Chapter Text
The Cuckoo
Strange, reserved, unsocial bird,
Flitting, peering 'mid the leaves,
Thy lonely call a twofold word.
Repeated like a soul that grieves —
"Kou-kou," "Kou-kou"—a solemn plaint
Now loud and full, now far and faint.
- by John Burroughs
-
Ⅰ. A Nightmare Is Still A Dream, And Sleep Is the Only Vacation for an Overworked Bird.
The brittle snap of the chalk was not a mere sound—it was a rupture, a splitting of marrow that reverberated through the air like the cracking of a hollow bone. Its serrated surge didn’t stop at his ears but plunged deeper, slithering into his skull with the intimacy of a parasite. Each grinding vibration was a blade, jagged and cruel, scraping the tender fabric of his nerves raw. The sound rippled outward, rippling through the sinew of his body, twisting him like a marionette seized by unseen strings. His muscles convulsed in grotesque harmony, locked in spasmodic rigidity, while his tendons strained to the breaking point, a cruel tautness begging for release.
The worst of it wasn’t the sound—it was the way it felt alive. It burrowed into him, each pulse of agony gnawing at the foundation of his being. His teeth clenched with a punishing, unnatural force, the grinding pressure threatening to splinter his jaw. He could feel the vibrations—no, the force of breath writhing—rattle through his molars, a dreadful rhythm that matched the erratic tempo of his hammering heart.
Despite that, he clung to the pain like a lifeline—or a noose. Each pulse, a damning whisper etched deep in his marrow: You earned this. The agony wasn’t just pain. It was justice. No, worse—it was retribution, intimate and tailored as if the cosmos had peeled back its mask and smiled at him with a thousand jagged teeth.
Jason’s name surfaced in the maelstrom, but it came as a wound, not a salve. Jason hadn’t deserved his torment—he was a child of light, a star meant to blaze against the void. Robin was magic, and that magic had died with Jason. The title was marred with blood from the one who swore Robin's magic would save everyone, yet that magic couldn’t save the one who deserved it the most. But Tim?
Tim’s torment was a reflection, a copy of himself twisted and turned inward, gutting all of his worst parts, an abyss he had willingly plunged into, clawing deeper with every breath. The malice that had consumed Jason was external, a mother’s greed that tore him apart. Tim’s torment was self-inflicted, a carefully crafted punishment born of guilt and self-loathing. Perhaps he had let himself be caught—had leaned into Joker’s teeth and Harley’s knives—because some small, rotten piece of him believed this was fitting, that this was the only way to balance the scales.
Jason’s death wasn’t fair. His broken body hadn’t deserved to become a ledger of someone else’s cruelty. Tim had seen it, seared into the dark recesses of his mind, replaying endlessly like a curse. Jason’s bones had jutted through his bruised skin like splinters of ivory erupting from flesh. Blood pooled in jagged rivers, glistening and wet against the dirt. The cage of his ribs was twisted, shattered, a grotesque ruin barely containing lungs that still fought—still rattled in desperate defiance.
Tim saw him now, not as he had been but as something worse: a broken silhouette eclipsed by the abyss. Jason’s body had transformed in his mind into something unnatural, something wrong, the first death he had seen that had affected him, the death of someone he had known, someone he had admired. The fractured edges of his bones writhed like pale worms, their movements slick and mindless, burrowing through sinew and flesh as if the boy’s corpse had become a host for some deeper, hungrier thing. The sound of his final breath echoed through the space between them—a gurgling death rattle that twisted itself into a guttural whisper, a voice that clawed at the edges of sanity. Photos from the screen behind his camera morph into a distinct reality behind his eyes. Jason's tiny body engraving itself behind his eyes and getting corrupted into an image he can't force himself to see isn't real.
Even in the silence, Tim could hear it. Feel it. That whisper, that reminder, that hymn of despair etched in the infinite ledger of failure: You should have been the one to die. Jason’s light had been extinguished, and in its place, Tim remained—hollow, rotting, a vessel for shadows too vast and cruel to comprehend.
They had been boys painted in red, their brightness a cruel mockery of the blood they were always meant to spill. Jason had burned too quickly, devoured by the monstrous void surrounding them, and Tim was left behind—a shambling ruin. Somewhere deep within him, something ancient and incomprehensible had taken root, fed by guilt, grief, and the inexorable pull of a cosmic ledger that could never be balanced.
As the silence stretched on, Jason’s shattered ribs whispered a single, unspoken truth of a life already taken too far by something Tim had not stopped, something deep down at night hiding under covers and sobbing as he stared at pictures of a robin flying across a starry background, a way to remember that the Jason in those photos was real, that he had lived. Even on days when the darkest thing inside tells him he ruined that boy forever.
The Joker’s work had been grotesquely thorough. Jason’s body had been a canvas for malice, a masterpiece of suffering. His hands—those same hands that had held his domino mask in shy, nervous pride—were mangled, fingers bent in unnatural directions as if even his ability to grasp hope had been stolen from him. His face, once so bright with defiance, was unrecognizable, a collage of purples, blues, and reds, each shade evidence of the violence that had claimed him forever marred into his skin. His lips, split and swollen, had been frozen in an almost childlike pout, as though even in death, Jason had been only a boy.
The crowbar had left its signature across every inch of him. Deep lacerations, fractured bones, and pulped muscle told the story of prolonged, calculated brutality. His ribs had caved inward, shards pressing dangerously into organs that had already given out. The image of Jason’s small, broken heart—a lump of battered muscle nestled in a ruined chest—had seared itself onto Tim’s mind. He couldn’t look at his own hands without imagining them slick with Jason’s blood, sticky and warm, staining his very soul. He couldn't help but think that the blood of the devil that had taken Jason's life had corrupted him and made him defective all the same.
Tim had seen the man Batman became in the ashes of Jason’s death. It was a hollowed-out shell of the hero he once was, a man grasping at shadows, his grief a black hole that swallowed everything in its path. Tim had only wanted to help. He thought he could be the answer, a patch for the gaping wound Jason’s loss had left behind. But Tim was always more harmful than he was worth. The blood that painted the back of his eyelids—thick, viscous, and honey-sweet in its obscene abundance—always reminded him of that truth.
When Tim thought of Jason, his stomach churned. The thought of a child—barely older than Tim had been himself—reduced to little more than pulp and sinew beneath the Joker’s hands made his guts twist, bile rising bitter and sharp in his throat. The memory was a parasite, a grotesque entity that festered within him.
The emptiness inside him was no longer a void but a living thing, a grotesque mass swollen with his failures and regrets. It feasted on his resolve, devouring the fragile remnants of his will to fight. It nested in his chest, a bloated, pulsating tumor of malignant intent, its gelatinous form writhing beneath his ribcage. Each shift of the creature was nauseating; a sickening slither pressed against his lungs and curled into the spaces between his organs.
Its talons hooked into his ribs, scraping against the brittle edges of his soul with every vile twitch. Each movement sent sharp, electric bolts of pain through his chest as though the thing inside him were knitting its claws deeper, anchoring itself to his core. His skin stretched taut over it, veins dark and prominent, pulsing like tributaries of despair. The creature seemed to grow with every memory of Jason, every pang of guilt, every whispered thought of what Tim could have done differently.
He could feel it inside him, alive and insidious, feeding on his torment. Every breath was labor, his lungs crushed beneath the creature’s weight, his ribs aching as though they might crack and give way to the thing’s grotesque hunger. He imagined it bursting forth, a sick, glistening horror spilling from his chest, all teeth and claws and viscera.
And yet, he let it stay. He let it burrow deeper, leaving him raw and exposed. He let it claw and consume because he deserved to be torn apart.
Jason’s suffering had been senseless. He earned it.
The creature wasn’t an invader. It was him. A sentinel of his guilt, clawing at his soul in a cruel, endless vigil. Deep down, Tim knew he didn’t want it to leave. If he couldn’t take Jason’s pain, if he couldn’t undo the horror that had consumed the boy who should have been a star, then this agony—this relentless, unyielding torment—was the least he could endure.
It was his penance, and he would bear it gladly.
But not everything in that hell was agony.
In the beginning, he hated Harley. He hated her laughter, her high-pitched voice cutting through the cacophony of his pain like a scalpel, and her flippant disregard for the surrounding suffering. She was a jester in the court of madness, dancing on shattered bones and bleeding wounds. Yet, over time, the cracks in her facade became visible, and Tim saw the woman trapped beneath the painted mask. She wasn’t the queen of this nightmare; she was its prisoner, just like him.
She had been pulled into this madness, drawn in by the same gravitational force that had him caged. The Joker wasn’t just a man—he was a black hole, swallowing everything around him, warping it into grotesque parodies of what it once was. Harley had been a doctor, brilliant and compassionate, before his poison seeped into her veins. She told Tim that once, in a rare moment of lucidity, her words had trembled like fragile glass.
“Yer strong, y’know,” she had whispered one night, her voice softer than he’d ever heard. The Joker was gone, off on one of his violent escapades, leaving the two in the suffocating silence of his absence. “Stronger than me, stronger than him. You’ll get outta this, kid. You deserve t’get outta this.”
He hadn’t believed her, not then, never. But her words had stuck, planting themselves in the cracks of his shattered mind like stubborn weeds.
There were moments—few and fleeting—when she felt like a safe harbor in the storm. She’d hum lullabies under her breath, her voice trembling but earnest as if the act of singing could keep the darkness at bay. She’d braid his hair when he was too broken to protest, her hands surprisingly gentle despite the scars that marred them. And sometimes, when the Joker’s absence stretched long enough, they’d talk. Talk. About the lives they’d had before, about the lives they might have had if not for him.
But Tim always knew it wasn’t real. Even if something inside him screamed, she cared, and she did. She was his mom, but Tim knew it wasn't true. His mom would never have put her hands through his hair or hummed to him like Harley, which made it even more heartbreaking. If a villain could treat him like this, with the softness he always longed for, why couldn't his parents? Was he just broken? Was he someone meant to be tainted and shredded like them?
There was something inherently grotesque about their bond: her affection felt like a spider wrapping him in silk. It was soft, yes, but it bound him, suffocated him, and held him captive in a prison of warmth and pain. He hated her for it. He needed her for it. She was the only kindness he’d ever known, and it was twisted, corrupted, born from the same madness that had broken them both.
In a cracked voice that barely hid the tears threatening to spill, she told him once that she wished she’d had a son like him.
“I mean it, kiddo,” she’d said, brushing a lock of his hair from his face. “Yer smart and brave, and… and don't give up, even when y’oughta. Any mom’d be lucky to have ya.”
Tim didn't know what to say. It wasn’t true—couldn’t be true—but the warmth in her voice had made something inside him ache. No one had ever told him that before. No one had ever wanted him.
The memories lingered, a bittersweet tapestry woven from threads of kindness and cruelty, each tender moment inextricably linked to the agony that inevitably followed. Like a delicate flower blooming in the shadows of a toxic garden, Harley's gentle touch and soothing words had brought solace to his battered soul, only to be ravaged by the Joker's malevolent presence. The Clown Prince of Crime's cackling laughter still echoed through his mind, a haunting reminder of their twisted bond, a grotesque parody of maternal affection and parental devotion.
He knew their relationship was a poisoned chalice. This toxic elixir had seeped into his very being, corrupting his sense of self and warping his perception of love and loyalty. Yet, he clung to it with a desperation that bordered on madness, grasping at the fragile threads of tenderness like a drowning man clinging to jagged rocks that threatened to tear him asunder. The parasite that had taken up residence within him fed on the darkness, growing stronger each day as he struggled to reconcile the conflicting emotions that tore him apart.
Harley had been his sanctuary, a fleeting refuge from the depths of hell that had become his reality. She was the one person who had seen beyond the façade of the broken boy, the replacement Robin, and the shattered pawn, to the vulnerable child who lay hidden beneath. She had beheld him with a compassion that was both a balm to his soul and a cruel reminder of all he had lost. Her tears, her whispered lullabies, and the gentle warmth of her hands on his bruised skin had been a solace he had never thought he deserved.
As the cacophony of laughter echoed through his mind—his own, the Jokers, and the creature's—he thought of her, of the way she had made him feel seen, heard, and loved, even when he had given up on himself. The memories of her presence still lingered, a haunting melody that refused to be silenced, a reminder of the love and laughter that had once been his before the darkness had consumed him whole. He wasn't himself anymore, not alive in the same way as the Joker broke him in half, a half forged by the Joker's hands that Tim refused to let free, a part of himself he hated existed for what it meant.
"Let me take over," the creature hissed, its voice a sickly sweet rasp that threaded through his veins like a poisonous serpent. "You've done enough, Timmy. Let me end it. Let me fix it." But Tim didn't want it fixed. He didn't want the pain to stop, not yet, not when it was all that he had left to remind him of the boy he used to be, of the life he had lost, and of the love that had been his, if only for a fleeting moment.
The brittle crack of chalk shattered the tormenting echoes, yanking him back to the present and forcing him to confront the jagged pieces of his world scattered across the floor like the fragments of a shattered mirror. Jason's suffering had been senseless, a brutal reminder of the cruelty that lurked within him, a cruelty that he had earned and that he would have to live with for the rest of his days.
