A Little Murder Never Hurt Anyone
Danny Fenton had no idea how he kept ending up in these kinds of situations. Seriously, he’d just wanted to cash a check. That was it. No ghosts. No Fenton gadgets. No life-or-death hijinks. Just a normal, painfully average trip to the bank to get some of that elusive thing called money.
And yet, here he was, sitting in a dark, room that smelled like permanent marker and suppressed judgment, with the Batman looming over him like a disappointed cryptid.
It had started, as these things usually did, with a gun.
Some twitchy guy in a ski mask had pulled a weapon on the poor teller, waving it around and screaming about money and something about needing it "for his iguana’s medical bills." Danny hadn’t really caught the specifics. What he had noticed was the guy’s finger tightening on the trigger a little too much for comfort.
So Danny did what any rational, non-powered teenage half-ghost would do.
He kicked the guy in the knee, punched him in the throat (thank you, Jazz’s self-defense classes), and body-slammed him into a conveniently located security desk. The weapon skidded across the floor, the bank patrons screamed in confusion, and Danny just sighed, already sensing that his day was going to be a disaster.
He didn’t mean for anyone to notice, but apparently, “average teenager disarming an armed robber using martial arts and excellent instincts” was suspicious enough to warrant Bat-level attention.
Batman was pacing. Danny had mentally tuned him out five minutes ago.
“You moved with precision,” Batman was saying, voice gravelly and judgmental. “Too precise for someone without training. Who trained you?”
Batman leaned in. “Are you part of the League of Assassins?”
“…I’m sorry, the what now?”
“Do you have ties to Ra’s al Ghul?”
“Is that a skin condition or a salad?”
The Bat’s scowl deepened. Danny could tell this wasn’t going well. His ghost sense hadn’t even gone off once, and yet somehow this interrogation was more nerve-wracking than any ghost fight.
Then Danny’s eyes flicked over Batman’s shoulder.
Outside the one-way glass, framed perfectly in the narrow slit of the vented window, was a massive, winged blur of black flapping across the skyline.
An idea bloomed. A very stupid, very Danny idea.
He straightened in his seat and pointed just past Batman.
Batman turned immediately, a Batarang flashing into his hand like some sort of judgmental ninja magician. His stance shifted, body coiled to strike.
Outside the window: crows. A lot of them. Swirling like feathered chaos.
Fun fact: a group of crows is called a murder.
Danny was already slipping through the shadows the moment Batman turned. Intangibility would’ve made it easier, but he had a point to prove. This was all human effort. Pure Fenton mischief.
By the time Batman whipped back around, batarang still clenched and eyes narrowed, the chair was empty. The room was empty.
There was no trace of the teenager who had been sitting there moments ago.
On the table, scrawled in a black Sharpie (liberated from the detective’s desk), were the words:
“Murder you very much. –D”
Batman stared at the writing.
Then back at the writing.
He pressed a button on his cowl. “Oracle. Track the suspect. I’ve lost visual.”
Barbara’s voice came through, laced with disbelief. “You lost a teenager?”
“Oh my god. He pun’d his way out of your interrogation.”
Danny, now several rooftops away and laughing to himself, pulled up his hoodie and slipped into the shadows.
“No one ever expects the pun,” he muttered proudly. “Batman included.”
He paused. “Though I’m pretty sure I just made Gotham’s Most Wanted… over bird wordplay.”
