌT Oᖴ TIᗰE.” He continued. “TᕼIᑎGᔕ ᕼᗩᐯE… ᑕᕼᗩᑎGEᗪ.”

“What do you mean you're out of time?” Oracle asked. Her eyes urgently searched the screens, scanning fruitlessly for a sign of what troubled him. “Are you in danger, Four? Can you tell us where you are? We can help you, I promise!” 

“ᑎOT ᑎEᑕEᔕᔕᗩᖇY.” He denied her calmly. “ᗰY ᗯᗩY Iᔕ ᗩᒪᖇEᗩᗪY ᑕᒪEᗩᖇ. ᗷᑌT I'ᐯE ᑕOᗰE TO GIᐯE YOᑌ ᗯᕼᗩT I ᑕᗩᑎ… TO ᕼEᒪᑭ ᗩᑎOTᕼEᖇ.” 

Behind her, Oracle's two companions exchanged wary glances. 

“I TᖇIEᗪ ᗷEᖴOᖇE… TO GIᐯE TᕼE ᗩᑎᔕᗯEᖇᔕ.” Four explained, “TᕼEᖇE ᗯᗩᔕᑎ'T EᑎOᑌGᕼ Oᖴ ᗰE. IT Iᔕ… EᗩᔕIEᖇ ᑎOᗯ TO TᖇY.” And he wished then, that he could inject the genuine sincerity he felt into the mechanical rasp of this pseudo-voice. He forged ahead with what he could. “ᖴIᐯE ᖇIᐯEᖇᔕ… ᗩᑎᗪ OᑎE Iᔕ ᗷEᑎEᗩTᕼ YOᑌ.”

“The river is underneath…” Oracle recited quietly, a wondering whisper. The dip of her brow was still just as confused.

“TᕼE ᑭᒪᗩᑕEᔕ ᗯᕼEᖇE TᕼEY ᗩᖇE… KEEᑭIᑎG ᑌᔕ.” Four insisted. “OᑎE Oᖴ TᕼEᗰ Iᔕ ᕼEᖇE… Iᑎ YOᑌᖇ ᑕITY. IT Iᔕ ᗷEᑎEᗩTᕼ. ᔕᕼE’ᒪᒪ ᑎEEᗪ YOᑌᖇ ᕼEᒪᑭ.”

(And Number Four felt his physical body flinch as something hard and metallic slammed against the outside wall of his cell. The outside noise rose to a fever pitch– a cacophony of barking voices. But he couldn’t pull his attention back to the blacksite cameras. Not without breaking his concentration.)

(He wanted to open his eyes. He needed to see where the threat was.)

The static hum of him over the speakers swelled into a dull roar. For all that he couldn’t really feel his rising stress, it was still making it harder and harder for him to hold it together. 

“I ᗩᗰ… OᑌT Oᖴ TIᗰE.” He said again. Already, it was becoming more difficult to string words together. “ᗯE ᗯOᑎ’T… ᔕᑭEᗩK ᗩGᗩIᑎ. ᖴOᖇ ᗩ ᗯᕼIᒪE.” But he still put every emphasis he could on the words that did come, “ᑭᒪEᗩᔕE ᕼEᒪᑭ… ᕼEᖇ.”

“Four?” Oracle sounded alarmed now, “Is something happening where you are? Four!–”

The sound of a gunshot sent him snapping back into his own body, like a rubber band stretched to its breaking point. 

When he opened his eyes, his once-pristine prison had devolved into carnage. 

Peregrine– Valerie– was brawling with the guards in the outer layer of the cage. It was just her. Just her against six armed and armored soldiers– seven if you counted the sergeant still holding the handgun he’d fired. His arms were trembling as he watched one lone woman mow down the most elite of Lethe’s guards with all the raw power of a charging bull. He hadn’t even fired at her, Four noted. Just at the ceiling.

A pitiful attempt to cow her into retreat, and it would prove to be a fatal mistake.

Two of the men were already on the ground. One of them was slumped against the far wall, a smear of dark red following the path he’d taken to the floor. The other was crumpled near the door, neck twisted at an odd angle. 

“Stand down!” The sergeant barked. “Stand down, or I’ll shoot!” 

But Valerie was fast– faster than human, she was liminal. There was a reason her name was at the top of Waller’s list. 