The creature wasn't an invader but a part of him, a sentinel of his guilt, clawing at his soul in a cruel, endless vigil. Deep down, Tim knew he didn't want it to leave, not when it was all he had left to remind him of the pain, the shame, and the guilt that had become his constant companions. If he couldn't take Jason's pain, the claws, the laughter, and the endless torment were the least he could endure, a penance for the sins he had committed and for the life he had taken.
But sometimes, when the creature's claws eased their grip and the darkness receded, he thought of Harley's voice, how she had made him feel, and the love and the laughter that had once been his. And for a fleeting moment, he believed that he might have deserved the softness, too, that he might have been worthy of love, compassion, and forgiveness. The thought was a fragile thing, a delicate flower that bloomed in the shadows of his mind, and it was enough to give him the strength to carry on, to endure the pain, and to hold on to the hope that one day, he might find redemption and learn to forgive himself.
-
He woke up in a harsh sweat, pushing his hair back against his forehead with a sigh. He couldn’t handle this, not the way it was right now. His nightmares were a cycle that never ended, a new and old presence in everyone. And his little amount of sleep taken from the hours of the day made it so he was more behind on his task. He had maybe a few hours overall, and it was making everything feel like it was clouded over and made the fear of failure all the more prominent. It felt like something inside of him broke every time he forced his eyes open with pure force of will, but he had to stay awake. He refused to let himself sleep when Bruce was out there somewhere suffering alone.
As the days went on and made it so that the failure he had, the failure he was as a person festered more every second, he had lost people, he had lost his spleen, all for his plan not to pull through, just because of the fact the Justice League had thought him so much of a loose cannon they had his access cut. It was like a wound that had scabbed over, only for you to pick at it over and over again to let it bleed out and create a bigger problem each time. It was like an itch he couldn’t scratch, like it was the proof of all that he had done and all he couldn’t do, proof that he was harm, that he was a disease that was spread from person to person, something that if he touched anyone, would cause them to disappear or get harmed at the touch. He poisoned people who had breathed around him into a life they didn’t deserve. He had to do everything himself.
Tim Drake knelt on the harsh floor of his dimly lit apartment, which felt like a self-imposed tomb. The cold, uneven concrete pressed against his knees, sending icy tendrils spiraling up his spine with each subtle shift of his weight. The floor seemed almost alive beneath him, sapping what little warmth remained in his body, as if the very earth sought to consume the last vestiges of his vitality. Surrounding him, chalk-drawn sigils glowed faintly, their jagged lines appearing to writhe and pulse in sync with his ragged, uneven breaths.
The air was heavy, suffocating, and laden with the acrid tang of burnt incense and the metallic bite of ozone. It clung to his lungs like a shroud, each breath a laborious effort that deepened his sense of entrapment. The dim light filtering through the grimy window did little to pierce the oppressive gloom. Instead, it highlighted the swirling motes of chalk dust that hovered in the air, casting shifting shadows across the walls. Every corner of the room seemed to reach inward, curling around him, whispering of failure, desperation, and the emptiness he carried.
His hands dug into the jagged concrete, trembling under the weight of his desperation. Chalkdust clung to his sweat-slicked fingertips, smearing pale, ghostly trails across his cracked and weathered palms. The sigils etched beneath him shimmered faintly, their erratic lines reflecting his fragmented mind—raw, volatile, and drenched in frantic, feverish determination. Under the flickering light, the symbols writhed, their shapes shifting in the corners of his vision like a predator poised to strike. The air seemed to bristle with anticipation, heavy with the electric charge of something not meant to be touched.
Pain shot through his hands, sharp and searing, as though the concrete were imbued with malice, carving its hatred into him. The ragged calluses lining his palms screamed against the surface, each throb a fiery testament to the years of battles fought and burdens borne. His skin, a map of scars and sacrifices, felt like it was splitting anew, fissures creeping deeper with every tremor of his resolve. He could feel the blood seeping, sticky and warm, or perhaps it was only the memory of past wounds crawling to the surface, his mind feeding him phantoms of agony.
His hands, pale and trembling, quivered as if the floor beneath them pulsed with a heartbeat. Like a marionette’s strings tangled by an unseen puppeteer, jagged spasms forced his fingers to twitch erratically. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, Bruce’s voice surfaced—calm, firm, and heavy with warning. Don’t meddle with magic. The words rang like a church bell in a storm, distant and swallowed by the rising tide of the tempest roaring through his thoughts.
The room around him seemed to shake in response, a worrying rhythm that wormed into his chest and coiled around his lungs. The sigils glowed faintly, their light oozing and spreading across the floor in a slow, deliberate crawl, like ichor, something scorching deep down, something richer than gold, something that was so rare but made Tim want to scratch away his skin with every thought against it. Low and insidious, a deep hum emanated from them, its vibration burrowing into his skull. It slithered through the cracks in his composure, infecting his thoughts and spreading like rot. The air grew thick and oppressive, clinging to him like the suffocating touch of an unseen predator.
Then came the whispers.
The sound wasn’t a voice but a cacophony of them, layered and fragmented, as though countless versions of himself were clawing at the edges of his reality. They weren’t just noise—they were tangible, burrowing into his mind, scraping against the tender walls of his sanity. Each syllable dragged barbs of self-doubt through his consciousness, unraveling him one thought at a time.
He shut his eyes tight, but the darkness offered no reprieve. The sigils burned into his eyelids, their writhing lines alive and merciless. He could feel them, not just on the floor but under his skin, sliding through his veins like serpents of fire and ice.
Biting down hard, he tasted blood as his teeth split his lip. The sharp sting grounded him briefly before the whispers surged louder. His name was a chant now, screamed and growled, the syllables twisting into grotesque language parodies. He opened his eyes, desperate for relief, but the sigils were no more extended symbols. They had become mouths—grotesque, yawning maws that stretched impossibly wide, swallowing the light and bleeding darkness into the room.
The air shifted. It wasn’t just cold—it was sentient, crawling over his skin like a living thing. The shadows in the room began to swell and contort, stretching into hideous shapes that flickered in and out of reality. He gasped as the sigils’ light flared, an unnatural green that seared the edges of his vision.
Memories flooded his mind, unbidden and warped. Dick’s smile, once warm and reassuring, twisted unnaturally, splitting his face into something monstrous. Jason’s sharp and sardonic laugh morphed into a guttural, predatory snarl. Bruce’s presence, consistently solid and grounding, turned suffocating, his shadow growing until it swallowed everything, leaving only an empty void. It was like the surrounding space was pulling out the darkest parts of himself and forcing him into a fit he hadn't had for a long time.
Tim pressed his hands harder into the floor as though anchoring himself to the physical world could stave off the madness creeping into his soul. But the concrete wasn’t solid anymore—it yielded beneath his fingers like wet clay, the chalk-dusted lines smearing into grotesque patterns. His breaths came in shallow gasps, and every inhale tasted of mildew and decay. Every exhale trembled with the weight of the voices clawing at his sanity.
The sigils blazed brighter, their light relentless, illuminating the writhing, grotesque forms of the shadows now fully alive. They swirled around him, their shapes defying logic, their movement hypnotic and nauseating all at once. And as the last fragments of his resolve slipped through his trembling hands, the sigils’ mouths opened wide, and the room swallowed him whole.
The whispers grew deafening, a cacophony of alien sounds and half-formed words pressed against his mind like claws scraping against the glass. For a moment, he thought he could feel them wrapping around his ribs, squeezing, testing as if measuring whether he was strong enough to bear what was to come.
Tim squeezed his eyes shut tighter, trying to ignore his surroundings, his body trembling as the weight of it all bore down on him. The sigils he drew with shaky hands, guided by photos he had scrambled up to make his summoning circle, the whispers, and the shadows were consuming him, tearing apart the fragile walls he’d built to keep himself whole. But deep within the chaos, there was a flicker of something else. It wasn’t hope, not precisely, but a cold, sharp clarity—a purpose.
He wasn’t just calling out to something in the void. He was inviting it in.
Above him, the air seemed to shift, growing heavier still. A faint hum resonated through the room, the sigils beginning to glow with a sickly green light that danced like a flame. It crawled up the walls, seeping into the cracks and crevices, making the room feel less like his own and more like the threshold of something vast, alien, and incomprehensible. He could almost hear whispers in the static that buzzed at the edges of his awareness, voices too ancient and too extensive for his mortal mind to grasp. They tugged at his thoughts, pulling him deeper into a place that felt impossibly far and horrifyingly close.
It was like something had taken a net around his heart and punched holes that made every feeling pour out his blood, no longer being something set behind the bones and tendons that kept it safe inside of him, as if the tiny layer of his skin had been ready for the fresh wounds and had made a lake with his tears and blood as a sacrifice for all of the damage Tim had ever done. It was like something inside of him was torn apart and broken, set aflame in ruins for people to celebrate that he could no longer carry a disease that would infect others who had to deal with him.
Yet beneath that, deep within the shattered pieces, something was cleansed. His murky blood turned pure white, bright with a new clarity, a forgotten innocence he had lost long ago beneath the weight of everything he’d done.
It was like a robin growing new wings—wings bursting painfully from his back, tearing through skin and muscle, leaving fresh wounds that were also promises. Wounds that would finally let him fly.
And any time he closed his eyes he could see the sky.
Pain blossomed across his knees, shooting upward with every subtle shift of his weight, but it was nothing compared to the gnawing ache in his chest. So profound that it felt as though his very soul was being scraped away, leaving only raw nerves and trembling desperation behind. He clung to that pain, though—let it ground him and remind him why he was here and what he sought.
Tim’s eyes flicked to the sigils, their green light unnatural in luminosity and purity, casting flickering shadows that seemed to be alive, moving and dancing against the wall and floor as if they were people of their own ready, to jump into an action at any sudden move. For a fleeting moment, he thought he saw faces in those shadows—deformed and melted, their features too fluid and too wrong to be human. His stomach twisted, a cold sweat breaking out along the nape of his neck, but he did not look away. If he faltered now and allowed fear to take hold, everything he had suffered for would be for nothing.
The click of his teeth pushed against his jaw before he let it go with a sigh, ignoring how his body begged for a reprieve and his mind screamed against everything happening. His fingers curled into fists, nails biting into his palms as he forced himself to breathe through the oppressive weight pressing down on him.
This is the cost, he reminded himself, his voice trembling in the hollow silence of his mind—the cost of hope, the cost of salvation.
And then the sigils flared, the green light searing his eyes into his vision.
The rhythmic click-click of chalk against rough concrete echoed in the dim, suffocating stillness of the apartment. Each deliberate stroke reverberated like a heartbeat—a hollow sound, alive and not, as though the room itself pulsed in tandem with his thoughts. The sigils forming under his hands seemed to breathe with him, their edges curling slightly as if the lines were straining to crawl from the floor, yearning to escape. Chalkdust rose in thin clouds, swirling in the stale air like restless spirits. The soft hiss of his movements mingled with the faint hum of the city beyond the cracked window, a distant and indifferent world that didn’t even know he existed.
This was his sanctuary.
No, not a sanctuary. A grave.
The dim room was too quiet, its silence pregnant with unsaid truths and lurking shadows that pressed against the corners of his vision. It was a place not meant for life but for hiding—hiding from the world, from his brothers, from himself. Every inch felt claustrophobic, like the walls leaned inward with each breath, conspiring to trap him. Shadows danced unnaturally across the ceiling, their shapes elongated, twisting, and fracturing in ways that defied the simple geometry of the light streaming through the small, smudged window.
He gritted his teeth as the thought surfaced again: I don’t belong here.
The memory of his siblings clawed its way into his mind, uninvited and unrelenting. He had carved out a place beside them, wedging himself into a family that had never been meant for him, no matter how desperately he had wished otherwise. He was a cuckoo in their nest, an intruder who had stolen a place that wasn’t his. The realization gnawed at him, insidious and unyielding, its teeth sinking deeper into his psyche daily.
Chalk dust clung to his skin, a pale, powdery layer that painted his fingertips like frostbite creeping over flesh. He paused for a moment, staring at his hand. It looked wrong.
The bones beneath his skin seemed sharper and more prominent, casting strange shadows in the dim light. It felt like his hand didn’t belong to him for a moment, like it was a stranger’s limb attached to his body. He flexed his fingers experimentally, watching as the chalky dust seemed to sink into his pores, leaving faint green streaks in its wake.
Keep going, he told himself, his voice a fragile whisper in the quiet. There’s no turning back now.
The air thickened with the metallic tang of ozone, mingling with the faint earthy scent of chalk dust. He inhaled deeply, the combination burning his lungs, but he didn’t stop. His hands moved almost mechanically, following the motions he had memorized. His body acted while his mind unraveled.
Tim’s thoughts wandered yet again, carried by the hum, and he let them drift to memories he both cherished and despised. He thought of Dick’s easy smile, the way his older brother could make the weight of the world seem lighter just by being there. He thought of Jason’s biting sarcasm, his sharp edges that somehow still offered a kind of safety. And he thought of Bruce—stoic, unyielding, a figure that had loomed large in his life and left an even more immense void in his absence.
