Saudade (Deslocado)

by munauna

Summary:

No matter how hard you tried, you could not recall a single moment from before Constantine found you. At first, there was nothing. Then, there was everything. There was pain, and there was suffering, and there was an overwhelming feeling of something being wrong, of something being missing, of something being added. All you knew for sure was that you were in your late teens, had been irrevocably changed in a manner that made you unrecognisable, and all you had was the strange scouser who said he could help you.

Well, he certainly beats the dungeon you had been kept in.

Or;

The trials and tribulations of a teenager pining for something that will never be again.

Notes:

"muna!!! are you writing fanficitons instead of studying for your physics test??" :D u bet
I truly, from the bottom of my heart, *despise* tagging. If you feel something is missing from the tags based on current chapters please tell me, just remember that more tags will be added in the future <333

Chapter 1: 1: Never trust a scouser

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. 

Chapter 2: The never-ending saga of trying to get a goddamn sandwich

Summary:

You have a very hard time trying to buy dinner while Constantine has a talk with a co-worker

Notes:

"muna!!! are you writing fanficitons instead of studying for another physics test??" YUP.

again, if you feel that there's a missing tag, or a spelling mistake (i cba spellchecking this chapter LMAO), feel free to comment!!

enjoyyy <3333

As loathed as you were to admit it, you owed Constantine for a lot. Probably for more than you could repay in an entire lifetime. And, you didn’t even really mind it! He didn’t treat you like you some indentured servant having your future lorded over you. Despite his, well, everything, Constantine had been nothing but kind to you. He listened when you complained, tried his damndest to teach you some magic, and most importantly, he had promised to help you. 

Did you blame him for making you rob a museum? Yeah.  

Did you fault him for making you do it? Also, yeah. 

(“Stupid scouser.” You were fighting to hold back tears. It was already starting to get dark in Gotham despite it barely being 5 PM. You dejectedly kicked a rock and listened as it echoed down the street. “Making me rob a museum. Do it yourself, pussy.” Your voice did not crack pathetically at all at the last part. No siree. And even if it did? There were no witnesses.) 

But you understood why it needed to be done. Because he had explained it to you. He didn’t have to do that, but he did it anyway. And that doesn’t only go for the museum robbery! It went for everything. If you asked, he explained. Why’s he eating such a large breakfast? Breakfast’s the most important meal of the day and he needs the energy! Why’s he banned from the state of Alberta? He scammed a couple of people! Why’s he drinking at 4 PM? He’s sad! 

Were you paraphrasing a bit (lot)? Yeah. But that’s what he had inferred. The two of you had six months of trips together under your belt! You were practically a master at understanding Constantine at this point. All of his weird looks, his weird little sighs, his general desposition. You knew it all like the back of your hand. 

However, there were some choices you would just never understand. Like why he decided that the move was to stay in a rundown hotel next to Robinson park.  

You did your best, you really did. Constantine had done so much for you! He was helping you with your magic, he had given you a roof over your head and three meals a day, and he was working on getting you home. If you could remember the manners you were sure you had learnt at some point, you would probably be appalled at how readily you complained to Constantine about your situation. 

However, in your defence, you were in Gotham, next to Poison Ivy. Gotham sucked, Poison Ivy sucked, your situation sucked. You should be allowed to complain, as a treat. 

You entered the foyer of the hotel, arms crossed over your chest, what was, hopefully, a pissed of expression on your face, and proceeded to completely bulldoze past the tired receptionist. You didn’t even return his greeting. Muses, you hoped you hadn’t hurt his feelings. As if your day hadn’t been shit enough, now you had to deal with the fact that you intentionally hurt a specific individual's feelings. What is wrong with you? First the pseudo-terrorism and now rudeness. 

The light in the hallway of the floor of the hotel the two of you were staying at flickered and you couldn’t help the sigh that escaped your body. The floors creaked with every step you took, and it seemed like the shadows grew larger and longer the more you looked at them. The feeling of being watched did not lessen, and you forcefully pushed away the unwelcomed green that started appearing at the corner of your eye. You had only had three panic attacks today, you refused to have a fourth! 

You hastened your steps for the few remaining meters left to your hotel room. Your heartbeat drummed wildly in your ears, and you could feel beads of sweat running down your temple. You stood square in front of the red maple door and slowly counted to ten. Once you reached ten, you let out a deep breath and placed your hand on the door lock. You closed your eyes and let out another steading breath. Your heartbeat no longer sounded in your ears, but that did nothing to stop your hands from becoming clammy, “Recludo.”  

You heard the door unlocking and quickly opened your eyes. Your hand flew from the door lock to the doorknob. You could, yet again, hear your heart beating in your ears as you twisted it open. You entered the hotel room, and it looked exactly as you had left it. The big light was off; the bathroom door was closed. The only light in the room came from the gap between the floor and the bathroom door.  

You locked the door behind you and turned on the big light. Everything was just as you had left it. The walls were still the same yellow that you weren’t entirely convinced wasn’t the result of decades of indoor smoking. The big light still gave of that same faintly buzzing sound, the empty soda bottles and sandwich wrappers were in the same place you had left them, and there was still that familiar snore permeating throughout the room. 

Constantine.  

The green inside of you hissed as it registered his snoring, and you had to fight the tears welling in your eyes. A part of you hissed ‘safe’, while the other half, the green half hissed 'taskmaster’. The rational part of your mind realised only one of those applied, and the part of you that had just robbed a museum wanted to take a nap. 

Constantine laid on the twin bed on the far side of the room, snoring like there was no tomorrow. Quietly, you approached his bed, only stopping once you got to the foot of his bed. You took the Ring of Dispel out of your pockets, and with all the might in your body, you threw it right at him. 

The reaction was instantaneous. He shot up, the dark maroon duvet that had previously been pulled up over his ears gathered on his lap. The groan of pain he let out was glorious, as was the confused “What the fuck?” he let out as well. You leaned over him and leered. “I got the ring.”  

You delighted at the flabbergasted expression on his face. His eyebrows were scrunched up in the middle, blue eyes wide and mouth open, looking up at you incredulously. He looked at you, down at the ring that had landed on the duvet on his lap, and then back at you again. He let out a scoff. “Yeah, I fucken noticed” 

You straightened up, placed your non-dominant hand on your hip and raised the other up in front of Constantine. You pointed at him with the gravest expression you could muster on your face, “Never make me rob a museum again.” Each word was punctured with the wagging of your finger. 

“Alright, shit.” Constantine waved dismissively. His expression was no longer confused or discombobulated, expression instead calculating and homed in on the ring. He picked it up, turning it over in his grasp and eyeing it from all possible angles. You watched as his shoulders slumped slightly. He looked up at you again and smirked slightly, “Remind me ta tell ya how ta contain your magic.” He brought his right hand, the hand not holding the ring, up and began lightly wagging his pointer finger at you. “You’ve positively leaked all over it.” 

Your hands hit the side of your body indignantly, “Well, I’m sorry that I can’t control me magic, Constantine.” You nodded your head in faux sympathy. “I’ll make sure to work on it for the next robbery.”  

Constantine looked back at the ring again, eyebrows raised slightly as he twirled it around in his hands. “Actually, it might be a wee hard.” He looked at you, eyes scrutinising you, “given your, well, everythin’.” 

You scoffed. “Rude.” You went over to your bag of spare clothes and brought some clothes to change into. “I’m headin’ to the showers.” 

You placed your change of clothes on the cabinet next to the shower, before quickly undressing and hopping in. The warm water felt heavenly across your skin. You hadn't realised just how cold you were. You watched the water trickle down your arms, watched the mirror fog up, and felt your muscles relax. A deep sigh wracked through your body. Despite the fact that you couldn’t yet see the physical traces left behind by magic, you could almost imagine it washing away.  

You looked down at your body, watched the water trickle down each crevice, and sighed. The bodywash you had brought from the previous city had a nice, refreshing smell that filled the small, dingy bathroom. You lathered yourself up, letting your fingers linger on the group of small circular scars running up your left arm. They did not hurt, and Constantine had determined that they were several years old. It left you with the burning question of why were they there, and where did they come from?  