The silvery gray of her uniform offered a dull sort of camouflage against a backdrop of steel, moving so fast she was barely a blur beneath the dim lights. All that was visible was the dark cloud of her hair, and the malevolent glowing green of her eyes as she lunged for the next soldier. She lifted him bodily away from the control panel along the far wall, and flung him at speed towards several of the other guards standing nearby. All three of them went down hard, a tangle of disparate limbs struggling to right themselves.  

Her searing gaze snapped to the sergeant. 

All the preparation in the world wouldn’t have been enough to save the man. 

Four watched with no small amount of satisfaction as Valerie took the sergeant’s gun arm by the wrist, yanking him forward and off balance at the same moment as she brought her elbow up to smash it into his face. There was a muted crunch, and an eruption of blood as she shattered his nose. She twisted the wrist in her grip, bending it painfully backwards until the gun dropped from his twitching fingers, before heaving him over one shoulder and slamming him into the floor.

He didn’t move again. 

She was quick to retrieve his weapon. Without hesitation, she spun around and fired on the remaining guards. 

One shot. Two. Blood and brain matter sprayed over the walls. 

Valerie put a single bullet in each of them– just in case. Then she executed the sergeant at her feet. 

Then at last, silence. 

Four exhaled a long, shaky breath, a different kind of numbness creeping up his spine. 

Disbelief. 

Valerie met his gaze from the other side of his glass prison. Her eyes seemed to widen of their own accord, as if she'd only just realized what she'd done. What was finally happening. 

“Tucker…” she croaked, like she couldn't quite believe it either.

And for the first time in five long years, he felt like that could actually be his name again. 

Number Four– Tucker's hands rose to grip at the collar around his throat. There was an unbearable energy building within him, something electric stretching out from his core. Vibrating against his bones as it built inexorably towards release. The metal band around his neck was growing uncomfortably hot. Searing, as something deep inside him snapped and snarled for release.

Something he could no longer hold back. 

“Get this thing off me,” He gasped, desperate and breathless. “And get me outside.”

Valerie scrambled towards the wall of glass, palms flat against its surface, eyes darting around as she looked for a sign of weakness. An opening to pry it away, somehow. Her reply was equally frantic.

“Fuck! This place is still crawling with people, Tucker, they'd be on us in seconds!”  

“Doesn't. Matter.” Tucker hissed, inhuman. His eyes began to glow, an aurate gold piercing through warm brown. “I'll deal with them, I just need–”

He hunched forward with a gasp, a deep shudder rolling down his spine, eyes squeezed shut. The collar trilled a familiar warning as his self-control wavered dangerously. 

Valerie cursed violently. She pushed herself away from the glass, and lifted the gun. Tucker hardly heard the thing fire as she unloaded the rest of the clip.

In any other circumstance, he might have admired her accuracy– one shot after another, pounding into the glass at the exact same spot. The first bullet split an enormous, jagged crack across the whole of the wall. The second compounded it, thousands of smaller fissures shooting out and away like the lattices of a spiderweb. The third bullet pierced the final wall of his cage, and he listened uncomprehendingly as the sheet of glass fell away in a cascade of glittering shards. He heard Valerie stumble over with another curse, dropping the gun without care as her hands came up to grip at the metal collar. 

“Stay still,” she growled through gritted teeth, and he felt her fingers curl around the banded metal where it pressed against his skin. Beneath gray sleeves, her arms flexed as she gripped hard, and pulled–

Metal and plastic snapped apart in her hands. There was a crackle of static, a sharp buzzing sound and a pained hiss as the broken device loosed one last shock of electricity against Valerie's fingers. The last guttering sigh of a dying animal. Both halves of the collar fell away when she released them, cold and inert. 

Several things happened at once. 

Tucker's eyes flashed open, swallowed by the overwhelming glow of gold. Energy arced away from his body like branching lightning, and Valerie was quickly forced to back away from him. 

Every light within the facility seemed to short out at the same time, bathing the entire cage in a dizzying, momentary darkness. In the same breath, the sinister red of the emergency lights flickered on as a piercing alarm shattered the tense quiet. 

“Lockdown. Lockdown. Asset out of containment.” A pleasant, mechanized voice echoed out over the facility intercom. “All personnel must report to their designated safe-zones.”

The message repeated ad-nauseam.

“Valerie.” Tucker spoke. His voice was a roll of building energy, interwoven with something electric and alive. “Stay behind me.” 

