Chapter Text
On the 23rd of September, you committed an unforgivable sin. You weren’t sure how you would ever recover. Whenever you caught a glimpse of yourself, no longer would you cringe away because you were looking into a face you couldn't recognise, but instead because you were a filthy, little lawbreaker. How were you ever supposed to recover from this grave, grave sin?
You fought back a sniffle as your fingers tentatively played with the ring in your pocket. Be it a cruel trick from the muses above (or simple just your guilt eating you alive), you could have sworn up and down, that the ring of Dispel was positively burning a hole through your Gotham prep blazer’s front pocket.
You had stolen from a museum.
Who even does that? Well, except for you apparently. But you had a good reason! And (more importantly) you didn’t even want to do it! If it weren’t for that stupid, stupid scouser, you wouldn't have ever stolen from a museum.
Then again, if it weren’t for that stupid scouser you probably would have still been trapped in the backwaters of Romania...
Okay, so sure, maybe you owed the guy a favour or two. But you had never, ever in your six months of memories, ever stolen. And it was seriously gutting you, and you didn’t even know why it was bothering you so much that your first theft was from a museum. You couldn’t tell what you wanted to do first; scream, cry, throw up or beat the shit out of that stupid scouser.
You moved with the crowd (honestly it was more of a stampede) away from the now burning and slightly damaged Gotham Historical Society building. No artifacts were damaged! Just the façade of the building. But, it needed a remodel anyways. It was a total eyesore! So, really, you’re doing everyone, including yourself and Constantine a service. Hopefully, Wayne Enterprises actually funds an architectural bureau that knows how to build according to the neighbouring buildings. That modern, cubist nightmare had no business existing next to the gorgeous gothic buttresses of the adjacent buildings.
Your right hand was in your pocket, holding on to the ring that you had oh, so gracefully stolen, while the other one was in the air, desperately trying to relieve it of some of the pressure of being crushed. Seriously, where did all these people come from?! You had scouted the GHS building for over a week and, sure, you had intentionally chosen the day with the most traffic, but this was ridiculous! If only someone were to play some music, then you could positively claim to have been in the world’s worst mosh pit.
Suddenly, someone else's hand shot up. However, this person was intentionally pointing up to one of the other high-rise buildings nearby, and the pointing was followed by a shout of “Look!”. You, and several other nearby members of the impromptu mosh pit looked up to the city skyline, and there he was. Dashing over buildings in a blur of black and yellow, Signal. Your eyes immediately snapped to the blur of blue and black next to him, because Fuuuuuck, was that Nightwing with him?
One vigilante you could handle, one vigilante you had prepared for. You were not prepared for both the speed at which they arrived, and the fact that there was two of them. You specifically chose to do this during the day to make sure that only one vigilante would arrive!
You knew you should have done this the day after an Arkham break! They would have been too busy dealing with all the escaped rogues to deal with a simple robbery. It would have been a quick in-and-out affair! But, nooooo. That stupid, blond scouser simply had to infer that you weren’t strong enough to handle some simple daylight robbery. This is seriously the last time you decide to make a decision out of spite!
Muses above, moving forward in this crowd was harder than getting concert tickets. You could feel yourself begin to sweat and you sent a small and quick prayer to whatever benevolent gods’ that were out there, to ensure that you don’t stain the white button up you’re wearing. You used your one hand that was in the air to fan your face but that did little. You were sweatier than ever, and you were closer to people than you had been in six months. (In a roundabout way it was nice. You hadn’t gotten a hug in ages, and you doubted the next one would be coming from Constantine of all people.)
But, as if the sweating wasn’t bad enough, you could feel the familiar pinpricks of a panic attack approaching, and fuck, if that wasn’t inconvenient.