But those memories didn’t bring comfort. Instead, they twisted in his mind, their edges warping and fracturing like shattered glass. He saw Dick’s smile crack, revealing too many teeth, rows upon rows that spiraled into darkness. Jason’s shadow stretched unnaturally long, his eyes glowing with an otherworldly green light that mirrored the sigils beneath Tim’s hands. And Bruce... Bruce’s face was empty, his features blurred as though something had erased them, leaving only the impression of who he had been.
Tim blinked, the vivid images fading, but the unease remained. He glanced at his hands again, and for a moment, he could have sworn they were bleeding—not blood, but something darker, something thick and viscous that shimmered unnaturally in the greenish light. He shook his head, gripping the chalk tightly until it crumbled slightly. The powder fell like ash, coating the sigil in a fine layer that seemed to pulse in response.
The memories drowned him again, laced thickly with the faint scent of candle wax and the echo of old laughter. He remembered practicing with Dick—gymnastics are in my blood, Dick used to say, grinning as if gravity had never touched him. And as Dick’s new little brother, it had been non-negotiable: he had to learn the family trade. Their hands had been dusted in chalk, raw from calluses, as they worked through endless drills, bodies twisting through the air like it meant something.
That warmth—the weightless joy of it—pressed against Tim’s chest now, a bittersweet ache that stole his breath. But it didn’t last. It never did. The memory fractured under the sharp, sterile cold of the present, and he was just here again, alone in a room that reeked of ash and old magic. Shadows curled at the edges of his vision, and the sigils scrawled across the floor seemed to watch him, pulsing like open wounds.
The apartment felt alive now, the walls trembling with a rhythm that wasn’t his own. He could hear faint whispers at the edges of his mind, voices that sounded almost familiar but spoke in tongues he couldn’t understand. They beckoned to him, their soothing and horrifying tones promising things he couldn’t quite grasp.
Tim closed his eyes, his hands stilling as he knelt in the center of the ritual circle. A thing sketched up, something Tim didn't even fully understand the meaning behind, something Tim was placing the last of his hope in, even if it turned out to be a hoax. The air around him felt heavier, pressing down his shoulders like a physical weight. The shadows on the walls seemed to shift again, their forms elongating, twisting into grotesque shapes that defied comprehension.
And then, in the oppressive silence, Tim exhaled. His breath was visible in the cold, heavy air.
It’s almost done, he thought, the words both a comfort and a warning—just a little more.
But deep down, beneath the resolve, a small, trembling part of him whispered the truth he refused to acknowledge: This will change everything.
What he had hoped would be a sanctuary, a refuge from his mistakes, and a room in a Manor he felt he wasn't allowed to return to without Bruce, not after all that he had said. He didn’t want everyone around him to think that they had proven him right, that he was crazy, that place felt more like a crypt of memories than a proper home, not without Bruce there. In the back of his mind, he wondered if this sense of despair had seeped into the rest of his space, tainting it and making it as unlovable as he currently felt. The weak sunlight struggled to filter through the dirty windows, casting long shadows that mirrored his troubled thoughts.
He surrounded himself with old notes and reminders from past investigations, trying to connect any vague memories he had about previous cases, runes he could recall, or even chants from earlier experiences. The clutter around him whispered stories of his attempts to find clarity amid the chaos. Crumpled pages covered the floor and were scattered across the low table, each marked with ink stains and torn edges, holding fragments of his thoughts and feelings. Some faded sketches depicted moments of hope, showing light breaking through the darkness, while others served as haunting reminders of the burdens he still carried.
Tim knew his detailed notes would be a hassle for Oracle; she would have to sort through his messy thoughts in the Bat-computer’s files. Still, he felt responsible for contributing and wanted to turn his chaotic findings into something useful. Despite the self-doubt that often overwhelmed him, he recognized that facing this disorganization was essential. It was a necessary step to confront the confusion that had crept into his life.
In his right hand, he clutched a timeworn slab of chalk, its once-pristine surface now smoothed and dulled by countless desperate attempts to carve out his intentions from the very fabric of reality. The chalk's white dust dusted his fingers, cool and gritty against his palm, as he shifted on the unforgiving concrete floor, his knees sinking into the hard surface, a nagging reminder of the discomfort surrounding him. With slow, deliberate motions, he pressed the chalk firmly against the ground; the distinct sound of the chalk scraping against the concrete broke the heavy silence, punctuating the room's stillness with a sense of purpose as he continued his work.
This was more than just a summoning circle—it was a powerful call sign, an elaborate, radiant beacon intended for someone extraordinary, and a rare opportunity to forge a pact with a force capable of transforming his existence. At least that was the way he imagined it in the back of his mind, like a sign in the sky calling for help, calling for someone to come and to help someone in need. A sign that Tim had seen time and time again, a sign he couldn't use, so he had to make his own, a new sign that would mean help and safety to him
As he worked, the frigid air in the room seeped into his very bones, raising goosebumps along his arms and making his movements feel sluggish, even laborious. Each breath became a heavy burden, his ribs creaking under the strain as he struggled to inhale deeply, fighting to keep his focus sharp despite the bone-chilling cold that settled deep within him. The atmosphere was thick with a palpable anticipation; with every symbol, he etched a whisper of hope against the looming silence that threatened to swallow him whole.
The chalk rested firmly in his grasp, its coarse texture simultaneously familiar and foreign against his throbbing palms, which bore the raw, angry sores of countless trials. He redrew the intricate runes he had spent countless hours mastering with painstaking precision, each symbol embedded in his memory like a secret language. The ritual demanded skill, an unwavering focus, and a commitment to push past distractions and channel his essence into this powerful act. He can almost feel the ancient energy thrumming in the air as he carefully inscribes the swirling patterns onto the surface before him.
Each deliberate stroke of chalk brings him closer to a long-envisioned summoning, a monumental goal that feels heavy in the solitude of the night. The weight of isolation presses down; his heartbeat and the wind are his only companions. In this solitude, he finds a rhythm—an exhilarating cycle that dulls the sharp pain radiating from his chafed skin, a reminder of his efforts.
Every tap of chalk against the rough surface grounds him in the present, the sound reverberating through the quiet as silence holds its breath. Fatigue tugs at his mind, threatening to make him despair, but he clings to clarity. Each moment spent on this ritual could alter his existence. The stakes are high, but he is determined. He knows this endeavor could lead to a permanent transformation he can barely imagine; he eyes his wrong-looking hand warily. Everything pushes him toward sensory overload, but he can hold it off until Bruce returns.
As the symbols materialized, a spark of hope ignited within Tim, lighting up the shadows of despair that had cloaked him for far too long. This moment was his final stand. This summoning was the result of countless nights spent battling fatigue and exhausting days that had wrung him dry, both emotionally and physically. Every ounce of his energy was channeled into this singular endeavor. Memories of every heart-wrenching loss surged through him like high tide, reminding him of the high price he had paid in his relentless quest to resurrect Bruce.
In the silence of his sanctuary, bursts of clarity erupted like fireworks in the dark, revealing truths that cut deeper than any wound he'd ever experienced. He vividly recalled awakening, crowned by the enemy with nothing to do but out-smart them, still in shock about the fact that he was missing a part of himself now, no matter how small it was, a scar lined across his abdomen as proof. He had been in the vigilante life for years and had never had a body part, no matter how little, lost, and now he’s down a spleen.
It all hit him, especially how much he would do for his family and how little they would do for him. His body felt like lead, and his mind a fog—an achingly palpable reminder of the stakes he confronted. But it was the more chilling realization that hit him like a freezing wave: Dick, consumed by shattering ambition and the burdens of a glorious legacy, had never indeed seen Tim as his brother. Instead, Tim felt the bitter sting of betrayal as Dick stole the Robin mantle—a title that had once symbolized so much for him–from him and gifted it to Damian.
A family he had gained just to lose, an abandonment he had expected, was waiting for him as his own birth family had never wanted for him past his title as the heir, his place, casting it aside for a newcomer without a second thought.
In that moment of painful clarity, Tim understood just how effortlessly Dick had replaced him, treating their bond as merely a prototype ready for an upgrade. This transient connection could be discarded when no longer needed. The realness of that realization settled heavily in his chest, an agonizing echo of the love and devotion he once felt for his brother. It was a bitter residue, one that colored each breath he took, a reminder of everything he had fought for and everything he had lost.
He struck the match with unsteady hands, the sulfur catching with a sharp hiss, and the flame sputtering to life. The faint glow illuminated his pale, sleep-deprived face, deepening the shadows under his eyes and accentuating the sharp planes of his cheekbones. His fingers trembled, slick with sweat and numb from exhaustion, as he held the fragile wooden stick. Each flicker of the flame cast distorted shadows that seemed to stretch and claw at the edges of the dim room, and Tim couldn’t help but think how absurd it was that he hadn’t just grabbed a lighter. But no—it had to be a match. There was something raw about it that demanded intention—a single spark to defy the looming dark.
The match burned low, the heat biting his skin as he finally touched it to the first candle’s wick. The flame jumped hungrily to life, casting a golden glow that felt almost too warm, too alive, in the suffocating stillness of the room. Carefully, he carried the flame to the next candle, then the next, his movements deliberate despite the heaviness in his limbs. One by one, the circle of candles came alive, their flickering light forming a barrier against the creeping dark.
Tim stood in the center of the circle, his chest tight with the weight of what he was about to attempt. The air around him felt wrong—thick and clinging, like it had substance and was watching him. He couldn’t shake the sensation of being observed by something vast and incomprehensible, something just beyond the veil of his perception.
This was for Bruce. It had to be.
The thought burned in his mind as fiercely as the flames around him. Bruce had been more than a mentor, more than a hero. He had been a father to him and the others. Dick, who was always trying to shoulder the world with a smile. Damian, who was too proud to admit he needed anyone, even as he quietly reached for the remnants of a family. And Jason—Jason, whose anger was a wildfire, consuming everything in its path, including himself.
Tim swallowed hard, his throat dry. The candles flickered unnaturally, their flames elongating and twisting as though reaching for something unseen. The light distorted and warped the room until the walls seemed to bend and breathe, the faint creak of wood echoing like a heartbeat.
The air grew colder, and the warmth of the flames was unable to penetrate the unnatural chill that seeped into the room. Tim’s breath came in shallow gasps as the cold bit at his skin. The shadows shifted, moving with a purpose that made his stomach twist. The darkness between the candles wasn’t empty—it writhed and pulsed like a living thing, coalescing into shapes that defied logic.
He forced himself to stay still, even as his instincts screamed at him to run. His fingers dug into his palms, the sharp sting of his nails biting into his skin grounding him as the shadows began to close in. The hum started softly at first, a low, resonant vibration that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. It crawled under his skin, worming into his mind, and grew louder with every passing second.
It wasn’t just sound but layered with emotion, with whispers beyond understanding: anguish, desperation, fury, and something older, more profound.
The circle of candles flared suddenly, their light turning a sickly, unnatural blue that cast the room in a cold, sterile glow. The shadows between them stretched and twisted, forming jagged shapes that flickered at the edges of his vision, always just out of focus.
And then it spoke.
The voice wasn’t a voice at all—it was a chorus, a cacophony of overlapping tones that resonated in his chest, vibrating through his very bones. "Tim."
It wasn’t a call or a demand. It was a statement, a tether that pulled at something deep inside him. His knees buckled, and he fell to the ground, the weight of the presence pressing down on him like a physical force. His heart raced, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps as he fought to keep himself steady.
The flames pulsed in time with the voice; their movements synchronized with the throbbing pressure in his skull. The darkness writhed closer, tendrils curling around his legs and arms, cold and slick like oil yet somehow alive.
His mind screamed, and his body trembled with the primal fear of being utterly alone and exposed. He was the sole thread holding this fragile ritual together, the lone anchor in an ocean of chaos. If he failed, no one would fix it or save him—or anyone else.
And yet, as the presence loomed closer, suffocating and infinite, a single thought burned in his mind, steady and defiant.
This is for Bruce. For all of us.
The air crackled, and the room tilted violently as the presence surged. Tim steeled himself, gripping the floor as he met the void head-on.
He was determined to transform this dream into reality, resolute in his conviction that these haunting visions would no longer have any sway over him. With unwavering strength, he vowed to confront the shadows that taunted him, refusing to let fear dictate his path. He grew more steadfast each day, believing he could break free from their grasp and reclaim his life.
-
His attention was caught by a thick, swirling smoke that filled the room, curling upward as the heat intensified, enveloping everything in an almost tangible warmth. Shadows danced across the walls, and the ancient runes carved into the surfaces began to flicker ominously, glowing with a sickly Lazarus Pit green that washed over his vision. A slight chill of dread crawled down his spine; this hue had always heralded trouble in the past.
As the smoke began to coalesce, a figure emerged, its form woven from the fabric of stars, shimmering and ethereal. Their eyes, luminous and insistent in that same haunting green, locked onto him with an unsettling intensity. Despite the menacing aura that draped the room upon their arrival, it gradually receded, replaced by a deep, resonant hum. This sound oscillated between a growl and a purr, echoing like a sinister lullaby through the emptiness.
