Chapter Text
Every lab in this facility— Dick assumes, after dipping into the tenth with a consequent check of the blueprint— is exactly the same. A government building designed to hold and research ghosts, too much like Cadmus in its windowless hallways and dimly lit rooms stocked with various horrible machinery. It's polished, sterile, drawn on a perfect grid and come alive. The hallways echo with soft cries and high ringing taking root deep in his ears. The temperature fluctuates around every corner, entirely inconsistent.
The big difference between a normal research lab and ones doing illicit and dubiously ethical shit is that the evil research labs always have a few after hours employees. At all hours. Dick had slipped past the whole system- preferring to disarm some alarms and loop some cameras after slipping in through the window- but the entrance to the facility is more like the reception of a prison. Specialized security covers the place. Ghost security. Even deep in the facility, useless security surrounds him- sensors reading "ectoplasmic anomolies", and sharp but quiet sound cues ticking off with every shift in temperature or sudden movement.
The concept of ghosts- real ghosts, or whatever these interdimensional monsters are if those aren’t one in the same- is something that he and Bruce are still trying to get a handle on. They know very little- there’s very little to know. And that’s half the point of this venture. Information.
Movement in the far side of the room freezes Dick mid-step, soundless, for nought; swimming green eyes are locked on him, alert but dull with a disturbing fog of white over the pupils. No best efforts could keep Dick from quickly analyzing the scene before him and it—
Is horrifying.
This... ghost, he can only assume, is as human as he's ever seen. Barely older than him. Every example of a ghost Dick has ever seen has been a swirling ball of light or blob of sludge writhing for... more, and occasionally forming faces in the depths of slime. This one is flayed open across his bare chest and split down to his navel. He has legs and fingers, eyelashes and a pained grimace around his mouth of sharklike fangs. Phrases from what little research he and Bruce managed to get their hands on surface to the front of his mind– mimic pain- conditioned response- post-human consciousness– but Dick's eyes are fixated on the unnaturally gaunt arm holding the torso together, the shaking and faintly glowing green-crusted hands.
Something in its face shifts, brow crumpled in confusion rather than a grimace. It stands, and Dick's stomach churns with the temptation to beg it to stop. Just stop. But he keeps his cool. Mostly by holding his breath.
"Robin?" it warbles. Echoing, ringing in his ear and crawling down the back of his neck. A shiver roils up Dick's spine and nausea cramps his stomach. He's seen so many corpses- is it so different to see one walking around, saying his name? "What are you doing here? Is- Batman here?"
That is a remarkably casual line of questioning. Dick manages to restrain himself from gaping noiselessly, and scrapes together a measured response. "You know me? Us?"
Those churning green eyes flicker around the room nervously, avoiding eye-contact or seeking threats? "Doesn't everyone? I was you for Halloween one year–" and oh that is unsettling, the implication draws Dick's eye to puddles of- ectoplasm?- around the enclosure. The surgical table standing alone in the airtight… tank they're holding this… disturbingly humanoid thing in. "Maybe the whole Gotham scene is more niche. I had a friend was really into... ah… You didn't answer my question."
Dick is silent for only a couple seconds, but it's long enough for it- he- its expression to start to shift. Fall, maybe. Dick chooses his words carefully. At worst he needs to treat this thing as a dangerous, malicious metahuman. "I'm investigating a kidnapping."
"In… a ghost research lab? Government ghost research lab?"
"The details of that… are classified," Dick says without his usual level of charisma, but with a humorless laugh. Sweeping aside his cloak, Dick heads for the computer beside the limitedly defined gate to the enclosure. The glass is incredibly thick, smeared with fluorescent viscous green. "I've heard there's bad blood. Your name was brought up a few times."
The resulting silence is long enough that Dick looks up from where he'd just- effortlessly- accessed the laboratory computer and a couple hundred others linked up to the same network. Dick's heart and stomach drop with nauseating intensity when he finds the ghost looking down at its mangled and mostly-bare body. It's like it’s evaluating the extent of its damage- Dick gets the impression that it is also impressed that it’s alive. Err— undead?
It shifts and Dick points his attention resolutely to the computer while he keeps his eye on the ghost in his periphery. Once Dick's eyes are back on the screen he realizes that it was stupid and unnecessary to look away. Is he uncomfortable with a little gore?
(A lot. A lot of gore. It's unreal that this thing is still standing, that's a testament to how inhuman it is if nothing else— could Connor and Kaldur survive that? —though, who would even try? Why? Hah! Dick asks that, as he skims the research notes for the same evidence of “academically motivated” torture that he’s gawking at.)