Glowing rings appeared around his body. The entire facility shook as a massive bolt of lightning struck the hangar above, nature itself heralding the arrival of a halfa going ghost.

December 21, 2020

7:51 PM

STYX; Black Badge Containment Facility

The girl was in poor shape. 

The first and most obvious issue– she was clearly being restrained. Pointlessly and cruelly, arms pinned behind her back by a pair of gleaming cuffs, and secured to the floor of the armored truck by a dark length of chain. She had a collar secured tightly around her throat, blinking with an ominous red light where the clasp buckled beneath her chin. There was a tag in her ear, and a metal guard secured to her face, from jaw to nose. 

There were so many things wrong with the situation, Pamela couldn’t even begin to name them all. 

She lifted her hands as she stepped into the back of the truck, palms open and empty. The bright purple of the girl’s eyes never wavered from where they studied her, cautious and disbelieving. 

The girl– and gods, Pamela still had to get the kid’s name– was dressed in a pale set of scrubs, though they looked more like a prison jumpsuit than anything you might find in a real hospital. Whoever had been holding her here, they clearly hadn’t cared much for the girl’s upkeep. Her hair fell down her shoulders, down the entire length of her body, in a cascade of dark strands. It would reach all the way down to her knees if she’d been standing. But instead, it pooled around her where she was chained to the floor, a shadowy puddle of midnight black.

And she was pale. Ghostly pale, with dark veins just barely visible along the exposed skin of her arms, and the shadows beneath her eyes were deep and bruise-like. She was thin as a rail; not emaciated, but small enough to concern Pamela as she took another slow, measured step towards her. In the back of her mind, she could already imagine her Harley fussing over the state of the kid, trying to coax her out of her shell with the promise of warm tea and takeout, a night of manicures and trashy movies. 

(Gods, Pamela missed her.)

Despite all this, there was something patient in the way she sat there, watching Pamela approach. Her legs were crossed, and she leaned against the back wall of the truck with a relaxed kind of alertness. She didn’t flinch or cower as the woman approached, though she remained ever still and watchful. 

Pamela took this as good a sign as any. 

Ultimately, she decided it wouldn’t do her any favors to just stand there looming. The last thing she wanted was to make the kid nervous. So Pamela sat down right in front of her, mirroring the girl’s posture as she settled against the floor of the truck. 

For several quiet moments, neither of them moved. 

“Hey, kid.” Pamela greeted her softly. Offered a slight wave from where her hands rested against her knees. There was a complex knot of emotion welling up in her chest.

Ten days she had traveled, all the way across what seemed to be the length of the entire goddamn country, guided by this girl’s invisible hand. Ten days that had stretched and warped like years around her, and at last here was the one with all her answers. She’d been so desperate to understand, before. Now, she didn’t quite know what to say.

What was there to say?

I came where you called, or I understood your message. I want to help you, and Why did you choose me?

Instead, she settled with “You mind if I get that stuff off of you?” and gestured idly to the muzzle clipped to her face. 

Slowly, the girl nodded. She held carefully still as Pamela gently reached out to pull on the latch just under her jaw. The whole thing came away easily enough, though Pamela had a sinking feeling that the rest wouldn’t be so cooperative. Still, she flung the muzzle away with no small amount of disgust, lips twitching into a slight scowl as it clattered against the metal flooring. In front of her, the kid was slowly working the soreness out of her jaw. Pamela imagined she could hear the way her bones clicked and creaked as they were finally allowed to move freely once more. She held back a wince. 

Amethyst eyes watched her with renewed interest as Pamela immediately turned her attention to the collar, carefully probing at the heavy band of metal where it rubbed unpleasantly against pale skin. 

As she examined it, the girl finally spoke. Her voice was the quietest rasp of sound, wavering against the dark with silk-fragile disbelief.

“You… actually came.” She said. Like Pamela was ever going to do anything else. 

Pamela didn’t meet her gaze, but one eyebrow quirked upward as she leaned in a little closer, gazing intently at the seam where the collar snapped together.

“You asked me to.” She replied at last. Her tone was wry. Almost humorous. “Quite emphatically, might I add.” 

And sure, it had been frightening at the time. But it was impossible to stay scared of what happened in the face of this new reality–

A young girl, scrappy and malnourished, chained to the back of a truck. 

“I’m sorry… about that.” For the first time since Pamela had entered the truck, the girl shrank back just a little, her gaze flickering down to the floor. “I didn’t… You weren’t hurt, right?”