What was your life truly like before Constantine found you? 

Why hadn’t the pit healed your scars? 

You rinsed off your body, and stepped out of the shower, immediately missing the warmth the water had provided. The shower felt good, like a fresh new start. You were running low on shampoo though.  

You quickly got dressed, hastily putting on the white tank top and grey sweatpants before reaching for your final garment, a sweatshirt. The University of Cambridge quarter zip sweatshirt you had brought into the bathroom was one of your last clean sweaters. Constantine couldn’t have been doing a lot better in the clothes department (You were pretty sure he only had like, two outfits...), which meant that you needed to go to a laundromat soon. 

You shrugged and pulled the sweatshirt over your head. Oh well, not your problem. Constantine would probably figure something out. 

You left the bathroom and happily jumped into bed. You burrowed in under the covers and let out a content sigh. Finally, you could take your nap. All was good in the world. You turned your head to the side and stared at Constantine. He had forgone messing with the ring and was instead texting someone on his phone. His eyebrows were scrunched deep in what was probably a mixture of confusion and irritation. If it were not for the fact that you were exhausted, your eyebrows would have shot up.  

Constantine knew people well enough to text them? Colour you surprised. 

You turned to lay on your side so that you were facing him. “Hey.” He let out a non-committal hum in acknowledgement. “If we stay in Gotham for any longer, I want a public transport card.” 

He turned his attention from you to his phone, a singular eyebrow raised. “Just bump, you’ll do fine, la’.” He turned his attention back to his phone. Seriously, who the hell was he texting?  

You frowned and pulled the duvet closer to you. “That’s what I did. But, what if there’s an inspector next time?” 

Constantine chortled, “This is Gotham, la’. The police don’t have time for that shite.” 

You grumbled sadly to yourself, burrowing further into the bed. You did not try to fight when the tiredness encroached and finally settled over you. It took less than five minutes and then you were out like a light. 

 

Constantine woke up an hour later. You had moved a little in your sleep. Duvet gathered by the edge of the bed and your hands were laying up above your head. “Sit up, la’” Constantine groused. He had a cigarette placed between his middle and index finger. You scoffed quietly to yourself. Seriously? He’s like a bad cliché. None the less, you did as instructed. “We’re doing a bit of practice before I had out.” 

That caught your attention. “Head out? Where are you going? Are you meeting someone? Are you leaving me alone here? What about dinner? Do you want me to starve?” Your pulse was picking up again. 

“Ack, calm down.” A dumbfounded expression crossed his face. “Am heading out to meet a friend. D’ya remember when we were in London and that black-haired doll spoke with me?” You nodded slowly. You did remember that black-haired lady, and you certainly remember the expression that crossed her face when you opened the door instead of Constantine. You could not recall ever seeing someone so surprised. Her visit had been short; she had been too shocked to actually say a lot to you and then Constantine spoke with her long enough for you to get into your own head and send yourself into a weird pit-episode. You didn’t come out of it until two days later, in a different city, with a very concerned Constantine in front of you. “Well, am meeting her for a drink.” 

Your eyebrows shot up. Constantine had a date? How the actual living fuck had he managed that. You nodded numbly and let out a quiet “uh-huh.” Your eyebrows scrunched together as you tried to recall the black-haired lady’s face. You could picture it vaguely in the back of your mind... Wasn’t she drop-dead gorgeous? Why did she agree to go on a date with him? “She’s like... meeting you willingly?” 

“Aye, fuck off. ‘Course she is.” Constantine crossed his arms, careful to avoid damaging his cigarette. “We’re co-workers.” Huh. That’s right. Constantine was employed. With the way the two of you travel, it’s easy to forget. “Any who, I’d prefer if you stay here, but our food ran out earlier, so yous’d have to wait until I get back to eat.” 

Absolutely the fuck not. “I can just go an’ buy something for myself.” You were starving. You needed sustenance.  “You said so yourself in Seoul. Both my offensive and defensive magic’s coming along nicely.”  

Constantine eyed you up and down. “Am no sure if it’s Gotham nice.” As if to support your argument, your stomach decided that now was the time to growl loudly. The two of you looked at one another awkwardly. You quickly changed your expression into a pleading one, hoping that he would take pity on you. “Ack, fine.” Score! “You only go to the grocery store to stock up, right?” He looked at you earnestly. “Am serious la’. A’ll set up a notifying spell for if you aren’t back at the hotel after two hours.” You nodded fervently, your mind already conjuring up the sandwich you were going to make. Muses, does Gotham have a Subway? You could kill for your usual order. “Right, onto the next order of business.” 

“Close your eyes.” You did as instructed. “How many curses do you sense?” 

You inhaled deeply and tried to feel around. Several distinct, putrid smells filled your nose, and you could hear several distinct, low, rumbles. The several different, and combined smells and sounds assaulted your senses, and you fought back a gag.  

Deep breaths. Focus. What was the first step? What would make this easier? Constantine had asked you to identify the curses. To do that you needed to figure out what sounds belonged to what smell. Easy enough.  

You conjured a small amount of magic to help you visualise the different impressions. Several different strands in varying shades and colours appeared in your mind's eye. You had to stop yourself from physically reaching up and touching the strands. That wouldn’t work. They weren’t physical manifestations, just conjured in your mind. You visualised your hand touching the strand nearest you. As soon as your inner mind grabbed it, a horrid stench imbued your senses, and your nose scrunched involuntarily. You had half a curse. You needed to find the corresponding sound. 

Half-curse clenched in one of your hands, you reached out again with your non-occupied hand, this time for another strand. There was no real science behind connecting the strands. You didn’t know why one smell corresponded with one sound, but you knew when you had found a corresponding pair. It was a feeling in your gut. One that Constantine had helped you hone.  

You connected the two strands and let the fully conjoined curse rest in your hands. Where was it coming from? You furrowed your eyebrows. It wasn’t big enough to cover the entirety of Gotham, which suggested it was targeting a specific area. You took a deep breath. Focus. You felt a tug from the curse. It was pulling from the northwest. What areas where in the northwest? The upper west side. You felt another tug from the curse. You scrunched your eyebrows in concentration. Okay, further away. What areas where further away?  

Something made a quiet, whisper in the curse. You reached out to the whisper and got a quiet name back. The Hill. A wave of satisfaction came over you. Okay. One curse identified, an indetermined amount to go. 

You continued connecting the strands and let out a hum when you were done. You stopped the visualisation, closed your senses from being attacked by the curses, and took a deep breath in relief. “...I’m guessing 7 curses.” You relished no longer smelling the awful smells and instead breathing in the regular musty hotel room air. “3 over the entirety of Gotham, 1 over the Hill, 2 over Park Row, 1 over Bristol.” 

“Is right, la’. That took less time than I expected.” Constantine nodded approvingly, “Only took ya two minutes. That's impressive considerin’ the amount.” You preened at the praise. “Right then, let’s head out.” 

While you busied yourself with putting on your shoes, Constantine was putting up the notifying spell he had threatened you with earlier. Watching Constantine do his magic was an experience that always made you giddy. He was so quick! And, even with your sparse and new knowledge, you could tell that he was powerful. You hoped that you could be as proficient as him one day. You waited for Constantine to put on his shoes and jacket before unlocking the hotel room door. The two of you quickly made your way down the hallway and out of the hotel. 

Once out of the hotel, you followed Constantine into the nearby alleyway. It was out of the way from the cameras and shrouded in enough darkness that no one would notice him doing his magic. He stopped halfway into the alleyway and turned around to you. He sighed, got out his wallet and handed you a hundred American dollars. What the hell was he expecting you to buy? “Buy dinner fer today and fer tomorrow. Come back here as soon as you’re done.” You shoved the hundred dollars into one of the pockets in your sweatpants. Constantine looked you in the eye with a grave expression, “I will know if you’re late back and if the reason is anythin’ short of death, I will find a way to ground ya.” 

You rolled your eyes as he lit his cigarette, “Alright then.” You snickered at him, “You have fun with your date.”  