Dick starts to comb through the local documents, particularly the most recent ones to get an idea for the amount of damage this thing has sustained. Apparently Madeline Fenton was last working on assessing the biological necessity of the ghost's internal organs. Most ghosts don't have organs— she states, at greater length with more extensive terminology— this one does. But, she theorized, they're all cosmetic. For what reason she can only speculate (and wildly at that) but she was firm in her theory, and proved it by removing each "organ" (she quoted, for emphasis of their yet to be determined falsehood) one by one to determine their necessity.
And evidently they are mostly cosmetic. Or, at least, the ghost survived the experiment. However, the heart, she described, would not allow itself to be removed despite her best efforts. The details on that are fuzzy- as far as Dick can gather the ghost’s ectoplasmic energy concentrated on protecting the heart including a literal energy shield. And there was an intense “emotional” (again, her quotations) reaction from Phantom. That seems reasonable, to Dick, but Dr. Fenton’s frustration with the response bled into her writing significantly. She spends a few paragraphs ranting about how relentlessly manipulative Phantom was in his outbursts. “Appealing to her nurturing character and targeting her as a mother.” She rambles on about all of this instead of trying to answer the question of why the heart reacted in such a way.
"Danny? Or Jazz?"
Dick's brain pauses, but resumes without more than a beat. "Who?" Dick feels more relief than he'd like to be suspicious of this- the ghost‐ again. The specificity of that guess, and the briefest hesitation between Danny-first and Jazz-second, is telling. The ghost already knows that Danny Fenton is missing. It's just being cagey about that. For some reason. It's already shown its hand, and when Dick looks back he sees the moment that it realizes that flicker across its face. The fluency in body language and expression- seemingly without conscious thought- is simultaneously fascinating and deeply disturbing.
"The Fentons are the only… ghost hunters… I know with kids. And I've met them, anyway. The kids. So if there's a kidnapping, and you think I… did it…" Phantom's eyes narrow as it speaks. From what Dick's read– and discussed with Bruce and Wally both– Ghosts should fly by the seat of their emotions. Or- "emotions." Post-human consciousness, right? Imprints. —This one is holding conversation way beyond instinctive reactions. Is that really just the impression of consciousness? "How is that supposed to work, when I've been here?"
"I never said you did it. Just that your name came up." The ghost huffs, a humorless half-effort of a laugh. Dick's head cocks. That reaction, combined with its immediate assumption that they were investigating him as a suspect, despite the improbability, paints a clear picture of numerous unfounded- or perceived as unfounded- accusations. Granted, the Fenton parents were quick to accuse him despite the improbability based on Madeline’s own given timeline. "How long have you been here?"
It hesitates. "... I think you can check."
"Do you not know?"
"It's a more reliable source."
"Because you can't remember?"
Phantom's brow twitches, it shrugs a shoulder- disturbingly human body language. Are all ghosts like that? "Maybe. Even if I did, would you believe me without checking? Why ask? Just skip a step."
Dick does go about checking. He really only needs to scroll through Dr. Fenton’s meticulously documented research for the earliest record- and, actually, that itself reveals some gaps in data. There are entire days that she’s documented as having worked, having been present , without actually documenting any research. Interesting.
The holographic interface hovering over Dick’s left glove is currently working on scanning and downloading the local files to a separate hard-drive strapped to the inside of his bicep, but it’s hardly difficult to manually investigate the discrepancies. Lo and behold, there are trace records of hastily deleted files. Not beyond recovery, but the intent for them to be is crystal clear.
The state of Amity Park makes it clear that the Drs. Fenton value security; most of the public and rented space in the city is equipped with defenses against ghosts, all bearing the Fenton brand. At first he and Bruce speculated that the ghost thing- and its extreme prevalence in this inconsequential city in Illinois- was an elaborate hoax to build demand for a service only the Fentons could provide: ghost security. However, that theory crumbled under how many of these total defense systems were freely given to anyone that would take it. And the other ever-mounting evidence.
Dick may not respect their approach to science, but the Drs. Fenton aren’t stupid or- as far as safety goes- inadequate. They’re- by his standards- old, but Dick isn’t willing to dismiss their technological capabilities based on that alone. So what had Dr. Fenton so rattled as to both require her to cover her tracks and inhibit her from doing it well enough?
Surely not just her missing son? It’s possible, but it doesn’t sit right.
"I can help you find him. Danny."
Dick looks up and schools himself not to flinch at the image of Phantom's green-sticky hands pressed up against the thick glass walls of its prison- open chest cavity on display with barely anything holding some things in. There’s something nestled where the heart should be, brilliantly green and blue, shining, gem-like. Dick's pretty sure he can see it pulsing. -But there’s a lot of anatomically accurate movement in there. "... Not that I don't appreciate it, but that's an incredibly incriminating statement."
