Chapter 5:

"The Waynes are cursed," Father said, waving a fork around. "Whenever one of us steps into a kitchen, disaster follows. Cooking is just... not a thing for us. But, we can sing"

As if being compared to a songbird was a good thing. Damain vowed to prove them both wrong. And thus he ventured into one of the Wayne Manor extra kitchens, clutching a bag of groceries and a simple cookbook.

He followed the instructions to the letter. He studied various videos and cooking blogs. He used only the freshest ingredients. Really, there was no chance for it to go wrong.

And yet, when Damian pulled out the vegetarian lasagna from the stove, it resembled a soiled baby diaper. He attempted to take a taste, assuring himself it only looked bad, but the second the food made contact with his taste buds, his entire body shuddered in disgust. Damian had to stick his head under the running water of the sink to wash out the vile taste.

It was infuriating that out of all the skills in the world, something as simple as cooking was evading him.

Not about to give up, he tried again the following day. And again, and again, and again, until three months of failed attempts forced him to seek out professional help.

Alfred straight up refused to lend a hand, not after the many years he attempted to teach Damian's grandfather and father. Apparently, the only times Alfred had gotten workers' compensation were when he stood with a blood-related Wayne in the kitchen.

Damain wanted to call him a coward for that, except when he went into the kitchen to confront the bully, the stove exploded and nearly burned the old man's face off. Damian barely even glanced at the dials. He had no idea how it was able to set off like that.

Well, no matter, there were plenty of cooking instructors in this city. They may not be as great as Alfred- for that man made even dirt taste delicious- there had to be someone out there who could teach him to make one decent meal.

___________________________________________________________

Danny Fenotn is short on cash. That tends to happen when your evil godfather somehow rips your ghost half out of you and flings your human side to an unknown parallel world.

Gotham City was large and dangerous in a way Danny had never known. Without Phantom, he had no skills he could use to make a profit, and without a form of identification, he couldn't even sign himself up for school or aid programs.

He had wound up on the streets, dodging police and other street rats as best he could, but he was not doing too well for himself. days turned into weeks, which turned into months, and he was still unsure how he even survived that time.

Just as he was starting to actively dream of a shower and a roof over his head, word began to spread that a wealthy individual was willing to pay top dollar and even provide lodging for anyone willing to teach him how to cook.

Danny wasn't the best chief around, but he was desperate, so he washed up in a park sink and scurried across the city to the mansion of a house.

Danny followed a giant group of people, all dressed better, looking better, and smelling better than he did. Many were wearing chef outfits, giving him disgusted glances, but he grew accustomed to the casual hatred over the past few weeks.

They were told to wait in the hallway, sitting on some chairs with a number. The kid who wanted cooking lessons would call them in one by one and give them an interview, alongside asking them to cook something simple to prove their worth.

Danny was number twenty-two out of fifty candidates. A few people left when candidate number five ran out of the room screaming, with half his clothes on fire. More got up from their chairs and excused themselves when three different parametric teams were called in to rush out number eleven, number fifteen, and number seventeen.

What really cleared the room, however, was the screams that came from number twenty's mouth as though they were ripped off her limbs from behind closed doors. In a stampede of movement, the hallway was cleared, leaving only Danny sitting awkwardly on his chair.

"Number twenty-two?" A tall, dignified butler questioned from the door, seemingly surprised that someone was still there.

"Um, yeah?" Danny scrambled to his feet, aware his appearance was less than presentable. He felt like he just dragged himself out of a garbage can, even after trying his best to tidy himself up.

"This way, young man."

Danny is led into a kitchen —or a kitchen that has survived an ill-fated war. There was food splattered against the walls, smoke was burning on three stoves, some tiles were missing on the ground, and the furniture was turned over.

Sitting at the only untouched surface area was a young boy of twelve years old, and Danny nearly winces at how close in age they are. He doubts he will be able to teach the kid anything he doesn't already know.

"Good evening," The boy says, holding up a clipboard.

"Oh, uh, hi?" Danny replies. The kid raises a brow, clicks his red pen open, and scribbles something down. Danny feels himself break into a cold sweat.

"We shall start the interview." The butler cuts in, taking a graceful seat next to the boy and picking up his own pen. "Please answer to the best of your abilities."

Danny fumbles his way through the interview, muttering excuses when they ask for any of his past information, and by the time the food test comes around, he can tell they aren't going to consider him. He decided to teach the kid a simple recipe just so he could leave quickly, and by the time Danny had taught the kid a simple chicken soup recipe, he was all but ready to run.

Until the kid's fist closed in his dirt-stained shirt - it was no longer purely white, now it had a gross, brownish hue to it - keeping him in place.

"You are hired." The boy says, staring up at him with wide, joyful eyes while clutching his bowl of soup like it was the last lifeboat in a sinking ship. "The curse does not harm you."

"The Waynes are cursed," Father said, waving a fork around. "Whenever one of us steps into a kitchen, disaster follows. Cooking is just... not a thing for us. But, we can sing"

As if being compared to a songbird was a good thing. Damain vowed to prove them both wrong. And thus he ventured into one of the Wayne Manor extra kitchens, clutching a bag of groceries and a simple cookbook.

He followed the instructions to the letter. He studied various videos and cooking blogs. He used only the freshest ingredients. Really, there was no chance for it to go wrong.

And yet, when Damian pulled out the vegetarian lasagna from the stove, it resembled a soiled baby diaper. He attempted to take a taste, assuring himself it only looked bad, but the second the food made contact with his taste buds, his entire body shuddered in disgust. Damian had to stick his head under the running water of the sink to wash out the vile taste.

