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noir-renard · 2 years ago

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It was one of those things people said all the time: “Hate is such a strong word.”

People liked to bandy about it like it was footy or something equally trite—but very few actually stopped to think about what that meant (strong word, that is), in the context of hate.

Hate was like love; it was an active thing. Alive. No one who truly hated could go about it passively. Hate was something you had to put your back into–your soul.

Very few things earned that kind of soulful commitment, in John’s experience. Save for maybe himself, but that was a can of maggots he was happy leaving sealed, ta ever so.

So. John did not hate anyone, really.

However.

John Constantine very strongly disliked every single member of the Fenton Family, et al. All for very different but no less compelling reasons.

He wasn’t quite prepared to dedicate himself to hating any of them just yet—hate was such a strong word, after all; one he wasn't sure any of the Fentons deserved.

Besides all that, John was too tired and too old to hate any of the Fentons with that kind of passion and dedication.

But he didn't know that yet. He didn't know a lot of things, like where the fuck he was, how the fuck he got here, and who the fuck these fuckers were.

There were four of them, all too young to be summoning occult beings. Or John, for that matter.

He'd just been minding his own, as usual, when a sharp pain stabbed in the spleen region and yanked, hard. Like he was a goddamn fish or something. The sensation that dragged him here was not unlike a teleportation spell, except he hadn't cast it. As such, he’d been helpless but to go with the metaphorical flow, and here he was.

Stuck. Trapped, more like.

By the look of it, he was in a basement somewhere—it was dark, smelled of dust and rot and seawater and a particular shade of magic he almost recognized.

John looked around at all the candles, half-burned. Duck shaped, for some reason.

He squinted at the symbols drawn on the floor in what he hoped was paint. Red and green paint.

He inventoried the strange…collection of items placed inside the appropriate places inside the summoning circle exactly like you would if you were trying to summon a—

Fuck. He’d been summoned. Somehow. Fuck. He wasn’t supposed to be summonable. Summoning was what he did, not something that happened to him. Certainly not by a bunch of clear amateurs.

He reached for his magic, considering his options. It was still there, just blocked. No harm allowed. He also seemed to be bound here until whoever summoned him deemed their deal concluded.

Fuck.

So. John Constantine had some regrets. Many regrets. Loads, really. Still, he wasn’t quite ready to admit that this might, on any level, be his fault. Whatever the hell this was.

“Right. Who the fuck are you lot and why the fuck did you summon me to Gotham?"

None of them answered immediately. Watching to see what he would do.

Maybe they were smarter than they looked.

"Is it money?" John pressed. "‘Cause I’ve got fuck all in the money department—”

“John Constantine.”

One of them stepped forward; he almost looked familiar in that ‘eight of out ten people I know have black hair and blue eyes’ way. Also in the ‘I could snap you in half if I wanted to’ kind of way. And in the ‘I haven’t slept well in years’ way.

Point was, he looked like a cape. Not any one of them specifically, but enough for John to know this was going to be an even worse experience than he’d thought.

Black and Blue pulled out a scroll. A very familiar looking scroll. One that haunted him.

John was going to use up his daily allotment of fucks, at this rate.

“In accordance with the deal you made in exchange for services rendered,” Scroll Bearer continued, “you, John Constantine, are obligated to perform one equitable service in return.”

The language was a little off, to be fair, but clearly they’d done their research. They meant to do this proper-like.

But there was one problem.

“If that scroll is what I think it is, then I didn’t make said deal with you. Unless the Ghost King underwent some kind of…downgraded metamorphosis.”

John had expected that to get a reaction—insults and anger were the best way to make sure the other party was too upset to properly negotiate.

But Mr. Hero Expy just smiled. Small, dangerous.

“The deal you made was with whoever holds the scroll and calls upon you while doing so. And as you can see” —he waved the scroll to underscore his point— “that’s me.”

“So you’re not the Ghost King?” John clarified.

Black-and-Blue scoffed.

“No, and I’d like to keep it that way.” He crossed his arms and leveled his gaze at John. His eyes flashed green—pit green.

Christ. He was a pit fiend, wasn’t he? The worst kind of ghost.