You purposefully ignored his muttering of “not a date.” and watched as he chanted his teleportation spell. Once you were sure he was gone, you turned around and walked out of the alleyway. Earlier in the week, Constantine and you had done a grocery run to a small 24/7 store, and that was the store you had your sights set on.  

It wasn’t too far, and so you foolishly got you expectations up. You hoped for a peaceful trip to the store. In fact, you yearned for one.  

Unfortunately, this was Gotham. And any hopes of a peaceful walk to the store was immediately dashed. After the first turn away from the main street, you were ambushed.  

It was a man. Tall and stocky. He had a gun in between his hands, and it was only raised slightly. Not far enough to target anything vital, but still high enough that you noticed it. Were you seriously getting robbed? This is the type of shit that happens when Constantine isn’t around. You either commit pseudo-terrorism or get robbed. You knew you should’ve taken the long way around! But you were soooo hungry. You yearned for a sandwich. Stupid, stupid. The sandwich would’ve still been there, even if you took the long way. Why do you always do this to yourself? Muses, you should just take the gun out of his hands and physically shoot yourself in the foot. 

“I don’t want any trouble. Just give me your money.” The man speech was slightly muffled given his balaclava, but there was a clear drawl from one of the neighbouring areas. His eyes were steady, and he clearly had a goal in mind. 

You wanted to cry, you wanted to scream, you wanted to run away and hide.  

You also, really wanted a sandwich. And this man, he was your Goliath. The only thing standing between you and your sandwich. Letting out an irritated sigh, you concentrated a small portion of magic in your hand and then waved at the man lackadaisically. He was out within seconds.  

He crumpled into a heap on the road. You probably shouldn’t leave the gun in his hand. What if he came to and tried to rob someone else? You pursed your lips slightly. You had already blown up a museum; you didn’t want to make it any worse for yourself. How would you live with yourself if he actually hurt someone else? Especially considering that you could have stopped it. 

You gently pried the gun out of his hands and looked at it blankly. You knew nothing about guns. You looked down at the man again before deciding to put the gun in your sweatpants’ pockets. Glancing down at the man again, you looked for any signs of life. Upon looking the steady up-and-down of his chest. You stepped over him and increased the speed of your walk to reach the 24/7 store faster. 

Your heart was beating in your ears, and tears started welling in your eyes. You just robbed a person who tried to rob you. Muses, what if you got caught? You were a minor, a foreigner with no paperwork, and carrying a gun. You were so screwed if you got stopped by the police. Or, the bats. 

You stopped dead in your tracks. The bats. Muses, what would they think? They would take one look at your guilty-ass and determine that you were responsible for the museum-bombing as well somehow. Oh, you were so screwed! Your heart was beating so fast that it hurt, and you could feel how it was getting harder to breathe. You were so stupid. Why would you take the gun? 

Your breathing was shallow as you picked up your pace again. You didn’t slow down until you reached the store. The sign outside the store still wasn’t working, it hadn’t the last time you and Constantine were here, but there was still life in the store, so it wasn’t closed. You opened the door and entered quietly. 

There was a bored-looking expression on the cashier’s face, and he seemed to be staring off into space. There was also another person by the drinks cooler who was staring intently at the energy drinks. Neither of the people reacted as you entered the store, and so you did your best to ignore them. 

You approached the aisle with all of the pre-packed sandwiches and began your own contemplating to decide which one you wanted. Did you want two of the same, or two different ones? They were 8 dollars each, so you could do more than two. Did you want more then two? You were supposed to buy dinner for tomorrow as well... 

You settled for four different ones. One chicken , one vegetarian, one beef, and one bacon. You would just pick out the pieces that you didn’t like. Muses, you missed Subway. Being able to make your own sandwich sounded heavenly right now. Actually, making your own food sounded heavenly. Maybe, you just missed having a kitchen.  

Leaving the sandwiches, you set your aim on the drinks cooler. You wanted some muses-damned soda. The person who had been there earlier had moved on from the drinks, several energy drinks in a small cart (Boy, that amount could not have been good for their heart.), and was now staring intently at the candy.  

You looked into the cooler, and you were just about to settle on a soda (What the flying fuck is Zesti?) when everything went to shit. 

From out of nowhere, you truly could not have expected it, Red Robin came flying through the window and into the aisle shelves. Glass scattered everywhere and you suddenly found yourself very thankful for being so far back into the store. The aisle shelves at the front fell under the weight of the very injured and very passed out Red Robin. Both you, the cashier, and the stranger by the candy all started screaming in unison.  

You dropped your sandwiches just as the stranger by the candy dropped their cart and the cashier jumped over the counter. The three of you hastily and in a panic approached the passed-out vigilante. There was a lot of blood, and one of his arms was bent in a way it most certainly not have been bent in. 

The cashier was the first person to speak (or, speak isn’t the right word. He was positively shouting in panic.), “OH MY GOD, WE HAVE TO GIVE HIM CPR!” 

Red Robin was clearly breathing, just fine if a bit staggered, this fact did not stop you from shouting back. “DO YOU GIVE A PERSON WITH BROKEN BONES CPR?” 

The person with the ungodly amount of energy drinks gestured angrily with their hands. They too shouted, “YOU IDIOTS, PUT HIM IN A RECOVERY POSITION!” 

Their words made you pause. Recovery position... Why was that so familiar?  

That’s right you learnt about it in class. But, wasn’t the recovery position to help someone breathe? You turned towards the energy drinker (What a truly concerning amount of energy drinks). “IS THAT GONNA HELP?” 

The three of you stepped around each other, and the area of debris that had gathered around the passed-out vigilante. You and the cashier shared a concerned look, as the energy drinker (Heart failure was definitely in their future) approached Red Robin and began manoeuvring him to their hearts content.  

They laid him down in a position that was distinctly not recovery position, but it probably beat the absolutely dastardly position he had been in before. The energy drinker took of their coat before bundling it up and placing it under his head for support. Without warning, the energy drinker's hands began wandering, before abruptly stopping under the chest-area. Their hands began to concentrate in that area, and they were moving in a way you did not appreciate. You placed your hands on their shoulders and tried to bring them away from Red Robin. “Wuh-?” You let out a very graceful sound of confusion. “Are you tryna cop a feel?” 

Their hands flew back to Red Robin, “Bro, I’m in pre-med. Wallahi, there’s supposed to be an organ here.” 

Your heart dropped out of your ass, “What.” 

In an increasingly frantic tone, they began their examination of the still passed-out vigilante, “I can’t feel his spleen.” 

You paced quickly around in the small area around the affected vigilante. Your head was in your hands, and you felt the familiar green sneaking in over your peripheral vision. “Oh, my days, we knocked out his organ.” This is why Constantine can’t leave you alone! Some shit like this always happens to you. Your breathing was getting quicker, and the panic strangers did not help you. 

“Quick! It’s gotta be here somewhere. We can give it to the bats.” The cashier jumped into action and began lifting the somehow still passed-out vigilante. He was looking in all of the areas around Red Robin, and you had to make a conscious effort to not walk straight into him. Muses, the bats. There was no way they wouldn’t be alerted to this location now. And they would see you, see your robbing-and-terrorist-ass and lock you up. You were so screwed. 

The pre-med student was panicking to the point of fanning themselves, “You guys, you can’t live without your spleen.” You crouched down, placing your hands on the now debris covered floor beneath you.  

You needed to breathe. The green was overtaking your vision, and you were very tempted to let yourself slip away and let it take control of you. You could barely hear yourself think over the sound of the other two patrons panicking. You wanted to slip away, let something else be in control for a moment.  

You knew that letting the pit take over was bad, Constantine had stressed that on several occasions. But sometimes it was just nice to not have to think about a situation, to let something else take charge. The only thing preventing you from giving in was all the debris cutting into your palms. 

Movement from the pre-med student caught your eye. Their hands had at some point found a zipper, and they were moving to pull it up. In a mixture of shock and anger you threw yourself at them. “OH MY GOD, ARE YOU UNBUTTONING HIS SUIT?! THAT’S AN INVASION OF PRIVACY! STOP!” 