It was getting harder to breathe. Someone’s elbow was digging harshly into your right side, and the person behind you was practically pressing their entire front into your back. You were surrounded with no way out. Everything was closing in on you, you were trapped, trapped in between walls made of bodies, of people you didn’t- couldn’t- wouldn’t recognise. You couldn’t move, couldn’t protect yourself. You were losing yourself again, the familiar suffocating blanket of the green started clouding your vision. You couldn’t let that happen here.
It was getting harder to breathe. People were shouting all around you, but you couldn’t understand. What were they saying? Tears started welling up in your eyes, and stray beads of sweat ran down your forehead. Why couldn’t you understand what they were saying? Your breathing picked up and came in short, raspy breaths. You wanted to get away, away, away. Someone pressed into you again, and you were trapped. Trapped just like in the coffin.
You were no longer in the crowd in Gotham, but instead in the small, tiny, wooden coffin you had woken up in six months ago. Both of your arms were pressed tight against your body, and you couldn’t breathe. Something had settled across your chest, and you couldn’t breathe. (Distantly, you could register someone pulling on your elbow) The green... You needed to push the green away, you needed to be normal. You tried moving your arms to scratch against whatever had settled against your chest, but you couldn’t move your arms. Why couldn’t you move your arms?
You needed to get out of the coffin. You couldn’t go back there. Constantine had promised. You weren’t supposed to be back. He had promised, he had promised, he had promised.
Your tears were now freely cascading down your face. (“-id? Can... my breathing...?”) Muses, the walls were closing in! You started mouthing a plea. A plea to get out, a plea to get away. You needed to get away, away, away. (“-ep breath... and out. Just like that...”) Why couldn’t you get your eyes to focus? They were moving rapidly from one corner of the coffin to the other. Why wouldn’t they just focus? A small whimper escaped past your lips.
“-and out. Just like that, kid. Deep breath in... and out.” Suddenly, and without forewarning the image of the coffin and the suffocating green haze melted away and you were instead met with the concerned look of a man and a small, sleeping toddler. Sometime during your little panic attack, you had moved from the middle of the crowd to just outside a small store and mostly away from everyone else. You were seated on a slightly raised stone step, and the man was crouching in front of you. The man began his instructions of breathing again, and you scrambled to follow them. You could feel the weight easing off your chest, and your breathing evened out. That’s right. You were in Gotham. Not Romania, not the coffin. You were in Gotham. The man smiled kindly and gave a firm, reassuring pat on your shoulder. “Good job, kid.”
You took a deep breath, practically gulping for the fresh air. Or, well “fresh” air. This was Gotham after all. There was probably some form of pollution in the air that you probably shouldn’t have prolonged exposure to. You made eye contact with the man in front of you and returned his kind smile. Shit, shit, shit. You weren’t supposed to interact with anyone. You were supposed to be as unnoticed as possible. Shit, piss, fuck. Accent, fuck, what do you do about that? Dialect, chronolect, sociolect, quick, fuck, which one of what do you use? Polite, sure, that was a given, but do you go for a Gotham dialect? Being spotted as a foreigner was just asking for trouble.
“Thank... Um- Thank you so much. I swear that doesn’t usually happen.” You stuttered out. Okay, fuck, you’ve settled for General American. Muses, please let this man use a sociolect and dialect you were familiar with so that you can co-opt some of his language.
The man grinned at you and readjusted the grip on his toddler. Hopefully, this was his kid, and he didn’t just snatch them of the street... Ah, fuck. Hopefully, you didn’t just implicate yourself in a kidnapping. “Don’tworry‘boutit. I’ve lived in Gotham 10 years, and rogue attacks still make me jump.”
Yeah, but you sorta caused this attack. Or, not sorta. You a hundred-and-ten percent caused the explosion and robbed the museum. That was all you. And honestly, you didn’t know if you were supposed to be offended or complimented over the fact that this little robbery of yours was automatically assumed to be a rogue attack. To be honest, this was not a rogue worthy attack. Some damage to the façade and one stolen ring was light work for rogues. No one had even gotten hurt! You think... You felt yourself cringing at the prospect of having hurt someone. Ah, shit. Now you have to play of the cringing. Okay, fuck. What do you do? “Is it usually like this? I’ve only just moved here with my dad...” Okay, well. So much for not being identified as a foreigner. But a newly moved in foreigner, so maybe... You can play it off. Also, you were pretty sure the cover story was that Constantine was your dad, and if it wasn’t... Well, that was a problem for future you.