At least now John understood how they’d managed to make all this happen. Denizens of the Infinite Realms could do whatever they wanted if it made sense to them and bugger all who took issue with things like ‘logic’ and ‘rules of magic’.

“In short, you need my help,” he replied, playing it cool.

“Look, Mr. Constantine,” said the Pit Fiend, “technically we could force you to help, seeing as how we have a piece of your soul right here, but I don’t think we’ll need to force you. Just hear us out.”

John looked over the rest of the group, wondering who else here was a Pit Fiend or Pit-Aligned. There was: a pale goth girl who looked like she ate preps for breakfast; a black kid wearing a red beret and carrying more tech than Batman; and a redhead who looked like the PTA Board personified.

None of them stood out as anything other than ‘too young for this rubbish.’

Right. Looked like it was the old fashioned way, then.

He pointed to Pit Fiend(confirmation pending).

“You, maybe, have a case, through force or through favor, but the rest of you…” John trailed off. “It might take some convincing.”

“We’re not gonna hurt you—” said the Pit Fiend, eyes flashing green.

“I might,” said goth girl. “Depending on how helpful you are.”

John closed his eyes. This was why he refused to deal with children.

“Look, what do you need me for anyway? Clearly you're a clever, determined lot. You got me, trapped in here like a bug under a glass—”

“You trapped yourself by swearing allegiance to Pariah,” said Pit Fiend. “But if you help us, your contract will be complete. Honestly, I think it’s something you’d want to do anyway. Really, we did you a favor by bringing you here.”

“Is that right?” John itched for a cigarette. “Okay, I’ll bite. Tell me how you summoned me so I can make sure this never happens again, and I’ll happily listen to whatever little problem you have that you decided to involve me in the most annoying way possible.”

“Technically we don’t have to negotiate with you,” said Tech Kid.

“We stole a bunch of stuff from Gotham,” said Goth Girl at the exact same time.

The other three glared at her. “What? We did. We’re an officially recognized Gotham Gang and everything. Penguin even shot at us.”

“We didn’t steal anything,” said PTA Redhead. “We borrowed a bunch of stuff from Gotham.”

“Try telling that to Batman and Robin,” said Goth Girl.

“Or the museum, hospital, bank, zoo, and Mob-Back Night Club we broke into,” said Pit Fiend.

Was this in-fighting? God, John hoped so. He could use that.

“You know, I’m pretty close with the Bat, if he’s giving you trouble, I could–”

“You really couldn’t,” said Tech Kid, unimpressed.

Interestingly enough, PTA Redhead looked guilty.

“We might have made it look like you were somewhat involved with the, um. Illegal borrowing?”

“He is involved,” said Goth Girl. “We did it all to summon him.”

“Batsy knows me better than to think I’d intentionally piss him off in his city just to steal a few items of interest,” John lied.

“Not according to his files on you he keeps on his super secret server,” said Tech Kid.

They’d hacked the Bat? Well. This just got interesting.

John started to laugh. “You know what? I misjudged you lot. You’re competent and stupid, somehow. Bravo, hats off to you all. Still haven’t heard why you need me, though.”

The Pit Fiend focused his attention back on John.

“What we need from you is help getting the crown of flames back from a ghost and locking it in a special box without any of us having to touch it.” he paused. “Also if you have any ideas on where to find a box with no key that ghosts can’t phase through, that’d be great.”

John stopped laughing. “Well. That’s one hell of an ask.”

“The real question, John Constantine,” the Pit Fiend began, “is how much is your soul worth to you?”

Hate was a very strong word, but in a word? Yeah. John hated everything about this.

+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+

Stephanie didn’t want to say she’d expected better of Batman before becoming Robin and that she had been, thus far, unimpressed. But she wasn’t not saying that either.

Sure, it had all started off a bit rough, but what hadn’t in Stephanie’s life?

And yeah, maybe there were reasons why Alfred didn’t want her to become Robin.

Why Bruce didn’t want her to become Robin.

Maybe even why Tim was so being so, well. Tim about the whole thing. (Even though when Tim had showed up in the Batcave wearing a Robin costume saying ‘well someone’s gotta do it and it might as well be me’, everything was just fine and you’re the best Robin ever Tim thank you for your service, but when Stephanie did it everyone was all ‘now hold the phone, who let you in here’. Was it the hair? Should Stephanie dye her hair black? Surely not.)