You successfully wrestled the pre-med student away from the still passed-out vigilante (Seriously, how is he still passed out? This was becoming concerning...). You pinned the pre-med student down to the floor, doing your best to ignore his squirming. The expression on their face was frantic. “WHAT IF HE’S INJURED?! HE NEEDS MEDICAL ATTENTION!” 

“NOT BY THREE DUMBASSES IN A GROCERY STORE?!” Is this guy serious? Muses, you hope they were in their first year of pre-med. 

The cashier had stopped his pacing to look at the two of you, his face was held low, and his hands were on his hips. He seemed to share your indignation, “I shoulda just stayed home and done coke.” 

Once the pre-med student stopped squirming under you, and also made a promise not to do anything without running it by you and the cashier, you got off them. The three of you all took a seat on the floor, sitting around Red Robin like you were a group of kindergarteners about to be led in a group song and Red Robin was the teacher. A sense of horror settled over your rag-tag group of grocery shoppers as you all stared mutely at the passed-out vigilante (You were starting to consider that his moving chest was actually a hallucination, and he was proper dead). The gun you had stolen cut uncomfortably into your thigh. You brought your hands up to the side of your face and felt your pulse pick up again. “Oh, my days, we killed Red Robin. We’re so cooked. Batman’s gonna fuckin’ gut us.” 

The cashier looked over at you and the pre-med student, grave expression on his face, “Well, they won’t know it was us if we got rid of the evidence.”  

“What evidence? His body?” It was now time for you and the pre-med student to be confused over the cashier. Confusion must have been evident on your faces because the cashier continued talking. 

“Don’t worry, kids. I know where to dump a body.” 

Oh muses, was this guy a murderer? You felt yourself move closer to the pre-med student. “Seriously?” Your voice cracked, but no one acknowledged it, so you were just gonna pretend it never happened. 

The cashier nodded determinedly, “Yeah, Joker’s got this vat of acid that anyone can use. I use it when I can’t be bothered to clean my dishes.” 

“What.” What the hell is this guy talking about? Is he okay upstairs? Why would he use anything of the Joker’s for something as trivial as getting rid of dishes? Is he stupid? You glanced at the pre-med student to find that they looked as confused as you felt.  

The cashier continued, oblivious to the severe confusion that had settled over the store, “Yeah, sometimes when I can’t be bothered to clean my dishes I just throw ‘em away.”  

“In a vat of acid owned by the Joker?” The question came from the pre-med student, apprehension palpable in every aspect of their being. 

“Yeah?” The cashier shrugged as if it was no big deal. 

“That anyone can use?” 

“Yeah.” The cashier nodded like a math teacher when their students have finally understood a difficult maty question, except in this case the cashier was no math teacher but a lunatic, and the math question was the insane notion of throwing away dishes in one of the Joker's vats of acid. 

You inhaled sharply before asking your question, “Does the Joker know he has a vat of acid that’s just available to the general public?”  

A beat of silence settled over the three (technically four if one wanted to count the dead passed-out vigilante) of you, and you watched as the expression on the cashier’s face changed from thoughtful, to epiphany-stricken, to horrified. His eyes snapped to you and the pre-med student, and you watched the panic enter his eyes. “Oh, my days, you’re cooked.” 

The cashier stared at the debris-covered ground in paralysed fear while you and the pre-med student glanced at each other. You nodded your head towards the vigilante, “How is he still passed out?” 

The pre-med student cringed, “Maybe, we gave him brain damage.” 

You dragged your hands downt he side of your afce in frustration and then proceeded to nod aggressively at the pre-med student and the cashier. “I’m getting brain-damage from listening yous. I’m jealous of Red Robin for missing the shitshow that is this conversation.” 

“Oh my God, take a chill pill.” The cashier continued lamenting, “I’ve just found out I’ve been dumping my shit at the Joker’s without his permission.”  

“How the fuck did you even come to the conclusion that it was just a-okay to just dump your shit at the Joker’s? Aren’t you from Gotham?” Seriously, this guy was sooo stupid. You weren’t even from Gotham and even you knew not to fuck with the Joker. 

“I was on drugs, okay?! I wasn’t exactly thinking clearly.” You muttered a couple of insults your breath and the cashier gave you the curtesy of ignoring them. 

The pre-med student held up their hands placatingly, “Are you guys okay with me taking Red Robin’s pulse? I’m concerned.” Both you and the cashier shrugged, and the student moved towards the passed-out vigilante. 

You were content with letting the student take his pulse, in fact you wanted to go back to your happy place, except you couldn’t. The conversation with the cashier had taken all panic out of your body and instead just left you exhausted, and hungry. Sooo very hungry.  

The cashier’s voice brought you out of your thoughts. “And what the fuck are you doing now?” 

Your eyes snapped to the pre-med student, and you watched as they had stopped whatever they were doing to look at the cashier, confusion evident in their body. “Taking his pulse?” 

You looked at where the student’s hand rested. Unless you missed the world-wide update where protocol was to take someone’s pulse by the armpits, this student was being an idiot. “Are you like, sure you're in pre-med?” 

The cashier nodded, eyebrows furrowed, “Yeah, I literally dropped out of middle school and even I know you’re not supposed to take a pulse by the armpits.” 

The pre-med student stepped away from Red Robin, head held low in what you hoped was embarrassment and took his seat next to you again. There was no more movement, no more excitement from the three of you, just silence and staring at Red Robin. 

About half an hour after first crashing into the store and absolutely ruining your evening. Red Robin began stirring. The three of you shot up to your feet, making different sounds of exclamations, and moving carefully closer to the vigilante without crowding him.  

The domino mask covered his eyes and eyebrows, but his mouth was slightly open. “Oh my God, areya alright?” The cashier reached out a hand to help pull the vigilante up. Red Robin took it, and with a grunt and with some help he was standing on his own two feet. 

“Yeah, do you like... want anything?” The pre-med student had shoved his hands in his pant pockets. Man, now you’re the only one that hasn’t spoken to the formerly passed-out vigilante.  

Red Robin opened his mouth, lifted a hand up and pointed slightly, “Painkillers, do you have any?” 

Now, before you could even begin to think about what you were going to say, you had already opened your mouth and begun talking, “I mean... I have a gun?” Are you stupid? Why did you open your big, stupid mouth? You just keep shooting yourself in your foot. Now, they’re gonna ask questions and somehow connect you to the museum. Oh, your life is over. 

All eyes were on you now. “What.” 

The cashier frowned, nose scrunched and eyes squinting at you, “Aren’t you like, 15?”  

You scoffed and raised one of your hands up in defence, “I’m actually 17, but yeah, I was getting robbed earlier except I was like... uno reverse...! And took his gun.” You nodded slowly; lips pursued as the rest of the people stared at you in bewilderment.  

A moment of silence passed as you awkwardly stared at the three others. Red Robin turned his head slightly and held out his hand. “I think I will take that actually.” 

You handed over the gun that you had stolen and felt a weight lift off your chest. Thank muses, now the gun is someone else's problem. You could finally stop feeling guilty about stealing it. Out of sight, out of mind.  

Someone landed deftly just outside the glass door of the grocery store (Or, well, what remained of the door after Red Robin had flown through the wall). The four (Officially four this time! Not just three dumbasses and someone who had collapsed) of you looked over simultaneously and were met with the sight of Robin. 

... 

Who the hell gave that ten-year-old a sword? 

“Robin.” Red Robin greeted the other vigilante (the apparently sword-wielding one) cordially. He walked away from your crowd of misfits and joined the other vigilante. The three of you left in the store watched as the two vigilantes whispered in hushed tones before Robin seemingly had enough and made a vaguely threating gesture.  

Red Robin sighed and then grapple-hooked away. Damn, not even a goodbye or thanks for all of your trouble. How rude.  

Robin looked at the leaving vigilante before turning his attention to your little crowd. Despite the fact that he was wearing a domino mask, you could tell there was a sour expression on his face. He zeroed in on the pre-med student next to you, “You can live without your spleen, you just have to take antibiotics.”  

