Untitled

“A sketchy billionaire? Is it you or B?” Jason snarked. He put his ear to the bluetooth speaker to see if that’s where Tim’s voice was coming from.

“Haha,” he said blithely. Not the bluetooth. Jason went hunting into the bathroom for the source. “Vlad Masters, turns out that he’s Fenton’s godfather but they have a very weird relationship and there are some comments on social media about the two of them being co-parents.”

Jason’s stomach roiled. He stopped hunting for Tim to pull out his phone and search Vlad Masters. He pursed his lips. “Distasteful,” he said. There was nothing wrong with the way Masters looked, except that he looked smug in every photo and he was obviously waaaay too old for either Fenton sibling. It was probably some gross in-joke.

“They’re going to have dinner tonight, an intimate two-person table at La Crux,” Tim said, insinuation thick.

Jason rolled his eyes. “Do you think I know what that place is?” he snarked. He put his phone away and scowled around the living room. Tim’s voice was clearer now. Was it coming from the kitchen? 

Tim sighed heavily. “Very exclusive, very expensive, only accepts diners in groups of two and is therefore considered a date spot.”

“Gross,” Jason muttered. He scraped the top of his tongue with his teeth. “So, what, you think Fenton is cozying up to a sugar daddy to get his shitty Crime Alley rent paid?” He let doubt color his tone. “That kid does not live like someone with a rich older boyfriend.”

“Maybe Masters is just a gigantic asshole,” Tim said placidly, and Jason honed in on the source of his voice with outrage and disbelief. “In any case I will be there, I’ve gotten a reservation and paid through the nose for the right table-”

“Why are you in my smart fridge?” Jason demanded. He hit it with the flat of his hand. “Get the fuck out of my fridge, you demon. I deny thee entry and succor.”

Tim sighed again, like he was the one inconvenienced. “You’re welcome,” he said waspishly, and hung up. Jason’s phone chimed a second later with the details of the reservation and then his batwork phone synched up with a mission. Jason squinted at the words 'Surveillance. Leads: Red Robin and Black Bat.’ He snorted. “Is the little shit going as himself with his sister, or are they going undercover as a couple?” he wondered. Whatever. He didn’t really care.

Hours later, Jason half-watched the screen fill up with an imperfect, machine transcription of the conversation that Masters and Fenton were having. It wasn’t great but given the difficulty Tim was having in accessing Fenton’s technology, maybe they should just be grateful that Cass and Tim were able to get anything at all. They weren’t close enough to hear, and only had the line of sight to lip read Masters.

Jason’s first impression of the relationship between Fenton and Masters was that they obviously didn’t like each other. If Fenton was pretending to like Masters for access to his money he was doing a terrible job of it.

He all but heard Tim go stiff as a board when Fenton clearly noticed him. Jason stopped working to watch the transcription struggle with static and dropped words, eyebrows high with his delight that Tim and Cass had gotten made by some clueless teenager who didn’t even recognize them properly.

The machine transcription had to be full of inaccuracies, but it made Jason snicker anyways. Tim made an offended noise when he realized that Fenton didn’t know his name. Bit full of himself, wasn’t he?

Whatever. Jason yawned and re-focused his eyes off of the screen onto what his hands were doing.

“Dead husband?” Tim said quietly. “Hood, did you see anything about a husband?”

‘Fenton is gay?’ Jason thought, intrigued. And then- “No.” He snorted. “It’s obviously banter of some kind.” He sniffed.

“Fenton is brat,” Black Bat said into the comms. “Ha ha.” She reported this emotionlessly. “Thinks concept of dead husband is humorous.” Ah, no, disapproval crept into her tone there.

Jason hummed, not really listening as attentively as he might. He was sitting sidestraddle on the workbench at the mechanic shop, cleaning some tools. 

‘Fenton is not married,’ he thought idly. ‘I would have found something when I looked into the family. Or else Jack would have told me. It’s an inside joke or code.’

Tim sighed too hard, sending static on the line. “Thomas Dank,” he repeated incredulously. Silverware clinked as he no doubt ate mechanically in his attempt to play-act as a real boy. He fake-laughed at something Cass did. 

Wait, what? Jason’s lips twitched. Had that transcription been right? Did Danny Fenton think that Tim’s name was Thomas Dank? He stopped moving to let a sense of childlike wonder wash over him.

‘Not a bad fit. Tim is a little shit. I’m glad I fed this guy. Fenton deserves funding. All Fentons deserve funding. I’m going to make WayneTech give infinite contracts to the Doctor to fund more Ghost-Huggers and those translation devices that put everything a ghost says into Cantonese.”’