It was infuriating that out of all the skills in the world, something as simple as cooking was evading him.

Not about to give up, he tried again the following day. And again, and again, and again, until three months of failed attempts forced him to seek out professional help.

Alfred straight up refused to lend a hand, not after the many years he attempted to teach Damian's grandfather and father. Apparently, the only times Alfred had gotten workers' compensation were when he stood with a blood-related Wayne in the kitchen.

Damain wanted to call him a coward for that, except when he went into the kitchen to confront the bully, the stove exploded and nearly burned the old man's face off. Damian barely even glanced at the dials. He had no idea how it was able to set off like that.

Well, no matter, there were plenty of cooking instructors in this city. They may not be as great as Alfred- for that man made even dirt taste delicious- there had to be someone out there who could teach him to make one decent meal.

___________________________________________________________

Danny Fenotn is short on cash. That tends to happen when your evil godfather somehow rips your ghost half out of you and flings your human side to an unknown parallel world.

Gotham City was large and dangerous in a way Danny had never known. Without Phantom, he had no skills he could use to make a profit, and without a form of identification, he couldn't even sign himself up for school or aid programs.

He had wound up on the streets, dodging police and other street rats as best he could, but he was not doing too well for himself. days turned into weeks, which turned into months, and he was still unsure how he even survived that time.

Just as he was starting to actively dream of a shower and a roof over his head, word began to spread that a wealthy individual was willing to pay top dollar and even provide lodging for anyone willing to teach him how to cook.

Danny wasn't the best chief around, but he was desperate, so he washed up in a park sink and scurried across the city to the mansion of a house.

Danny followed a giant group of people, all dressed better, looking better, and smelling better than he did. Many were wearing chef outfits, giving him disgusted glances, but he grew accustomed to the casual hatred over the past few weeks.

They were told to wait in the hallway, sitting on some chairs with a number. The kid who wanted cooking lessons would call them in one by one and give them an interview, alongside asking them to cook something simple to prove their worth.

Danny was number twenty-two out of fifty candidates. A few people left when candidate number five ran out of the room screaming, with half his clothes on fire. More got up from their chairs and excused themselves when three different parametric teams were called in to rush out number eleven, number fifteen, and number seventeen.

What really cleared the room, however, was the screams that came from number twenty's mouth as though they were ripped off her limbs from behind closed doors. In a stampede of movement, the hallway was cleared, leaving only Danny sitting awkwardly on his chair.

"Number twenty-two?" A tall, dignified butler questioned from the door, seemingly surprised that someone was still there.

"Um, yeah?" Danny scrambled to his feet, aware his appearance was less than presentable. He felt like he just dragged himself out of a garbage can, even after trying his best to tidy himself up.

"This way, young man."

Danny is led into a kitchen —or a kitchen that has survived an ill-fated war. There was food splattered against the walls, smoke was burning on three stoves, some tiles were missing on the ground, and the furniture was turned over.

Sitting at the only untouched surface area was a young boy of twelve years old, and Danny nearly winces at how close in age they are. He doubts he will be able to teach the kid anything he doesn't already know.

"Good evening," The boy says, holding up a clipboard.

"Oh, uh, hi?" Danny replies. The kid raises a brow, clicks his red pen open, and scribbles something down. Danny feels himself break into a cold sweat.

"We shall start the interview." The butler cuts in, taking a graceful seat next to the boy and picking up his own pen. "Please answer to the best of your abilities."

Danny fumbles his way through the interview, muttering excuses when they ask for any of his past information, and by the time the food test comes around, he can tell they aren't going to consider him. He decided to teach the kid a simple recipe just so he could leave quickly, and by the time Danny had taught the kid a simple chicken soup recipe, he was all but ready to run.

Until the kid's fist closed in his dirt-stained shirt - it was no longer purely white, now it had a gross, brownish hue to it - keeping him in place.

"You are hired." The boy says, staring up at him with wide, joyful eyes while clutching his bowl of soup like it was the last lifeboat in a sinking ship. "The curse does not harm you."

"The Waynes are cursed," Father said, waving a fork around. "Whenever one of us steps into a kitchen, disaster follows. Cooking is just... not a thing for us. But, we can sing"

As if being compared to a songbird was a good thing. Damain vowed to prove them both wrong. And thus he ventured into one of the Wayne Manor extra kitchens, clutching a bag of groceries and a simple cookbook.

He followed the instructions to the letter. He studied various videos and cooking blogs. He used only the freshest ingredients. Really, there was no chance for it to go wrong.

And yet, when Damian pulled out the vegetarian lasagna from the stove, it resembled a soiled baby diaper. He attempted to take a taste, assuring himself it only looked bad, but the second the food made contact with his taste buds, his entire body shuddered in disgust. Damian had to stick his head under the running water of the sink to wash out the vile taste.

It was infuriating that out of all the skills in the world, something as simple as cooking was evading him.

Not about to give up, he tried again the following day. And again, and again, and again, until three months of failed attempts forced him to seek out professional help.

Alfred straight up refused to lend a hand, not after the many years he attempted to teach Damian's grandfather and father. Apparently, the only times Alfred had gotten workers' compensation were when he stood with a blood-related Wayne in the kitchen.

Damain wanted to call him a coward for that, except when he went into the kitchen to confront the bully, the stove exploded and nearly burned the old man's face off. Damian barely even glanced at the dials. He had no idea how it was able to set off like that.

Well, no matter, there were plenty of cooking instructors in this city. They may not be as great as Alfred- for that man made even dirt taste delicious- there had to be someone out there who could teach him to make one decent meal.