“And is he? Taking his antibiotics.” Your question made the sword-wielding vigilante pause.  

There was a beat of silence. The light in the store behind you flickered. A scream could be heard in some other part of town. One of the shelves that Red Robin had crashed into earlier finally decided to give up and crash into the ground. 

“...Of course.” Robin’s tone was clipped. He seemingly had enough of your group because with a determined nod in the direction of the three of you, he grappled away in the same direction as Red Robin. 

The three of you stood in silence, quietly taking in the absolute shitshow of an evening this had turned into.  

You turned to the pre-med student standing next to you and placed a hand on their shoulder, “Bro, if you ever become a doctor, wallahi I’m moving. It’s not a rogue that’s gonna do me in, it’ll be yous.” 

The pre-med student nodded sadly, perhaps remembering when they tried to take Red Robin’s pulse through his armpits, or when they insisted that a person couldn’t live without their spleen. Their next words were spoken quietly, eyes wide, looking at you with a guilty expression and you were suddenly reminded of a wet puppy, “I’ve also just remembered that you can’t even feel a spleen. It’s covered by the ribcage.” 

You threw your arms up in frustration. 

 

*** 

 

John appeared in front the run-down bar in which Zatanna had requested a meeting. For once, it was not John who was being vague, it was Zatanna. He didn’t really know why she was calling for him, maybe there was an issue she needed his help with. 

He scoffed as soon as the thought was in his head. Yeah, right. As if Zee needed his help. She was a force to be reckoned with, in her own right. If she needed his help, then the situation would have to be proper shite. 

He was outside the bar, smoking his cigarette, waiting for the agreed upon meeting time. Admittedly, he had been early, but after nearly six months of no teleportation magic he had forgotten how quick it went. Despite his... everything, John was still a human man. He too could get stagnant in routines. 

John stomped the last embers out of the cigarette and sighed. He needed to get his shit together and stop stalling. So, what if the last meeting between the two of them ended badly? Zee had only reacted negatively to the kid, and they weren’t even here right now. 

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his trenchcoat. Maybe, that was why Zee called the meeting. Maybe, she figured out that the kid blew up a museum.  

John turned towards the bar-door, opened it and immediately felt himself enveloped in magic. Instead of the run-down bar that was in actuality behind the door, John was instead met with the familiar look of the library in Zatanna’s pocket dimension. He stepped inside and watched as the bar-door disappeared. Hm.  

Why would she remove the exit? 

He turned back around, eyes landing on Zatanna. She was sat on a deep, maroon coloured armchair and next to her, on a deep brown end table, her signature top hat rested. Her legs were crossed, and there was a determined expression on her face. John nodded at her, “Nice pocket dimension.” He glanced around at the library room. It looked the same as it had last time. Last time... Jesus, that must have been years ago.  

The bookshelves still reached up to the roof, and there was still a fireplace by one of the walls. It was lit. An illusion of course, everything in this room was an illusion, some more tangible than others. If someone reached their hand into the fire, unless Zatanna willed it, it wouldn’t hurt. It wasn’t real. A skilled magician like Zatanna could change the tangibility of objects no problem. So, while the fire wasn’t real, the two armchairs were. Zatanna was kind enough not to make anyone squat and had made the two chairs as real as they could be in her pocket dimension. He took his seat on the brown leather armchair next to Zatanna, “So, why’ve you called me here then?” 

Zatanna fixed John with a look, one that would no doubt send a chill down a regular person’s spine, “We need to talk about the kid.”  

John raised his eyebrows. He opened his arms, palms facing towards Zatanna before resting them on the arms of the leather armchair. “Right, well, you’ve met ‘em once like four months ago, haveya been thinkin’ about questions to ask since?” 

Zatanna sighed deeply, “Why are you making them do your bidding?” John began to protest but was silenced with a singular look from Zatanna. “Don’t try to talk yourself out of it. As you are well aware their magic traces are incredibly distinctive. The Gotham Museum was covered in them.” Zatanna glared at John again when he tried to respond, “Furthermore, this is the sixth supposed Ring of Dispel to be stolen within the last 5 months. What are you playing at, Constantine?” 

“Am no making ‘em do anythin’ without a reason.” John lightly drummed his fingers against the armchair. “They need ta practice their magic before it accumulates ta a point of explodin’, or heaven forbid, implodin’.” 

Zatanna glowered at him, “That’s why we have pocket dimensions, Constantine. You’re using their magical reserves as an excuse to make them commit crime.” 

John sighed in frustration, “Zee, you don’t understand-” 

“So help me understand, John!” Zatanna shot up in frustration. Her tone was frustrated and there was a glare on her face. Her hands were clenched. “Explain it to me. Because to me, it looks like you’re using an unstable child to steal magical artifacts.” 

John’s eyebrows shot up, his eyes widened, and he straightened in his chair. His mouth was turned downwards, nose scrunched. Distantly, he could recognise the fact that he probably looked manic. “You’ve seen their magical core, Zatanna! The wrongness of it all, all of the memory curses. We need the ring of Dispel to dispel the curses.” He sneered, and pointed to himself, “I promised the young kidda that I’d help ‘em, and the first way to help ‘em is ta get their memories back and fix their magical core.” 

Zatanna ran a hand through her hair; frustration permeated her being. Her shoulders were hunched, and she began pacing around the area the two of them were in, “Then why haven’t you told the league? You have access to all of the known magical recourses in the world, and you’re not taking advantage of them!” 

John sighed and rested his head against one of his hands, “When you met 'em, did you get a chance ta properly analyse their magical core?” Zatanna shook her head in no, and so John continued, “Well, it’s hard not ta notice that there’s somethin’ wrong with it, but the curses placed upon ‘em are so overpowering that unless ya go looking, ya won’t notice the other things.” 

Zatanna took her seat again, what previously had been frustration had melted into confusion, “What other things?” Her voice was soft, openness seeping into her very being. 

“Their magical core doesn’t belong ta ‘em,” Out of the corner of his eye he could see Zatanna tense. “And as if that wasn’t bad enough, they...” He sighed. “They appear to be fused with...” John pursed his lips, “what I think, is several different magical objects. Including, the poculum mali.” 

John looked at Zatanna, trying to gauge her reaction. She had sunk into her chair, hands laying in her lap, eyes cast downwards, a conflicted expression on her face, “And that’s why you haven’t gone to the league.” Zatanna raised her head up and looked John in the eye. Her expression had moved from conflicted, to understanding, to incredibly sad. “I don’t understand. Who would do that to a child?” 

John leaned his head back, and glanced up at the roof of the pocket dimension, “How familiar are you with the League of Assassins?” Zatanna inhaled sharply, and that was all that John needed.  

“John,” Zatanna’s tone was careful, as if she was unsure if she should share her own observations. It made John tense, “I think you should loop in the rest of the league, and even if not all of the league, I think telling Bruce what’s going on might be good.” 

John scoffed. “Yeah, right. And have 'im lock ‘em up in Arkham? That’s no happenin’.” 

“Jesus, John. Bruce wouldn’t lock a child up in Arkham! And he has experience with dealing with the League of Assassins. You haven’t had a solid base of operations since picking the kid up, I know. I checked the League Logs. That can’t be good for a child. Especially one like them. They need stability. Can you really give it to them?” 

“I promised the kidda I’d help ‘em. Sure. A part of the reason I didn’t inform anyone about them, was 'cos I knew that there would be apprehensions about helpin’ ‘em given their magical core, given their connections ta the League of Assassins, given their curses, given the magical objects. We might be the League’s designated magic users, but even that won’t guarantee safe treatment by the League. But I also didn’t say anythin’ because of the kid.” John leaned forward in his chair, one hand carding through his hair, and the other gesturing wildly. “You’ve met ‘em. You saw how they reacted to you. It took me two days to find ‘em, and I don’t even know how they evaded me for that long. Imagine how they would react to the rest of the league.” 

A silence settled between the two magic users. 

Zatanna was the first to break the silence. “I really don’t agree. They need stability, regular person stability, as well as magical stability. I’m not sure you can give them either.” 

John sighed, “Yeah, well am no havin’ ‘em locked up, Zee.” 