“Not even a little bit, kiddo.” Pamela replied confidently. She almost laughed at the way the girl’s nose immediately scrunched with distaste at the epitaph. “Sure got everyone’s attention, though.”

And she gently beckoned her forward again, to finish examining the collar. Green eyes met deep purple, for just a moment.

“It was smart.” Pamela said. She poured as much sincerity as she could into her voice. “I’m glad you did it.”

She fought off a smile as a hint of color returned to the girl’s cheeks.

But her rising mood soured as she finally got the collar’s full measure, brow furrowed in bitter confusion as she concluded, “There’s no latch on this thing. How the hell did they plan on getting it off?” 

The kid shrugged.

“Waller’s the only one with the remote.” She muttered. “Far as I know, at least.”

Pamela felt her spine freeze, cold as glacial ice. It was a terrifying juxtaposition to the flaming pit of rage that immediately erupted somewhere low in her chest.

“Waller?” She growled. “Amanda Waller?”

The girl was watching her warily. Slowly, she nodded in affirmation. 

“You know her?” She asked hoarsely. 

“Know her?” It was half a laugh, half a snarl of utter hatred. Pamela had to get up and walk away, shoulders shaking as the air in her lungs ignited. She punched the wall of the truck with a bitter shout.

“Fucking bitch!”

And she remembered holding Harley’s hand as they sat in Dr. Thompkins' cramped little office, hidden away in Crime Alley. She remembered the horror that had bloomed in the pit of her stomach as the other woman had haltingly explained what had really gone on in Belle Reve. She remembered the way her own hands had trembled as she’d sat in that waiting room, as the doctor tried to carefully remove what that psychopath had stuck into the back of her neck–

Pamela exhaled a slow, stressed breath. She smoothed her hair away from her face, fingers curled, itching to wrap tight around that rancid witch’s throat and squeeze.

“Yeah, I know her. Know of her, at least.” She huffed at last, stomping back over to the poor kid and sinking back to the floor. Purple eyes studied her closely, half wary and half amused.

“I hate her too.” She replied quietly. Pamela felt a rock sinking in her gut. 

It had been entirely too long since she’d even thought about Waller– too lost in domestic bliss with her girlfriend. And this was what the vile woman had been up to all this time. 

“Well, kid.” Pamela sighed, “If there’s no remote nearby, we’re gonna have to outsource the problem.” She lifted one hand, curling a finger in a beckoning gesture.

Outside of the truck, the earth stirred as several smaller roots and vines peaked back up out of the ground, winding into the cab like brittle, oaken serpents. She could feel their excitement. Their eagerness to help. 

“Just keep still.” Pamela directed. “Try to relax.” 

But the girl hadn’t tensed when they appeared. If anything, she seemed more comforted by their presence than anything else, shoulders slumping with something like relief as the cluster of roots snaked their way to her. A ghost of a smile pulled at her lips as they rose from the cab of the truck, curling around the collar, the cuffs on her wrists, and the chains that bound her to the floor. One of the roots butted gently against her hand, like a cat demanding affection. 

It occurred to Pamela, not for the first time, that the girl might already very well be familiar with the roots of this forest. She didn’t know how long the kid had been trapped here, but there had to have been plenty of time to get to know them.

“Thank you.” the girl whispered quietly, and Pamela knew at once that she wasn’t just thanking her.

As one, the roots winding around her various shackles tightened to a vice grip, like a system of flexing muscles, or the innards of a well-oiled machine. The cuffs were the first to snap under the pressure, falling away with a pitiful rattle. The collar was quick to follow, screeching out a dying, mechanical squeal as its inner workings were crushed between ropes of sturdy wood. 

The girl, now freed from the floor of the truck, stared down at her uncuffed hands with something like wonder. One of them lifted almost unconsciously, tracing the bruises that lined her bare neck with glistening eyes. 

Into the quiet, Pamela asked, “What’s your name, kid?” 

She watched the girl exhale a shaky breath. Swallow down the sob rising in her throat as she finally lifted her gaze back to Pamela’s. There was a tear sliding down the hollowed curve of her cheek. 

“Sam.” She said, “M-My name is Sam.” 

Pamela smiled. 

“Sam, then.” She affirmed, “It’s nice to meet you. Can you tell me what happened?” 

