Chapter Text
There were a lot of ways for a city to end up on the Infinite Realms’ “problem list.”
Mass death. Necromancy. Chronal anomalies.
Gotham, of course, had checked all three and then, for fun, scrawled “see attached” in metaphorical blood-red ink.
Danny glared at the glowing file hovering in front of the throne.
“I’m just saying,” he said to no one in particular, “if this is a joke, it stopped being funny about twenty pages ago.”
The report did not respond. It just pulsed faintly, ectoplasmic light flickering over the polished, space like stone of the throne room. The Infinite Realms murmured somewhere beyond the high, broken arches—distant wails, the clank of chains, a ghostly laugh echoing from a corridor that technically didn’t exist last week.
Here, at the center of it all, it was just Danny and paperwork.
A lot of paperwork.
He slumped sideways in the oversized throne, bare feet hooked over one armrest, the official King’s cape bunched up under him like a murdered blanket. One hand dangled off the side, fingers dripping tiny sparks of green as he flicked through hovering pages.
“Okay, let’s see what else we’ve got on—” he squinted at the heading, “—‘Gotham City, Earth Designation 10-B.’ That’s already ominous. Why does it need a letter?”
The summary page zoomed closer at his unspoken command.
- Anomalous resurrections: 37 confirmed, 200+ suspected
- Known Lazarus Pit activity: persistent
- Urban death rate: statistically improbable
- Liminal saturation: high
- Recommendation: Immediate royal inspection.
Below that, in sharper script:
Failure to address continued violations may result in automatic quarantine measures.
The words pulsed once, bright and insistent.
Danny kicked his heel against the throne, jaw tightening.
“Quarantine,” he repeated. “Right. Because cutting an entire city out of reality is totally a normal, reasonable solution. No one will freak out about that.”
“Your Majesty.”
The voice floated in from the main doors, respectfully distant. Frostbite’s huge, furred silhouette appeared in the archway, blue eyes glowing warmly as he stepped into the throne room.
“Still getting used to that,” Danny muttered, then sat up properly. The crown—more of a ring of floating, jagged ice and green fire than an actual crown—adjusted itself over his hair like it had opinions.
“Hey, Frostbite. Please tell me you’re here to say that was misfiled and actually belongs in Pariah’s ‘not my problem’ drawer.”
Frostbite huffed a laugh, frosty breath fogging the air. “I fear not, Great One. Gotham has been… a point of concern for some time.”
“Yeah, I’m getting that.” Danny swiped, pulling up the next page. Charts and maps unfolded in layers of light. Death spikes. Liminal hotspots. Concentrated green where there shouldn’t be any green at all. “What even is a ‘Lazarus Pit’ and why does it sound like soup I’m not supposed to drink?”
“Because you are not supposed to drink it,” Frostbite said gravely. “The Pits are ancient, stolen wells of ectoplasm, corrupted and shaped by mortal hands. Their continued use erodes the barrier between life and death.”
“That’s—” Danny stabbed a finger at the map where one glowing point pulsed brighter than the others. “—this? All this is because someone decided to build black-market resurrection pools?”
“In part,” Frostbite said. “Gotham was liminal even before that. A place where the lines are thin. But the Pits… they attract desperate mortals. They encourage interference.”
Danny made a face. “So. People get dipped, crawl out all ‘I beat death, woo,’ and meanwhile the Realms are getting… what, soul notifications?”
“Disturbance reports,” Frostbite corrected gently. “Your predecessor was… not inclined to handle such matters delicately. The automatic quarantine protocol was created under his reign.”
Danny grimaced. Pariah Dark’s reign was attached to way too many policies that translated to “nuke it from orbit.”
“And if I don’t check this out now,” he said slowly, “that protocol kicks in on its own.”
Frostbite inclined his head. “Eventually. The Realms are patient, but the damage accumulates. The dead of Gotham are already… restless. Many do not pass on easily. So much violence. So much fear.”