The man chuckled lightly before shaking his head, “Kid, you don't even know half o’ it. This has been a light week.” He straightened up and moved from in front of you to standing next to you. The two of you looked out over the crowd that had started dispersing at Nightwing’s direction. You felt a smile pull at your lips. He looked like the world’s weirdest lollipop lady. Standing atop a lamp post directing people away from the museum and the stampede. All he was missing was a giant sign.
You frowned. Signal was nowhere to be seen. He was probably at the museum, making sure that everyone was okay and shit...
You really hope no one got hurt. How were you supposed to live with yourself if someone got hurt?
You considered the man’s words. He was right. It had been a suspiciously quiet couple of months. This was the first major incident all month, and there was only a week left of the month. That was practically unheard of in Gotham. “Honestly, thank God for this attack.” You looked up at the man inquisitively and caught a deep furrow between his brows, “My wife, or well everyone who’s lived in Gotham longer than a week,” The last part was grumbled quietly to himself, and he once again readjusted the grip on his toddler, “well, we were all getting worried that something big was going on. There hasn’t been an Arkham break in, pfft, three months? We’re all just... waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
That was suspicious, but also sooo not your problem. You and your scouser were probably skipping town after this. Only a day or two more in Gotham. Unless, of course, he’s decided on something else. That would be just like him. Making plans without informing you of them. Muses, he just assumed you were in for the ride. Which, technically, you were. Somehow, John Constantine had become your one lifeline in this world. Ugh.
You rested your head against the bricks of the building behind you and let out a deep sigh. “Ugh, let’s hope there’s nothing big planned. We deserve a break.”
The man got weirdly emotional, and you swore you could hear a barely concealed sniffle, “We do. We do deserve a break.” You adjusted your sitting position. Instead of sitting criss-cross applesauce, you firmly planted your feet on the ground while pulling your knees closer to your body. You placed your forearms on your knees and let your hands hang limply. You were so tired. Nightwing was finally getting the crowd properly dispersed, and you prayed to the muses above that this was finally it and you could finally go home.
Unfortunately for you, the muses above hated you. Nightwing’s gaze drifted over the crowd before landing on you and the man with a toddler. He made eye contact with you, and you felt the familiar hazy green seep into your vision. Fuck, shit, fuck, push it back. And because he’s a stupid, vigilante do-gooder, he jumps over to you two (three if you count the sleeping toddler). Seriously?! You were totally fucked in the ‘Not-interacting with any vigilantes’ department. This was supposed to be a simple daylight robbery. He lands in front of the two (technically three) of you, hands on his hips and an easy-going, placating smile on his face, “Everything alright over here?”
“Yeah, don'tworry‘boutit.” You placed a hand on the raised stone-slab you had been using as a seat and pushed yourself up. “The crowd made me panic and this guy,” You gestured with your head to the man, “helped me out. I’m all good now.”
The man frowned, readjusted the grip on his toddler again, before pretty obviously sizing Nightwing up (Why on earth would he do that? Was he trying to fight Nightwing? What is wrong with him?). “Huh. I didn’t realise you were back from Blüd, ‘wing.”
You scoffed, crossing your arms in front of your chest and desperately hoping no one saw through your very obvious fake Gothamite act, “The bats are probably as freaked ‘bout the no Arkham break-thing as we are.” Almost as soon as the words were out of your mouth, you were mentally beating yourself up for them. Who on earth wouldn’t notice that pathetic attempt at blending in? You were so obvious. And in front of a bat-detective too! Muses, the man next to you even knew that you hadn’t known about the Arkham sabbatical. You were most definitely going to get caught. How could you be so stupid?