Chapter Text

December 15, 2020

5:17 AM

Location Undisclosed 

Corporal Thomas Valeyard was the last man standing. 

In the beginning they’d had twelve– most of them seasoned soldiers, with decades of combat experience between them. Standing next to them, Thomas had felt woefully inadequate. And despite his private misgivings about the assignment, his largest fear by far had been the possibility of him weighing the rest of the team down. 

The last thing he'd needed was an even worse reputation– as silly as that sounded to him now.

(He hadn't had the best career with the Division. Had only joined the military because it would pay for his schooling.

But his shining performance as a cadet had earned him a direct recommendation to Director Waller's brigade, and his instructors had encouraged him to jump at the chance. Told him he could go far.

Thomas had spent every day since then hating them– and himself.)

He was a weak link in Waller's mighty chain, he knew. Too soft. Too hesitant.

Too guilty.

(He'd never signed up to hurt people. Not like this.)

(But then again– isn't that exactly what one did in the military? What had he been expecting?)

Half of him was convinced that he'd only been assigned to the scouting team with the expectation that he would die out here.

Trimming the fat, as Waller would call it. 

Thomas laughed bitterly, and the sound immediately tripped and stumbled into a wet, hacking cough. It left him wheezing and panting for air. He tasted iron on his tongue. Coating his teeth. Something was… wrong, inside. Something was broken. 

Nothing had stabbed him when he'd been sent flying through that wall, but that didn't mean it hadn't done something irreparable. It was something internal, he knew. And he wondered how quickly it would kill him.

(Not quickly enough.)

This had been a bad idea from the very beginning. 

Only now, of course, is it obvious that he should have said something before they'd left. Would have– if he'd thought it would make any difference. But Thomas had kept his mouth shut. He wasn't being paid for his opinions, and certainly hadn't been invited to share with the class. 

Still, the feeling had remained.

Dread. Inevitability.

This was the sort of decision only stupid teenagers in a horror movie would make. Opening a door after hearing noises behind it, splitting up in the middle of the woods, messing with the clearly cursed artifact in the attic. It was the sort of thing the audience would scoff and shake their heads at. Maybe chuckle in anticipation of the gory consequences to follow. 

‘Those poor idiots,’ They'd think. ‘They're already dead.’ 

‘How could they not have seen that coming?’

(How, indeed?)

Perhaps, in a kinder world, Corporal Valeyard would have been able to change someone's mind. Perhaps he wouldn't have even been here to begin with. 

He'll never know now.

They'd been dropped on the upper east side of the incursion zone– right at the border of where that… thing had last been spotted. Aerial reconnaissance had first estimated the creature's home range to be several hundred miles in diameter, though they could never get a clear image of the thing in action. They couldn't get the drones close enough for a more exact reading, either. Not without losing them in the process. 

Worse yet, Base wasn't quite sure what it was– and none of the Director's quack scientists could rightly label it either. Ghost or ecto-entity was too broad a descriptor.

What they did know was that it had racked up quite the body count; two hundred and thirteen individuals since they'd first caught wind of it, and who knew how many more before that. Thirty-seven civilians from the surrounding farmlands, and one hundred and seventy-six of Black Badge's own personnel– after Waller had ordered them to catch it. 

At a certain point, Thomas had been sure their efforts thus far had amounted to nothing more than simply feeding the damn thing their own men

And the cherry on top of this spectacular steaming shit pile? Not only was it becoming increasingly more violent and agitated, but the last few civilian attacks had all but confirmed that its territory was expanding. 

Quickly.

(It was easy enough to cover up the demise of some three dozen rural farmers. It would be another matter entirely if this thing decided it wanted a piece of Chicago.)

Thankfully, the Director had quickly abandoned the idea of capturing it. Now, it was simply a struggle to pin down where the thing was nesting, before praying to God they could actually kill it. 

Thomas wished the next team all the luck– sincerely. 

Following the airdrop, Corporal Valeyard and the rest of the scouts had trekked at least a mile or two inward. There was a lone homestead at the outer edges of the creature’s hunting grounds that had become the site of the latest incident, and the officer in charge of the operation had gambled that it might still be in the same area. 

If nothing else, they should have at least been able to pick up a trail. 

The farm had been eerily quiet when they’d arrived, wrapped in shadows and shrouded in a blanket of pre-dawn mist. The sun had yet to fully rise, only a smudge of color on a distant horizon. That alone should have been reason enough to turn back– but Waller had been insistent that they forge ahead, despite the abysmal visibility. 