“I know, John. I don’t think that’s the right move either.” The silence returned. The only thing audible being the crackling of the fireplace illusion. John tiredly dragged a hand down his face. “What’s their name?” Zatanna’s words were spoken softly, like a secret only shared between the two of them. 

John leaned back in his leather armchair, crossed his arms in front of him, and smiled sadly, “They don’t remember.” 

Notes:

so, admittedly i haven't read the hellblazer series since i was like a literal child, so if Constantine feels ooc, or like a mishmash of different canons... shhhhh. HOWEVER, i feel very connected to Constantine, because he's a con-man, scouser with a drinking/smoking problem, like hoe that's my dad

also, i changed the title slightly. before it was referencing the song Ikväll igen by Bolaget (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lLw6VpcUpVE), and while certain songlines fit the MC's general feelings towards their situation, I feel that the new referenced song Deslocado by Napa (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pNstFdk-hnY) fits a lot more. They're both really good songs so check them outtt

take care of urself<3333

Chapter 3: Zatanna goddamn Zatara

Summary:

Zatanna shares her information with Bruce

Notes:

so Zatanna's pov of this was finished on the 30th of november. bruce's didn't get done until today. fml.

again, if you feel that there's a missing tag, or a spelling mistake (i cba spellchecking this chapter LMAO), feel free to comment!!

Enjoy <3333

Zatanna left the meeting with Constantine feeling hollow. Her thoughts were unable to leave the child he had picked up and their circumstances.  

A person’s magical core is as an intrinsic part of a person as their soul is. Without it, you can never be the person you once were, and with it...  

Zatanna frowned. Adding a magical core to a person would mean first removing it from its original owner and then adding it to the new person. It’s a process that Zatanna had never heard done before, because it was simply unnecessary. As far as she was aware, no one had ever had someone else's magical core added to their being. Every person in the world has a magical core, what separates magic users from non-magic users is often just circumstance. Given the right circumstances, the right mentorship, even the right kind of magic, a person’s magical core activates.  

Why would the League of Assassins do that to someone? Zatanna might not have as vast of knowledge of Ra’s Al-Ghul as Bruce, but she had read the basic file that he had shared with the Justice League. He had been around for hundreds of years, and the activation circumstances for magic truly weren’t that hard. All of this combined with his wealth, he should not have a hard time activating his magical core (Hell, if it wasn’t already engaged!). 

(“They appear to be fused with... what I think, is several different magical objects. Including, the poculum mali.”) 

That’s right. Constantine had said that. Fused with several different magical objects... Zatanna’s frown deepened. Ra’s Al-Ghul had magic artifacts. She knew this, Bruce knew this, and the Justice League knew this. The fact that Ra’s Al-Ghul apparently had had the poculum mali this entire time and no one had known had made her heart drop. But, if it was fused with the child, then that would mean that Ra’s Al-Ghul didn’t have it anymore. 

The poculum mali... 

The cup of Evil. 

Said to corrupt and bring out the worst qualities in a person. Dimming their senses while enhancing their physical capabilities. When Zatanna had been a little girl, her father had told her stories of the poculum mali. Of its destructive nature, of its irresistibility. Her father had long argued that destroying magical objects like the poculum mali was the best thing to do. But it was hard, even for a skilled magic-user like her father. The magic was ancient and deeply interwoven with both the object and reality, without the proper precautions and the proper incantations destroying it would have disastrous consequences. Her father had believed that he knew the right precautions and the right incantations to finally destroy it, but it had gone missing before he had had the chance to perform it. To think that it had ended up with Ra’s Al-Ghul of all people... 

The poculum mali would no doubt be useful to people like Ra’s Al-Ghul. If he wanted the magical powers that came along with those objects, why wouldn’t he just use them on himself? He must have been using it. The poculum mali was too useful not too. So, why would he use it on that child? A child with unknown connections to him, a child with another person’s magical core... Why go through all of that effort? Zatanna hadn’t looked at the child’s magical core close enough when she had first met them, just looked to see what their relationship with Constantine had been and what kind of curses were on them, but now, she was admonishing herself for not looking closer. Constantine said several objects; how many were there? Were the objects even fused with the child or with their newfound magical core? 

And that’s not even mentioning the curses that the child had had placed on them. Constantine had mentioned memory curses, and they had been apparent to Zatanna even during the brief meeting that the two had shared. Constantine seemed to believe that getting rid of the memory curses is the first step to help the child.  

Zatanna paced around her pocket dimension. One hand was on her chin, and the other was on her hip. The only thing that could be heard was the light crackling of the fire and the familiar thud, thud, thud of her heels. Getting rid of the curses would mean that the child gets their memories back. Would they even benefit from having their memories back? Becoming fused with magical objects... She hoped, deeply and truly, that it was a painless process. That that child hadn’t experienced the pain of being taken apart (had they been taken apart? Was something taken from them in lieu of adding something?), the pain of having something added (Surely, that must have hurt...) What measure of pain had that misfortunate child experience? Did they remember the pain? Or was that locked away behind their memory curses? 

Zatanna's thoughts wandered back to the poculum mali.  

She had met the child. The poculum mali and them was nothing like the Fates and the helmet of fate, she was almost sure of it. Constantine would have said something if that was the case. He might not trust the Justice League with something like this, but he would trust her. She was... almost sure of it.  

She tried placating herself. Besides, there were no mentions of a new superhero, or superpowered vigilante, or superpowered villain making the rounds. Zatanna nodded to herself in determination and ran a hand through her hair. Constantine would have mentioned if it was like the Fates. For her own sake, she had to be sure of that part. 

Had this not been a virtually indestructible pocket dimension, she was almost sure that she would have ruined the floor with all of her pacing.  

Zatanna sighed and silently cursed herself. She had been so taken aback by Constantine’s admission, by his explanation, by the child’s circumstance, that she wasn’t sure if it fully registered the implications of his words. Zatanna had ended up with more questions than answers. She burrowed her head in her hands and sighed deeply.  

What was she supposed to do? 

Zatanna brought her head up from her head and looked, truly and genuinely looked at the portrait above the fireplace. It had been a gift from someone she no longer wished to remember, but it had been enchanted with powerful magic. Magic that reacted to the owner’s emotions. 

She watched as the portrait above the hearth transformed into one of her father. He was standing proud, in his hero work regalia. “Ack.” It caressed at the deep pit of longing that she had had in her, ever since he had died. Zatanna was proud of the work she had done. She was the best goddamn magic user around. She helped people. Just like her father. Zatanna was making a positive impact on the world. She is the person she has always wanted to be.  

So, why did looking at her father’s smile, his kind eyes, fill her with shame? If she were to let Constantine to continue on as he had been, could she truly and genuinely say that she helped people? Leaving the child with him, is that the best she can do in this situation? Is that the best that Constantine can do in this situation? Is Constantine even the right person for this situation? A child with several, difficult, high ranking memory curses. They had amnesia. There was no reasoning around it. What did they remember? How much do they know? According to Constantine, they don’t even remember their own name. Her mind wandered to Constantine’s mute child (his driver...!), Nolan or whatever he was called. In some ways the two children were in the same boat. They both needed extra help; they needed extra attention. Could Constantine truly deliver on that front? 

What was she supposed to do? Be nothing but a bystander? 

She was Zatanna goddamn Zatara. To think that she’d be stumped by some weird, new magic was ridiculous. She scoffed, expression finally turning triumphant. She was going to help that child to the best of her abilities- to the best of the world’s abilities.  

To help the child, what was the first, best move? What would her first action be? Constantine hadn’t mentioned if the League of Assassins were after the pair, or rather, the kid. But she figured it was likely. You didn’t invest that much effort, that much time into a person without getting something from them in return.  

Quickly pulling her top hat towards herself with the help of magic, Zatanna turned towards the exit of the pocket dimension. A smirk made its way onto her face. Luckily for her, luckily for the kid, she had promised the world's foremost expert on the League of Assassins an exchange of information. She was going to get them the help that they deserved, the help that they needed, the help that Constantine couldn’t provide. 