___________________________________________________________

Danny Fenotn is short on cash. That tends to happen when your evil godfather somehow rips your ghost half out of you and flings your human side to an unknown parallel world.

Gotham City was large and dangerous in a way Danny had never known. Without Phantom, he had no skills he could use to make a profit, and without a form of identification, he couldn't even sign himself up for school or aid programs.

He had wound up on the streets, dodging police and other street rats as best he could, but he was not doing too well for himself. days turned into weeks, which turned into months, and he was still unsure how he even survived that time.

Just as he was starting to actively dream of a shower and a roof over his head, word began to spread that a wealthy individual was willing to pay top dollar and even provide lodging for anyone willing to teach him how to cook.

Danny wasn't the best chief around, but he was desperate, so he washed up in a park sink and scurried across the city to the mansion of a house.

Danny followed a giant group of people, all dressed better, looking better, and smelling better than he did. Many were wearing chef outfits, giving him disgusted glances, but he grew accustomed to the casual hatred over the past few weeks.

They were told to wait in the hallway, sitting on some chairs with a number. The kid who wanted cooking lessons would call them in one by one and give them an interview, alongside asking them to cook something simple to prove their worth.

Danny was number twenty-two out of fifty candidates. A few people left when candidate number five ran out of the room screaming, with half his clothes on fire. More got up from their chairs and excused themselves when three different parametric teams were called in to rush out number eleven, number fifteen, and number seventeen.

What really cleared the room, however, was the screams that came from number twenty's mouth as though they were ripped off her limbs from behind closed doors. In a stampede of movement, the hallway was cleared, leaving only Danny sitting awkwardly on his chair.

"Number twenty-two?" A tall, dignified butler questioned from the door, seemingly surprised that someone was still there.

"Um, yeah?" Danny scrambled to his feet, aware his appearance was less than presentable. He felt like he just dragged himself out of a garbage can, even after trying his best to tidy himself up.

"This way, young man."

Danny is led into a kitchen —or a kitchen that has survived an ill-fated war. There was food splattered against the walls, smoke was burning on three stoves, some tiles were missing on the ground, and the furniture was turned over.

Sitting at the only untouched surface area was a young boy of twelve years old, and Danny nearly winces at how close in age they are. He doubts he will be able to teach the kid anything he doesn't already know.

"Good evening," The boy says, holding up a clipboard.

"Oh, uh, hi?" Danny replies. The kid raises a brow, clicks his red pen open, and scribbles something down. Danny feels himself break into a cold sweat.

"We shall start the interview." The butler cuts in, taking a graceful seat next to the boy and picking up his own pen. "Please answer to the best of your abilities."

Danny fumbles his way through the interview, muttering excuses when they ask for any of his past information, and by the time the food test comes around, he can tell they aren't going to consider him. He decided to teach the kid a simple recipe just so he could leave quickly, and by the time Danny had taught the kid a simple chicken soup recipe, he was all but ready to run.

Until the kid's fist closed in his dirt-stained shirt - it was no longer purely white, now it had a gross, brownish hue to it - keeping him in place.

"You are hired." The boy says, staring up at him with wide, joyful eyes while clutching his bowl of soup like it was the last lifeboat in a sinking ship. "The curse does not harm you."

Mostly, though, he found a place that avoided everyone, and if he was still enough, they would ignore him in turn.

Danny's days moved in a blur. Slow, but not so slow that he lost track of time. He knew how many days he had been in Gotham, ever since his accident, and each new sunrise earned a single scratch mark on his precious shopping cart.

Sometimes, while taking shelter under a bridge to avoid Gotham's rain, he recounts the marks. Danny would run his fingers over the marks he created with anything sharp- usually a rock- wondering if his family still searched for him. If they thought him dead. If they thought about him at all.

Two hundred forty-three days. Eight months.

That was how long Danny had been here, in Gotham, as part of her homeless citizens. Where he had landed after he foolishly thought himself invincible, because he was the ghost in the town's most famous ghost story. The hero of the tale.

But there was one thing he never considered about ghost stories. They only survived if people told the new generation about them, and even then, only if the new generation believed them. Ghost stories were meant to be cautionary tales, sometimes just something to pass the time around a campfire, but when people grew bored with them, they became irrelevant.

Disgarded.

Forgotten.

And that was what happened to Danny. Because of Phantom, people's memories of Fenton began to fade. Not in an obvious way, but slowly it became noticeable. Danny's teachers would trip over attendance because they couldn't remember who Daniel Fenton was. His friends would forget little things like what he was allergic to, why he hated changing in front of others, and what movies he loved.

His family would have dinner without calling him down because they had forgotten he was home. His mom would come into his room, shocked to find a bedroom and not a broom closet like she had thought his closed door was. His dad would proudly call himself a father of one until Danny cleared his throat, and he had to correct himself that he had two children.

His sister would forget why she had so many scrapbooks about Danny Phantom, asking the household at large, only for her eyes to land on Danny in the living room, and she realized the reason.

But what really caught his attention was the day before his accident. Danny had woken to his house being silent, his sister leaving without him, despite always driving him to school. His parents had left a note on the table, addressed only to Jazz, telling her they were going out for the day to pick up supplies for the lab and that they would return late in the evening or early the next morning.

His parents always asked Danny if he wanted to go, knowing the boy adored shopping for lab supplies on their rare trips, only because the drive was six hours and was next to his favorite NASA store. They always let him miss school for it, but this time, they left without notice. His phone had no messages from Tucker or Sam, despite the group chat being utterly active every Friday morning and the night before; he was the last to post in it.

His friends left him on read, something they had never done before.