Jason felt his mood perk up a little bit. Tim and Cass were obviously unimpressed, but personally? Jason thought that Danny Fenton was a funny little shit.

And then Fenton insinuated that Vlad was a pretentious pervert and so were the Wayne kids. Jason put his tools down to cackle, shaking his head. A beep cut across the line– and then nothing. Silence.

“Wow,” he said to the open air. “They cut me off of the call.” Jason was still snickering as he got ready for patrol. He had part of Black Bat’s route tonight, since she and Red Robin were doing an early operation. Batman swooped into his personal business while he was at it and gestured for Red Hood to talk. 

Jason took his time finishing up with his task and then sauntered over as saucily as possible so that any observers knew he didn’t take orders from Batman. “Old man,” he greeted. 

“Hood.” Batman sounded impassive but it was a lie. Bruce was roiling with big Bat Feelings as he gave Jason a look-over. “You are aware that Jeremy Waters escaped from custody this morning?” At Jason’s nod he grunted. “I have confirmed the whereabouts of his followers. I do not believe that any of them are involved in his escape. I have had one woman sent out of state.”

Jason wracked his memory for someone who stood out. “…The old woman who threw pink Himalayan salt on me?” He guessed.

Batman’s ears bobbed with a nod. “Merrian Pip. Yes. She is secured in a private location.” He cleared his throat while Jason wondered why that person, in specific, merited Bat Protection. He narrowed his eyes and internally debated the merits of asking vs doing some snooping.

Batman saw the question. He clearly did. Batman prised his jaw open and ground out the words, “I believe that Ms. Pip is the source of the magical power required to actually remove you from the scene.”

Jason felt his eyebrows shoot up. “No way,” he said, thinking it through. “How else would he leave Arkham?” Despite his automatic rejection he started thinking it through. 

‘My first theory was that he summoned a ghost that helped him escape. What if someone sent the ghost to retrieve him? Or even kill him? He might know too much, or maybe there is a power play for the coven.’

Batman grunted. “Undetermined.” 

Jason frowned. The hood hid his displeasure, which was a real shame. “Alright, fuck off,” he requested. “I don’t want anyone to see us talking.”

“Hrmph.” His shitty Dad left in a whoosh of cape, which was a significant improvement on all the times he had imposed himself past when he was wanted. Hmm. He noted the progress, but wasn’t touched enough to change his mind. Jason wasted no time at all to start opening up Bruce’s files on the case. 

“...Suspicious.” He sprawled on the roof and read through the reports. They were too short. Jason felt a scowl coming on. There was the expected demographic information, and a report on the day and time that Batman had interviewed her. But where were the details of the conversation? Why had she gone into hiding? Where was she? How had Bruce concluded that she was the powerful one?

The inescapable conclusion was that Bruce was deliberately hiding information from him. Jason needed to know what that was.

"See?! I couldn't leave him there! Rodney would try and turn him into an apprentice! He doesn't need Evil Science being pushed on him just because his father's pursued Evilness!" Dr. D complains in an... oddly comforting way. "Anyway. I asked you to come over, 'cause I can't do any Villainy until Adrien-- this is Adrien, by the way, did I introduce him? Oh, I did! Oh, good! A-anyway, I can't do any Villainy. At least until Adrien's settled. You're still welcome over, of course, you're still welcome over, I just won't be doing anything. Well. Maybe some light planning," He admits, "But that's nothing to thwart, really... unless--" He turns to the platypus (in a hat), frowning. "Do you need something to thwart?"

The platypus, proving that he understands Dr. D, shakes his head.

"Oh, alright, well, let me know if that changes; I don't want to be doing construction while Adrien's over. I'm Evil, I have to hire the guys who used to install asbestos, y'know? Like, I don't let them install asbestos, obviously, that would be bad for Vanessa's lungs, but they've gotta get work somewhere."

The platypus makes the churring sound again.

"How long? Well, I don't know! His father's under investigation, Perry the Platypus! Don't be so insensitive! God, you're better than this...."

The platypus rolls his eyes, then churrs and points at Adrien.

