A DC X DP IDEA #45
Mine, Mine, MINE!
Imagine this….
I know Damian is raised in an environment where he is treated as a prince, the only grandson, the heir. Sure those privileges may come in the price of ripping his innocence and childhood away from a very young age. In the end he got everything he ever wanted nor needed. A single word from him and all gather around to get what he needed.
But there will be a day where there is something you cannot get no matter your demands or commands.
….
By the time Damian could form full sentences, he had learned the art of taking. To demand was his birthright; to receive was merely the universe setting itself right. If another child had a toy, Damian wanted it. If a servant carried a blade of exceptional craftsmanship, it belonged in his collection. Even as a young boy, his chambers were overflowing with silken robes, masterfully forged weapons, and rare treasures pilfered from across the world.
His first words had been "Mine." He was greedy from the cradle, claiming everything within reach with an iron will and a clenched fist. As an infant, a single furrow of his brow or a half-formed cry summoned an entire team of wet nurses, attendants, and servants who scrambled to appease him, terrified of drawing the ire of the Demon’s heir. His crib was adorned with silk imported from lands that no longer existed, and gold-threaded blankets were replaced the moment they became even slightly soiled.
When he took his first steps, the world shifted to accommodate him. Marble floors were polished before his feet touched them, and his path was lined with offerings—daggers forged by masters, scrolls of ancient knowledge, carved figurines from forgotten civilizations. Every item he glanced at was quietly removed from its place and added to his collection, regardless of its original owner. He collected without remorse, hoarded without gratitude. His chambers grew into miniature treasure vaults, filled with relics and riches that served no purpose beyond feeding his insatiable desire to own.
Neither Talia nor Ra’s al Ghul discouraged his possessiveness. To them, it was simply a symptom of his lineage. The blood of conquerors and kings ran in his veins, and if he took, it was only because he was destined to. The League of Assassins reinforced this belief with every passing day. He was not taught humility or restraint—only power, precision, and domination. He was forged to rule, molded to believe that the world was his birthright.
But then there was Danyal.
His twin, born under the same stars, shaped from the same blood, yet utterly alien in his quiet nature. Danyal never demanded, never claimed, never expected. While Damian amassed trinkets and trophies with the entitlement of a young emperor, Danyal existed in the spaces left behind—content with simplicity, with little, with the unremarkable. When Damian snatched one of his brother’s few meager toys and added it to his already overflowing pile, Danyal gave no protest. He simply let it go, his eyes soft, his hands uncurled, his expression free of malice or resentment.
To Damian, this was a maddening contradiction. They were both of noble blood. They were descendants of kings, warriors, legends. Danyal should have yearned for greatness, fought for it. But instead, he bowed his head, stepped aside, and surrendered without a sound. Damian saw weakness. He saw foolishness.
When Danyal died on a mission gone wrong, Damian did not weep. His hands did not tremble, his eyes did not stray from the trail of blood that marked the last place his twin had stood. The League moved on without pause, the death barely a footnote in their endless ledger of sacrifice. There was no funeral pyre, no rites or remembrance. The corpse was retrieved, cataloged, and discarded like a failed weapon. Damian told himself it was fate, a destiny trimming the weak from their bloodline.
Danyal had never fought for more. He had never claimed what was owed to him. In Damian’s mind, that made him unworthy. A noble soul without the teeth to defend its title. A flickering candle smothered by the wind. And so Damian forced himself to move on. He trained harder, sharper, faster. He swallowed whatever little grief he has and reforged it into ambition.
At ten years old, when he was finally sent to Gotham, he carried himself like a young prince returning to his rightful throne. He arrived at his father’s doorstep cloaked in expectation, armored in superiority. His every step was deliberate, as if the very ground of Wayne Manor should bend to his will. He was the blood heir, the legacy reborn. Everything in the manor should have been his.
But instead of reverence, he was met with resistance.
When he challenged Drake—Timothy Drake, the imposter who had dared to stand at his father’s side—Damian expected combat, a duel to settle succession. He anticipated a fight that would end with his place solidified and his father's acknowledgment finally secured. But Drake refused. He did not raise a hand. He yielded with words instead of steel, and Damian, raised in a world where weakness was unforgivable, saw it as cowardice.