The morning had been odd, but Danny figured he would go to school. He figured there must have been an explanation for it all, maybe both Sam and Tucker got grounded at the same time and lost their phone privileges. Maybe Jazz had a big presentation she was nervous about and left in a rush as her anxiety tended to leave her scatterbrained?. Maybe his parents figured his grades couldn't handle any more missed days and chose to go out without facing him, knowing they would cave if he begged?

Danny didn't know, but he got dressed, made himself breakfast, and walked to school.

When he reached Casper High, that's where things really took a turn for the worse. Dash and the A-listers were at the entrance, meaning Danny's already off morning was about to become a painful one. He had steeled himself for whatever cutting comment they would throw at him, even prepared to run if Dash was feeling extra cruel that morning, but when Danny walked by the chatting group, no one spared him a glance.

It was the first time since second grade that they ignored him.

When he got to his locker, Tucker and Sam were nowhere to be seen. He would have tracked them down to ask what was going on with the A-listers, but the bell rang, and he had to run to class. Danny's walk to school and a slight sleep-in had meant his sense of time was off, so he arrived late to his first period.

Mr. Lancer usually didn't allow students into the classroom without a good excuse, and Danny was fearing today would start off with a cursed tardy sweep. When he got to the door, his teacher was standing in the doorway, arms crossed, listening to another student desperately explain why she had been late.

Danny got behind her, ready to beg as he didn't want to spend the first period in detention, but the moment Mr. Lancer saw him, the older man nodded his head to let him pass. "I understand a new school can be confusing. I'll let it go for the first week, but try not to make a habit of it, Mr...?"

It took Danny longer than necessary to realize Mr. Lancer was asking for his name. "Um, Fenton? Mr.Lancer, are you alright? It's me, Danny Fenton."

Before his teacher could respond, the other student once again attempted to appeal to the strict teacher, and Danny was forced to move on. Inside the room, heads turn to stare at him, more curious than mocking looks that he was used to. Sam and Tucker were in the back, but his usual seat next to them was taken up by Micky.

Now, there were no assigned seats, but everyone knew the unspoken rule that if you sat in a place the first day of class, that was your seat. Why had Micky broken the rule in the middle of the school year?

Danny had tried to make his way to the back of the room, ready to ask the fellow nerd to move, when Star, of all people, had grabbed his arm, stopping him in his tracks. "Hi!"

"Ugh, hey?" He replied as she batted her eyes- did she have something in them?

"I've never seen you around before. I'm Star," She introduced, moving her hand to the few A-listers in the class. "This is Dash and Kwan."

"Hey," Dash smiled in an oddly friendly way that made Danny's hair stand on end. Kwan offered his own wave but seemed more comfortable letting Star take the lead as she gestured to an open desk next to them. No one ever bothered to sit there because no one in this class was brave enough to approach them, and the seat had remained open for almost the entire year.

"Sit with us."

"Um,....why?"

"You're cute," Star giggled, and if that wasn't alarming, the way Dash nodded in agreement was. Danny had been shocked; he hadn't been able to refuse when she manhandled him into the seat and leaned in close. "What's your name?"

"Ugh...Danny. Danny Fenton?"

"Any relation to the Fentons who own Fenton Works?" Kwan interrupted. "They're the only Fentons in town."

Danny had never been so confused in his life. He gawked at the bigger boy, wondering if he had a head injury at last night's football practice, but was saved from replying when Mr. Lancer came back into the room- without the female student.

He started the class, and Danny found himself having to spend it by the A-listers, feeling the stares of both Star and Dash throughout the lesson. Then, when the class ended, he didn't get a chance to talk to Sam or Tucker because the school got attacked by a ghost. Danny had managed to escape in the chaos, shifting into Phantom and making quick work of the enemy, but during the battle, his Fenton thermos was damaged, and it not only sucked up the enemy but Danny as well.

Usually, this wouldn't be a problem, but for some reason, Sam, Tucker, or Jazz weren't outside to release him. Since Danny was stuck with an enemy that was doing its best to smack him in their cramped space, he had tried to force his way out.

Phantom has always been a powerful ghost, more than Danny had realized, because forcing his way out of the Thermos had not only been the first time a ghost escaped it, but his power had unintentionally caused an explosion that ripped a hole into the Ghost Zone.

Danny had been blasted into the zone, sent out of control until he actually crashed through a floating door. He landed in Gotham, a dark and miserable place, and the one means of getting back hope was vanishing before his eyes.

Danny knew why. The only means to the Ghost Zone were natural according to doorways, but if they were ever destroyed, that was it. That world was cut off from the Ghost Zone forever, and the only way back was if someone from the Zone created a portal there. Danny was the son of the rare few who could create a portal, but he never learned how.

He figured his friends or family would come for him. But days went by, and with no sign of them, he had to admit what he had suspected for weeks now.

Danny had vanished from their memory. He had no idea why or how, but he was stuck. Days in Gotham also taught him something else, that was that people here also forgot him if he stayed out of their sight long enough. The realization took all motivation away from playing hero, from doing anything really.

Even when he saw crime after crime happen before him, Danny tucked himself away from it all, trying to crawl his way through life when he had no one and nothing to do that for.

Just him and his shopping cart. Maybe that's why it was such a shock when he was sitting on the curb just one away from the diamond distract when a limo pulled up and stopped right in front of him. Thinking this was nothing good, Danny scrambled to his feet, attempting to grab his things to go before an elderly man jumped out of the driver's seat, looking hopeful. "Daniel? Is that you?"

Surprised that someone knew his name, Danny paused long enough for the elderly man to run to him and grab his hand, turning this way and that to look at his face. "It is you! Oh, dear boy!"

"Um?" Danny started confused, wondering why this old British man was talking to him.