Nightwing smiled, and, like okay. You had to very consciously keep your body language the same as it had been before and not give in to the impulse of tensing. You knew you weren’t great at reading people (Constantine even chastised you for it once and boy-howdy was that not the person you wanted people-advice from), but you’d have to be really fucking stupid to not realise that the corners of his lips twitched slightly, and his posture had stiffened as well. He was stressed. Had your pathetic attempt at coming across as a Gothamite accidentally been right? Were the bats stressed? Holy muses. “Hey, you know what Gotham’s like. Once she’s got her claws in you, you aren’t getting out. Gotham’ll always be home, y’know?”
The man next to you groaned before nodding along to his words, and you just found yourself reluctantly nodding along. Nightwing continued speaking, “But, anyway. All good here?” Oh, muses, why was he looking and making eye contact with you. Oh, he knows, he knows, he knows that you’re a filthy museum-robber. Oh, you were going to get locked up in Arkham! Constantine would never let you live it down. “Sure, you don’t need any medical check-up? Panic, especially in crowds can lead to injuries.” Oh, he was just asking about your well-being.
You rolled your eyes at your own paranoia and anxiety and immediately hoped it wasn’t too out of sorts for this conversation (Rolling your eyes at someone else’s showing of concern was a very Gothamite thing, right?), “Nah, I’m all good. Just confused now, I guess.” Your hand reached up to play with your necklace, and quietly muttered “I mean seriously, who bombs a museum?”
The man next to you scoffed, “Probably the fuckin’ Riddler. ‘Nother one of his sick games.” You let out a sympathetic groan before hastily dropping your necklace. Hm. You weren’t supposed to let anyone see your necklace, just in case it turned out to be identifying. Oh well, too late now. You decided to instead look at the watch on your wrist. Ten past four. Perfect. You’ll manage to catch the 400-tube line home.
“I should probably get a move on. My dad’s probably fucking stressed beyond belief. I was only supposed to go to the fuckin’ grocery store.” You threw your hands up in indignation before aggressively letting them hit the side of your body. “Didn’t even fuckin’ get to it ‘cause of the fuckin’ bomb.”
Nightwing raised a hand to his ear, probably trying to listen in on a comms "Yeah, I’ll be right there, Signal.” He smiled kindly, not too unlike the man next to you had done at the start of your panic attack. "Sorry, gotta run. You two stay safe!”
You and the man waved Nightwing as he ran off towards the museum, your wave being accompanied by a small shout of “Right back atcha!” (Why did you say that? Why would you make sure his memory of you was even longer?). You turned to the man that helped you again and smiled sheepishly. “I really do appreciate your help earlier, sorry for probably keeping you longer than intended.”
“’s all good. Which way areya headed?” His head gestured lightly to the road ahead of the two of you.
You nodded once, backwards to the subway station behind the two of you. “The subway. Hafta catch the 400 before it’s packed by the other school kids.” Wait, what time did the school kids of Gotham get let out? You hadn’t missed it, had you? You harshly shoved both of your hands into their respective pockets and let your right-hand latch onto the ring again. Knowing that the ring was there was a comfort. It was grounding. Like, your necklace. Except no one would know you were messing with it. Huh. Maybe you should get a ring and keep it in your pocket when this is all over.
The man let out a passive ‘Ah’-sound before turning to fully face you. “I’m headed the other way; hope you’re journey home is safer than this has been.”
“Aye, fingers crossed.” You gently hopped down from the raised platform you had been sitting on. “You have a good day, now!” You waved the man and his “Thanks, you too!” off, and let a heavy sigh heave through your body. Muses, you were exhausted. Who knew crime could make you so tired. You just wanted to lay down and sleep.
You looked down at your wristwatch again. Twenty past four. It was only a five-minute walk to the subway station, and the 400 didn’t actually arrive until half.