Worse still, Bruce his father had intervened. Not as a warrior stepping into the arena, but as a father—shielding the usurper. Protecting someone who had no claim, no birthright, no Ra’s al Ghul in his lineage, no biological connection that is burning in his veins. Damian had lashed out. Fury surged through him like fire through dry kindling. How could his father not see it? He was the true son. The legacy of both Bat and Demon ran through his blood.
But here, in this foreign house built on sentiment and ideals, that blood meant nothing.
His hours of grueling training, his flawless blade work, his mastery of languages, poisons, shadows, everything none of it mattered. In the League, every achievement was tallied like gold, every drop of noble blood a weapon to be honored and sharpened. In Gotham, he was just a child with a name. No better than the orphans his father had chosen. He was expected to earn his place not through heritage, but through heart.
And that was a battlefield Damian had never been taught to fight on.
…..
By fourteen, Damian had changed. The transformation had not come swiftly, nor easily. It had been carved into him over years of clashing ideologies, quiet lessons, and countless moments of silent observation. The boy who once barked orders, who demanded the world bend to his will, had been slowly, methodically unraveled.
Gone was the child who screamed, "Mine!" at every turn. In his place stood a young warrior with weary eyes and calloused hands, one who had tasted loss, rejection, and the sting of unearned entitlement.
He had learned, through long nights spent watching others from the shadows of Wayne Manor’s hallways, that love was not given by birthright but earned through sacrifice. He had watched Dick steady the weight of leadership with a smile, watched Tim endure with patience and quiet brilliance, watched Jason bleed and rage and come back again and again for the family that had once failed him. And he had watched Bruce—not the detective that his grandfather would say nor the beloved that his mother would whisper of bedtime legends, but a flawed, weary man who carried his family not with a sword but with open hands.
The League had taught him to take. His siblings had taught him to stay.
“The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.” He had not heard the phrase spoken aloud, but he lived it in the moments that unfolded around him. He saw it in the way Alfred laid out tea for children who weren’t his. In the way Cass would wordlessly spar with him until exhaustion broke his fury. In the way Stephanie left notes on the fridge with dumb jokes just to make them laugh. These people—none of whom shared his blood—had chosen each other again and again.
And yet… in the quiet corners of his mind, sometimes, he still wished Danyal were here.
Danyal, who would have thrived in this strange and stubborn family. Danyal, whose softness would have been a strength here, not a flaw. Danyal, who had always looked at Damian not with envy or resentment, but with quiet love.
Damian had spent so long dismissing that gentleness as weakness, never realizing it had been a gift. Looking back now, he could see the missed moments—the times he could have shared instead of stolen, the times he could have listened instead of taken. His brother had not been lesser. He had simply been different. And Damian, in his arrogance, had mistaken compassion for cowardice.
Now, with Danyal long buried and the world colder for it, Damian carried the weight of that realization like a blade across the ribs—never fatal, but never forgotten.
…...
Then came the mission with the Flash. A time anomaly had rippled through the fabric of reality. Barry had worked tirelessly to fix the damage, racing through different timelines until order was restored. But this time, though fixed, have a new aftermath. A vision stitched together from remnants of a path not taken.
The Justice League, ever analytical, treated it like a curious glitch in the multiversal code—a harmless projection of a possibility that never came to pass. They gathered to observe it as they would a peculiar ripple in a still pond, detached but intrigued. Damian had been pulled along by Jon, who bounced with his usual boundless energy, unaware of what the vision would show. Damian followed, armored in detachment, a practiced indifference in place.
But then he saw it.
The flickering image glowed before him like a memory he had never lived. There, seated around the long dining table in Wayne Manor, was a scene so mundane, so heartbreakingly normal, it rooted him in place. His father sat at the head of the table, a rare softness in his posture as he poured tea. Nightwing laughed mid-conversation, shoulders relaxed, while Tim rolled his eyes in mock exasperation. Jason leaned back with his feet on the table, earning a nudge from Cassandra. And at the center of it all, smiling as if he'd always belonged—was Danyal.
His twin. Whole. Alive.
Danyal passed the bread basket to Tim with a crooked grin, said something that made Alfred chuckle. He nudged Damian's double with his elbow, teasing him, effortlessly folded into the rhythm of a family Damian had once believed unreachable. It was a life that had never happened, a universe where Danyal had lived—not just lived, but thrived.
Damian’s breath caught in his throat. His chest rose and fell once, twice, the motion sharp and sudden. His fingers, usually so still, twitched at his sides, as if the rest of him hadn’t caught up with the emotion rising within. Before he could wrest control back from his heart, his hand extended—reaching, aching, needing.