Anyway, the point was, maybe they had reasons for not wanting Stephanie to be Robin, but she was pretty sure that if Dick or Jason or Tim or even Barbara had done what she did, it would have been a disapproving look and nothing more.

Apparently, laughing at rich people who'd lost like, a small handful of gems from their 'super safe vault' (that contained hundreds of identical gems) was 'unprofessional', and her follow-up statement when they said they felt 'unsafe' thar 'Maybe you should go ask geologists for some thematically appropriate safe words so no one gets the rest of your remaining rocks off without your approval' was a bridge too far.

So Robin could pun, but only at the eighth grade reading level, and only if it wasn’t Stephanie. As a result, she was ‘grounded ("on probation") for til college (“a week”)’.

On the other hand, no one even incrementally bat-aligned was remotely emotionally well-adjusted, and Stephanie was a big enough person to admit that, just maybe, Tim was worried. Maybe Alfred was worried. Maybe Bruce was worried. Stephanie didn’t plan on being the most emotionally well-adjusted bat-aligned person though, so she wasn’t gonna read into it.

A-n-y-w-a-y. Patrolling the streets as Robin was way different than roaming as Spoiler. Because Spoiler mostly just existed when Cluemaster was around for the pure filial sentiment of “fucking up Cluemaster’s shit”. Spoiler didn’t have to be perfect, or show up all the time, or represent hope and all that bullshit.

Robin, on the other hand, did.

Because Gotham’s hope couldn’t say ‘get fucked, asshole’ to Goon of the Week when they aimed an uzi at you. Robin had to say things like ‘Holy Guacamole! It’s Taco Time for you to see the dock-tor’ before punting them off the pier and into the Gotham River.

Stephanie had thought it would be easier to fight with Batman on her side. But having Batman on her side (and for all that he’d hesitated to bring her along, when they were out here as Batman and Robin he was on her side) meant going into the kind of situations that Batman and Robin got into.

Scrapes and muggings, sure.

But also the less fun part, which was this: sitting in front of the computer. Watching video footage. No punching in sight, except for punching the keys.

Bruce was insisting that this wasn’t punishment, but Stephanie had been in public school all her life and this? This was saturday morning detention for Robins. Had to be.

“Shouldn’t you be patrolling or something?” she asked. Not for the first time. Just because she was grounded didn’t mean the rest of GC could be left to its own devices.

“I told you we weren’t patrolling tonight,” Bruce said, which was a lot of words for him to say at once.

“What, you don’t trust me down here all by my lonesome with access to the best information tool in the whole world?”

She smiled at him. She hoped it was a winning smile.

Apparently it wasn’t; Bruce said nothing and returned to scrubbing through security footage.

Stephanie pouted and ate the sandwich Alfred had brought her. He didn’t approve of this, but he took care of her still. Great guy, Alfie.

“What are we even looking for here, anyway? We’ve already looked through this stuff, like, a billion times. And you probably wrote a program to scan it for like, stuff the human eye can’t detect.”

Bruce didn’t sigh–not even the patented Bruce Sigh™(which was really more of a slightly-louder-than normal exhale).

“We’re watching it again. We must have missed something.”

Stephanie was preeeetty sure they hadn’t, but part of being Robin was knowing that Big Bat was the Boss.

It had started off innocuous enough. A break-in and theft at the Gotham Fine Art Museum. Typical Batman and Robin stuff.

Stephanie had almost thought Bruce was playing softball with her. Dick had been doing cases like this when he was just a baby still, basically. And she might have been offended and voiced it had Bruce not made it explicitly clear how thin the ice was when it came to her being Robin.

So she’d sucked it up and gone to the stupid art theft with B.

They’d looked at the security tapes. They’d poured over the scene. There was nothing. No cut power lines, no hacking into the mainframe, no fingerprints, no broken glass. It was like the picture just got up and walked away. Except that if it had done that, they would have known, because the pressure plates on the floor would have set an alarm off.

According to the docent, the only reason they knew it had been stolen was because they got to work in the morning and it wasn’t there.