Wordlessly weaving through the crowd, you still found yourself rushing to the subway station. This was Gotham, you reasoned to yourself, you didn’t want to end up caught in an actual rogue attack. You had had enough excitement for the day.
***
It was an unusual feeling, patrolling during the day. Dick wasn’t sure he could ever get used to it. Typically, he only ever patrolled during the night and under other circumstances it probably would have been quite nice to patrol with only Duke. He liked spending time with all of his siblings, but there were rarely any opportunities for one-on-one time like this. So, even though it was during patrol, he still found himself thankful for the opportunity to spend time with him.
Though, the day-time patrol was not just to spend more time with Duke. No, it stemmed from the wet blanket of anxiety that had settled over Gotham. If it were not for the absolute gargantuan amount of philanthropy and investments that a certain gazillionaire had made into the city, Gotham would no doubt have the one of the world's worst reputations.
Sure, Gotham was no Metropolis. With the exception of genuine kindness, nothing was truly to out of the box for Gotham. The rogues were quite frankly insane. And sure, to non-gothamites hearing that there was a giant murderous man-croc in the sewers didn’t inspire a lot of confidence, nor did the man-bats, or the nice-but-weird local plant-lady ecoterrorist, or the rogue of all rogues, the Joker. But to regular gothamites they were just a part of life!
And, with the help of gazillionaire Bruce Wayne, tourists had even started to visit Gotham. Sure, y’know, you might get fear-gased, or joker-toxined, or set on fire, or robbed, or get held hostage by the Riddler, but there’s a really pretty botanical garden, and Batburger rules!
So, yes. Gotham’s reputation could always be worse. It wasn’t great, but it could be worse.
However, in a strange roundabout way, the pervasive anxiety that had nestled itself into even the nicest part of Gotham, had everything to do with the rogues. Namely the fact that there hadn’t been any major Arkham incidences in close to three months. Which was extremely worrying considering the fact that the Joker, Harley Quinn, Poison Ivy, Scarface, the Riddler, and Clayface were all locked up.
The inaction had put all of the bats on high guard. Hence, the reinforced day-time patrol. Today it was Dick’s turn to join Duke, tomorrow it would be someone else's.
While the bats were known for acting during the night, it had had the unintended effect of making smaller, pettier crime more common during the day. It was why Dick was not too surprised when he stopped a seventh burglary in a little over two hours. In between stopping crime like the aforementioned burglaries, Dick spent the time making light conversation with Duke and Barbara. And he would have been perfectly okay with continuing that way.
Unfortunately, the world had other plans.
At half past three Barbara alerted them. “Explosion at the GHS Museum downtown. Considerable damage done to the exterior. Nightwing, ETA 3 minutes. Signal, ETA 5 minutes. Rendezvous by Kingston Street and approach together. Batman on standby.”
Dick changed direction, immediately heading towards Kingston Street. He let out a low whistle, “Explosion, huh? Now, who’s MO does that fit?”
“Wait, the GHS museum? Why’d anyone want to bomb a museum?” Duke said, letting heaps of confusion seep into his voice. Dick mulled over his question. He did have a point. The GHS Museum had never been directly attacked in its almost 70-year-long history. 10 years ago, it had ended up as collateral for a Joker attack, hence the new building, but it had never been directly targeted.
“Someone with a grudge, maybe?” The motive sounded phony as soon as it left his mouth. The only person regularly known for going after museums was Catwoman, but this was so far out of her usual MO that Dick almost wanted to laugh at the very notion.
Dick landed on an apartment building right at the edge of Kingston Street, eyes scanning the skyline looking for the familiar blur of black and yellow. A familiar lump of anxiety and unease nestled itself in his stomach. Is this the attack they’ve waited three months for? “The usual suspects are still in Arkham, right?”
A hum from Barbara was quickly heard, “Yeah, The Riddler and the Joker are both still in Arkham. I’ve got my eyes on them right now.” A second of silence stretched over the comms. “Might be Harvey? We can’t be too sure until yous arrive on the scene.”
