#but you gotta get that phd. that doctorate. yaknowwha I mean?’

[bruciemilf]

There’s no such thing as a good patrol.

The bats prowl among dark corners like quiet shadows. They’ve been doing it since youth was reality, and not a distant, blurry daydream, that left them feeling like icons and ghosts.

There’s certain measurements to what makes one satisfactory, thought. Boredom checks no boxes.

“An ouija board? Seriously, Steph?”

Stephanie looks at Jason with a small smirk, “What, is this cultural appropriation? Let me get the ukelele out.” She dodges the batarang effortlessly.

Dick frowns, “What are you guys talking about?”

“Dude, just don’t. You’re too old for trends. Accept it. Live laugh love it, or whatever the hell boomer Milennials say.”

“SHUT UP! THAT’S THE THING I’M SENSITIVE ABOUT.”

ANYWAY. They get the brilliant idea to try and conjure Thomas Wayne, because why not?

Theres has to be some fragments of the street urchin Bruce gave wings to still breathing in Jason, because he’s absolutely against the idea.

Tim, surprisingly, agrees, “What if ghosts ARE real and we’ll undo years of scientific research negating the existence of supernatural entities Christians use as proof to validate their beliefs?”

“…And…You know, what if we upset Bruce.”

“Oh, yeah. Sure, that too.”

But they never listened to Tim before, so why start now?

They do use the board, and it does work, and the thing is? They get to SPEAK to Thomas, too.

What they discovery leaves them all petrified. When they tell Bruce, they do so with regret in their hearts.

He turns around, comically slow, eyes wide and bright against his eyeliner, shimmering with angry fire. They’ve never seen him so angry. So offended. So utterly disgusted.

“How DARE you call my father a New Yorker?!”