“That Roscoe piece was on loan to us from the Walker Gallery, you know! They will not be pleased about this!”

(Stephanie had a lot of maybe not-so-nice things to say about those observation skills, but Robin was supposed to be nice, so she kept it to herself.)

She and Bruce had been about a week into the investigation when another top-security location go broke into. This time it was a vault or something, some rich person lost their ‘ademite, citrine, and garnet’ collection, and that was when Stephanie stopped caring. Bruce, too, but the bank also had several million in Government bonds, so it was kind of bad that someone could break into it.

Even Bruce hadn’t immediately put together that the jewel break-in was related to the art theft. But the M.O. was the same in that it was flawless. No security lines breached, no pressure plates depressed, nothing on video, no fingerprints, no dust disturbed.

By the third time a similar break-in happened—a dinosaur egg from the Natural Science Museum—Bruce was starting to get into a little Bat Tantrum about it. A new but very skilled crew was taking things of high value, but not to sell—he’d looked at all the markets, black and otherwise.

The Gotham Gazette has also caught on, and was calling them the Ghost Gang, on account of they were like ghosts. Not the Gazette’s best work, in Steph’s opinion. It was almost October though (August TOTALLY counted as almost October; they had all the Halloween decorations up in the store so it COUNTED), and seasonal shit like that always made the papers sell like hot cakes, or however the saying went.

Stephanie had jokingly said ‘maybe it is a bunch of ghosts’, to which the expected reply had been ‘ghosts aren’t real, Robin’.

Unfortunately, what Bruce said was that it was ‘unlikely’ because ‘ghosts are exceedingly rare and don’t have much use for physical property’.

So much for Stephanie’s comfort, right?

Anyway, it had been three weeks of this Ghost Gang Bologna now. Stephanie had only gotten in trouble when they’d returned to ask the jewels' former owners if there was anything special about the minerals they’d lost, to which the reply had been ‘no, but we did get them all from the same seller. English fellow’.

They’d apparently thought Batman and Robin were there to comfort them or offer them some kind of financial compensation, which was why Stephanie had laughed at them. But really, how stupid did money make people?

It wasn’t that Stephanie didn’t like looking for clues; her dad was Cluemaster. She ate clues for breakfast, sometimes literally.

But in this case, she was pretty sure there were no clues to find. This new gang, whoever they were, was good. Maybe they’d slip up eventually, if they kept this up, but so far they hadn’t.

“There,” said Bruce, freezing on a frame. “Analysis, Stephanie. What do you see?”

“An empty display case.”

“Look more closely.”

Stephanie sighed internally and looked closer. She didn’t like this part of the job, but it was—quite literally—what she’d signed up for.

She squinted. She scrunched her nose. She leaned in close. “Is that a disembodied hand?”

“A gloved hand.”

“So it is a ghost.”

“It’s too soon to say what it is definitively. Some sort of phase shifter.” He pressed a few buttons on his fancy keyboard and a different screen popped up.

It was a list of everything that had been stolen. When put up like this, it had kind of a theme, actually—

Ah. That was the point. “You think they’re stealing these things for a reason.”

“It’s not to make money,” said Bruce, which was Bat-Speak for ‘Yes’. “They aren’t ransoming it off. They aren’t advertising themselves as a new gang. So why?”

Stephanie narrowed her eyes. What linked all these things together? “Have you cross referenced these with any of the JL Dark team?”

Bruce turned to her slowly and didn’t say anything.

Right. She wasn’t supposed to know about JLD. The super confidential occult team that really was not-so-secret when you had access to a database like the Bat Computer.

“Don’t look at me like that. You’ve had me down here for like, a week, looking through files. Don’t put a mouse in the cheesebox then get mad when you don’t have any Jarlsberg left.”

The silent staring only continued for thirty more seconds before Bruce cracked.

Stephanie decided to take that as a win.

“I did contact them, yes. Zatanna said she’d ask Constantine about it, but she hasn’t been able to find him.”

“Isn’t he like, super hard to get in contact with?”

Everything she knew about Constantine was that he was very much not a team player, dealt with demons, and didn’t believe in cell phones. Also, he was British or something.

“Not for Z. Which means he’s avoiding her.”

“Or maybe the Ghost Gang got him, too,” she joked.