 

*** 

 

Tonight’s patrol had been the most eventful patrol in a while. And while it didn’t quite soothe the anxiety that had washed over Bruce; the team; Gotham, it had helped lessened it slightly. 

Duke, Cass, and Dick were all upstairs resting in preparation for morning patrol, it left only Alfred, Stephanie, Tim, Damian and for once, Jason (!!) down in the Batcave. Barbara was no doubt still on call, waiting for the debrief (or more like, making fun of Tim), and sure, Bruce might have preferred if she was, y’know, actually in his house, but trying to remove Barbara from the clocktower would be a battle he would surely loose (He was not known as the world’s greatest detective for nothing!). But still! Almost all of his people (!!) in one place (!!!), under his roof (!!!!).  

Bruce was being very normal about this, thank you very much.  

He was the last to arrive to the cave, having been forced to stay behind for some clean-up work downtown. He was greeted with a still of a video, no doubt the one from Tim’s suit-cam, and Jason and Stephanie both hunched over, leaning on the other for support, in laughter. Damian stood to the side, a humours smirk displayed on his face (Christ, he looks more like Talia every day). Tim was brooding in a chair; arm wrapped in a sling and being more thoroughly looked over by Alfred. “I don’t understand why I’m catching all the strays! I was literally passed out. Make fun of them for...” Tim gestured at the big screen. "All of their behaviour.” 

Stephanie let out a noise of pure, unfiltered glee that Bruce wasn’t totally sure he had heard before, “Dude, they thought they’d knocked out your spleen. That’s objectively hilarious.” 

Bruce quietly approached the group. Nevertheless, his presence was quickly noticed. Tim, Alfred, and Stephanie all gave nods of acknowledgment with varying expressions on their faces (Alfred’s small smile, Tim’s instant embarrassed wince, and Stephanie’s grin that had morphed from shit-eating to simply jocund. It was all so them.) Damian simply acknowledged his presence with a small “father.”, but it was Jason’s reaction that made his heart hurt. 

Jason’s laughter dried up, and Bruce’s quietly cursed himself. Goddammit, he ruins everything. Here everyone was, getting along, and he just had to ruin it. Quick, he couldn’t let his dejection show. That would only cause further upset.  

He steeled his expression and, let his eyes drift from Jason to Tim in the chair, “Red Robin. Report.” 

Tim straightened immediately, expression turning carefully blank. “Fracture in the left humerus as well as a slight concussion, most likely sustained during the fight with Killer Croc. Some bruising on the lower left side ribs, most likely sustained during...” Tim sighed deeply, “civilian attempt at medical help.” Jason and Damian both sported poorly concealed smirks. 

“Killer Croc wasn’t apprehended either. Escaped down the sewers before I could get to ‘em.” Stephanie added on. Her expression had changed from the happy one she had worn earlier into something more frustrated. She looked down at the ground, eyebrows scrunched and pursing her lips. 

Bruce placed a hand on her shoulder, “Never mind that. Both you and Tim made good work on surveiling Two-face's gang tonight which was the priority. Killer Croc will still be in the sewers tomorrow.” Bruce looked up at the rest of the team, “Remember to charge your chosen electrical weapon for combat with him.” 

He got different nods of agreement and turned to one of the smaller monitors on the batcomputer where Oracle’s symbol was proudly displayed. “Oracle. Report of tonight’s events.” 

“The only big notable thing was Spoiler’s and Red Robin’s encounter with Killer Croc. Other than that, everything has transpired as it has the past three months. Smaller petty type crime.” There was a frustrated lilt to Barbara’s voice, and Bruce felt a sigh on coming. Same as the past three months. 

An optimist would take this as a sign that things in Gotham were taking a turn for the better. That the years, decades, of work Bruce had put into crime fighting were finally paying off. That he could finally hang up the cowl and go back to being just Bruce Wayne, billionaire, father of... a couple of kids, philanthropist. 

But, Bruce was not optimist. He was a realist. And he realised that there was probably something deeper at work here. Someone, or someones, or something, was planning something. And, there would be no rest for Bruce until the grand plan was revealed. 

... 

His children could definitely pull things back for a bit tough. 

“Any news on the museum bombing?” Tim asked, leaning forward in his chair, expression calculating, non-broken hand supporting his chin. “Didn’t we call in Zatanna for that?” 

“You most certainly did.” A voice spoke from behind the group. Bruce turned around and gazed out on Zatanna. “And I come bearing information”  

Her usual confident smile helped soothe some of Bruce’s own anxieties regarding the bombing. He really did not like dealing with magic, especially by himself. Sure, he could make do, and he would prefer to do it by himself, but he didn’t like to. Magic muddled everything and was just plain annoying. “Zatanna.” Bruce reached out a hand and gave her a firm shake. “Thank you for your help.” 

“No worries, Bruce.” Zatanna glanced over to the rest of his team, before looking at him again. “We got lucky. I actually know who did-” Zatanna’s eyes got caught on something behind Bruce (most likely the still of the video up on the big computer screen), and her breath hitched (Why would it hitch? Does she recognise someone on the screen?). “Oh.” Zatanna’s eyebrows furrowed, and she pursed her lips. “It's them.” 

Collectively everyone slowly turned around to look at the big computer screen and the still of the video. It was like everyone was collectively holding their breaths. Bruce took a moment to properly look at the still.  

In the middle was an older guy, eyes sunken and wide with concern. His skin was pale, dry on the apples of his cheeks, and multiple different sores around the area where a beard might grow, (Perhaps drug misuse? One of the people had mentioned cocaine...). His hair was unbrushed and unkempt. 

To the right of him was a younger person. Their features were androgenous, and their hair was long, thin, and unkempt. They had dark eyebags, and their features were drooping slightly. Their skin was pale, and their eyebrows were furrowed in a way that made the fine lines on their forehead more apparent.  

To the left of the middle was another young person. Hair slightly unbrushed, with a white streak peeking out. They were nervously biting their lip, eyebrows furrowed, and eyes wet. Bruce tilted his head slightly. Hm. He could swear that their eyes were glowing, even the faintest of glows, green. (Lazarus pit? Hadn’t Dick run into a young teen with Lazarus pit markers on patrol?) 

Collectively, everyone turned around to look at Zatanna, different grimaces on their faces. “It's who?” Jason’s voice rose on the last word. 

Bruce turned around to Zatanna. She nodded slightly, and swallowed thickly, “The person who blew up the museum.” Zatanna raised a hand up and pointed shakily at the young teen to the left. “It's them. Constantine’s new ward.” 

A beat of silence passed over the group before there was a loud eruption of sound. Stephanie and Damien both tried pressing past Bruce, to get closer to Zatanna. “JOHN Constantine? The fucking wizard?” Stephanie asked loudly, as if she couldn’t believe her ears. Bruce heard Tim stand up behind and quickly turned around to give him a glare to make him sit down again. 

Tim rolled his eyes before going back to the chair he had previously been in, “His ward’s going around blowing up museums?” His tone was incredulous, as if he was having a hard time connecting the image of John Constantine, his ward, and a blown-up museum. “What- Have they gone rogue?” 

Zatanna sighed deeply, and Bruce felt an incoming headache. “They haven’t gone rogue. They’re doing it at his directive.” 

As the new piece of information landed amongst them, the cave got even louder.  

“They’ve been travelling together for,” Zatanna pursed her lips, “I want to say 5 months. Constantine picked them up after” Zatanna sighed again, “After they escaped from a League of Assassins’ base.” Zatanna looked down at the ground, before fixing Bruce with a determined look, “I think it’s best if we discuss it in private, Bruce.” 

Zatanna was an extremely capable member of the Justice League, a personal ally to Batman, and more than that a friend of Bruce’s. If Constantine had indeed picked up a child, from a League of Assassins base no less, and was now instructing said child to commit criminal acts, Bruce understood why Zatanna would want to speak about it in private. 

Depending on the information Zatanna shared, this could (maybe, it even should be right now) become a Justice League issue. It needed to be handled with utmost care, with utmost privacy. Constantine’s ward deserved that discretion. 