The entity's features radiated a profound darkness, a paradox of solidity in a realm where such things seemed impossible. Above their head floated a crown blazing in a green so bright and the sheer power radiating off of it gave him pause; he could tell the amount of suppression put into it at play, and the fact that it was still leaking enough to make Tim want to fall to his knees was scary in a way he couldn't explain, his heart speeding and a death rattle suck in his throat, the feeling of every near-death experience curling around his ribs and wrapping its way around his heart in a violent display of claiming those near deaths as its own, the crown a mockery of its true power intricately adorned, surrounded by dozens of ethereal hands that cradled it protectively—at the heart of this bizarre assembly flickered a small green flame, cradled by the hands with almost reverent care, exuding warmth and a sense of safety that tugged at Tim’s heartstrings. At that moment, an unfamiliar pang of envy washed over him—he wished, more than anything, to be the cherished flame held aloft in such a loving grasp.
As the entity’s gaze remained unwaveringly fixed on him, the small flame atop its head flared brighter, casting a warm glow that pulsed rhythmically in sync with the soothing yet enveloping purr that resonated throughout the room. Tim pondered the peculiar bond that could evoke such joy in a creature so alien. His mind raced with possibilities—was it gratitude, curiosity, or something deeper? Yet, regardless of the entity’s intentions or the nature of the pact it might propose, Tim felt an undeniable pull deep within his heart, a certainty that he would find it impossible to refuse whatever proposition lay ahead.
Tim lifted his gaze to meet the creature's eyes with deliberate slowness, which sparkled with an enigmatic light. He cautiously rose to his feet, propelled by trepidation and wonder. To his astonishment, the being, likely male in essence, adjusted its position to hover just above him, defying gravity with an effortless grace that left Tim momentarily speechless. A snort of laughter escaped him before he could suppress it, a spontaneous reaction to the comical sight of the entity attempting to assert its height over him. He quickly clamped his lips together, alarmed that his amusement might jeopardize the rare connection he sensed was forming.
The creature loomed over Tim, its form bending the fabric of reality around it, its eyes If they could be called that, they were whirlpools of starlight like bright bursts of glowing pools of bits of the sun—an endless void speckled with the brilliance of distant galaxies. The stars within its gaze pulsed with an almost hypnotic rhythm, flaring and dimming in a cadence that seemed alive, as though they were observing him as much as he was them. The flame atop its crown flickered and twisted; a wild, green blaze devoured the surrounding darkness, each ember swirling upward like screaming phantoms before vanishing into the ether.
A soft chirping noise emanated from the creature, at first almost pleasant, like the call of distant birds—but then it grew layered, discordant, a maddening harmony that clawed at the edges of Tim’s sanity. He stared grimly at its mouth as it opened, revealing rows of fangs that shimmered like molten glass. Deep within, a radiant green light pulsed with an unnatural brilliance, spilling to illuminate the creature’s jagged, fragmented features. The glow wasn’t warm but cold, piercing, the kind of light that stripped away all pretense and laid bare the truth of things. Tim could feel it cutting into him, as though it were prying apart his ribs and peering into his marrow.
“You’re not going to eat me, right?” Tim’s voice cracked as he forced the words out, his throat dry and tight with fear. His heart thudded erratically in his chest, loud enough that he swore the creature could hear it. “I mean, I probably taste terrible right now…” His laugh was weak, brittle. It felt like offering a joke to a guillotine.
The creature tilted its head, the motion impossibly smooth and alien. Its body twisted and shifted in ways that defied logic, as though it were made of smoke and stars rather than flesh and bone. Its movements carried an unsettling grace, each shift of its form leaving faint, shimmering trails in the air like the afterimages of falling meteors. A deep, resonant, and impossibly melodic sound emerged from its throat. It wasn’t laughter, not precisely, but it carried the same mocking amusement, reverberating through Tim’s bones like the low hum of a cathedral organ.
“No,” the creature said at last, its voice a tapestry of conflicting tones—velvety and sharp, soothing and cruel. It echoed with a weight that seemed to press against Tim’s soul. “You look more dead than I do, little one. Eating you would be a waste.” Its gaze flickered with something that might have been amusement—or hunger. “Unless, of course, that is what you summoned me for?”
As it spoke, one of its appendages moved, a hand—or rather, something shaped like a hand—reaching down toward him. Its fingers were impossibly long, each tapering into a point that shimmered with a translucent sheen, like claws made of glass. They moved with unnerving precision, curling and uncurling in a way that suggested delicacy and lethal intent. When it touched his hair, the sensation was not warmth but an otherworldly pressure, as though the weight of its existence pressed into him. Smoke-like tendrils coiled around its hand, reaching down to brush his temple, and with every stroke, Tim felt a strange, almost electric numbness creep over his scalp.
Tim’s body screamed at him to move, to fight, to run—but he was paralyzed, every nerve frozen beneath the creature’s gaze. His training told him to resist, to do something, but the primal fear curling in his stomach overrode all logic. The air seemed thicker around the entity, pressing against him with an oppressive weight as if it controlled his body and the space around it.
The creature huffed softly, almost as if laughing again, and the melodic vibrations of its amusement filled the silence like a song only it could understand. “So fragile,” it murmured, its voice curling around him like tendrils of smoke. “You humans always think in such small, panicked ways. As if your fear might hold some meaning here.”
Tim swallowed hard, forcing his throat to work through the dryness. “Uh, no, that’s not... I mean, I didn’t summon you to eat me,” he stammered, the words tripping over themselves as he scrambled for coherence. “I don’t even know what the rules are for this. I’m not exactly an expert on summoning…” He hesitated, the weight of the creature’s gaze pressing harder. “...eldritch gods?”
The creature cocked its head again, the motion almost playful. “Eldritch? Gods?” It leaned closer, its face—or what passed for one—mere inches from his own. Tim flinched as the green glow from its throat intensified, bathing his face in a cold, unnatural light. “Such quaint little names you give to things you don’t understand.”
Tim felt his stomach churn as the creature’s proximity revealed more of its body—a shifting tapestry of cosmic horrors. Its surface shimmered like the night sky, but it was marred with grotesque details: countless mouths that yawned open and closed across its form, whispering incoherent truths that burrowed into his mind; spindly limbs that twisted and folded unnaturally, their movements accompanied by the faint crackle of space bending around them; and beneath its translucent skin, shadows writhed and pulsed, as though it were a vessel for countless, screaming souls.
He closed his eyes, trying to will away the sickening nausea rising within him, but the creature’s presence was inescapable. Its smoky appendage brushed against his face again, tracing the curve of his jaw with a disconcerting tenderness.
“You’re trembling,” the creature purred, its voice soft and predatory, laced with a mocking pity. “So many cracks. So much desperation. You must have been very, very desperate to call me.”
“I’m Tim,” he blurted out, the name slipping from his lips like a drowning man grasping for air. His voice quivered, barely a whisper against the crushing silence of the void surrounding them. “I—uh—I’m Tim.” The name felt impossibly small, swallowed whole by the enormity of the creature before him. In the presence of something so vast, so unfathomable, it was as if the very concept of himself had begun to disintegrate. “Sorry if I’m not... if I’m acting crazy. I’m just—exhausted.”
“Exhausted,” the creature echoed, the word dripping from its mouth with a dark reverence. Its form writhed, shifting in ways that should have been impossible—its body unfurling like a nebula torn apart by unseen forces. The green flame atop its crown flared violently, casting harsh shadows that twisted and bent unnaturally as if time was warping in the wake of its existence. “No, Tim. You are broken. But then…”
The creature’s body expanded, contracting again in an agonizingly slow rhythm, like something trying to hold together despite the fundamental laws of reality tearing it apart from within. Its eyes—if they could be called eyes—twisted like black holes, pulling in the world around them, causing the air to ripple and warp. The ground beneath Tim's feet seemed to buckle as the creature loomed closer, the shifting cosmic matter that made up its form a chaotic dance of stars and grotesque, malformed limbs, jagged and slick with an oily, translucent substance that was not quite flesh nor flame. “…Aren’t we all?”
The words crawled under Tim’s skin, dragging his thoughts deeper into claustrophobic self-doubt and helplessness. Each stroke of the creature's appendage against his hair was an invasive, alien touch—its fingers trailing smoky tendrils of energy that burned not in pain but in a way that altered him. It wasn’t warm, not entirely. It was deeper and more invasive, like a cold fire reaching his cells.
He wanted to flinch, to pull away, but his body refused. The creature’s touch felt like it was rewriting the essence of his being, unmaking and remaking him in its image—like it was peeling away his identity, layer by layer, until nothing remained but the hollow shell of a boy who had long since lost everything.
The words had shattered something inside him, something brittle and cracked, and for a fleeting moment, he felt an odd sense of relief. The weight of his loneliness, the crushing isolation of his belief that no one understood or cared—that weight lifted as the creature’s presence washed over him like a flood of unearthly understanding. It was an understanding he had never wanted, a brutal truth that no one could bear. Yet the creature saw him in a way no one else had.
Amid the chaos, his mind spiraled into a storm of memories and emotions. He couldn't escape that moment when he had stood before them, his heart pounding like a war drum, clutching the irrefutable proof of his discoveries. Yet, they laughed. Their eyes glazed over with indifference, dismissing him as if he were a child spinning wild fantasies. He had laid out the facts—the impossible truths he had uncovered—but they turned away. Their minds were already made up, colored by memories of his past, and the countless times he had gambled everything, with his team permanently by his side, haunted his thoughts.
But it was Jason who broke him. Jason, whose eyes once filled with camaraderie, now bore only pity and disdain, branding him insane. The betrayal stung like venom, searing through his veins with a relentless burn. Why had Jason turned against him? Was it merely because Tim had taken his place, or had Jason glimpsed something monstrous within him? The question echoed in his mind, a fractured record he couldn't silence. Perhaps he had indeed pushed too hard, driven by unbridled fervor. Yet the truth clawed at him, refusing to release its grip. He couldn't shake the image of Jason—his face twisted with hatred, a cruel parody of the warmth it once held.
Jason's return from death shattered everything Tim held sacred. If Jason could return, why not Bruce? The thought whipped through his mind like a vicious lash, the madness of it coiling within his chest like an incurable sickness. And when Jason emerged from the shadows of the grave, he did so with murder in his eyes, intent on reclaiming his place by ending Tim's. The reality of it all twisted around him, leaving him breathless and on the brink of madness.
He had tried to share the impossible truth, the things that twisted the very fabric of existence. But the moment they had turned their backs on him—his family, his team—that had been the moment he had known. It was the moment that the lies they all lived by became too thick to pierce. The overwhelming isolation that followed was the worst part. It burned deeper than any physical pain. It was a gnawing ember, a constant reminder of how alone he was.
It wasn’t just his failure—it was the world's. The burden of an uncaring universe pressed down on his chest, suffocating him with unanswered questions. Why couldn’t they see it? Why couldn’t they hear him?
His hands trembled as he thought about how they had brushed off his findings. The cloning, the experimentation, all of it—his desperate attempts to understand the human genome, to understand life itself. The things he knew now… things he wished he didn’t. There is too much about them, about the dead and their return.
There were wisps of faces in his mind, fleeting glimpses of people long gone. Figures he could no longer recall fully—burned into his consciousness like melted wax, their features shifting and warping as his memories decayed. Faces that twisted in horrific ways, deformed by time and death—he could no longer separate the living from the dead. They were all the same now, their masks broken, their faces disintegrating like putrid fruit.
And as the creature before him loomed, ever-present, shifting in ways that made his body want to break apart, Tim could feel the boundaries of his mind stretching—warping—as his face had melted into something unrecognizable. The creature didn’t just see him. It understood him. His flaws, his brokenness. It was feeding on them, letting them spread through him like a contagion. But that was nothing. He was nothing.
The green flame in the creature's crown flickered brighter, casting shadows on the walls of his mind as the creature’s presence enveloped him. The air around him was thick with an oppressive, crushing weight. It was now all too clear: He had summoned this thing, and the price of calling upon it would not be simple. He had ripped open the veil, and the thing on the other side had come to claim what was owed.
And whatever he was owed, Tim would give it to him gladly if he had someone or something to see him like this, in a way that when people came too close, they would run.
The fear of those people watching him and judging everything he's done, telling him that it's not enough, that he isn't sufficient. Making something profound inside of him break apart every time he hears those words. No matter how far apart from the person, the voices and faces seem to him as the years go on.
As if intuitively sensing the emotions raging within Tim's heart attuned to them as if they were connected to the thing, like one of its limbs reacting whenever his smile even turned wobbly in slightly, as if it was its personal failing if it caught Tim to even start to slip into a cloud of self-doubt, the creature's eyes crinkled at the corners, emanating a warmth reminiscent of the soft, ethereal glow of distant stars twinkling against the velvet backdrop of the night sky that was the vast mass of the creature in front of him. A deep, resonant purr rumbled from the depths of its being, enveloping the surrounding stillness with a soothing vibration that seemed to harmonize with the essence of Tim's soul, like a melodic whisper in a silent room.