And the word tore from him before thought could stop it.
"Mine."
It escaped in a whisper but echoed like a roar in his ears. Not the scream of a spoiled prince demanding treasure, but the broken, silent cry of a boy mourning what he had never known he needed. It was not greed that moved him, not anymore. It was grief. Regret. A raw, unfiltered longing for the life that had slipped through his fingers before he had ever realized he wanted it.
Around him, the room shifted. Justice League members who moments ago stood in detached curiosity now exchanged curious glances, as they saw the projection and Robin’s reaction to a projection that is just showing a what-if scenario.
The projection flickered. Danyal’s laughter shimmered and dissolved into static. The dining table faded. The light dimmed.
And Damian remained frozen, hand still half-raised, reaching for a future that was never his to claim.
…..
In the heart of the Infinite Realms, where time unraveled and rewound in endless loops and rivers of light, a lone figure hovered silently above the drifting threads of fate. Clockwork, the Master of Time, ancient and eternal, gazed down upon the scene unfolding within the mortal world. His staff gleamed as it gears ever turning, ticking in rhythm with realities both seen and unseen.
His eyes that is both ageless and all-knowing, rested on the image of a boy no longer a child. Damian Al Ghul Wayne stood still before the dying glow of a vanished vision, his heart laid bare. Once a prince of shadows, molded by assassins and pride, Damian now stood not as a conqueror, but as a brothe still grieving. He no longer sought to possess or dominate, but to reclaim something that had always been just out of reach: family.
The Observers had spoken long ago, their verdicts cold and absolute. Danyal’s future, they had said, was a path carved in steel and soaked in blood. The catalyst of the Infinite Realms, the one who will bring the end. But Clockwork had always known better. Time, after all, was not a straight line, it branched, curved, rebelled. And in one of those near-forgotten offshoots, he had seen a flicker. A possibility so faint it could have been dismissed as error. But Clockwork did not dismiss.
He had seen a future in which the Infinite Realms chaotic would finally know peace. He had seen a king . And that king—against all odds—had come in the form of Danyal Al Ghul Wayne.
A soft, amused breath escaped the Master of Time as his gaze shifted across the layers of existence to a shadow nestled within the Realms themselves. There, hidden among the currents of ectoplasm and fractured echoes of forgotten souls, stood a young ghost. His white hair drifted like mist in the realm’s gentle current, his glowing green eyes solemn yet radiant. Gone were the dark locks, icey blue eyes and quiet smiles of Danyal Al Ghul. In his place stood Daniel Fenton—Danny Phantom—the Halfa. Half-human, half-ghost. A being unlike any other. A bridge between life and death.
Clockwork observed him with fondness, a rare warmth in his otherwise distant demeanor. He remembered the moment clearly, the crack between timelines where fate had faltered just long enough for intervention. The Observers had turned away, believing that Clockwork will carry out their verdict to execute the young boy, but Clockwork had seen the glimmer of what could be. He had rescued the boy from his grave and scattered his memories.
He had delivered the amnesiac child to a quiet home in Amity Park, into the waiting arms of the unsuspecting Fenton couple—eccentric, brilliant, and just compassionate enough to raise him without ever questioning the mystery of his arrival. The boy was given a name, a room, a place to grow. And on that fateful day, when Danny stepped into the portal and his molecules split between two worlds, Clockwork had watched it happen with a quiet, satisfied nod. That had been the moment. The transformation. The birth of a future king.
The Infinite Realms would have their High King.
And now, as the Realms shimmered in resonance with Damian’s grief, and Danny’s own presence and ignorance hummed at the edge of understanding, Clockwork let the corners of his lips curl just slightly.
He had never told the Observers about this faint possible of a timeline. The one he saw only once, a future so far removed it flickered like starlight on the edge of perception. This timeline where, both the Realms have their king but he will have a granchild.
Clockwork kept that knowledge close. Even for a being beyond time, some secrets were too precious to share.
As he look at the grieving Damian telling his family a future could have been and Danny enjoying his somewhat normal routine for a young Halfa like him not knowing the immediate danger that is quickly closing in on him.
Clockwork smiled, All in due time.
…...
PS: If someone out there wants to continue or make a fic about this you are free to do so, don’t forget to tag me though.
PPS: Again it got too long for my liking....
PPS: I got a bit carried away, hehehehehe.....