"Oh! You're in a new cycle, I see. Forgotten who I am, is that right? I'm Alfred Pennysworth. You helped me fifty years ago, rescued me, and my entire unit from a POW camp." Alfred replied enthusiastically. "You told us that Phantom was a lot like a phoenix, that when it renewed, either the people in your life forgot you or you forgot us. But I never forgot what you did for us. Said to show you this if I ever saw you again."

The man reached into his shirt and pulled out a necklace. Hanging on the chain was the Fenton Works symbol next to a broken Clockwork amulet.

Danny stared, wonderstruck as Alfred threw an arm around his shoulder. "Forgive me, but you look like you have nowhere to stay. You must come home with me."

"Ugh..I don't-"

"Excellent!" Alfred all but threw him into the backseat. "I can't wait to show you, my family! Hopefully, one of them would be immune to your power."

Mostly, though, he found a place that avoided everyone, and if he was still enough, they would ignore him in turn.

Danny's days moved in a blur. Slow, but not so slow that he lost track of time. He knew how many days he had been in Gotham, ever since his accident, and each new sunrise earned a single scratch mark on his precious shopping cart.

Sometimes, while taking shelter under a bridge to avoid Gotham's rain, he recounts the marks. Danny would run his fingers over the marks he created with anything sharp- usually a rock- wondering if his family still searched for him. If they thought him dead. If they thought about him at all.

Two hundred forty-three days. Eight months.

That was how long Danny had been here, in Gotham, as part of her homeless citizens. Where he had landed after he foolishly thought himself invincible, because he was the ghost in the town's most famous ghost story. The hero of the tale.

But there was one thing he never considered about ghost stories. They only survived if people told the new generation about them, and even then, only if the new generation believed them. Ghost stories were meant to be cautionary tales, sometimes just something to pass the time around a campfire, but when people grew bored with them, they became irrelevant.

Disgarded.

Forgotten.

And that was what happened to Danny. Because of Phantom, people's memories of Fenton began to fade. Not in an obvious way, but slowly it became noticeable. Danny's teachers would trip over attendance because they couldn't remember who Daniel Fenton was. His friends would forget little things like what he was allergic to, why he hated changing in front of others, and what movies he loved.

His family would have dinner without calling him down because they had forgotten he was home. His mom would come into his room, shocked to find a bedroom and not a broom closet like she had thought his closed door was. His dad would proudly call himself a father of one until Danny cleared his throat, and he had to correct himself that he had two children.

His sister would forget why she had so many scrapbooks about Danny Phantom, asking the household at large, only for her eyes to land on Danny in the living room, and she realized the reason.

But what really caught his attention was the day before his accident. Danny had woken to his house being silent, his sister leaving without him, despite always driving him to school. His parents had left a note on the table, addressed only to Jazz, telling her they were going out for the day to pick up supplies for the lab and that they would return late in the evening or early the next morning.

His parents always asked Danny if he wanted to go, knowing the boy adored shopping for lab supplies on their rare trips, only because the drive was six hours and was next to his favorite NASA store. They always let him miss school for it, but this time, they left without notice. His phone had no messages from Tucker or Sam, despite the group chat being utterly active every Friday morning and the night before; he was the last to post in it.

His friends left him on read, something they had never done before.

The morning had been odd, but Danny figured he would go to school. He figured there must have been an explanation for it all, maybe both Sam and Tucker got grounded at the same time and lost their phone privileges. Maybe Jazz had a big presentation she was nervous about and left in a rush as her anxiety tended to leave her scatterbrained?. Maybe his parents figured his grades couldn't handle any more missed days and chose to go out without facing him, knowing they would cave if he begged?

Danny didn't know, but he got dressed, made himself breakfast, and walked to school.

When he reached Casper High, that's where things really took a turn for the worse. Dash and the A-listers were at the entrance, meaning Danny's already off morning was about to become a painful one. He had steeled himself for whatever cutting comment they would throw at him, even prepared to run if Dash was feeling extra cruel that morning, but when Danny walked by the chatting group, no one spared him a glance.

It was the first time since second grade that they ignored him.

When he got to his locker, Tucker and Sam were nowhere to be seen. He would have tracked them down to ask what was going on with the A-listers, but the bell rang, and he had to run to class. Danny's walk to school and a slight sleep-in had meant his sense of time was off, so he arrived late to his first period.

Mr. Lancer usually didn't allow students into the classroom without a good excuse, and Danny was fearing today would start off with a cursed tardy sweep. When he got to the door, his teacher was standing in the doorway, arms crossed, listening to another student desperately explain why she had been late.

Danny got behind her, ready to beg as he didn't want to spend the first period in detention, but the moment Mr. Lancer saw him, the older man nodded his head to let him pass. "I understand a new school can be confusing. I'll let it go for the first week, but try not to make a habit of it, Mr...?"

It took Danny longer than necessary to realize Mr. Lancer was asking for his name. "Um, Fenton? Mr.Lancer, are you alright? It's me, Danny Fenton."

Before his teacher could respond, the other student once again attempted to appeal to the strict teacher, and Danny was forced to move on. Inside the room, heads turn to stare at him, more curious than mocking looks that he was used to. Sam and Tucker were in the back, but his usual seat next to them was taken up by Micky.

Now, there were no assigned seats, but everyone knew the unspoken rule that if you sat in a place the first day of class, that was your seat. Why had Micky broken the rule in the middle of the school year?

Danny had tried to make his way to the back of the room, ready to ask the fellow nerd to move, when Star, of all people, had grabbed his arm, stopping him in his tracks. "Hi!"

"Ugh, hey?" He replied as she batted her eyes- did she have something in them?