"Oh? Oh!" Dr. D wraps an arm around Adrien's shoulders, dragging him closer to what Adrien is 90% sure is an oversized mute kwamii. "Adrien, this is Perry the Platypus! He's an O.W.C.A. agent. If your father pans out with the investigation, one of Perry's co-workers will be thwarting his plots every week, so take the chance to learn about what he does, alright? Vanessa, my daughter, Vanessa-- I've mentioned my daughter, Vanessa, right?" Adrien nods. "Oh, good, good-- Vanessa found a lot of comfort in getting to know Perry and what he does." Dr. D turns to Agent Perry the Platypus. "Do you know who'd be getting assigned?"

Agent Perry grimaces.

Dr. D gasps. "Not Peter Panda!"

Agent Perry grimaces harder.

"Oh!" Dr. D groans, facepalming. He sighs, turning to Adrien. "Well, bad news, Peter Panda and Perry the Platypus don't get along at all, but good news, Peter Panda is a consummate professional!" Dr. D assures Adrien brightly. He turns to Agent Perry. "He's good with teens, right? I always got that vibe from him. He was very polite to Vanessa, at least."

Agent Perry nods, reassuringly.

Adrien doesn't know how to feel about the Platypus agent being able to nod reassuringly, but, hey, it sounds like... wait. "Uh, sorry, you... you mean that every time my dad launches an attack on Paris, from now on, a panda in a fedora is going to show up to defeat him?" He tries to speak, but the words catch in his throat. Dr. D, thankfully, patiently waits for him to speak, his arm still wrapped around Adrien's shoulder. It is the wildest way that Adrien has ever felt comfortable in his life. "Wh... what about Chat Noir and Ladybug?"

Dr. D frowns. "Chat Noir and Ladybug??" He parrots. He turns to Agent Perry. "Does O.W.C.A. have a French branch? I don't remember that in orientation."

Agent Perry looks confused, too. He shakes his head.

"My dad's going to get orientation?"

"Huh? Oh, no, no-- I got orientation," Dr. D clarifies, "I was raised by ocelots, so I qualified to be an agent." He turns back to Agent Perry like that was a totally normal thing to say, and not wildly concerning at all. "Are Chat Noir and Ladybug agents you know? Maybe from the O.S.A.C.? France is close enough for Spain to pull jurisdiction, right?"

"Ch-Chat Noir and Ladybug aren't animals," Adrien managed to get out between the back-and-forth. "Or... agents." He grabs his phone, pulling up the Ladyblog. After a couple clicks, he pulls up a video of him and Ladybug dealing with Gigantitan.

"I'm sorry, is that a BABY?!" Dr. D shouts, flabbergasted. "Your father akumatizes babies?!!" He turns, grabbing Adrien by both shoulders. The man makes direct eye contact with Adrien, an intense look on his face. "Do you want to live with your father? Ignore everything else. Do you want to live with your father?"

"I... yes?"

Dr. D sighs. "...Alright. Perry the Platypus, if you could forget to mention this from Major Monogram...."

Agent Perry nods seriously, tipping his hat at Adrien.

Adrien smiles back, awkward.

"Wait," Dr. D suddenly says, suspicious. "Perry the Platypus," He calls. "Didn't those two costumed crusaders look awfully middle schooler shaped?"

“They were trying to bury a body in my park!” Pamela hissed.

“And we stopped them!”

“You know,” Red Hood started from where he was sitting on top of the bound criminals, “you could have just thought of it as free fertilizer.”

Nightwing gave up and buried his face n his gloved hands. “Hood, you’re not really helping.”

“’Course I’m helping.,” Hood said as he inspected his gloved fingers. “I’m keeping the baddies pinned. Red is the one who’s not helping.”

“I’m keeping a birds eye view on things,” Red said into the comms. Which really was a good thing, considering. Like, what? “Speaking of birds, there’s one the size of a large SUV headed this way. Or at least it mostly looks like a bird.”

“What do you mean it mostly looks like a bird?” Nightwing asked.

“Fuck that,” Hood cut in, “what do you mean the size of an SUV?”

Pamela crossed her arms, hip jutted out defiantly. “What it wasn’t me. I don’t deal with animals, you know that.”

“I mean it’s got two legs and a beak…ish thing? It looks like some sort of water bird. Which I guess could explain it? Like, we know Gotham Harbor has too many weird chemicals in it. Maybe someone emptied one too many things right on a totally normal bird and— oh, it’s glowing too.”

“Well great,” Hood managed right before, with a thundering step, the bird thing broke through the vines.

The tuft of green feathers on its chest seemed to almost glow from how bright the color was, but Red hadn’t been wrong. The bird thing really was glowing, a pale cyan color that seemed to shift and ripple and pull away from the white crest and mostly black body of the bird.