Jazz’s interest in psychology started with her brother. He was weird.
Danny wouldn’t eat food unless it was actively handed to him. He wouldn’t ask for toys or candy, even when his parents took him to the store. He wouldn’t talk to people unless they spoke first.
He had skills with knives. He could understand Arabic and French. He could be so silent it was difficult to remember he was in the room.
At first, she thought it could’ve been because Danny was adopted, or something related to his amnesia. Eventually, after reading multiple textbooks, Jazz concluded that Danny’s past would be a mystery. Nothing made sense with what she had read.
The Fentons slowly got Danny to open up around them. Maddie taught him how to operate different types of guns. Jack took Danny fishing and would read from a joke book until Danny would laugh. Danny went from never speaking to having a love for puns. Sure, he could still be eerily silent at times, but for the most part Danny was a normal teenager.
Even after he became half ghost, Danny was still cheerful and talkative. He still loved puns and practicing martial arts with his parents.
Recently, Danny had been calling for someone in his sleep. “I’ll give you anything you want,” Danny would cry, “just don’t leave me.” Much of Danny’s cries were in a language she didn’t understand.
Though she did understand when Danny tearfully called for his brother.
Jazz didn’t know Danny’s past, but she knew it wasn’t good. Danny hardly smiled when he first came home. He didn’t cry when he was hurt-Danny had fallen off his bike at one point, a deep cut going through his knee. Jazz panicked, and quickly bandaged him. Danny watched, only showing mild curiosity at her response.
She also knew Danny had scars on his body, including one below his collarbone carved into the shape of a D.
Jazz didn’t know Danny’s past. But she would be wary if any of Danny’s family popped up again.
@unadulteratedsoulsweets behold, as I add my favorite ship to your post. (And then some, my gosh, I left it on a dramatic cliffhanger)
“Ever seen this symbol before?”
Zatanna looked at the laptop Barbara was pointing to. “I thought we were keeping work out of our date night,” she teased.
“I can’t focus on anything else when there’s something I don’t know,” Barbara huffed. “You know that, Zee.”
“You wanna test that, darling?” Zatanna brushed her fingers against Barbara’s cheek. “I think you’ll find I can be awfully distracting when I want to be.”
Barbara blushed. “You’re awfully cute, Zee, but your tricks don’t work on me.”
“Such a shame, I was hoping to give you an unforgettable performance.” Zatanna kissed Barbara seductively. “Tell me what you want, darling.”
“I want,” Barbara said, looking deep into Zatanna’s eyes, “to know what that symbol means.”
Zatanna laughed. “Not fooled by my misdirection, huh?”
“No.But you’re always welcome to try all you want, my shining star.”
“One of these days, it’ll work.” Zatanna winked. “Now as for that symbol, I recognize it a bit. It’s a symbol of the Oracle- the one Greek ones,not you my love. It’s been used by several cults over the years, different ones claiming to be able to see parts of the future, or sometimes bits of the present or past. It’s an all seeing eye, with some distinctive framing that separates it from other eye symbols.”
“I’ve seen it on some graffiti in Gotham, along with some cryptic messages.” Barbara revealed another image on her computer.
Glow in the dark paint had been applied to a brick wall. “THE DRAGONS SHADOW LIVES. HE MUST BE SLAIN” was written in dripping letters. Below the text was the eye symbol.
“Shadow creatures? That won’t be fun to fight.” Zatanna winced.
“I’m just worried it could be the start of something bad,” Barbara said.
“There’s always something bad happening in Gotham. You worry too much, my sweet strawberry. You don’t have enough to go off of, but if it is something bad, you’ll get more evidence. You always do.” Zatanna watched Barbara relax at her words.
“You always know what to say,” Barbara said, this time brushing her fingers through Zatannas hair.
“Only you would be more attracted to my words than my body.”
“And you love me for it.”
“That I do,” Zatanna said, pulling Barbara into a kiss.
Zatanna pressed further, her lips slowly trailing down Barbara’s neck. Barbara let out a hum, sweet vibrations registering to Zatanna’s lips.
Suddenly, Barbara froze stiff. Zatanna pulled away.
Barbara was an unmoving picture of pleasure, like a statue of a goddess. She didn’t twitch or even breathe.
“Sorry for the interruption,” a deep voice behind her said, “but I require your help.”
Zatanna turned to meet the voice. It came from a floating and glowing man with a long white beard.