Its gaze drifted back to Tim, illuminating its features with a radiant smile that radiated pure joy and tender affection; the stars that made up the creature floated up to its cheeks, and the fur that seemed to cascade around its neck fluffed up as if it was part of the thing. It wrapped around him like a gentle, unexpected embrace on a cold winter's day. “I think you're perfect,” it purred, each word infused with heartfelt sincerity. It effortlessly dispelled Tim’s doubts and fears as if they were mere shadows, chased away by the light of newfound acceptance.
The words hung in the air between them, heavy with significance. Tim knew instinctively that the creature’s idea of perfection likely veered into the bizarre and unnerving, but it didn’t dull the warmth that rushed to his cheeks or dispel the slight, giddy feeling igniting within his chest. In that strange moment of connection, the world outside faded as he clung to the small glimmer of acceptance—a brief reprieve from the chaos of his life.
As the hand descends slowly, it cradles his cheek with a gentle tenderness that sends shivers down his spine. The warmth radiated from the touch, contrasting beautifully with the coolness of the caress, igniting a tingle that lingered on his skin. Unconsciously, a soft smile spreads across his lips, the expression reflexively brightening his features. He exhaled a soft breath, feeling the weight of his overheating skin in the refreshing presence of this mysterious touch.
Thoughts swirl in his mind, and a comforting realization grows stronger: He can finally take a step back, allowing the worries that burden him to disappear. Whatever it may be, this creature radiates a sense of benevolence, a pure desire to offer help and solace. Their connection feels profound, and each heartbeat echoes the unspoken understanding that there is no judgment here, only compassion.
Tim stumbled forward, breath ragged, eyes wild with desperation.
“Please—you have to help me! My dad—Bruce—he’s stuck. Trapped in the time stream. I know how it sounds, but it’s true! I can’t do this on my own.”
His voice cracked, fear weighing down every word. He felt weightless, the energy in the room pushing him to his limits. He was scared, but he fed off of it; he was always scared in some way, and, well, if he died here and now, at least he tried with all that he had to get back someone who was needed.
“I’ll do anything. Whatever it takes. Just tell me what you want—my soul, my freedom—I don’t care. None of it matters if I can’t save him.”
He could hear the tremble in his own voice, could hear Bruce’s stern tone echoing in his head, reciting lessons on negotiation and composure—lessons he might never hear again.
And so he tossed it aside. He didn’t care how desperate he sounded.
He was desperate.
He had tried everything. This—this was his last chance.
He was trembling now, his fists clenched at his sides, trying to contain his emotions. “You’re my last hope. I’ve tried everything else. I swear, I’ll do whatever you ask. Just… don’t let me lose him. I can’t lose him, too.”
The towering creature before him shifted slightly, its form flickering like an unstable shadow on the edge of reality. Its low and resonant voice resonated through the air, each word carrying an ancient and heavy sorrow.
“You plead with such fervor, mortal,” the creature began, its tone a mixture of curiosity and something more profound—an ache buried beneath millennia of existence. “Your desperation is admirable. Tim Drake, I will help you, but you must understand: I cannot act without asking you something in return.”
Tim’s breath caught, his pulse racing. “Yes—anything! I’ll do anything. Just tell me what I need to do.”
The creature's presence seemed to grow heavier, its voice thick with grief and resolve. “I had a daughter once—a being of light and power, born of my essence. She was taken from me, lost to forces I could not overcome.” Its form flickered, the cosmic energy surrounding it twisting with anguish. “I could never protect or offer her the love and care she deserved. And now, I cannot bring her back alone.”
Tim hesitated, confusion mingling with his desperation. “What do you mean? Do you want me to bring her back? How? I don’t understand.”
“I cannot create life as you can; I can not hold it inside of me and let it grow; my life can't let me do so even if it were something I hadn't tried before,” the creature explained, its voice softening. “I am a being forged in the void—of chaos and eternity. Life slips through my grasp, a fragile flame I cannot nurture. But you…” It leaned closer, its fathomless eyes piercing into Tim’s soul. “You can carry her. You can give her a new beginning.”
Tim’s heart pounded in his chest. “Carry her? You mean…like a surrogate?”
“Yes,” the creature replied, its tone heavy with unspoken truths, a hidden note of humor behind his answer, one that meant that what he was saying wasn’t all there was a way to pull up something without freaking someone out with a mask of deflection, Tim would know that tone as he used it enough himself. “You will shelter her, keep her safe, and when the time comes, you will bring her into the world once more. In return,” its gaze met his, its eyes a bright green like spring grass, “I will aid you. I will help you find your father and return him from the time stream.”
Tim’s body quaked under the crushing weight of the creature’s presence, a halo of otherworldly radiance enveloping him in warmth and terror. Its light wasn’t kind—it wasn’t soft or forgiving. It blazed with the fierce intensity of a star’s death, blinding and all-consuming, a conflagration of unyielding purpose. Yet, within the unrelenting glare, Tim could sense something profound: a love so vast and incomprehensible it felt carved into the fabric of existence itself. This being had been forged to protect, to shield, whether through healing or obliteration.
Its light rippled, refracting into jagged prisms that tore at the edges of reality. Wings—if they could even be called that—stretched from its back, each an infinite lattice of fractured galaxies, glowing rivers of molten starlight coursing through its veins. Its wings moved like an ocean in a storm, shifting between tenderness and wrath, embodying a paradox of grace and violence.
“If that’s what it takes,” Tim said, his voice cracking under the strain of the creature’s gaze. He felt stripped bare, his fears, hopes, and despair laid out like entrails under a surgeon’s scalpel. “I’ll do it. I’ll carry her. I’ll protect her. Just… please, bring him back to me.”
The being inclined its head, its features shifting mosaic of brilliant flames and unfathomable voids. Its face seemed to hold a thousand expressions: pity, sorrow, reverence, and something almost maternal. “You speak with conviction, Tim Drake,” it said, its voice a symphony of harmonics, each note vibrating with power. “But understand this: your chosen path will demand everything of you. It will hollow you, reshape you, and test the depths of your resolve. You will nurture her light and ensure it shines where mine once failed.”
The space around it shivered as it spoke, bending like the air recoiled from its impossible presence. The creature extended a limb, its surface shimmering with the crystalline brightness of sunlit frost and bleeding streams of liquid gold. The appendage unfurled in a slow, deliberate motion, revealing a flickering flame cradled within its grasp.
Tim stared, his breath catching. The ember wasn’t just glowing—it pulsed, alive like a heartbeat or a star burns. Encased in the greenish-gold fire was an embryonic form, jagged yet delicate, its tiny limbs shifting as though reaching for something unseen. Its surface glimmered with patterns that evoked ancient scripture, the kind Tim had seen etched into the walls of forgotten temples as if its very essence carried the memory of creation.
“She is yours now,” the creature said, its tone impossibly soft, yet carrying the weight of an unbreakable decree. “To carry, to guide, to protect. She is my last fragment of hope—a remnant of the life I failed to shield. I cannot give her what she needs, but you can.” Its light dimmed momentarily, flickering like a star on the verge of collapse. “And in doing so, you will find the means to save the one you love.”
Tim’s hands trembled as he reached for the flame, the heat brushing against his skin like a searing brand. When his fingers finally closed around it, the ember sent a surge of warmth through him—not painful, but heavy, as though he was suddenly holding the weight of countless lifetimes.
“I don’t even know how this works,” he whispered, staring at the glowing form. “You’re asking me to carry something I don’t understand. She’s not human. She’s not—”
“She is more than you can comprehend,” the creature interrupted, its form unfurling into a cascade of light that swallowed the space around them. Its wings expanded, brilliant arcs of luminescence that cut through the void like blades of pure radiance. “But that does not make her any less worthy of love. Call it faith, call it duty—what matters is that you act. She is fragile now, but her light will grow, and so will yours.”
Tim felt his fear give way to a strange resolve, the enormity of the task sharpening his determination. “I’ll protect her,” he said, his voice firmer this time. “With everything I have. You have my word.”
The creature’s radiance seemed to soften, its brilliance folding inward like cocooning. Its face shifted again, the sorrow in its eyes deepening. “Thank you,” it murmured, its voice carrying a quiet, aching reverence. “She deserves to know what it is to be held and cherished and feel the warmth of a parent’s love—a warmth I could never give her.”
Tim’s chest tightened as he caught a glimpse of something beneath the creature’s radiant exterior: a raw, unrelenting grief, infinite and unyielding, carved into its very being. For all its light, power, and ability to unmake and rebuild, it had failed where it mattered most.
“I’ll make sure she has what she needs,” Tim said, cradling the ember closer to his chest. Its warmth seeped into him, filling the hollow spaces he hadn’t realized existed. “I promise.”
The creature’s form flickered again, its wings folding around it like a shroud. “Then it is done,” it said, its voice echoing through the fabric of reality. For a moment, its light blazed brighter than ever, illuminating everything with an intensity that bordered on agony. But then, like the dying breath of a star, it began to dim, its form retreating into the ether.
The air around Tim thrummed with an unearthly weight, a heavy resonance that made the very molecules seem alive with tension. The creature’s form shimmered before him—a being of light so blinding it carved shapes into the shadows, twisting them into foreign, jagged lines. Its radiance was not warm but sharp, searing, as though forged in the heart of a dying star. And yet, there was something achingly tender about it—a paradox of destruction and protection, a being born to shield, even if its methods stained the heavens with blood or cradled the broken in luminous arms.
Tim’s trembling hand extended toward the radiant figure, the unbearable light making his nerves scream with pain. It was like reaching into a furnace, his skin prickling as though it might blister, but he couldn’t stop himself. When his fingers brushed the creature’s cheek—a surface that seemed both incorporeal and as solid as tempered steel—an almost electric warmth jolted through him. It wasn’t just heat but raw emotion: anguish, longing, and a profound love that could shatter mountains.
The creature spoke, its voice reverberating through Tim’s very marrow. Each word was a cosmic hymn, a symphony sung in languages no human could comprehend. “Carry her well, Tim Drake,” it intoned, the syllables ringing like bells forged from galaxies. “Through your sacrifice, she will thrive. And in her light, you may find the redemption you seek. And, the love I can see you deserve.”
The creature's immense presence dimmed as the words settled in the air. Its radiant wings folded around its body. Each feather-like filament shimmered with molten gold, streaked with pulsing veins of white fire and opalescent hues that rippled like oil on water. Yet the fading brilliance did not diminish its presence. If anything, its withdrawal made the surrounding void heavier, as though the universe mourned losing its glow.
Tim stood frozen, cradling the ember the creature had entrusted to him. It pulsed faintly, its rhythm mimicking a heartbeat. The warmth it exuded was far from comforting—it felt alive, sentient, as though the tiny spark within could feel every tremor of his uncertainty. It weighed more than it should, pressing against his chest with the force of an unspoken promise.
The creature’s voice lowered, now a whisper that coiled through the air like smoke. “Human life is fragile—pregnancy, especially so. The process is beyond my understanding, but it is not beyond you. I will visit when I can, but…” It hesitated, its form fracturing for a moment, jagged lines of light breaking across its body like cracks in glass. “I cannot promise you will not feel alone. This world is unkind to what it does not understand. Both of you must be hidden from its gaze.”
The admission hung heavy between them, and Tim’s stomach turned. He swallowed hard, his throat dry as sandpaper. He had been thrust into impossible situations before, but this—this felt like plunging into an abyss with no bottom. “I don’t even know how this works,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re asking me to carry something I don’t understand. To—” His words faltered as his mind tried to wrap itself around the enormity of what lay ahead.
“You are not alone,” the creature said, stepping closer, its light softening until it caressed Tim’s face like the glow of a distant sun. Its impossibly vast wings curled inward, enveloping them both in a cocoon of shimmering warmth. The edges of its body rippled like waves on a cosmic ocean, its form bending and shifting as though struggling to remain whole. “I will remain, ever-present, a shadow to guard you both. I have failed her once. I will not fail her again.”
One of its limbs, a luminous hand that seemed to fracture into streams of light before reforming, extended toward Tim. It brushed against his cheek with impossible gentleness, and Tim shuddered. There was an aching sadness in that touch, a grief that pierced through the overwhelming radiance. It was the sorrow of a being who had known lifetimes of failure and loss yet still chose to love.
“This will not be easy,” the creature murmured, its voice almost breaking. “You will be her world until she is born. She will grow within you, dependent on you for her every need. Every breath, every moment of discomfort—it will all be shared. She will know your fears, your joys, your pain. And you will carry her light until she can carry it herself.”
Tim’s heart pounded as the reality crashed over him like a wave. His knees felt weak, his breath shallow. This wasn’t just a responsibility but a transformation, a reshaping of everything he thought he knew about himself. The thought of carrying life—her—inside him, of becoming something he had never imagined, filled him with terror and awe.
The creature’s form rippled again, a single tear—a fragment of pure light—sliding down its face. It shimmered as it fell, dissolving into the air like the final note of a song. “I know this is terrifying,” it said softly, its words barely more than a hum. “But you are not alone. I will remain until she is safe. Until you both are safe.”