"I've never seen you around before. I'm Star," She introduced, moving her hand to the few A-listers in the class. "This is Dash and Kwan."

"Hey," Dash smiled in an oddly friendly way that made Danny's hair stand on end. Kwan offered his own wave but seemed more comfortable letting Star take the lead as she gestured to an open desk next to them. No one ever bothered to sit there because no one in this class was brave enough to approach them, and the seat had remained open for almost the entire year.

"Sit with us."

"Um,....why?"

"You're cute," Star giggled, and if that wasn't alarming, the way Dash nodded in agreement was. Danny had been shocked; he hadn't been able to refuse when she manhandled him into the seat and leaned in close. "What's your name?"

"Ugh...Danny. Danny Fenton?"

"Any relation to the Fentons who own Fenton Works?" Kwan interrupted. "They're the only Fentons in town."

Danny had never been so confused in his life. He gawked at the bigger boy, wondering if he had a head injury at last night's football practice, but was saved from replying when Mr. Lancer came back into the room- without the female student.

He started the class, and Danny found himself having to spend it by the A-listers, feeling the stares of both Star and Dash throughout the lesson. Then, when the class ended, he didn't get a chance to talk to Sam or Tucker because the school got attacked by a ghost. Danny had managed to escape in the chaos, shifting into Phantom and making quick work of the enemy, but during the battle, his Fenton thermos was damaged, and it not only sucked up the enemy but Danny as well.

Usually, this wouldn't be a problem, but for some reason, Sam, Tucker, or Jazz weren't outside to release him. Since Danny was stuck with an enemy that was doing its best to smack him in their cramped space, he had tried to force his way out.

Phantom has always been a powerful ghost, more than Danny had realized, because forcing his way out of the Thermos had not only been the first time a ghost escaped it, but his power had unintentionally caused an explosion that ripped a hole into the Ghost Zone.

Danny had been blasted into the zone, sent out of control until he actually crashed through a floating door. He landed in Gotham, a dark and miserable place, and the one means of getting back hope was vanishing before his eyes.

Danny knew why. The only means to the Ghost Zone were natural according to doorways, but if they were ever destroyed, that was it. That world was cut off from the Ghost Zone forever, and the only way back was if someone from the Zone created a portal there. Danny was the son of the rare few who could create a portal, but he never learned how.

He figured his friends or family would come for him. But days went by, and with no sign of them, he had to admit what he had suspected for weeks now.

Danny had vanished from their memory. He had no idea why or how, but he was stuck. Days in Gotham also taught him something else, that was that people here also forgot him if he stayed out of their sight long enough. The realization took all motivation away from playing hero, from doing anything really.

Even when he saw crime after crime happen before him, Danny tucked himself away from it all, trying to crawl his way through life when he had no one and nothing to do that for.

Just him and his shopping cart. Maybe that's why it was such a shock when he was sitting on the curb just one away from the diamond distract when a limo pulled up and stopped right in front of him. Thinking this was nothing good, Danny scrambled to his feet, attempting to grab his things to go before an elderly man jumped out of the driver's seat, looking hopeful. "Daniel? Is that you?"

Surprised that someone knew his name, Danny paused long enough for the elderly man to run to him and grab his hand, turning this way and that to look at his face. "It is you! Oh, dear boy!"

"Um?" Danny started confused, wondering why this old British man was talking to him.

"Oh! You're in a new cycle, I see. Forgotten who I am, is that right? I'm Alfred Pennysworth. You helped me fifty years ago, rescued me, and my entire unit from a POW camp." Alfred replied enthusiastically. "You told us that Phantom was a lot like a phoenix, that when it renewed, either the people in your life forgot you or you forgot us. But I never forgot what you did for us. Said to show you this if I ever saw you again."

The man reached into his shirt and pulled out a necklace. Hanging on the chain was the Fenton Works symbol next to a broken Clockwork amulet.

Danny stared, wonderstruck as Alfred threw an arm around his shoulder. "Forgive me, but you look like you have nowhere to stay. You must come home with me."

"Ugh..I don't-"

"Excellent!" Alfred all but threw him into the backseat. "I can't wait to show you, my family! Hopefully, one of them would be immune to your power."

Bruce was to not do any Batman work until he was fully healed. All because he got caught by surprise during a fight with Ivy, and his back paid the price. It was a bone bruise, which, in Bruce's opinion, was a minor injury, but Alfred had heard Dr. Leslie warn him that if he didn't rest, she wouldn't be surprised if it led to a broken bone.

She meant that he could get hurt worse in the field. But Alfred heard this leads to that and ran with it. Now Bruce was bored out of his mind, waiting for his family to let him move. Technically, he wasn't on strict bed rest, but since Dr. Leslie also found out the rest of his body was practically screaming from all the stress he put it through, she advised that he stay in bed for a while.

His kids gave him a TV remote, a couple of books, and his phone (with some programmed blocks to prevent him from accessing the systems he wanted to work on). They explained that in about three days, he would be allowed access to his laptop, not before then. He could get into his wheelchair and roll to different parts of the house, but not "on his own". He was pretty sure they put motion sensors around his room just in case he tried

He watched shows, read his books, and scrolled on social media. It's only been five hours, and he was already losing his mind. Maybe it was because he knew he couldn't work, but the hours dragged on so much that he didn't pay attention to the episodes, and the paragraphs in the books didn't register in his mind.

Social media had never really captured his attention, except for searching for signs that someone was getting close to his identity. He was so bored he started scrolling blindly, eyes glazed and unfocused on the screen. Even if he was focused, the screen moved too fast for him to see what the posts were about until his thumb accidentally tapped on a pop-up ad.