“I only have a moment to speak. You must interrupt the plans of the Hands of Fate. The Obsservants are wrong. The Dragon’s Shadow does not need to die- and killing him would spell doom to the planet. Warehouse 304 at the east docks will grant you the information you need. Please, great magician, you must save us all.”
The man disappeared in a flash of light. Zatanna felt the air upon her skin and the movement of Barbara once more.
“Zee?” Barbara reached out towards Zatanna.
“Sorry, Babs. We need to cut off our date. A time god just told me I have to save the world.”
//-\\-//-\\
“Are you certain this information comes from a trusted source? Perhaps this is a distraction,” Damian noted through his comms.
“I thought of that too, which is why I’m not calling the entire league down here for what may or may not be an apocalyptic event. You’re backup, since I don’t want Zatanna in there alone.”
“You put Zatanna in on a stealth mission? She can catch attention even while invisible!” Damian hissed into the comms.
“She can be stealthy when she wants to be,” Barbara defended. “Besides, the time god asked for her specifically. You’re the one that’s intruding on her mission.”
Damian decided not to argue more. Barbara was stubborn at the best of times. She definitely wouldn’t risk something happening to Zatanna.
Damian slipped through the shadows to the warehouse, peering through the window. A small gathering of people in purple robes and green masks was collecting in the building. The entire thing was lit by hundreds of candles, casting the warehouse in an eerie glow. This was probably a cult.
Damian snuck into the building through the window. His nose was assaulted by the smell of various scented candles: brown sugar, clean cotton, ocean breeze, pumpkin spice, and more. Each one would individually smell fine, but together they were nauseatingly overstimulating. Damian fought to keep quiet and hidden.
He hid in the rafters.Too often, people forgot to look up. Even after years of Bats and Birds swinging from the rooftops, inexperienced criminals would neglect to notice someone above them.
There were twenty seven robed people in the room, as well as two in a small side room. These people were of different body types and skin tones, but all appeared to be adults. That was good, Damian never liked when kids were involved in these things.
On the farthest side from the entrance, there were torches along the wall, dramatically lighting the room. Centered were three covered canvases, paintings likely to be revealed during the proceedings. Damian couldn’t peek beneath the cloth without being seen.
Damian inspected the crowd. He vaguely recognized one of them having worked with the league of assassins at some point, but didn’t recall the specifics. There were too many people that worked with the league, and Damian had never been focused on the details when he was young. He only worried about what they owned, and what could belong to him.
Damian didn’t notice Zatanna amongst the crowd. Perhaps she was good at blending in after all.
Damian was just starting to get bored with his stalking when someone arrived from the back room and came to the front of the warehouse. The room quieted like subjects before their king.
“Fellow devotees,” the person spoke, “welcome.” The voice wasn’t one Damian recognized. It was masculine and commanding, but friendly in an overly-sweet way. It sent shivers down Damian’s spine.
“Thank you all for gathering with me tonight. I am sure our lords appreciate your obedience. Our lords sent us here with great purpose. They have gifted us a noble task that will save the world. They have whispered fate to our oracle- a woman with the burden and privilege of connection to our lords. Everyone give it up for Delphi!”
The crowd cheered. From the back rooms, a wheelchair bound woman came to the stage. She looked like she should be in the hospital. Her hair was patchy and her skin was so thin that Damian could see her bones. She had various cuts all over her body, each in different phases of healing, and only some of them covered and treated. She was breathing with an occasional gasp, as though desperate for air. What was most concerning, though, was the UV she had in her arm, connected to a bag of fluid that glowed a soft but toxic green.
Damian considered dropping in to give the woman medical attention. It would be a foolish task- he was outnumbered by cultists of unknown skills and abilities.
“Our Delphi is unable to speak at the moment, but she wrote a note on what our Lords told her,” said the masculine cultist.
Delphi handed him a piece of paper.
“Failed test brings reddened eyes,
Beware, Beware the Phantom’s rise
Earth’s noble heroes doomed to fail,
Only death’s king could prevail.”
With that, the man revealed the canvas furthest to the right. A tall and imposing figure took up the center of the portrait. He was muscular, thin, and inhumanly pale. His eyes glowed a bright red, and his hair was a mass of flames.
Damian was more concerned by the background- cities reduced to rubble with green shading.
The crowd gasped in horror. It seemed the cultists didn’t like the destruction either.