Tim’s trembling hand tightened around the ember, its warmth mingling with his own. He felt a strange pulse, a connection forming between him and the life he had agreed to carry. Despite the terror gnawing at him, despite the overwhelming unknown, he found himself nodding. “I’ll do it,” he said, his voice steadier now. “I’ll protect her. I’ll give her the chance she deserves. And somehow… somehow, I’ll bring Bruce back.”
The creature’s light flared briefly, and a final, blinding brilliance burst before dimming into the ether. Its voice lingered, echoing in the stillness. “Then it is done. You are her world now, Tim Drake. And she is yours.”
Tim stood alone in the aftermath, and the ember cradled against his chest. Its glow, faint yet persistent, lit the darkness around him. Though the creature’s presence had faded, its promise remained a protective warmth that settled over him like a mantle. The fear, the uncertainty, and the crushing weight of what lay ahead still gnawed at him, but somewhere beneath it all, a fragile hope began to take root. He would carry her. He would protect her. And somehow, he would see this through.
Tim took a deep breath, understanding that many men might find cradling an infant foreign or uncomfortable. But for him, it was a different story. Since childhood, curiosity had always flickered at the edges of his mind, urging him to explore feelings and experiences that others might dismiss. He didn't lack the necessary anatomy to connect with this moment; instead, he had never found the right words or context to express his thoughts.
His past experiences as an undercover operative, during which he momentarily assumed a female identity, unexpectedly left him feeling comfortable and at ease with himself. Those fleeting moments opened his eyes to different aspects of his identity, nurturing a side of him that had long remained unexplored.
Now, as he envisioned the tiny life he was about to nurture, a profound sense of joy enveloped him. This feeling far outweighed any lingering discomfort or anxiety he might have harbored about the task ahead. Each thought of nurturing and watching this new life grow and thrive sparked a warmth in his heart, igniting a passion that made him feel more alive and connected to the world than ever before. The prospect of guiding this innocent spirit through life filled him with determination and deep-seated happiness, transforming the weight of responsibility into something extraordinary.
He could never fully grasp the idea of parenthood throughout his life, no matter how much he faked it or tried to convince himself he understood it. However, he knew he could give this tiny child love, regardless of what it indeed was. He would love it even if the child turned into a mist-like creature like its father. He had heard that a mother's love was often unconventional; even if his mother’s love was nowhere near, that didn’t mean that his passion wouldn't be unconventional as a kind of surrogate parent to this child. He promised himself at that moment that he would love her through everything, even if she were taken from him.
Tim's heart was a whirlwind of emotions as he stared at the small, floating flame cradled in his palm. It pulsed faintly, a fragile ember surrounded by the faintest flicker of light. It wasn’t just a flame; it was a ghost core, an embryonic fragment of life imbued with the essence of a soul that had once been. Phantom’s daughter, lost to time and tragedy, is now entrusted to him—of all people—to carry and nurture until she can be reborn. The weight of that responsibility hit him with full force, a tidal wave of disbelief, awe, and an undeniable sense of warmth.
“Well,” he said, his voice cracking slightly as he glanced up at Phantom, whose towering, ethereal form seemed to soften at the edges. “Looks like I’m on the fast track to parenthood.” Though his eyes betrayed his confusion and apprehension, he laughed weakly. “Didn’t exactly see this on the list of life milestones.”
Phantom regarded him with an expression that was somehow tender and inscrutable all at once. His hollow, galaxy-filled eyes shimmered faintly as if reflecting memories too vast and deep to put into words. “You are stronger than you realize, Tim,” he said, his voice resonating with a soothing, melodic cadence. “She needs you, and I trust you with her life. This choice was not made lightly.”
Tim released a shaky breath, his gaze shifting to the tiny flame—the little bean. Its glow felt alive, almost as if it were reaching out to him. “She’s… beautiful,” he murmured, words laden with a fragile sense of wonder. His thumb brushed lightly over the warm, pulsing surface of the core, careful not to disturb its rhythm, the slight warmth pulsing with happiness. “I just don’t know if I’m the right person for this. I mean, I can barely keep myself together most days. And now you’re trusting me with her?”
Phantom’s form moved closer, his presence radiating a warmth that calmed the storm in Tim’s chest. “You are not alone in this,” he said, the faint hum of his voice resonating like distant starlight. “I will guide you, and she will draw strength from you. You are more than you think you are.”
Tim’s lips quivered into a nervous smile as he processed the enormity of it all. “So, let me get this straight,” he said, attempting to mask his vulnerability with humor. “I’m about to be a parent to your dead daughter, and you didn’t even take me to dinner first?” He chuckled, the sound awkward but genuine, as the weight of his words hung between them.
Phantom tilted his head, his expression momentarily puzzled before his lips curved into an amused smile. “Would you have preferred courtship rituals before our agreement?” he teased, his tone unexpectedly light.
Tim laughed, the tension easing from his shoulders. “I mean, it might’ve made things feel a little less… surreal,” he admitted, his voice softening as he looked back at the flame. “But then again, nothing about this is normal, is it?”
Phantom’s gaze was unyielding, a glint of infinite patience woven into an expression that was at once comforting and alien. It reminded Tim of ancient trees in a forest—silent, immovable witnesses to the world’s chaos. That steady, otherworldly calm seemed to peel back the fragile layers of his uncertainty, leaving him raw and exposed. He felt seen in a way that made him both strangely grounded and as delicate as glass balanced on a knife’s edge.
“Normalcy is a construct that no longer binds us, Tim,” Phantom said, his voice a low hum that seemed to bypass the ears entirely and settle somewhere deep in the marrow. “What matters now is her life—and the bond that will grow between you.”
The words unfurled in Tim’s chest like a seed planted in ash, forcing their way through the fertile wreckage of his doubt. The atmosphere around them shifted subtly, charged with a quiet awe that crackled at the edges of his perception. He hadn’t realized how much he craved this moment—a lifeline disguised as faith. His grip on his fear didn’t vanish, but it slackened enough for something else to take root: resolve.
“She’s… counting on me,” Tim murmured, his voice rasping against the tight knot in his throat. The weight of responsibility pressed against him, coiling around his ribs like a serpent. He looked down at the fragile core in his hand—a strange, faintly luminous thing that seemed alive in the way raw nerve endings are alive, pulsing faintly as though it could feel his hesitation. It looked delicate, like something carved from bone and glass, and the thought of breaking it churned his stomach. His hands trembled as he pulled it closer to his chest, cradling it with a reverence usually reserved for relics or wounds.
“Okay,” he said, his voice steadier now, though his body felt like a cage of splintered wood. “I’ll do it. For her. For you. Just… don’t let me screw this up, okay?”
Phantom’s hand found his shoulder, and the touch was a revelation—a thing not entirely human. The fingers, slightly too long and jointed wrong, should have been unsettling, but instead, they grounded Tim in a way that left him breathless. It was cold, not dead, but alive in the uncanny way of something straddling the organic and mechanical boundary. Phantom’s grip carried a weight that felt like iron pressed against scar tissue—firm yet strangely soothing.
“You won’t,” Phantom said, his voice sharp with certainty, like the clang of a sword being sheathed.
And for the first time in years, Tim let himself believe it.
The realization settled over him slowly, like the burn of alcohol seeping into a fresh wound: Bruce wasn’t here. There was no shadow, no looming figure watching his every move with the grim precision of a surgeon assessing a botched operation. This choice—this impossible, beautiful horror—was his alone. The thought peeled back layers of numbness he hadn’t realized were there, revealing something raw and alive underneath.
“I mean,” he said, his voice breaking the delicate silence, “you barely even know me, and you’re trusting me with this. Of all people—me. That’s…” He laughed, a sound more like a shudder forced from a dying body. “That’s wild. Usually, I get missions wrapped in twenty-page dossiers and step-by-step guides on how not to screw up. You just—” He gestured to the core, to the raw nerve of it pulsing faintly in his hands.
“You handed me a soul. There is no safety net. There is no laminated checklist. Nothing.”
Tim couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed. He’d been handed a life—a life—to care for, to raise, to protect, and he didn’t understand why. It made no sense that it was happening to him. He wasn’t good with children. That wasn’t self-doubt—it was a simple, clinical fact. He wasn’t built for softness, for lullabies, for being someone’s safe place.
And yet now he was being handed one—on a tray, like an offering. Something small. Something unfinished. Something that would have to cling to him with soft, delicate hands, and believe—trust—that he would not let go.
And he would have to hold on. Nurture. Grow. Keep it alive like it was something fragile and breakable—as delicate as a porcelain doll, as fleeting as a bird’s beating heart under his palm.
And the fear that bloomed in him wasn’t rational. It was primal. Shocking. Not a soldier’s fear. Not survival instinct. This was the fear of the unknown, the kind that crawled down his throat and rooted in his spine, whispering that he was too sharp-edged for this—that one wrong move would shatter everything.
The fear was everything. It was the yawning mouth of fate—wide and jagged—ready to swallow him whole. It was the monster he’d spent his entire life outrunning, finally sinking its teeth in.
And the worst part—the cruelest part—was that this? This terrifying thing? This impossible, fragile chance at creation?
It was the only path left. The only thing that might make everyone else happy.
Even if it destroyed him. Even if it broke the little bit of him that was still intact.
This was new.
He had never carried life before—not in the way people meant when they said it. Not the slow, biological unfolding of something growing inside you, changing you from the inside out. And yet, his body was built for it, somewhere deep in its bones, whether he acknowledged it or not.
And now, faced with the knowledge of what it meant—what it could mean—it felt like a trade was being struck in real time: one life for another. A balance shifting. A cost is named. It made his knees weak.
Across from him, Phantom’s expression didn’t change. Cold, unreadable, carved in eerie stillness.
But something in the space between them—subtle as breath—shifted. An echo of understanding. Maybe even… humor.
The thing in Tim’s hands pulsed again, faint but insistent, as though it could hear him. It was a quiet reminder of what was at stake—a soft and new life waiting to grow in the cracks of his fractured confidence. Tim tightened his grip, his heartbeat a distant drum in his ears.
“No pressure, right? And all I have for help is a space monster who probably doesn't understand anything about normal human babies; just my luck,” he muttered, but the words carried a determination that had not been there before.
Phantom hovered closer, his form shifting and flickering like a living constellation, a kaleidoscope of galaxies swirling through his translucent, mist-like body. A faint green flame traced along the edges of his shape, licking at the void like playful tongues of fire. The stars in his chest pulsed rhythmically as though they were a beating heart, and his eyes—vast, hollow abysses glowing faintly with starlight—narrowed with mock indignation.
“Space monster?” he exclaimed, pressing one shimmering hand to where a human’s chest might be, the motion sending faint ripples through his mist-like body. His voice took on an exaggeratedly affronted tone, raspy and wheezy at the edges, as though he were channeling a ghostly drama queen from another plane. “How dare you?! That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in all my death! I’ll have you know, I’m not some mere space monster—I’m a dignified ghost! A proud inhabitant of the afterlife!” He punctuated the declaration by sweeping his arm out dramatically, green fire trailing behind his gesture like the aurora borealis.
Tim blinked, staring at the spectacle unfolding before him.
“Right,” he deadpanned, crossing his arms. “A dignified ghost. Sure. That explains why you’re made of… I don’t know… unhinged fog machine vibes, glitter, and sentient fire hazards. Real dignified.”
He finished the sentence with a little nod—like ah yes, that makes so much sense—and locked eyes with the self-proclaimed ghost, whose milky white eyes were beginning to glow neon green.
Somehow, the conversation was making him feel better. Like a weight had been forced off his chest—and his happiness, long buried, was finally being yanked to the surface now that he’d done what he was meant to. He didn't know what made him feel that way, but he had a thought in the back of his mind that it was somehow caused by the thing in front of him.
Phantom’s glowing mouth twisted into something between a pout and a grin, his face warping like liquid starlight. The mist that made up his form churned, stars sparking in protest as his shape shifted subtly—just enough to exaggerate his displeasure.
“Excuse me, Mr. I-Drink-Coffee-Like-It’s-A-Blood-Oath,” Phantom drawled, voice flickering with mirth and menace. “And don’t lie—I’ve seen the graveyard of coffee cups stacked in the corner. If you had any taste, you’d recognize this,” he gestured loosely to his own barely-held-together form, where galaxies pulsed beneath translucent skin and green flames licked at the edges of his rib-like voids, “as a peak afterlife aesthetic. Galaxies? Check. Ectoplasmic fire? Check. Existential horror? Double-check. Honestly, I don’t know how you’re not weeping.”
Tim’s lips twitched, the corner of his mouth threatening to betray him. He didn’t dignify the coffee comment with a correction—Phantom didn’t need to know Tim hated the stuff. Didn’t need to know he drank energy drinks instead, even if they tasted like neon battery acid. At least they didn’t pretend to be anything else.
He lifted an eyebrow, voice flat with familiar, well-practiced sarcasm. “Right. Awe. That’s exactly what I’m feeling.” He leveled a finger at Phantom’s shifting form. “You’re just mad I called you a space monster. Admit it.”
Phantom crossed his semi-translucent arms, green flames sputtering violently at the gesture like they shared in his indignation. “I am not mad,” he said, his voice dropping an octave in a poorly veiled attempt at menace. The effect was immediately undercut when his form glitched—reality bending at the seams—his shoulder rupturing open just long enough to eject a stray star. It zipped off into the mist with a faint plink, vanishing like a broken thought.