The ad was a link that sent him to a different website. The website looked plain overall, except for the kiss marks floating on the sides and the random posts encouraging people to call them for a good time with like-minded people. Bruce has never seen a website like that before.

Usually, such websites were subtle- and sometimes not subtle at all- images that showed it was more of a working girl or boy service. These posts had odd phrases like "Call me to talk about dinosaurs!" or "Call me if you love the following book series," and even "Call me if you want to vent about stupid siblings- only middle children!"

The website was called "Kitty's Connections," which sounded like a run-of-the-mill, adult service website, but the content was....different.

Bruce quickly ran a scan on the page with his phone. Barbara and Tim made sure everyone's phones had virus, malware, and phishing scanners installed so they could quickly verify that any app or webpage they visited was safe. Nothing was marked dangerous, so in a moment of utter boredom, Bruce scrolled through the different posts. Apparently, each user had a phone number linked to the webpage's app, and when someone found a topic they liked, they were supposed to tap the number to make a direct call.

No messaging because that wasn't "authentic" anymore. Bruce was pretty sure this was someone closer to his age who created the webpage. He scrolled for a good hour or so, with nothing catching his attention. Bruce was about to close the webpage and return to his social media when one post from the user DeadKingFenton caught his attention.

Call me if you want a platonic fun time : 1-800-XOXO

Underneath the odd message was an image of a burning crown that bore an alarming resemblance to a fictional legend that Bruce had personally been obsessed with as a child. In his favorite show, The Grey Ghost, the protagonist, despite being human, had been helped by his mysterious mentor and informant of the Underworld- The Ghost King.

He only appeared as a flaming crown floating over a figure that hid in the shadows and never showed thier face. Their voice was provided by multiple people speaking at once, and despite their importance, the Ghost King appears on screen only twice, with all other references to them delivered by the Grey Ghost reminiscing about his days in training.

The Ghost King haunted the narrative, but there were never many details about the character, and fans quickly realized the King was more of a plot hole than anything else, barely making sense in the context of the show. The king was more of a fantasy element in an otherwise modern (of its time) fiction show.

Only really devoted fans knew the King's symbol, which was something Bruce was. His eyes lingered on the message, the image, and after a moment, he said, "Well, what's the worst that could happen?" and pressed the call number.

At once, it encouraged him to install the app, and create a profile. Bruce quickly went through the necessary steps to create an account under the username ProudGreyGFan. Once that was done, the call started, and instead of the usual call tone, the Grey Ghost theme song was heard.

Bruce's lips lifted as he listened to the familiar and beloved music. It went on for a few seconds, just about to loop again, when someone answered.

Someone shockingly young. He was expecting someone his age, or even older, since Bruce knew the show was from his father's generation. He had been an awfully young fan back when Bruce was a child, and that was mostly because Thomas' favorite show was what he wanted to share with his son.

"Hello?" A male teenager, by the sound of his voice. Bruce blinks once, then twice, utterly frozen from surprise until the voice returns. "Anyone there?"

"Y-yes. Sorry, how old are you?" Bruce finds him asking.

"I'm fourteen."

"Well then, goodbye," Bruce hangs up the call, rubbing his eyes. In seconds, his phone starts ringing again. He answers without checking the caller- so used to only his family having his number- and much to his displeasure, the same teenage voice comes from the speakers.

"Hey, you called me. Do you not want to chat?"

"Not with a teenager."

The fourteen-year-old laughs. "It's not that kind of chat, old man."

"It's still not appropriate. I thought you were older because of the Crown of Fire picture in your post. Sorry."

There is a pause, heavy with something that snaps the attention vigilante part of my mind. Bruce finds himself pausing over the end call button, waiting as the boy finally replies, "How do you know the Crown of Fire?"

"I'm a fan of the show it's from." Are you not? is left unsaid, but heard all the same. There are a few moments of silence, though Bruce could hear the boy moving. It sounded like he was outside, somewhere crowded, based on the footsteps, and maybe even close to a road if those were cars driving by. It could be just wind, but it was too consistent and heavy for that.

A few minutes went by, and then the boy's voice returned, "What show are you talking about? I can't find it online."

"The Grey Ghost, from the early 50s," Bruce replies, even more confused. If this wasn't a reference to his favorite show, then how did the boy know the Crown of Fire? He could have just chosen it because he liked how the image looked- Dick has done that plenty of times- but to know it by name was an entirely different thing.

It implied that the Crown of Fire was more than just a fictional element in an old show.

Another pause goes by, and Bruce is now sure the boy is searching, before his surprise voice comes back. "Wait, the Ghost King is a character in this? No way!"

"Did you not watch the show?"

"No, this is the first time I'm hearing about it."

"Then how did you know about the Crown of Fire?" Bruce asks, pressing the phone to his ear and trying to get as many details of the boy from the background noise he could make out. Something in him told him to do so.

Bruce was never one to doubt his instincts- they saved his life more than once.

"Um, I-er, I saw it online and thought it was cool." The boy stumbles, which is the worst attempt at lying in his life. Too honest. He then asked how the boy knew about the Ghost King if he had never seen the show. "Er, what I saw was a picture of the Ghost King wearing the crown. I, ugh, thought he was someone's OC."

"Someone's OC?" Bruce questions, confusion coloring his words. What was with kids and making everything into an acronym?

"You're really old, aren't you?" The boy laughs a little more relaxed. "It means original character."

That explained nothing, but Bruce still hummed as if it explained everything. It sounded like the boy was moving underground. He was proven correct when he heard an announcement. This is Gotham Line L to Gotham Line W.