But Bruce wasn’t laughing.

“Hn,” he said. He tapped a few buttons, making different things light up on the screen. Facts from testimony, provenance charts from the various stolen items, suspicious activity prior to the thefts.

‘Blonde man’, ‘English guy’, ‘borrowed from famed Liverpool art gallery’. ‘Lingering scent of cigarette smoke and sulfur.’

“Huh,” said Stephanie. “Well. Either Constantine’s sloppier than I thought, or someone is trying very hard to frame him. He got any resentful exes we can track down?”

Bruce sighed for real this time. “Countless.”

“Well. This should be fun.”

“One of them is a shark.”

“Like a loan shark or…a real shark?”

Bruce grimaced.

“Well alright then. I’ll got get my bat-flippers.”

Being Robin was nothing like being Spoiler. But half of being a hero was answering the question of ‘why isn’t someone doing something about this?’ with ‘well, I’m someone. I can do something’.

Including talking to a shark with the capacity for dating and fostering resentment.

But someone had to do it, and it might as well be her.

DPxDC Prompt

Summoning is an imperfect art, mispronouncing a name or having an incorrect symbol can lead to unexpected, and sometimes explosive results. Summoning can open unexpected doors. No one's prepared for what--or who--steps through when a rising gang tries to summon backup.

My little ficlet for this is below the cut:

Smoke. The acrid slam of it in the nose, brought on by the screaming wind. Chanting. A chorus of voices, steady and thrumming. Pain. Everything is hazy, and it’s equal odds on it being from the smoke or the potential head injury.

Bruce stumbles to his feet, body throbbing.

This was not how he’d planned this night.

Of course, he hadn’t planned for Gotham to suddenly be overrun with a new…gang? They claimed to be a government organization, but Bruce has his doubts. He hadn’t had a chance to go through the GIW’s information, but according to Barbara, their claims were sketchy at best.

The shouting about ghosts and waving around sci-fi weapons with no trigger discipline certainly didn’t help their claims.

Government organization or not, they had no right to raid homes, to drag people out onto the street, or overall threaten his city.

His ears ring, and the chanting rises in volume, impossibly. His chest reverbes with the sound. It’s steady enough to feel like a second heart. His blurry vision locks onto the center of the summoning circle. Because this night couldn’t get any worse, of course.

First the GIW had rocketed up his list of threats with one simple move.

They’d gone after Jason.

Jason, who even now was laid out in the middle of the summoning circle, eyes bright, bright, bright green through the haze.

First they’d taken his son.

Then they’d used him as a sacrifice.

Bruce bared his teeth, locking eyes with the closest GIW agent. The man held up his weapon, a glowing baton. His form is weak.

The baton gord flying, Bruce’s armored elbow slamming the man to the ground. The agent curls up, groaning. Nightwing’s escrima sing electric in the background, followed by the whip of Tim’s bow staff. Damian’s sword glints through the haze, and purple flashes through the crowd of white, white, white.

He can’t see Cass, but he doesn’t expect too.

The ground rocks under his feet, and it takes several precious seconds to regain his balance. There seems to be an almost endless flood of agents, with more and more meeting his fists as he tries to make it through the gauntlet.

Suddenly, the air shifts, the scream of it heading for the circle instead of out.

The circle glows toxic green, and Jason’s at the center, frozen in the light.

“No!” Bruce shouts, the sound ripping from his soul.

It’s echoed by Dick, who stands just outside the circle’s boundaries. His hands are pressed against the light, his blue eyes a shock against the green.

It’s a confusion of people - GIW white and the summoner’s black. The GIW is here to end whatever it is they need Jason to summon to them. The summoners themselves seem to have broken away from the “agency” and want power from the being they’re calling. It’s a fight on multiple fronts, with the GIW fighting the summoners and Bruce and his family fighting them all.

The temperature drops.

“HOOD!” Dick screams, as Jason is swallowed by the green.

The chant is all he can hear, even as he shoves towards the circle, even as he slams against the same wall Dick’s against.

The world goes bright and he can’t keep his eyes on Jason. On his son.

When the light fades, Jason’s not alone.