Bruce grunted and began walking off in the direction of one of the soundproof rooms that he kept in the cave. Speaking to Zatanna in private was the right to do. 

His children did not seem to agree with his directive. Loud protests came from all of his children, each making their own argument for why they should also be told about Constantine and the child’s situation. Bruce opened the door to the offshoot room and let Zatanna walk in first. He turned around, looking at each of his children, “I will tell you all relevant information later.” 

Bruce closed the door and turned around to Zatanna. “Tell me what’s going on.” 

Zatanna took off her top hat and ran a hand through her hair. She looked at Bruce, steeled expression, and began talking, “On a Justice League ordained missions, around five or six months ago, John Constantine found an injured child. I don’t-” Zatanna faltered slightly, “I don’t know how injured exactly, if they were fine physically, but they were incredibly hurt in other ways.” Zatanna sighed, “You’re not a magic user, so I’m not sure how exactly to explain it to you.” 

“I’ll try to understand, just tell me how you perceive it.” Bruce tilted his head slightly.  

Zatanna nodded lightly, “Every person has a magical core. You have one, I have one. They’re just different levels of engaged. Mine is highly engaged, highly active, and yours is slightly more engaged than a civilian’s. Along with your soul and body, your magical core is an intrinsic part of you. The soul, the body, and the magical core, is the very essence of your being.  

The child that Constantine picked up... They have someone else’s magical core inside of them.”  

Zatanna looked ill, and Bruce felt his heart stutter. Bruce remembered, during one of his earlier League missions with Zatanna, they had fought a being that could manipulate souls. Bruce had gotten too close, and it had ended up lightly grazing his soul. Bruce could still remember how violated he felt, how insignificant he felt, how naked he felt. “How is that possible?” 

“I didn’t think it was.” She admitted quietly. “I’ve never heard of it done before. The magical core, it’s a part of a person. To remove it...” Zatanna got very quiet, and an incredibly troubled expression settled on her features. 

“Who would do something like that?” Who has the resources to do something like that? Bruce felt a familiar weight settle over his shoulder, a suspiciously Ra’s Al-Ghul shaped weight.  

“Constantine thinks it has something to do with the League of Assassins. And it checks out. When I met them, they got so freaked out that they showed clear markers for having been through a Lazarus pit. According to Constantine, he found them in a different city.” 

A child, one who had experienced something terrible (Hadn’t Jason mentioned something about having his memories effected after being in the pit? Do they even remember being changed?), having been taken in (changed, maybe) by the League of Assassins, only later to end up in the care of John Constantine?  

John Constantine, a walking disaster. If Bruce were religious, he would invoke God to help that child.  

John Constantine, a walking disaster he may be, but he was still a Justice League member. While Bruce was sure (almost sure, one can never be a hundred-percent certain) that Constantine was not harming that child in a physical capability, he was still apparently making them blow up museums. Speaking of which, 

“How does the museum bombing factor into all of this?” 

Zatanna groaned in frustration, “The bombing was a distraction. The real goal was an artifact in the museum. The Ring of Dispel. It dispels magic.” Zatanna got very quiet for a moment, “Constantine thinks it’ll help them, they’ve got some curses on them.” 

Bruce frowned, “Sustained with Constantine?” 

“No,” Zatanna shook her head. “They were on them when he found them.” 

Bruce turned his next question over in his mind, “Would that imply that there’s a magic user working alongside the League of Assassins?” He wasn’t sure he was going to like the answer, no matter what it was. Either the League of Assassins was now allying itself with a magic user (a powerful one, if Bruce could hazard a guess), or the child had been somewhere else before the League of Assassins.  

“Not necessarily.” Zatanna crossed her arms and leaned against one of the walls. “The curses might have been on them when they were... when they came into the League’s possession.” Zatanna looked at Bruce, a bone-deep exhaustion visible on her features. “It also would not surprise me if Ra’s Al-Ghul has his magical core engaged. What with the age, and the pits.” 

Bruce did not, in fact, like that information. The answer to wether or not the League of Assassins was working with a magic user was a big, fat maybe, or a big, fat always have been. 

Bruce glanced away slightly from Zatanna to properly process the information he had received. 

A child... A child with newly found magical abilities, a child who has been affected by the Lazarus pit, was able to escape from a League of Assassins base. It was improbable.  

Ra's Al-Ghul had no doubt forethought every single possible outcome. The child’s rogue power output, their emotions, and no doubt their abilities before their experience in the League of Assassins. For them to be able to escape, something unexpected must have occurred. 

It seemed almost careless on Ra’s Al-Ghul's part.  

Careless was not a word Bruce, or anyone for that matter, used to describe Ra’s Al-Ghul. Had they escaped on their own? Had Constantine left out that part of the story to Zatanna? Or... was there someone else entirely involved?  

Who is brave enough to steal from Ra’s Al-Ghul? 

... 

Was anything even stolen? 

“Bruce.” Zatanna’s voice, careful and heavy, brough him out of his thoughts, “I don’t think Constantine is the right person to take care of them.” 

That caught Bruce’s attention. While Constantine was a bit of a mess, he was never purposefully malicious towards children. Bruce had even gotten to see it during. So, sure he might not be the ideal caretaker, but he has Noah. Him and Bruce had even shared caretaking stories, and sure, neither man was going to be winning any awards for parenting, Bruce had never gotten the impression that Constantine had been bad.  

“He doesn’t want the League involved at all, for one. Which directly goes against your League of Assassins protocol. The child is... The curses I mentioned earlier, they specifically affect their memory. According to Constantine, they remember nothing. They can’t even remember their own name.” Zatanna’s tone turned pleading, “A child like that needs stability. They need help, and support to find their own footing. They’re not going to get that travelling around the world, with Constantine of all people!” 

Due to the frankly concerning number of Rogues in Gotham, amnesia wasn’t a completely foreign subject. Bruce, of course, had protocols. Both for short-term care, and long-term care. Two different plans for different targeted groups (Civilians vs. Vigilantes), and then that was further expanded upon specific circumstances, and other symptoms.  

All this to say, Bruce knows what he would do to help the child. And Zatanna was right, in that a child, matter of fact, any person, with amnesia needs stability. They need routines they can follow; they need medical care.  

Was Constantine able to provide this while travelling with them? 

“Before we do anything, like for the child out of his care. I think it’s worth bringing them both in for questioning. There might be more to the story that we aren’t privy to; things might become clearer.” Bruce turned around and faced Zatanna fully, “We know that they’re still in Gotham, so what I want you to do is go to the watchtower and give Constantine a new assignment. That way we know where they are going. I also want you to compile any and all files pertaining to his movements since his last mission.” Zatanna nodded determinedly, and Bruce walked to the door and rested his hand on the door handle. Bruce turned his head slightly to look at her, “Come back to Gotham as soon as you're done. Hand all the information you could find to Barbara.” 

Zatanna chanted softly to herself, glowing symbols appearing around her as she vanished in a flash of light. Bruce turned his head back to the door and sighed deeply. He opened the door, ready to face the music. 

Notes:

never writing bruce-pov again, jesus christ. it felt like i was fighting with literally everyone and everything so trust you will not be getting his pov again.

not at all happy with how this turned out so i might come back another time when I have more experience to rewrite it LOL. But if it doesn't get released today, it's not getting released at all!!

in the original chapter outline, the MC's next part was actually the main focus of the chapter, but later events would not make any sense if i didn't include some form of the characters reasonings, as well as, their understanding of the situation. Next chapter will be longer because of the MC focus!! infinitely easier to write than Bruce (especially when they are in situations LOL)

(Also, Zatanna not telling Bruce about the magical objects👀 hm, did she forget???)

(also also, toying around with a Peter Parker in Gotham Story hihihi. it will have my own little spin on it though)

Happy Holidays, Merry Christmas, and Happy New Year!!

Notes:

i wanted the MC to just be the picture of pathetic and anxious LMAO
like look up the phrase sopping wet cat and there's just a picture of them

take care of urself<3333

(also, if anyone has any tips for writing panic attacks I am more than happy to receive them!!)