Duke approached and the two out-and-about vigilantes headed off towards the GHS museum.
They got there in record time, and upon seeing the tremendous crowd that had gathered in the square a decision was made for Dick to be director of the crowd, trying to steer people away from any stampede-induced deaths. Duke headed off towards the actual museum with the express goal of making sure there were no nefarious parties left, and to secure evidence.
Directing the crowd took less time than expected, most likely as a result of Gothamites knowing when to get the fuck out of dodge. Dick’s eyes scanned the rapidly dispersing crowd of civilians before settling on a small congregation of Gothamites towards the eastern block of buildings.
On the front steps of a café there was a man with a sleeping toddler whose eyes were scanning over the crowd of people not too dissimilarly from what Dick himself had been doing. But that was not what drew Dick to the scene. That would be the smaller teen (Because that was no doubt a teenager) next to him. The teen’s eyes were bloodshot; the sleeves of their Gotham Prep blazer were pushed up towards their elbows, and their breathing was obviously ragged. But the most attention-grabbing aspect of them was the one streak of white hair. Alarm bells started blaring almost instantly. A Lazarus-pit-person?
A Gotham Prep blazer... All of Dick’s siblings went there, maybe this was someone they knew? Surely, they would have alerted over a potential Lazarus-pit-person? Should he check on them just in case?
The decision was made for him when he made eye contact with the teenager. He watched as their eyes widened, and ever so slightly began to water again. A flash of green appeared in their eyes, and Dick felt his heart drop. This person- this child had definitely been in a Lazarus pit. A million questions arose within him, but he quickly pushed them down. Making sure they’re okay takes priority, he reasoned with himself. With a resolve of steel, Dick jumped off of the lamp post he had been using to make himself more visible and headed towards the man and the teen. “Everything alright over here?”
He tried his best to be as disarming as possible. Easy, open posture and a small, warm smile on his face. Ignore any questions he had for now, make sure they’re okay. The conversation came easily, if slightly stilted given the natural disposition of the average Gothamite. The teen had had a panic attack, and the man helped them. Had it truly been a panic attack or had it been the pit taking control? How were they so adept at pushing it away? Dick talked for a few beats of conversation, tried not tensing up when Arkham Asylum got brought up, and overall, just tried making sure they were both doing well.
The teenager’s eyes got drier, and their breathing properly evened out over the course of the conversation, so when Duke requested his presence at the museum, Dick could do nothing but obey. Fuck. He was letting a child, one who had been in a Lazarus pit just walk away.
He’d find them again. He would make sure of it. He needed to know that they were safe.
As he grappled over to the museum, his unoccupied hand rested on his comms, “O, did you get that?”
Dick heard a sharp intake of on the other side of the comms. “Sorry, N.” He landed in front of the museum and began jogging through it. There was no longer smoke flowing through, but a bitter, strong smell had settled in the air. “Issue with Signal.” Duke stood in a long corridor, different paintings decorating the bland, white walls. He nodded at Dick before gesturing with his head towards the room behind them. “Fill me in while I look through your suit footage.”
Even though his face was covered by his mask, Dick was sure Duke’s face was bunched in concern. “Dude, areya good?”
Dick frowned. He wasn’t good. He had let a child who potentially been in a Lazarus pit walk away. Had this happened in Gotham? Had they died in and been resurrected here and if so, how come the bats had been none the wiser? “I saw a kid.” He clenched and unclenched his fist. Gaze lowered, trying to avoid Duke’s concerned stare. “They had Lazarus pit markers.”
Duke inhaled sharply, and his entire posture tensed. “Yikes. Well,” He awkwardly slapped his thighs, “You are not gonna like what I have to tell you.” The two vigilantes entered the room that the bomb had gone off in with Duke taking charge. He went to the far edge of the room, where the wall had been blown clean out. “So, there’s like, definitely traces of magic here.” He gestured generally to the area behind them.