A soft breeze swept through the throne room, rattling ghost-chains and loose stone. For a second, the air tasted like smog and rain.
Danny looked back at the maps.
The city outline was jagged, a crooked crown of skyscrapers and sprawl. Liminal energy crawled along its streets like veins.
“How bad is it?” he asked. “On a scale of one to Amity Park during my parents’ ‘let’s hook a ghost portal to the power grid’ phase?”
Frostbite’s tusks gleamed. “…When the Realms speak of dangerous cities, we whisper of Gotham.”
“Oh, good,” Danny said weakly. “I was worried it might be something actually scary.”
Frostbite chuckled, but it faded quickly. “You do not have to go personally, Great One. We can send envoys. Archivists. Hunter caste—”
“No.” Danny cut him off.
The word came out layered, his voice echoing with a deeper, older tone. The crown flared in agreement, green flames licking higher. Frostbite bowed his head on instinct.
Danny winced and scrubbed a hand over his face until the echo faded.
“Sorry. Still hate when it does that,” he muttered. “Look, if we send hunters or envoys without warning, that’s basically a declaration of war on a city that’s already freaking out its own ghosts. And if quarantine triggers, that’s… that’s millions of people. Just gone. Or cut off.”
He thought of Amity—of waking up in a world that had quietly decided his town was too much trouble.
His fingers clenched around the edge of the floating report. The ectoplasm flickered but held.
“I’ll go,” he said. “I’ll check it out. See how bad the Pits are, what’s causing all the death spikes. Maybe make some deals. Talk, not terrorize.”
Frostbite looked at him for a long moment, something proud and sad in his eyes.
“As you wish, Great One,” he said quietly. “But do not underestimate Gotham. It is… not like other cities.”
“I’ve noticed,” Danny said dryly, flicking to another page. “They have an entire section labeled ‘clowns’ in the public danger index. That’s never a good sign.”
He skimmed, brow furrowing.
Masked vigilantes. Costumed rogues. Metahumans. Magic. The acronym “JLA” popped up more than once. Gotham wasn’t just liminal—it was some kind of superhero hotspot.
“I’m starting to feel personally attacked,” he muttered. “Like the multiverse heard ‘half-dead teen hero with ghost powers’ and decided to up the stakes.”
“The world you will visit is… densely populated with extraordinary individuals,” Frostbite agreed. “There are mortals there who have faced gods and monsters.”
“Cool, cool, love that for them.” Danny closed the file with a snap. “Hopefully they can handle talking to a king without trying to stab me. Or dissect me. Or both.”
He slid off the throne, bare feet hitting the cold stone with a soft sound. The cape followed like obedient smoke, curling around his shoulders.
“You will not be alone,” Frostbite said. “The Realms will be with you. And should you require aid—”
“I know,” Danny said. “I’ll yell.”
Frostbite hesitated, then stepped forward and placed a massive hand over his heart in a formal salute. “May your path between worlds be clear, Great One.”
Danny smiled crookedly. “And may Gotham not suck as much as it looks on paper.”
That earned another chuckle. Frostbite stepped back as Danny raised a hand, drawing a line through the air.
Reality parted like curtains, green light spilling through the tear. Beyond it, dim and distant, was the outline of skyscrapers against a cloudy sky. The portal smelled like rain, exhaust, and old stone.
Gotham.
The Realms shifted around him, watching. Whispers picked up, skimming over his skin.
King. Judge. Be careful.
Danny rolled his shoulders, shaking off the chill.
“Quick inspection,” he told himself, under his breath. “Talk to whoever’s in charge. Shut down some murder soup. Come back. Easy.”
The portal’s edge crackled, clearly not convinced.
“Yeah, yeah,” he sighed. “When has that ever worked?”
With one last look at Frostbite—and the familiar, haunted halls of his very weird, very undead palace—Danny stepped through.
Gotham hit him like a punch to the lungs.
Not that he technically needed lungs, but still.