"Call me desperate. You need me alive to get him."
"Aren't you already dead?"
"... I'm alive enough to be scared of ceasing to exist.” Its voice wavers. “Does that count?" Dick would expect that question to be rhetorical, but the ghost's eyes search his face for a response when he doesn't give one immediately.
You're being manipulated. Dick tells himself, jaw set as he fights his gut feeling. There are a lot of unknowns here. Half of the job has always been eliminating unknowns; information, information, information- power lies in what you know. All that Dick knows of ghosts came out of a packet of research cobbled together by people who had no way of knowing what they were talking about for years and years of their study.
And a lot of that research has been disproven, real time, as Dick has sat here holding conversation with this pitiful, horrifying thing that very well may not be a thing at all. Dick sees a disturbing similarity to Conner, when they had first found him in Cadmus.
What? M'gann's voice replies with clear alarm. Dick almost jumps, having forgotten that the two of them were linked up.
Nothing, sorry. I found Phantom. He says he can help us find the Fenton kid, but he's already implied he has something to do with it.
Dick does startle when a dull thud pounds against the glass. Phantom's fist is balled up against the glass.
"Without my help you'll never find him," Phantom says, face set in what Dick first reads as an attempt to intimidate him but not… quite. His voice is intense, but shaky. Urgent. "If you leave me here, the chance of anyone finding Danny Fenton is absolutely zero. It's literally impossible. You need me. Whether you realize it or not."
I'm assuming he wants you to release him?
Yeah. And I think I'm going to.
"Why is that?" Dick says, disconnecting his holographic computer from the research terminal and accessing the marginally more secure controls for the cell. The variety of options, and the should-be illegality of every one of them, only gives Dick brief pause before he hovers a finger over the release. “How can it be literally impossible?”
Do you want me to come to you?
No, let’s carry on as planned. If something changes I’ll let you know. I may not know a lot about ghosts, but he doesn’t seem like he’s in a position to do much. Even if I let him out.
If you’re sure!
As sure as I can be!
Phantom hesitates again, skeletal fingers curling against the glass. “It’s complicated,” he says at last, sounding pressured. He won’t make eye contact. All of these things could be attributed to the amount of physical trauma- and assumed emotional trauma to go along with it. If ghosts are as capable of that as they seem. “I can explain the logistics to you, but we’re probably on a time limit here and it’s a big topic. Basically, where he’s at doesn’t exist if I don’t exist. And I don’t know shit about, like-” the ghost is starting to sound a little out of breath, which is ridiculous because as far as Dick knows he shouldn’t need to breathe at all- “ quantum physics or whatever, but worst case scenario I’m pretty sure if I cease to exist Danny Fenton gets slurped into some black hole or something. Another effective nonexistence. Or, you know, permanent death.”
Dick taps the release button. There is a faint sucking sound before the door to the tank slides open along a track. Phantom jumps would-be comically and… doesn’t move. An alarm sounds, all of two beeps, before Dick swiftly disarms it- the signal hadn’t even made it out of the room. “How do you expect me to smuggle you out of here? No offense, but you don’t really look like you’re in running and jumping shape.”
Phantom takes a few slow steps toward the opening and for all of two seconds Dick feels stalked, but the ghost’s body language is by all means nonthreatening. Is this inherent uncanniness- passively disturbing… aura- an ability that ghosts have? Is it intentional or unintentional?
“I have a few ideas,” Phantom admits, wincing and offering a sheepish smile that’s really more of a grimace. Based on the ghost’s mixed reputation, clearly Phantom has a history of walking on eggshells around potentially suspicious phrases and behavior. Is planning an escape, in unwilling captivity, truly unreasonable though? The ghost continues to take measured steps as he leaves the confines of the enclosure, casing the room in short glances corner-to-corner, before he heads for an equipment locker on the far end of the room from the door. His steps are staggering. “She confiscated something from me, but I don’t think she ever took it home- The thermos- It’s like a ghost capture device. If it’s not there I could overshadow you- or…” That doesn’t sound good.
Dick follows behind the ghost at a distance as he approaches the locker. “Overshadow?”
“It’s like…” Phantom opens the locker, breathing a sigh of apparent relief. Dr. Fenton left behind a Black Canary lunch kit and a stainless steel thermos that A) looks like it was originally cobbled together out of scraps and B) is beat to shit beyond that. “Doesn’t matter. It’s here.” Phantom takes the thermos with shaking hands, closing the locker and turning back to Dick.
Wow. Being up close to this— to him. Is rough.