“What?” Dick scanned the room before looking at Duke again. “Are you sure?”
Duke nodded, “Yeah, man. Magic has like, this super specific light, and this specific area,” He gestured now to the area that they were standing in, “is absolutely covered in it.”
Dick instantly felt himself age. As if the Lazarus-pit-kid wasn’t enough, now they had to deal with magic too. He should’ve stayed in Blüdhaven. A weary sigh tore through his body. “Zatanna just arrived through the Zeta. She’s working on a teleport spell over to the museum now.” Bruce’s voice crackled through the shared comms. Contrary to how Dick was feeling, Bruce sounded focused and determined.
“Um,” Duke awkwardly slapped his hands together, “I just wanna double-check. None of the usuals use magic, right?” Fighting alongside Duke made it easy to forget that he was relatively new to this particular vigilante-game. He was anadept fighter, and combined with his metapowers he was an actual beast. He might have been born and raised in Gotham but there were just some pieces of information that the public wasn’t privvy to, but the bats were, so assuming that one or two rogues actually used magic wasn’t too out there.
Dick started shaking his head before stopping himself, “Not really. Well, I mean, discounting Croc and Clayface, not really.” He brought his hands up to pinch the bridge of his nose but quickly remembered that that would mess up his domino mask. Instead, he massaged the sides of his temple, “Ugh, I wouldn’t put it past Ra’s though.”
The unnervingly familiar sounds of someone teleporting into the room, followed by the familiar clicking of Zatanna’s high heels made a strange weight settle over Dick’s chest. It was nice that she was here to help, but preferably she wouldn’t have had to help at all. Still, he turned around and greeted her with a smile, “Z! Good to see you! Havya met Signal yet?”
She returned Dick’s greeting with a smile and nod of her head, “Hello to you too, Nightwing. I do not believe I have.” She turned her full attention to Duke and held out her hand, “Nice to meet you. I’m Zatanna. You identified the magic, yes?”
Duke shook her hand and nodded gravely. “Yep, I did. Can’t narrow it down any further than the general area though.”
“That’s okay.” Zatanna quickly reassured Duke, “Even for magi identifying magic can be hard.” She looked thoughtful for a second, “I can probably narrow down the specific magical traces and what caused the explosion, but I’m not gonna be able to, let's say, magically track them down.”
“Hey, that’s okay.” Dick smiled at Zatanna. “That’ll still be more than what we know now.”
Zatanna nodded. A determined expression settled on her face. She placed her right index, and middle finger on her temple and looked at the area that Duke had gestured to earlier. “Wohs em eht secart.” Her eyes began to glow, and Dick instinctively moved Duke behind himself to protect him. A larger part of him knew logically that Zatanna was not a threat, but the smaller subconcious part wasn't quite as smart. A quiet, confused “What?” escaped Zatanna's lips before she lowered her arm and moved out of her magic state.
A loud, uncomfortable silence settled over the three. Zatanna’s hands were raised slightly in front of herself, but her eyes were fixed on the floor and clearly full of confusion. “Z?” Dick broke the silence, his voice causing Zatanna to snap out of whatever stupor she had been in. “Are you alright?”
Zatanna locked eyes with Dick, clearly conflicted about something. Her lips were pursed, and there was a faraway look in her eyes. “Nightwing, I need to know. Was anything taken from the museum?”
Dick quite frankly, had no fucking idea. He turned his head towards Duke and nodded towards Zatanna. Duke spoke, clearly and with no hesitation, “One of the curators said that something called the Ring of Dispel was taken.”
Zatanna gasped and Dick watched as her entire posture changed from confused to determined. She turned away from Dick and Duke and seemingly nodded to herself. “Alright, so. I know who the traces belong to.” She turned towards Dick and Duke again. “You’ll have a name by the end of today. I promise you.” And then, just as she had appeared, she disappeared, leaving Dick and Duke in the remains of the blown-up museum.