A being sits six feet in the air, Jason collapsed over his lap, somehow hovering with the - what is he? He looks human, but there’s something wrong. Off. Bruce can’t quite pinpoint his age. A crown glows on his head, an ever shifting cape spills down his back, dragging close to the floor. His eyes are green as Lazarus, and just as deep. Jason is breathing, Bruce notes. The being’s hands curl in Jason’s hair, playing with it idly.

The air is *rigid, and everyone’s stopped fighting. No one can draw their eyes away from the being.

“You dare to summon me with one of my own?” The being speaks, and it’s like crackling glaciers. Someone whimpers.

“We - wanted to give you a gift,” One of the men in black says, his voice chattering.

It’s like breathing in ice.

“A gift?” The being says and the sound is fury, banked in a waiting avalanche. “What kind of gift is this? A denizen of my Realms, trapped and tortured? Used to summon his king, against his will? This is no gift.”

“B-but we didn’t know,” another speaks, and then obviously realizes he shouldn’t have.

“Ignorance will not save you,” the being says, and it - he’s? - still holding Jason like he’s something precious. “And I am not the only one you have infuriated.

“I am not the only one you have awoken.”

To a man, the GIW agents cry out in panic. Bruce turns, looking for the threat but - the agents are buried to various depths in the cracked concrete floor. The ground is decidedly solid beneath Bruce’s feet but the agents would obviously not agree. They flounder, like the concrete is quicksand. The summoners are next, but it’s ice that gets them, crawling up their bodies until they’re locked into place.

“My lord!” One cries and promptly finds himself gagged.

Bruce can’t stay silent any longer. “Hood was used against his will to summon you,” he starts. The being’s eyes meet Bruce’s. “He didn’t want this. Is he alright?”

“Your son is fine,” the voice is rough, but feminine, and obviously not from the being. It’s around him, dancing through the steel beams and pushing through concrete. “You are mine, my knight. You and yours are mine. The little king will not harm him, nor you.” A figure forms off to his right.

“Holy shit,” Dick whispers. Bruce has to agree.

She’s made of concrete, of broken brick and dust, of bone and police tape, of twisted metal and more.

“Gotham,” Bruce breathes, and he doesn’t know how he knows but he does.

“Hello, my knight,” she says, her form shifting. She turns slightly, and there’s something sharp in her movement. “Hello, little king.”

“Lady Gotham,” The being - the king? - returns. “You look well,”

Lady Gotham laughs, a ringing sound - it’s bells and gravel, fresh air on a summer day and rising wind. “How you flatter me, little king. Do you fear me?”

The being grins, mischief dancing around him, white hair floating high. “I respect you. It’s good to see you awake, Milady.”

“What is happening?” Tim asks no one in particular. Dick shrugs and Steph just leans harder on Tim. Cass holds Damian’s shoulder firmly, watching carefully.

Bruce wishes he had an answer.

“It is good to be awake,” Lady Gotham says, and she shifts closer to the circle, fingers skimming against the barrier of light. “How long do you intend to keep my reaper from me?”

Reaper. Bruce thinks, and it’s a gut punch.

It makes sense, to describe Jason. Jason can go where Bruce cannot, do what Bruce cannot.

The king laughs lightly. “The summoning harmed him, Milady. I’m just keeping him safe. I’m not here to undermine you,” the king’s eyes glow. “But remember who is king.”

Lady Gotham smiles. “I’m aware of hierarchy little king.”

“My son,” Bruce says, because there’s no point in pretending Jason is anything less. He’s talking to - the embodiment of gotham and a king of - something. “He’ll be okay?”

Lady Gotham sighs. “He will be fine, my knight. The little king cares for his own.”

“What - what are you the king of?” Tim asks, bold.

The being smiles.

“I am Phantom,” he says. “I am the Ghost King.”

Jason stirs in his lap, and the implications crash over Bruce. Maybe Reaper has more meaning than he’d thought.

#dpxdc #long post #danny phantom crossover #akela-nakamura prompts #prompt fill #summoning prompt #listen Steph!Robin doesn't get enough love #this isn't very accurate to the comics canon of her Robin run because the comics did her dirty imo #the part of the prompt where it says 'summoning can open unexpected doors' is something I'll get around to if/when I come back to this late #cielle's writing

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