“See,” Red said, motioning from his perch on the lamppost, “an SUV sized bird like thing.”

The bird thing’s head tilted and Red and the very sudden, very certain sense that all of the creature’s focus was suddenly on him.

“Red,” Hood rumbled as he slowly pulled out out a gun, “I think you better stop moving.”

“You can’t shoot it,” Nightwing hissed.

“If it tries to eat Red, I sure as fuck am shooting it,” Red growled back.

“Or I could just entangle it with my vines,” Pamela said. She crossed her arms when they all turned to look at her and examined her nails. “What? I am not going just stand here and let a giant bird eat my favorite little birds.”

“Aw,” Nightwing cooed, you do care!”

Pamela rolled her eyes and flicked the hand she had been looking at. One of the massive vines broke free from the ground and whipped towards the bird thing at a speed that was almost hard to track.

And stopped.

Short.

Held in the clawed grasp of the creature. The long neck reared back and the bird thing opened its beak and squawked in offense.

“Uh, guys?” Red said, his voice quiet now.

“Yeah, I’m seeing it too,” Nightwing answered.

Tucker, with his pale, eerily still eyes, understood it. He said a week or two won't make a difference at this point, and the one held inside the capsule would have been gravely offended if his rescue ended up in malfunction of a whole space station. He said he'll wait, and he kept his back straight and his head high as they've spent those two weeks tracking and locating various other batteries and setting the souls within them free.

The seconds tick by so slowly that Tim feels like all three of them — him, Tucker, and the ghost inside the tube — are stuck in amber. He looks down to his tablet again.

Nine more minutes until all the main systems are safely switched to an emergency generator.

"Tell me about them," he asks, surprising even himself with it. Tucker turns to look at him, his eyebrows raised, the green light of the battery making him look like something out of a horror movie. Specifically the zombie apocalypse one.

"About who?"

Tim nods to the capsule in front of them.

"You're not exactly subtle," he shrugs when Tucker just keeps silently staring at him. "The way you spoke about this particular cell sounded like, whoever is inside it, you know them personally."

The silence stretches for a few more seconds, clogging Tim's ears like someone poured honey inside them. Then, Tucker looks away, his gaze returning to the capsule.

"He was my best friend since kindergarten," he says, and the air gets stuck in Tim's throat. "And I watched him die."

The other spirits that they've freed, they were all ghosts, souls of the deceased, Tim knows that. Some of them looked like blobs — emotional imprints, Tucker said — others took forms of animals or plants. They've seen a few humanoid ones as well, but it was easy to distance himself from them, to not get attached or involved. They were just faceless civilians, in a sense, however morbid that sounds.

And now, the sudden reminder of the fact that all of them were living beings once, that they've had friends, and families, and maybe their whole lives in front of them, feels like a punch to the gut.

"It's a bit ironic," Tucker continues, a humorless smile on his lips, "He wanted to be an astronaut. He wanted to go to space," he almost laughs, and the unnatural light of the tube makes his features look sharper than they are, "Beware of what you wish for, or something like that, I guess."

Tim stays quiet, forgetting to pay attention to the timer on screen.

"He was- he still is kind of a hero in our hometown," Tucker continues, "If I had to compare, I'd say he's a mix of Superman and Flash — heart of gold, but his mouth runs faster than his brain sometimes. And he kept somewhat of a nice relationship with most of his rogues, you know. Friendly banter and occasional team-ups and stuff." He takes a deep, steadying breath, his sad, bitter smile fading.

"It's what got him in here," he adds, the words falling into the silence like a rock in a pond. Tim blinks.

"Being nice to his rogues?" He clarifies, and Tucker snorts.

"No, I meant the heart and the banter, but, in a sense, you're not wrong either. As far as the agency's records go, he was captured while he was rescuing one of them." Tucker turns to look at the tablet in Tim's hands, "How much more?"

Tim looks down, abruptly reminded of the reason they are here.

"Uh, three more minutes," he says, but then grimaces and changes his mind. Bruce and the rest of the League can go fuck themselves, honestly, "Actually, you might want to start now. Disconnecting it would take time anyway," he shrugs, as nonchalant as it's possible in these circumstances.

Tucker stares at him, his eerie eyes looking almost grateful for a moment. And then Tim blinks and finds him on the other side of the room, kneeling on the floor with his fingers dancing over the battery's control panel.