The first thing he noticed was the noise. Sirens in the distance, horns, the roar of traffic, gunshots in the distance, a dog barking two blocks over, someone shouting something creative and extremely rude from a fire escape.
On top of that, layered over everything like a second soundtrack, was the whisper.
It wasn’t human. It was the city.
He’d felt places like this before—Amity was liminal, a border-town between worlds—but Gotham was… more. The air buzzed with cold, greasy liminality, like fog that had learned how to wear buildings.
Danny stood on the edge of a rooftop, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, and tried to breathe past it.
“Okay,” he muttered. “You were not kidding, Frostbite.”
Below him, rain slicked over cracked asphalt and gleaming puddles. Neon signs flickered in the wet. A billboard sagged over a block of old brick apartments. Far off, a bat-shaped signal cut a hazy mark into the low clouds.
Huh.
“That’s not ominous at all,” Danny said.
The crown had dimmed to almost nothing, disguised as a faint, jagged glow tucked into his hair. He’d shifted into his human form before stepping through, jeans and hoodie and scuffed sneakers looking much more “random teen” than “undead monarch.” His eyes were the only thing he hadn’t fully humanized, still glowing a soft, unnatural green as he scanned the city.
He closed them, focusing.
The dead of Gotham whispered.
Flashes, fragments—
A woman clutching her purse in an alley, heart pounding.
A gunshot.
A fall from too high up.
Cold water swallowing lungs.
Laughter that didn’t sound happy at all.
He flinched away, jaw tight. Gotham’s dead were loud. Hurting.
“Hey,” he said softly, letting a pulse of calm ectoplasm roll out, invisible. “I hear you. I’ll… I’ll try, okay? I can’t fix everything, but I’ll see what’s messing things up.”
The noise receded slightly, like a crowd giving him room.
At the same time, something else pinged at the edge of his senses. Not dead, not alive. A buzzing, wrong-thrum that crawled down his spine like static.
Danny’s eyes snapped open.
There, in the distance, like a flare on his mental map—a Lazarus-tainted presence. Strong. Nearby.
His lips curved, equal parts curiosity and dread.
“Well, hello there,” he murmured. “Guess we’re starting with the deep end.”
He stepped off the rooftop.
Gravity took him for half a second before his powers caught, turning the fall into an easy, controlled drift. He went invisible as he dropped, phasing through an old rusted fire escape and an entire floor of someone’s cluttered apartment. A TV blared in a language he didn’t know, a cat hissed at the sudden cold, and then he was back out in the rain.
The wrongness grew stronger, guiding him like a beacon.
Closer now, he could feel the texture of it: Lazarus ectoplasm clawed through with rage and grief, wrapped around a soul that had already crossed the line once.
“Someone dipped you in the worst possible soup,” Danny muttered, following the pull. “And then left you to deal with the side effects. That’s rude.”
He cut through the city in a series of swift, intangible dives, until the rooftops broke and opened into a wider industrial stretch. Old warehouses hunched next to low office buildings. Sodium lamps cast dirty yellow halos over cracks and broken glass.
The Lazarus signal spiked.
Danny flickered back to visibility as he landed on the edge of a worn brick parapet, letting his feet solidify on the slick surface. Below, in a dim alley between two old warehouses, something moved.
He zoomed his vision.
A man in a red helmet fought three guys with guns and very bad life choices. The helmeted guy moved like he’d been born for violence—sharp, efficient, furious. A leather jacket, boots, a gun that was currently being used to break someone’s nose rather than shoot them.
Danny watched, fascinated.
“Okay, so you’re… definitely not a random civilian,” he said under his breath. “Please don’t be ‘whoever’s in charge.’ I really don’t want the guy in the murder leather to be the one in charge.”
One of the goons lunged with a knife. Red Helmet twisted, grabbed his wrist, and slammed him into the wall. The knife clattered away. Another thug raised his gun, hands shaking.
Danny felt it—
The moment where probability tipped.