“Time intervened to stop his death,
Though traces haunt his every breath,
The two reborn from in death’s gate
Their merging souls will seal their fate”
This canvas was more complex. On the sides were silhouettes against swirling circles of green. The figure in the center was one of an old man holding a child in his arms. Golden clocks filled the purple background.
Damian didn’t understand what it meant. Hopefully Zatanna would be able to make more sense of the prophecy.
After letting the spectators absorb the information, the man spoke again.
“Before it’s too late, the half-dead must fall,
Or the Dragon’s Shadow will consume us all.”
With that last line, he revealed the final canvas.
Damian gasped.
Next to a ghost of similar appearance, was a familiar figure. A teenager, nearly identical to Damian, was pictured alive.
Danyal.
“Damian, is that you in that image?” Oracle whispered over comms.
“Negative,” Damian whispered, stunned shock keeping his voice soft. “That is Danyal. I… I long thought him to be dead, but if he lives…” Damian swallowed. “If he lives, I must save him at all costs. It is the least I could do for my twin.”
He could hear Oracle’s audible shock over the comms. “You have a twin??”
“Silence. We can settle this later. I must listen.” The cult members seemed to be discussing best ways to find and destroy the Dragon’s Shadow.
“Actually,” a voice boomed out suddenly. “The best way to destroy the Dragon’s Shadow is to turn him over to the Justice League.” John Constantine walked into the room. “I heard that whole thing. And if he’s really that powerful, if the heroes are going to fall, then we should have as much prep time as possible to avoid that outcome.”
The cultists all turned and begun arguing with the magician, and Damian took his cue to slip out of there. Apparently, Zatanna already had her backup; his presence was not needed here. He had something far more important to do.
When he and Danyal were a child, a magical brand had been seared into their skins. Matching “D” scars. Touching the scar with the intent to contact the other would cause the other person’s scar to burn slightly, just enough to alert the receiver to its activation. If the other did the same, they could communicate. Still via intent, not true speech, but enough to send basic emotions. Damian had never tried it after Danyal’s death, but he did now. Quickly returning to the clocktower, he ignored Oracle’s question as he removed his top, focused on his brother, and pressed a finger to his scar.
“Danyal. I hope you are out there,” he whispered.
—
Danny had been doing homework when suddenly, a light pain flared on his side. He yelped, peeling off his shirt to figure out what injury he’d missed treating from his fight an hour ago. Instead, he was met with a strange sight: his D-shaped scar, the one he couldn’t remember the source of, was glowing bright red.
Confused, he reached out and pressed a finger into it, hoping to find out why it was being pressed. Suddenly, he was hit with a burst of emotions that weren’t his.
At first was apprehension, some nervousness, and a hint of doubt. But that quickly shifted to astonishment and relief. Danny’s confusion only grew. He took his finger off of the scar, then put it back on again, feeling those external emotions leave and return as he did.
A moment after he put his finger back, he felt a strong burst of desire. It was like someone had screamed “Wait! We need to talk!” at him. He remained confused.
Apology, regret, relief, and love were the next things he felt.
Was this a connection to a person from his past? A loved one he’d forgotten, who was glad to hear from him again?
Hesitantly, he focused on his own emotions. He wasn’t quite sure how this worked, but he did his best to send confusion and patience over the bond. “I don’t know what’s happening, but I’ll wait for answers,” he thought to himself.
Suddenly, the emotions flickered in and out. The scar pulsed, the light flaring. A few taps later, and Danny understood. The person was trying to use Morse code with the light.
Taking his finger off momentarily, Danny grabbed a paper and pencil, then tapped his scar twice before resting his finger on it again, trying to project curiosity.
He transcribed the message to the best of his ability, then, with one last burst of love, the feeling was gone.
After a moment, Danny removed his finger too.
“Jazz!”
“Yes?” she shouted from the other room
“Do you know Morse code?”
“Of course I know Morse code,” she said, walking into his room without knocking a few seconds later. “Why?”
“Translate this.” He shoved the paper in her face, eager to know what it said.
“How about a please?” she teased.
“Please, oh mighty sister of mine, please translate this Morse code.” He gave an over-exaggerated bow. She laughed and took the paper, handing it back a few moments later with a look of confusion on her face.
“Danny, where did you get this?”
“Translate first, please.”
“It says “Brother, I am glad you’re alive, please contact me again soon.””
“Brother, huh?” Danny frowned. “Interesting. Why on Earth would I have a brother who thinks I’m dead, though?”