Tim snorted. Then cracked. Laughter burst out of him, sharp and real in a way it hadn’t been in what felt like years. “Oh my god,” he gasped between huffs, practically doubling over, “you’re falling apart! You’re like a cosmic piñata!”
And he didn’t know why. Why something inside him, long buried beneath layers of instinct and training and trauma, suddenly lit up—bright and effervescent. A starburst of joy flaring in the hollow of his chest like something sacred had been pressed into the broken places of him and simply stayed. Not a flicker, not a passing joke on patrol. It wasn’t like laughing with Young Justice, those fleeting sparks before fading into mission mode. No, this laughter lingered.
It held him.
Like a tether wrapped gently around the part of him that had always known, deeply and silently, that no one ever really had his back. Until now—until this glitching space ghost with flames for veins and stars for blood. Something in Tim recognized the support in it. The way it fit around his vulnerabilities like armor that wasn’t made to fight, but to protect.
It was nice it felt like a bag of sparks inside of him, brushing against his coldest parts and lighting them with tiny burns scorching them back to life.
Phantom’s expression twisted—equal parts amusement and exasperation—as his misty form pulsed, shadows stretching in time with the green flames before settling again. “Laugh it up, mortal,” he muttered, voice dry as ancient bone. The flames crackled like tiny bonfires throwing a tantrum. “Let’s see how funny you think this is when I start haunting your Spotify playlist with nothing but early 2000s emo hits.”
Tim wiped a tear from his eye, still grinning. “The joke’s on you. That’s already my workout playlist.”
The air around them seemed to hum with Phantom’s faux exasperation, but the glow in his hollow eyes betrayed his amusement. He tilted his head, the mist swirling around him like a cloak. “Fine, fine,” he said with mock resignation. “But let’s not forget who’s helping you save the day here.” His voice softened slightly, and he gestured toward the glowing core cradled in Tim’s hands. “And who’s trusting you with her?”
Tim’s laughter faded as he looked down at the tiny flame, its pulsing light reflected in his eyes. The moment’s absurdity gave way to something more profound—realizing he wasn’t just joking his way through this; he was stepping into something profound.
He let out a shaky breath, glancing back up at Phantom. “You know,” he said, his voice quieter, “this whole ‘alien ghost reincarnation parenthood’ thing… It's weirdly the least terrifying part of my week. So, congrats, you’ve officially made me feel less stressed about my life. That’s a first.”
Phantom’s lips curved into a gentle, knowing smile, his form glimmering softly in the dim light. “You’re handling this better than you think,” he said, his tone warm but edged with his usual teasing. “Even for a cosmic piñata.”
Tim rolled his eyes but smiled back. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t let it go to your starry head, space monster.”
“Dignified ghost,” Phantom corrected, the green flames dancing brighter for emphasis.
“Whatever you say,” Tim replied with a smirk, cradling the little core closer. In the soft glow of the mist and starlight, Tim felt like he could laugh and mean it for the first time in a long while.
Phantom, ever perceptive, sensed the shift in Tim's demeanor. His figure tensed, transforming his expression from carefree exuberance to deep concern. He instinctively reached out, his hands hovering near Tim to reassure him without needing words. "Oh my gosh, why are you crying?" Phantom exclaimed, his voice laced with genuine worry. "Hey, it’s okay! I’m so sorry! I promise I don't want to leave or anything. I’ll be back—I won’t always be here, but you understand what I mean, right?"
Those words settled deep within Tim's heart, wrapping around his anxieties like a comforting blanket and soothing a raw fear that had taken root in his chest—the profound terror that Phantom might simply vanish into thin air, leaving him alone once more. Tim forced a reassuring smile onto his face to quell the emotion threatening to overwhelm him, though it trembled slightly at the corners. A flicker of hope ignited within him, warming him from the inside. He nodded softly, the gesture small but filled with a newfound determination.
With a sense of reverence, he pressed the small, pulsing flame of a ghost core against his chest. The sensation was electric—the warmth radiated against his skin, mimicking the steady beat of a heartbeat. It purred contentedly at his touch, responding to him as if recognizing him as its new guardian. Around them, the ethereal flames encircling the circle flickered and danced in eager anticipation, the air thick with energy as they sensed that the completion of their pact was imminent. Each flicker seemed to echo the promise of connection, transformation, and an unbreakable bond between them. The flickers marked a new beginning for each of them, starting a new life here where they both had someone to count on.
Tim gazes intently into the phantom's eyes, which shimmer with a vibrant emerald hue. This green, radiant, captivating, starkly contrasts the one that once filled him with dread and foreboding. As he studies the depths of those otherworldly orbs, the color takes him back to the Kent farm—each shade calling forth a flood of memories. He can almost smell the earthy aroma of freshly cut grass mingling with the sweet scent of wildflowers in the gentle summer breeze. He recalls warm nights spent under a vast tapestry of stars, where laughter danced in the air, and the comforting weight of a hand clasped tightly in his own filled him with a sense of safety and belonging.
He gazed at the newly manifested ghost, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, though a hint of uncertainty lingered in his eyes. “So, um...” he began, trying to articulate the confusion swirling in his mind, “how is she supposed to have me carry her? It’s clear that for her safety, she needs to be inside me, right?”
The phantom regarded him thoughtfully, his ethereal form shimmering with a faint glow. Then, he glanced down at his womb, the part of him that would host her, the small bundle that was against his chest, filled with purrs letting loose. He doesn't know how he knows her consciousness is asleep, but he can just feel it and nods slowly, a gentle huff escaping his lips. “Of course, how could I forget that? But don’t worry about this part,” he said reassuringly. “I will ensure that you go to sleep for it. Honestly, you could use the rest.”
Tim locked eyes with him, a mix of apprehension and determination swirling in his gut, pushing him to go forward no matter the price. He inhaled deeply, allowing the air to fill his lungs as he attempted to calm the tumult of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. Letting his guard down felt like a monumental task, akin to unearthing long-buried treasures while wary of crumbling foundations. The thought of sleeping in the presence of another individual, especially one who wasn’t entirely known to him, sent a shiver down his spine. It was a peculiar twist to their arrangement—an essential part of their pact yet strangely unsettling.
Yet, beneath the surface of his fear, a quieter part of Tim's mind began to stir. It recognized, albeit reluctantly, that Phantom was not a threat—far from it; behind the claws and teeth of a predatory ready to rip any pray it seemed fit for the hunt was something that gave him pause; he never claimed to be great at reading others emotions – that was always something Cass was the master at, yet he couldn't help but see that nestled against this creature had a heart big enough to shine through to its core and melt away the life fearing threat he first saw him as in his hindbrain.
Deep down, Tim understood that Phantom was driven by an earnest desire to provide for the tiny being they had both grown fond of. This poignant realization drew unexpected warmth in his chest. He would willingly assist Phantom, even if no formal terms bound their agreement; it was a silent promise he made to himself and the little creature who relied on them both.
However, the specter of his past loomed over him like an unwelcome shadow. He kept these thoughts to himself, refraining from sharing the underlying currents that flowed through his mind with Phantom. After all, he was no fool; he was aware that vulnerability could easily be exploited. The scars of past betrayal still haunted him, etching caution into his everyday interactions. While he struggled to trust, he remained resolved to protect his heart, guarding it fiercely against the echoes of past wounds.
Tim’s mind churned with hesitation, his heart burdened by an ever-present uncertainty. Was this connection yet another fleeting mirage, destined to dissolve and leave behind fresh scars—etched both on his body and within the fragile tapestry of his emotions? He feared the pain that might come, the inevitable void left in the wake of betrayal or loss. Yet, as the gnawing dread tightened its grip, he resolved to let it be. If this were to be his fate, he would face it. Perhaps the ache would be worth paying for the courage to trust again.
Phantom floated closer, his form shifting like liquid starlight and rippling with an iridescent glow. Tendrils of light and shadow wove together to shape him, creating a breathtakingly beautiful and unnervingly alien silhouette. The air around him hummed with a peculiar energy—a warmth that seeped into Tim’s very soul. Despite the creature's eldritch strangeness, the atmosphere brimmed with something far softer: an unspoken reassurance, a promise of safety wrapped in this moment's peculiar, dreamlike embrace.
With an almost reverent motion, Phantom reached out, his elongated fingers swirling with galaxies and nebulous trails of light. He wrapped Tim in a careful embrace, his arms forming a cocoon of soft luminescence that pulsed gently against Tim’s skin. A startled yelp escaped Tim’s lips as his feet lifted from the ground, his body suspended effortlessly in Phantom’s hold. His instincts flared, his legs kicking in a futile attempt to ground himself. He’d flown before, guided by allies who thrived in the sky, but this sensation was foreign. It wasn’t just weightlessness—the feeling of surrendering control, of being carried by something altogether other.
“Let me go!” Tim squawked, wriggling with indignant offense, his voice rising like it always did when he felt cornered. His protests echoed like a petulant bird’s cry, filling the room with a strange contrast to the serene energy surrounding them. Phantom’s hollow, star-filled gaze softened, his form briefly flickering like a candle flame caught in a breeze. He drew Tim closer, the motion almost apologetic.
The fatigue he had held at bay for days came crashing like a tidal wave. Tim felt his limbs grow heavy, his body slumping against Phantom’s chest as the fight drained out of him. His caffeine-fueled determination melted away into a haze of exhaustion, and the warmth from the creature seeped into his bones. A low grunt escaped his lips, a mix of frustration and reluctant surrender.
“Don’t just pick me up like that,” he mumbled, his words sharp yet softened by his weariness. “I’m not—” He trailed off, noticing the faint flicker of disappointment in Phantom’s otherwise inscrutable gaze. The creature’s chest thrummed with a low vibration, like the resonant hum of distant thunder, as if responding to Tim’s irritation with wordless emotion. Swirling tendrils of starlight coiled around Tim, their motion languid and soothing, silently offering comfort where words would have failed.
Tim sighed; the fight had left him entirely. “Just… ask next time, okay?” he muttered, his voice quieter now and tinged with reluctant acceptance. His vulnerability felt raw, but the space around them pulsed with an almost sentient kindness, making it hard to hold onto his irritation.
Phantom’s hollow, galaxy-filled eyes shimmered faintly as a soft smile curled across his otherworldly face. A low, melodic chuckle rippled through the air, intertwining with the faint rustle of the wind outside. Tim, cradled securely in Phantom’s arms, appeared almost fragile—a luminous figure illuminated by the flickering, ethereal flame that now danced atop his chest. The light cast warm, golden hues across his delicate features, softening the lines of weariness that had become etched into his face.
As Tim shifted slightly in the creature’s embrace, he felt its gaze settle on him again, vast and unfathomable. Phantom’s eyes—if they could be called eyes—were hollow infinities, swirling with constellations that seemed to churn and spiral, each fleck of light an ancient star caught in an eternal dance. The firelight danced across those depths, reflecting and refracting like faint embers pulled into orbit. It should have been terrifying, a gaze so immense it felt like it could swallow him whole, yet a strange warmth bloomed in Tim’s chest, mirrored by a subtle heat rising to his cheeks.
The hum in Phantom’s chest deepened. It was a low, rhythmic vibration that Tim felt rather than heard. It resonated through him, weaving into his bones and spreading outward like a comforting tide. It was a purr, unmistakably—a sound that spoke of something ancient and unknowable yet inexplicably tender. The vibration wrapped around him, a lullaby spun from the threads of a million stars.
The creature’s form shifted around him, a body made not of flesh but of smoke that curled and danced like sentient mist. It was cold at first, a biting chill that grazed his skin like the touch of frost—but then it softened, warming with a deep, soothing heat that seeped into him as though drawn by the beating of his heart. The duality of it was intoxicating, the ebb and flow of cold and warmth like the gentle rhythm of a tide, cradling him in a paradox he didn’t want to leave.
Despite the strangeness of it all, Tim felt his initial tension unravel, his body yielding to the creature’s embrace. Its smoky tendrils coiled around him with almost feline grace, pulling him closer—not tightly, but securely, like he was something precious to be guarded. The eldritch horror of Phantom’s form should have overwhelmed him, but there was a softness in how it held him, a quiet devotion that radiated love more profound than words.
Tim found himself speaking before he fully realized what he was saying. “If you’re looking for somewhere to put me down,” he murmured, his voice steady yet tinged with a quiet vulnerability, “my room is upstairs.” He gestured weakly toward the spiraling staircase, its shadowed steps rising into the dimness like a helix of stars unraveling into the void.
Phantom’s purr deepened, the vibration spreading through Tim’s body like a balm. The tendrils of smoke shifted, carrying him upward with an ease that felt like being borne on a gentle current. Each step was smooth and deliberate, the motion not unlike the soft sway of a cradle. The staircase beneath them seemed alive, groaning faintly as though it were a part of this strange, cosmic being.