The gun’s angle, the terrified finger tightening on the trigger, the way the barrel lined up with the helmet’s visor at too-close range.
If the shot landed wrong—
If the Pit-tainted guy died again—
That would be… bad. For him. For the Realms. For the already fraying barrier.
Danny didn’t think.
He just moved.
One blink he was on the roof; the next, he was in the alley, air crackling cold around him. Intangible, he slipped between the thug and his target, one hand passing straight through the gun.
The metal screamed as ectoplasm snarled through it. The gun exploded in a spray of twisting, warped parts, the bullet dissolving into harmless green sparks.
The thug screamed. The alley filled with the stench of burnt metal and ozone.
Red Helmet froze.
The last thug, panicking, swung his own gun up—this time at Danny, because sure, why not shoot the weird glowing stranger.
“Really?” Danny sighed.
The man fired. The bullet passed straight through Danny’s chest. It hit the brick behind him and shattered, leaving a cracked, ugly scar in the wall.
Danny looked down at the hole in his hoodie, then back up.
His eyes flared brighter.
“Okay,” he said. “That’s enough of that.”
He flicked his fingers.
The thug’s gun ripped itself out of his hands and twisted into a neat, useless pretzel in midair before clanging to the ground. A gust of icy wind slammed into all three goons, knocking them off their feet and pinning them to the filthy concrete like invisible hands.
The alley went very, very quiet.
Rain pattered. Somewhere, a siren wailed.
Red Helmet was staring at him.
Danny realized that he was still half-phased, the edges of his body smoking with cold vapor, eyes glowing like twin neon signs in the dark. Oops.
He cleared his throat.
“Uh. Hi,” he said.
The helmet tilted. The Lazarus-tainted presence underneath it rolled tighter, bristling like a cornered animal.
“What are you,” a distorted voice said, filtered through the helmet’s modulator.
Danny opened his mouth to say tourist. What came out instead was honest.
“Complicated,” he said. “But right now? Just the guy trying to make sure you don’t die. Again.”
The word hung between them.
Red Helmet went very still.
“…Again,” he repeated slowly.
The Lazarus wrongness flared, sharp and defensive. Danny watched it with a grimace. The Pit had left deep scars. Some of them glowed like open wounds in his senses.
“You’re leaking,” Danny blurted.
Red Helmet stiffened. “Excuse me?”
“Not—gross leaking,” Danny said quickly, waving a hand. “Soul leaking. The ectoplasm they used to drag you back? It’s still chewing on the edges. Honestly, it’s kind of impressive you’re walking around like this. Most people would’ve gone full poltergeist or something by now.”
The helmeted man stared at him.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said flatly. “And you’re going to start explaining. Slowly. And without the glowing eye thing.”
Danny squinted. “That’s rude. I can’t just turn—”
He stopped.
Because now that he was closer, he could feel it clearly: underneath the Lazarus corruption, underneath the anger and the wrongness and the gunpowder, there was a soul that had crossed the threshold fully, once already. A soul that had been claimed by the Realms and then yanked back.
Someone, somewhere, owed this guy one hell of an apology.
Danny’s chest twisted.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Okay. I can explain. But maybe we move these guys first?”
He jerked his thumb at the pinned thugs, who were making small, terrified noises.
Red Helmet’s attention flicked toward them, then back to Danny.
Slowly, he holstered his gun.
“Fine,” he said. “We’ll talk. But if this is some League of Assassins trick—”
“Oh, gross, no,” Danny said, offended. “I’m not with your murder ninjas. I’m audit.”
“Audit,” Red Helmet repeated blankly.
“Yeah.” Danny let the invisible force holding the thugs down firm up a little as one of them tried to squirm free. “Congratulations, Gotham. You just got flagged for a royal inspection.”
Red Helmet’s fingers twitched by his holster.
“Royal,” he said slowly.
Danny smiled, sharp and tired, crown burning faintly green where it nestled invisible in his hair.
“You can call me Danny,” he said. “We’ll get to the royal part later.”