Tim breathes out and looks at the ticking timer on his tablet. Two minutes and forty-five seconds. Tucker is a tech genius, they've all had time to see and appreciate it in the last two weeks, so he is surely going to finish working on the capsule sooner than two minutes. Yet, Tim can't bring himself to really care — he knows Bruce has probably set the timer with a few minutes of delay, just to play it safe. But even if he didn't, it's not like Watchtower will fall down from the orbit after a two-minute blackout, so-

A loud hiss interrupts his musings, and when Tim raises his head, he sees the glass wall of the capsule opening slowly, reluctantly sliding to the left. He only has a brief moment to be surprised — he knew Tucker worked fast when he wanted, but not that fast — before some kind of thick, green substance starts pouring out of it. Yet, instead of spilling on the floor, it glimmers and fades into thin air like fog.

This hadn't happened with any other batteries, Tim thinks, but then the capsule finally opens completely, and-

That's a person.

A person who looks the same age as Tim, his skin and hair lacking any kind of color to it like it's all bled out. A faded picture of a human being.

The toxic-looking liquid around him keeps leaking, turning into clouds of greenish white, ice cold steam. It's kind of pretty; it would have made a great picture, or, maybe, a painting if you ignore all the implications that brought it to life.

When the colorless boy starts falling, Tim doesn't even notice how he drops his tablet. He steps forward, reaching his hands out to catch him.

A moment later, he is holding a ghost in his arms. He is surprisingly — or maybe not so, considering his species — light; it's like holding something that's only slightly denser than air.

The boy sluggishly moves, shifting in his arms. His white, floating hair gets into Tim's nose, and he huffs, trying not to sneeze.

There's a quiet, almost sleepy moan that feels like a vibration on Tim's skin, and the boy lifts his head.

Tim's heart skips a beat.

His eyes are bright green, and they hold the whole universe within them.

Tags:

“Okay, but,” Danny started, “we agreed that I could start at ten and take my eight hours and one for lunch—”

“A mandatory one hour for lunch away from your desk,” Lucius interrupted.

“Yes, yes, I’ve been doing that! I’ve been eating out on the rooftop garden or even leaving the building and eating out or taking lunch to the park. I’ve been behaving, Lucius, I promise.”

Lucius raised a judgmental brow. “It’s after eight, Danny.”

“What? No. I have an alarm on my phone and everything… okay, well, that only works if my phone is charged.” Danny jabbed uselessly at his phone screen. He followed the charger, which was plugged in, all the way to the wall. He resisted the urge to let his head fall against the wall. “I guess Leslie fried the outlet again or something. I’m sorry, Lucius.”

“It’s fine, Danny,” Lucius said, “but only because, one, I know you have been trying, and two, I am going to buy you the most embarrassing alarm clock I can find and mount it to something in this lab. Now it is late and I am going home and so are you, Mr. Fenton.”

“Yes sir, Mr. Fox,” Danny said and made an exaggerate show of packing up his backpack, dead phone and all.

Lucius gave a little snort at the antics, but left with a ‘get home safe, Danny’. After his boss was gone, Danny took the time to actually make sure everything was in his bag and secure. He still didn’t get why he couldn’t just work late, but apparently WE had something of an insistence of work life balance. According to Lucius, Danny crossed the line too often and so was being kept in line. (Danny didn’t think mention he didn’t have much of a life, literally and otherwise, would help his case.)

Still, Danny mused as he stepped inside the empty elevator, the rules did keep him from becoming his parents. And that was a very, very good thing! Being a mad scientist in Gotham usually ended up landing someone in Arkham. It was just that after the chaos that Danny grew up with, going back to his empty apartment was depressing. It wasn’t as if Danny never got out and did things, it was just that all those things were mostly on the weekend. Most days he just didn’t have a reason to go back to his place.

There was no getting out of it tonight, the great and powerful Fox had spoken and Danny knew better than to try and sneak back up. He lifted his hands over his head, stretching as the elevator descended the last few floors. Oh well, at least it was before ten. He could still grab something on the way home and have a full, warm meal to take his pain meds on. By the pull along his forearm he would need them.

“Night, Bill,” Danny said as he passed the security guard who was on the evening shift. He got another ‘get home safe’ in response and gave a little wave in reply over his shoulder.

Even after the few years in Gotham, it still amused Danny how much everyone wished everyone else some sort of safe travels here. As much as Gotham was a city of hardened realists, there still was so much hope about it. Hope people got home safely, that the Bats would get where they were need in time, that the city would rebuild again and again and again. The undercurrent of hope was so strong that Danny could practically feel it moving through the city like a river.