Tim surrendered to the motion, his thoughts flickering between wonder and contentment. The creature’s embrace was a strange contradiction—its smoky tendrils both cold and warm, soft and unyielding—but in their grasp, he felt a comfort he hadn’t known in years. Each touch seemed to melt the frost that had long encased his heart, thawing him from the inside out. It wasn’t just safety that Phantom offered; it was something more profound, a love that felt as vast as the stars swirling within its gaze.
The higher they ascended, the more the world around him faded, the staircase dissolving into something timeless and ethereal. The air thickened with a sensation that wasn’t oppressive but enveloping; a cocoon spun from the creature’s presence. Tim closed his eyes, letting out a slow, trembling sigh as the last vestiges of his resistance ebbed away.
The smoky tendrils tightened around him, not in confinement but in reassurance, as though Phantom sought to anchor him at the moment. Soon, a wash of warmth chased the cold kiss, an icy ghost against him, a pressure of its form against his skin, like the sun breaking through the darkness of a long-forgotten winter. Tim felt himself floating, weightless, as though the burdens he had carried for so long had been lifted away and left behind on the steps below.
When they reached his room, the doorway seemed more than just an entry—it was a threshold into a space that felt softer, quieter, as if the air itself had been imbued with the creature’s presence. Phantom’s tendrils shifted again, their smoky edges brushing his cheek with the gentleness of a whispered promise. Tim sighed, leaning into the contact without realizing it, letting his body relax fully for the first time in an eternity.
At that moment, cradled in the arms of something so profoundly other, Tim felt a flicker of something he had long thought lost: hope. It was not a fragile, desperate thing but a quiet and steady ember coaxed back to life by the warmth and love radiating from this eldritch being. Phantom’s purr rumbled on, deep and soothing, resonating through Tim’s chest like the universe's heartbeat.
Tim dared to imagine a tomorrow where the storm inside him might finally be quiet, where he could rebuild in the love's light and safety that now enveloped him. And as he drifted into the peaceful solace of Phantom’s presence, he couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps the stars themselves had brought him here—not to be devoured, but to be saved.
He was not ready to face it, but could no longer deny it.
Lost in this reverie, he felt a sense of wonder wash over him, dazzling like the stars, the ethereal being that is before him, the stars’ galaxies shining in the dark, filling him with a sense that he's trapped in a space outside of time itself in this room the glittering glow of shadows that comprise the eldritch being filling the space in all the shadows gathering around, allowing him to drift further into the comforting embrace of warmth and peace surrounding him. Tonight, as he settled into the crisp sheets of his warm bed, he felt the gentle sensation of weightlessness that had previously enveloped him wane. The cozy cocoon of blankets wrapped around him like a protective hug, cradling him softly as the tender haze of sleep blanketed his mind. In the serene stillness of the room, he caught the faintest echoes of the last muffled words spoken—each syllable soothing like a distant lullaby, drifting in from the world beyond.
A comforting warmth coiled around Tim’s neck like sinewy tendrils anchoring him to a moment he never wanted to end. It wasn’t just a hand—a lifeline, familiar yet disturbingly intimate as if the grip understood his fractures better than he did. The surrounding darkness seeped in slowly, less a void and more a viscous substance that wrapped him in its protective shroud, muffling the sharp edges of the world outside. For once, he didn’t resist its embrace; it swallowed his worries whole, cocooning him in a solace so foreign it felt like borrowed skin.
Each second ticked by with an almost grotesque slowness, his grip on wakefulness unraveling like frayed muscle fibers pulling apart. It was a fragile surrender, the kind that felt both liberating and irrevocable. The sanctuary he’d carefully stitched together over the years—a patchwork of obsessive habits and desperate safety nets—seemed to dissolve, leaving only the steady rhythm of his heartbeat and the drifting sensation. Outside, the world faded into a canvas of muted hues, each stroke bleeding into the next until nothing sharp remained.
A haze enveloped him, emerald and alive, undulating like it had veins pumping some strange ichor through its core. It clung to him, not just wrapping around but seeping in, burrowing deep and whispering promises that made his chest ache in a way he didn’t entirely hate. It murmured of rest, sanctuary, and a beauty he hadn’t dared to imagine would be his. His thoughts fragmented, scattering like bone shards under pressure as it pulled him deeper into its clutches.
The creature on his chest purred, the sound low and resonant, like a vibration spreading through his ribcage and into his soul. The purring spoke in a language his exhausted mind couldn’t translate but instinctively understood: safe, wanted, home. It was a lullaby sung by something ancient and untamed, threading itself through the cracks in his armor and stitching him back together. A hand—small, feather-light—threaded through his hair, sending waves of warmth cascading down his spine.
And yet, there was an edge to his surrender, a visceral desperation that he couldn’t ignore. The contentment that swelled in his chest and something that brought the pain of tears to his eyes came with sharp barbs, reminders of what it had cost to feel this way. He held onto it with hands that felt like they had been stripped down to the bone, raw and trembling with the effort to keep this fleeting sense of belonging.
He wasn’t blind to the obsession brewing beneath the surface. He could feel it coiling, a black hole of need that threatened to consume everything it touched. It wasn’t the innocent longing of a child anymore. It was something darker, sharper—a hunger that would carve out chunks of the world just to keep this fragile thing safe. The Tim of the past, the boy who’d hoarded scraps of affection like a scavenger, was still there, lurking beneath his skin. With his web of stolen photos and compulsive need to hold on, that boy hadn’t disappeared. He’d just developed.
Tim let himself sink deeper into the haze; the creature’s hum, a thread, tethered him to this fragile moment. If this was an obsession, he didn’t care. If it was unhealthy or dangerous, he didn’t care. He knew he’d throw himself into the fire a thousand times if it meant holding onto this. No cost was too high.
As he floated in the strange sea of warmth and light, the world's weight peeled away from him in layers. What remained wasn’t emptiness but a sense of fullness so overwhelming it bordered on pain. The air was thick, almost suffocating, yet it cradled him with a gentleness that made his chest ache. This wasn’t just peace—it was salvation, carved from the marrow of his need.
And Tim knew, in that raw, unfiltered way only someone who has lost everything can, that he would never let go. Not even death could take this from him.
When his eyes opened, he found himself not in the harsh confines of reality but in an ethereal dreamscape. The sky above was unlike any sky he had ever known. It was a deep, mesmerizing cerulean but alive, shimmering with a texture like the wealthiest silk, woven with threads of liquid silver that swirled lazily into endless spirals. Wisps of cloud drifted across this expanse, luminous and delicate as spun glass, their edges tinged with a kaleidoscope of color that shifted with each moment. Rays of golden sunlight pierced through the heavens; their touch was soft yet electric, illuminating the world below with an almost sacred glow.
The ground beneath his feet was no mere earth. It was a living, breathing tapestry of emerald green, every blade of grass exuding a faint, rhythmic pulse as if it shared in the dream's heartbeat. Flowers blossomed in intricate, ever-changing patterns, their petals glowing faintly like the reflection of stars on a still lake. They radiated a fragrance beyond scent — emotion made tangible, a heady blend of nostalgia, hope, and unspoken longing that brought tears to his eyes without warning.
The surrounding air was alive, swirling with a sentient energy that seemed to peer into the depths of his soul. It wasn't merely felt—it was experienced. Every breath he drew filled him with something intangible, like the atmosphere carried oxygen and emotion. Waves of calm flowed into him, washing away his fears, only to be replaced by a fleeting sorrow so poignant it tightened his chest, followed swiftly by a joy so pure it brought a tremulous smile to his lips. Each emotion was vivid and raw, yet they flowed seamlessly into one another, leaving him overwhelmed but not undone.
Ahead, the landscape stretched endlessly, beckoning him forward. Mountains rose in the distance, their jagged peaks like the teeth of some ancient guardian beast, crowned with eternal snow that sparkled like crushed gemstones. The sun lingered on the horizon, neither rising nor setting but frozen in a perpetual state of golden twilight. Its light bathed the mountains in amber and rose gold hues, casting long, shifting shadows that hinted at mysteries waiting to be uncovered. A faint yet unmistakable path wove toward those peaks, its stones glimmering as though imbued with the stars' fragments.
As Tim stepped forward, the surrounding air shifted again, carrying a sense of childlike wonder. It was impossible not to marvel at the creatures that appeared, their forms fluid and fantastical, born from the very fabric of the dreamscape. Some were translucent, their bodies refracting the golden light like prisms, while others seemed woven from the night sky, their outlines faint and star-speckled. There were beings with wings like stained glass, shimmering with every color imaginable, and others whose forms shifted like liquid silver, flowing and reforming as they moved.
They gathered around him, their eyes bright with curiosity and mischief, their voices like a chorus of wind chimes caught in a gentle breeze. Their musical and warm laughter resonated in his chest, filling him with a profound happiness that almost felt foreign. They gestured to him, inviting him to join their games. Their movements were playful yet graceful, and their presence was an undeniable comfort.
Tim laughed—a sound unfamiliar and strange to his ears yet utterly freeing. It bubbled up from a place long buried, untouched by grief and fear. As he walked among these beings, the heavy ache he carried in his waking life faded, replaced by something lighter, almost fragile: hope.
And yet, even in this paradise of endless beauty, the faint echo of his sorrow lingered at the edges of his mind, like a shadow trailing just out of reach. The dreamscape seemed to sense this, and the surrounding air grew warmer. Its comforting weight pressed gently against him, whispering without words that it was okay to let go—for now.
Tim allowed himself to believe in the magic that made up the creature, which was set around him like a blanket, for the first time in as long as he could remember. He let it seep into his being and wrap around the raw edges of his heart, healing wounds he had long since stopped tending. Whatever waited for him when he woke—whatever trials and losses loomed—could wait. He was free in this shimmering realm of light and emotion.
The surrounding air was alive, the scent of blooming flowers mixing with the sweet, earthy aroma of the forest while the breeze sang a song of endless possibilities. Every breath he took felt like a song of its own, a note in the symphony of this magical world. The ground beneath his feet felt soft and welcoming, a gentle cushion as he moved, his every step a small discovery in a world that seemed endless in its beauty and serenity.
As he ventured deeper, something unexpected happened. Tim felt the sting of wetness on his cheeks, the first tear he'd allowed himself to shed in years. It fell, a single silver droplet, catching the light like a shard of moonlight, then another, and another. The tears fell not out of sorrow but from a deep, unspoken longing—a longing for safety, for a peace that had long eluded him. They were tears of release, of deep-seated desires unspoken, of a heart that had yearned for a place to belong.
In this world, he was not alone. For the first time, he felt indeed seen, not as a burden or a tool, but as someone worthy of care. He understood then that these tears were not just reflections of pain but of a quiet, hopeful surrender to a place that felt more like home than anything he had ever known. He could feel the warmth of the creature’s presence, not in a suffocating way, but as a gentle, protective force wrapping around him. The being had never indeed abandoned him—it was always there, in the background, watching over him, ensuring he felt safe, even when the outside world was chaotic and unforgiving.
And here, in this world, there was no fear. The creature, too, seemed at peace in the silence of this place. They understood each other, and their unspoken bond transcended the complexity of their agreement. The eldritch presence was not a shadow, not a terrifying unknown, but a quiet promise that no matter what came, no matter how strange or difficult the path ahead, it would never truly leave him.
Tim stood amidst the flowers and melodies of this dream world, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he could breathe. The warmth of the creature’s energy curled around him like a blanket, its tendrils reaching out and embracing him without words or demands. It was a bond forged in something far more profound than mere necessity—a connection that offered comfort in the face of his deepest fears.
He closed his eyes, allowing himself to drift in this space, the tears still falling but no longer burdensome, no longer laced with the sting of grief. This was a place of healing, a place of protection. Here, he could rest. Here, he could dream. The creature’s promise, though unspoken, lingered in the air like a thread tying them together, and Tim felt the full weight of it in his chest—the weight of trust, of acceptance, and the strange, comforting reality that no matter what, he was not truly alone. Not with the small thing that was soon to be inside him, and not with the thing that watched over them both, carding fingers through his hair as it purred in contentment of its child and Tim's safety, warm and sleep-hazed in bed. Phantom’s Core claims these two as its own in a way past a ghost's Fraid. His core vibrated in happiness in a way it hadn't. Tim’s sleep-hazed blue eyes blinked heavily at him, a small smile slipping onto his face before drifting off, leaving the peace in their small bubble for a little longer.
-
Tim sat perched on a pedestal crafted from shards—fragments that glittered like the fractured glass of a broken mirror, reflecting hidden truths and whispered secrets meant to stay buried. This was no ordinary pedestal; it was a cage made of delicate ruins, a nest meant to protect and conceal. Like a robin fiercely guarding its young, Tim had built his sanctuary from broken things—pieces discarded or forgotten, yet precious because only someone like him could see their worth.
He was a fractured bird atop a throne of ruin.
Yet beneath the glittering shards and silent echoes of loss, Tim made a quiet choice: to reshape this nest of brokenness into something new. To transform not only the shattered things around him but himself—becoming sharp, resilient, and reborn.
He was the cuckoo, cast out from the robin’s nest, carrying with him the lessons of survival and the sting of rejection. But from those lessons, he would grow fierce, carving a new place in the world—not just surviving the cracks, but thriving in the spaces between.
And a Robin, no matter how fake, would always learn to fly again.