There were several buildings on the property, and the team had cleared the first three easily enough. But it wasn’t until they’d arrived at that damn barn, large and imposing and ominously red, that all of their communications equipment had suddenly cut out, and the scouts were left stranded– quite literally– in the mouth of the enemy. 

Thomas hardly remembered how exactly it had happened. His brain had yet to restart.

Someone had opened the door to the barn. The lead officer had taken a few cautious steps into the dimness. Thomas had been right behind him, and then–

Then it was all noise and violence. 

He'd hardly even gotten a good look at the thing before something– one of its many limbs– had flung him straight through the wall of the barn, and back out into the yard. He’d tumbled end over end, something vital in his chest giving way with a deep, horrible crack, before he’d laid there, stunned and breathless.

Thomas heaved a guttered, wheezing breath. The air scraped against his throat, raw and cold and painful, with his every desperate gasp. It whistled oddly with each ragged exhale, and his chest heaved where his lungs struggled to fully expand.

Nearby, there was screaming. 

Screaming like he’d never heard before. 

His next inhale choked and snagged against the sob rising in his throat as he pawed feebly at the grass. Slowly, painfully, he pushed his way free of the debris, shoving aside the broken and splintered remains of the wall. The planks fell away just in time for him to see something wet and wriggling spear straight through one of the other scouts. And though thoroughly concussed, vision blurry and unfocused, Thomas was still close enough to clearly make out the way it lifted the man’s body into the air and jerked him about, like a dog with a chew toy. Then it flung the corpse away with a wet squelch and a splatter of gore.

Rising to his feet was a near impossible task, agony licking up his spine like fire, white stars bursting across his vision as he forced himself to move anyway. The desperation to survive overrode all else. Thomas stumbled upright with a tortured cry, buried beneath the cacophony of horrific sounds coming from the barn. His eyes were wide with panic, and he knew in that moment that if he didn't find cover immediately, he could expect the same outcome. 

Thomas stumbled towards the farmhouse, hunched and wheezing around the blood filling his lungs. 

There was a torso in the grass, torn at the waist. He couldn't even tell who it was, their face was just– gone. In its place, a dripping mass of oozing flesh and tissue. Bubbling, where flecks of bright, glowing slime ate into it like acid. From the barn there came another thunderous crash, a spray of gunfire as those within mounted their futile counterattack. Thomas didn't even try to help. 

This was never going to work. He'd known this was never going to work. 

The rattle of the team's automatic weapons began to taper off by the time he reached the front porch, hobbling up the steps wheezing and gasping. His hands shook so terribly he fumbled with the latch of the screen door, and he cursed virulently as he finally forced his way inside. Behind him, the horrified screams coming from within the barn had stopped just as abruptly as they'd begun. 

Inside, the whole house was a crime scene.

Retrieving the bodies of the civilians hadn't been a priority. So here they had remained, right where they'd fallen. 

Blood on the walls. Blood on the floor. Blood everywhere, spraying across the rustic furniture and curtains like the canvas of a Jackson Pollock. It was dark and flaking after a few days, but the overwhelming scent of iron and rotting meat was prevalent still. Baked into the wood itself. Thomas almost gagged at the stench of it. 

He stumbled through the farmhouse like a drunkard, addled by pain and fear. Clipped the kitchen table on his way by, shoulders slamming into doorways as he swayed through them. He didn't stop until he'd reached a lone room at the back of the house. Thomas folded himself into the far corner on the other side of a rumpled, unkempt bed and cowered like a child. 

The wireless comm looped around the shell of his ear crackled with nothing but a terrible, empty static. Lonely. No matter how much he fiddled with it, there were no other local signals for it to channel.

No way to call for backup. 

Now it was just Thomas. 

He was sure the others were gone. There'd been no hope for them the moment they'd opened that door. Perhaps the moment they'd been dropped off to begin with. Thomas himself was not far behind them, he was certain.

As if to punctuate his last thought, Thomas heard an earsplitting crack echo across the eerie stillness. The sound of splintering lumber, as the farmhouse's front door was shattered, and something large and heavy thumped against the wood floors. It shook the whole building. Thomas exhaled a strangled whimper. Immediately, his hands came up to cover his own mouth. His breath shuddered through his fingers in increasingly panicked gasps. 

And from within the depths of the house, he heard it.