“Where did you get this?”
“…would you believe me if I said my old D-shaped scar glowed and projected emotions and later flared in Morse code?”
Jazz blinked. “Honestly, at this point I’d believe anything about your past.”
He grinned. “Watch this.” He pressed his finger to the scar, and it lit up. Moments later, he felt hope and excitement pour through the bond.
Jazz’s eyes widened. “Woah.”
“Jazz, how do I say “Who am I?” in Morse code?”
One message later, a burst of confusion followed by sympathy came through. More Morse code followed, which Jazz translated to “My twin. Danyal. Raised as assassin cult royalty until supposed death.”
Jazz and Danny looked at each other after she finished translating.
“What the fuck?”
“Well, that explains a lot about you, I suppose,” Jazz said with a laugh.
“How do I say my name in Morse code, Jazz?”
One “Danny Fenton” later, and a reply was tapped out.
“I will find you. You are in danger. Trust Zatanna. Trust Robin. Trust Oracle. Do not trust cults.”
With satisfaction pouring through the bond, the connection was severed once more, leaving Jazz and Danny thoroughly bewildered.
“I never even got my twin’s name,” Danny mumbled in disappointment.
—
“So, Damian. Want to explain why you just spent ten minutes concentrating on tapping a glowing scar?” Babs finally asked after Damian put his shirt back on.
“Good news. My twin is alive. I do believe he has amnesia though, since he asked “who am I?” through the magical scar bond. Will you please find Danny Fenton for me?”
One quick search later, and Babs gasped. There on the screen was a near-identical boy to Damian. He had a whole life, starting with his adoption and amnesia. He had a computer as well, which Barbara easily hacked, but she only found normal schoolwork. The only exception was a file called “ghost notes,” which turned out to be detailed notes on local villains whose names matched news records from the town.
“He has a cell phone. May I call him?” she asked. Damian nodded. She clicked a button, and a green face popped up on a screen hundreds of miles away.
—
“Danny Fenton?”
The voice rang out through the room as Jazz and Danny were still trying to process everything. At first, Jazz couldn’t tell where it was coming from - until she noticed the green face on his phone.
“Yes? Who is this?” Danny asked as Jazz silently picked up the phone and passed it to her brother.
“I’m Oracle. Nice to meet you. I must say, you really do sound like your twin.”
“So it’s true? Danny has a twin?”
“You must be Jasmine Fenton,” the voice said. “Nice to meet you as well. Yes, Danny has a twin.”
“Hello,” came another voice from the phone, one that almost sounded just like Danny. Jazz and Danny gasped in unison.
“Hi,” Danny whispered in wonder. “What’s your name? I didn’t get to ask earlier over whatever the hell that was.”
“I am known as Damian.”
“Damian, huh? Well, Damian, it’s nice to meet you,” Jazz said. “Care to explain your comment on “assassin cult royalty” from earlier?”
Oracle chuckled at that. “Damian was raised by a group called The League of Assassins, and they’re about as cheery as you’d expect. He’s the grandson of their leader.”
Danny nodded. “So, I am too, then?”
“It would appear so.”
“More importantly, you are in danger,” Damian cut in.
One explanation later, and they were filled in on the weird cult Damian had encountered that evening.
“Wait. Red eyes, two souls?” Danny asked. “Are they talking about Dan?”
“Dan?” Oracle asked.
“Long story. Look, yeah, that timeline did exist. But I took care of that a full year ago. And yes, Dan is definitely capable of killing heroes and he definitely turned cities to ash. But again. I aborted that timeline. So why is someone making a fuss about it now?”
“Hold on, it mentions a test. Is that that thing that happened with the cheating and the boomerang and the fake you?”
“Yeah, but he’s locked up.”
“I do not think this cult cares if their prophecy is outdated,” Damian cut in. “They still plan on stopping it anyway. Which means killing you. I will not allow you to die again. I have grown since we last met, and have finally gained the capacity to grieve. I refuse to grieve you a second time, even delayed as my first reaction was.”
“…Huh?”
“I imagine being raised in an assassin cult was not great for your emotional capacity,” Jazz said, trying to explain to Danny as well.
“Indeed.”
“It took him a long time to learn,” Oracle added in a teasing voice.
“So. Let us get Zatanna and save him,” Damian said, retuning to the point.
“Good plan. See you soon!” With that, the phone screen went black.
“Well today has certainly been exciting,” Danny said dryly.