It had been one of the reasons Danny had taken the job.

He could use hope.

He also had been very careful not to look too closely into it all. While Danny’s early life may have been dominated by the occult, he tried to stay away from it these days outside of the necessary visits to the Realm for his health. As much as the Far Frozen was full of ghost yetis, Frostbite was still a being of science and being there felt more like a cold vacation to his weird relatives than anything else those days.

Danny was actually worried that he was getting close to needing another visit. He shouldn’t, not yet. He wasn’t actually due back for another three months, but the thought of visiting Frostbite had been pulling at the back of Danny’s mind. The most annoying part of it all, is that there wasn’t any concrete reason that Danny felt he needed to go, just a lot of little things: the ache was deeper in his bones, he’d been missing noticing little things, his near constant vertigo was worse, and, oddest of all, he had been feeling chilled.

Maybe he should just take a long weekend and go for a quick visit.

Lucius would undoubtedly approve of the break.

Tomorrow, Danny would ask tomorrow.

Unfortunately, neither the book nor the pie were endless. Sooner than Tobias liked, he was tucking the paperback into his back pocket and fishing out enough cash to cover his bill with a solid tip. The bell on the door cheerfully announced his exit, and he gave a lazy wave to the course of ‘byes’ that the other locals sounded out.

The clouds hung heavy and grey with a threat of rain, and Tobias sent out an idle plea to the fates that the rain would hold off a little longer. Possumfjord as a whole wasn’t a walkable city anymore, not by a long shot (or lack of sidewalks) with how it had grown so quickly as a get away destination, but the ‘historic’ downtown was convenient to get around on foot and took care of most of Tobias’ needs.

As he walked down the strip, the classic, low slung lines of 5 Alive and geometric buildings of brick and concrete gave way first to the angles of Craftsmen and then the ornate details of the original Victorian buildings. Past the mostly empty parking lot and the store that used to be a lawyer’s office but currently sold rocks and crystals was the old family Queen Anne turned museum.

Leaning on the wrought iron fence, right next to the sign declaring the building Possumfjord’s Museum of Wonders (Natural and Otherwise), was a man in a suit. His whole look screamed that he was part of a bureau of some sort: perfectly put together and yet exceedingly bland. Practical. Noticeable by trying to be too unnoticeable.

He was a lean fellow, almost worryingly so. It brought to mind blue herons: delicate but deadly as they stood perfectly still in the water while hunting. The dull navy suit and black hair, tussled by the wind, made the comparison even easier to see.

Tobias considered making his way around back of the house, but the roses there (not having been tended to since Nana Helen’s time) had gone rather feral. He wasn't sure he'd make it out in one piece if he tried. It looked like he was spotted anyways. Muted blue eyes watched Tobias from behind round, wire-frame glasses. He was a fish just waiting to be speared.

Against his will and better judgment, Tobias sucked it up, took a deep breath, and continued towards his business and home.

The stork stood up and away from the fence with a little tug to his suit jacket. “Mr. Atwood, I’m Mr. Roads—”

Tobias snorted. “Sure you are.”

“I—pardon?”

“Mr. Roads? Really? Giving a Trawler the ID of ‘Roads’, because that’s what you’re always on—roads? Out hunting for another artifact or anomaly or adept,” Tobias let his accent thicken and catch on the consonants. “The Bureau really has run out of ideas, haven’t they?”

“I’m sorry, what? No, Mr. Atwood, my name last name is Rhodes as in r-h-o-d-e-s. And I’m not, do I look like a Trawler to you?” Mr. Rhodes asked and motioned to himself with a flutter of his hands. “No, I’m an archivist.”

Tobias blinked. “Well what the fuck are you doing here then?”

Archivists didn’t just leave the archive. Not like this: alone.

“Well, Mr. Atwood—”

“Just Tobias, please.”

Mr. Rhodes gave a little, annoyed frown but continued on. “Tobias. I am looking for you. Which I dare say is obvious, considering there isn’t much else in this town.”

“Hey, be nice to Possumfjord. This city is a growing holiday retreat.”

The look that Mr. Rhodes gave him said that he severely doubted that claim. Which, well, fuck him. The city was three times the size it had been in Tobias’ childhood. At least.

Mr. Rhodes sighed. “Can we please continue this conversation inside where there are no prying ears?”

Tobias looked across the street to where ol’Andy was out in a chair in front of (one of the many) antique stores, rocking away. Tobias gave him a slightly strained smile and a wave. Andy waved back with his pipe.