I’m all done! Meet you outside?
See you in ten.
“Okay,” Phantom begins, inhaling- and Dick can see that real time as his lungs inflate- eugh, super gross. He wipes his right hand off on what Dick realizes are boxer briefs that he's wearing for some kind of hilarious modesty. An odd comfort to give a guy when you're so invasive as to cut him stem to stern. Probably for Dr. Fenton's comfort, then. Which is… odd, to say the least.
Barely any of the gunk on Phantom's hand comes off. He points as he talks: “Cap, suction, release. Suction and release don't work if the cap is on, so the cap's important. Everything else is… basically just to look cool.” He offers the device to Dick, clearly searching his expression for some sort of reassurance, but Phantom doesn't come away looking comforted in the slightest.
"Will it hurt?" Dick asks, partially out of curiosity- he'd like to know the implications of what he's doing to this guy- and partly to see how Phantom reacts to an indirect expression of Dick caring if he hurts him.
The answer is not well. Phantom gives him a long look, as if he's waiting for a punchline. When he doesn't get one, he answers: "It'll keep me… 'alive.' " He uses stiff, trembling finger-quotes. "I'll be in a sort of stasis until you let me out. Just don't… wait forever. We'll be back on a time limit to stabilize me once I'm out."
Once he's let out. That doesn't explain at all why he doesn't want Dick to wait long before releasing him. Is it a matter of comfort or necessity? Phantom doesn't elaborate, has proven that he would if it were important. Dick hmms. "How long of a limit?"
Phantom shrugs. "I'm surprised I've lasted this long."
Dick escapes the lab easily- more quickly and comfortably than he'd gotten in- with the thermos clipped to his utility belt. M'gann is already at the rendezvous, the parking lot of a gas station a few blocks down the street, with a tightly packed duffle bag strapped to her back. She's masquerading as another miscellaneous redhead- further away from being a carbon copy of a young Marie Logan, but still close enough to be recognizable to Dick. Her outfit is nondescript, a pink t-shirt under a black hoodie, jeans. The only thing notably odd about her is the bulk of the duffle bag she effortlessly carries and her loitering at odd hours.
Hey, Dick calls her attention as he approaches, but her head has already swiveled his direction. M'gann smiles, but her confusion falters the turn of her lips and her eyes stray before snapping back.
Hi! I thought you said we were jailbreaking a ghost?
Ah. You can't feel him? Dick questions curiously, pulling the thermos from his belt and waving it once.
No, she replies musingly.
Interesting.
Very.
They hop into the bioship- which had been camouflaged on the roof of the convenience store until M'gann called it down- and both breathe a mostly-exaggerated sigh of relief to be by all means homefree. Exchanging a glance, they both giggle at their theatrics before getting back to business.
I verified the specs of what the “pros” are using against the bunkers B set up. Our one in Crullfeld should hold up.
M'gann nods- telepathically transmitting a wordless sense of acknowledgement as she does. The bioship reroutes and Dick sends Wally and Conner a short message to meet at the same place.
So why the deviation?
I like to keep things interesting. Information gathering alone is just so boring! Dick gets the sense that M'gann rolls her eyes, but he doesn't look up to check. Take a look, I think you'll get it.
M'gann sifts through his memories of the past hour and Dick lets her. Her breath hitches in the silence of the bridge, bioship dipping as her attention wavers before M'gann assumes control again. Dick doesn't so much as flinch, fully trusting her piloting, but he does look back to read her expression.
Overwhelming pity. How horrible…
According to the scientists, it can't feel it. M'gann's nose wrinkles and her eyes cut his direction when Dick says 'it.'
They would probably say the same about Conner.
Dick tips his head, worrying his lip and pulling the thermos from his belt to hold in his palm. He did a lot to convince me otherwise. Whether that was intentional or not remains to be seen. We need more information.
M'gann's dissatisfaction settles in the air between them, but she doesn't voice anything pointedly. Dick tries to convey some kind of apologetic-but-not vibe back, if only to express that he doesn't mean to disappoint. Her response is only a warm cradle around his mind before she diverts the topic.
How are we planning on "stabilizing" him when he comes out?
I'm hoping he has a plan for that, given that it's his own survival and he's a largely unknown species of creature.
He's a human, M'gann presses back, though her mental voice wavers with uncertainty. She presses back the memory of Phantom claiming to have dressed up as Robin for Halloween once. Recently.
Not anymore, Dick sends back, unsettled once more by the reminder of his and Phantom's… connection. His tie to a boy that once lived and died before he grew up.
Sorry, M'gann whispers through the link. Dick shrugs.
Whatever he is now, he's definitely not human.