The kid was in Gotham? And on his way to Crime Alley? At this hour? It was the last train, and frankly, quite dangerous.

"I suppose I sound old to someone so young. I'm forty-seven." Bruce replies, typing a text to Jason- the one to be for sure near Crime Alley- a request to stop by the station and ensure the fourteen-year-old gets home safe.

A few seconds go by before his son's confirmation comes through, along with a suspicious " Why do you know there is a child walking so late on his own? But Bruce chose not to answer that part of the message.

"Ancient." The boy mocks in the same good nature, teasing his children, and Bruce's lips twitch into a smile against his will. " You're ancient. Why aren't you sleeping? Old people are asleep by this time, right?"

"I could ask you the same. Kids have bedtimes for a reason, you know."

The boy barks out a laugh, delighted. The sound is almost surprised, like he wasn't expecting to be brought to laughter, or that he was out of practice. Bruce adds one more mark to the list of worries this call was starting to make.

"I usually stay up late!" The boy said through giggles.

"Are your guardians aware of that? Better yet, are they aware you're taking calls from strangers?" Bruce probs as casually as he can. It doesn't seem to be done as delicately as he should have done it because the good humor vanishes, and the heavy silence from before returns.

After a moment, the boy speaks again. "They don't care."

Not a lie, but said with far too flatness that Bruce knows the boy means his guardians don't care about him, and not that they didn't mind what he was doing. If it were anyone else, they would have missed the difference in the way he spoke, but he's Batman. He could hear that bitterness loud and clear in the flatness of his tone.

"They should. My kids tell me beauty sleep is really important- especially since I don't believe in skin care routines," Bruce said instead of peaking at the obvious tension. He wants to know more, which is why he hadn't hung up again.

"You don't believe in skin care routines?!" The teenager yelps, sounding equally as horrified by that knowledge as Tim and Steph did when he walked in on them applying random products during a sleepover.

They had moved to the viewing room for a night of romantic comedies a few minutes before Bruce got the urge to go turn on the projector to watch a documentary. His son and (almost) daughter forced him to sit down while they smeared similar products on his skin, which he thought was pointless, but he did enjoy the face mask.

Bruce laughs. "I do wear lotion and sunscreen. I also drink plenty of water- that usually clears up any skin issues I have."

The teenager makes a noise that sounds like he's deeply offended, but doesn't comment on it further. Instead, he asks how much water is considered 'plenty'. In the same breath, the boy starts talking about the water bottles he makes and sells in his free time.

Bruce allows himself to get pulled into the conversation, asking questions when appropriate but mostly letting the kid lead. Eventually, the conversation moves to the Grey Ghost and other old shows the pair enjoys, with Bruce mentioning things from before his time, and the teenager mentioning old cartoons he enjoyed that Bruce only has faint knowledge of.

Out of all his kids, Dick and Jason were the ones most prone to cartoons, but the teenager considered shows from ten years ago old, so he recognized some names. The most recent was a loss to him, as Damian preferred anime to Western animation. Tim liked live action, Steph mostly watched dramas, and Duke went from horror to sitcoms.

It sounded like the teenager was one of the few who mostly watched animated things instead of anything else.

Eventually, the train arrived at its destination, twenty minutes later, and the boy paused in his summary of the most recent show that had a giant plot twist he had not been expecting.

"Oh, I have to go."

"Alright." Bruce accepted easily. "Have a good night."

"Um, you too. I'm Danny, by the way."

Bruce bites back a lecture on telling strangers his name, especially online, but only just. He tries to sound as casual and warm as he had been throughout this entire conversation. "Nice to meet you Danny. My name is Bruce."

"It was fun talking to you, Bruce," Danny says brightly, then in a much more obvious attempt to sound casual, he asks, "Can I call you again?"

Bruce's heart squeezes at the longing in the boy's tone as he laughs. "Of course."

Danny does a little cheer before he once again bids him goodbye, and the call drops. A few minutes go by, and he has half the mind to go down to Crime Alley to check if the boy got there safely or even open his chat with Jason to make sure he was around to get Danny home safely. He holds off, just because he knows his family would get angry, but just as the itch to do something starts to get unbearable, his phone rings.

This time, actually checking the screen, he finds Jason's burner phone number, the one he uses as Red Hood, flashing across his screen. He picks up, answering in a confused voice, just in case it's someone other than Jaylad.

He can pretend to never get a call from that number, as Brucie, if that's the case.

"Hello? Who is this?"

"It's your butler, who else?" Jason scoffs, answering the call in the code they agreed upon for the month. At once, Bruce relaxes even as his son carries on like nothing was amiss. The who else also let him know that his son was in a secure place, so he wasn't worried about being overheard.

Jason let that settle before his voice took on a more serious tone, dropping the mocking. "Listen, I'm calling about the teenager you mentioned on the last train of the W line. I followed him from the station, only to find out he was crashing in a broken-down camping store that had closed years ago. When I went inside, I saw his little setup in the far back of the building near the bathrooms. Kid's homeless but seems to be using the building's still functioning water system- and no, I don't know why it's active- to make himself look like he's not."

Bruce closed his eyes. I was afraid of this

"I figured as much," He settles on. "From the way he spoke, it sounded like he was lonely enough that his home situation was not right."

"You bringing him in?" Jason asks, with just the hint of tension in his voice that tells Bruce he means the cape life, and the Manor all at once. His son still doesn't approve of children in capes, along with Dick, and both act as if Bruce goes out of his way to turn children into soldiers, no matter who he talks to.

Sometimes it hurts that they forget how hard he worked to talk children out of it, and how hard he fought to get his sons to stay home in the very beginning.

"No. I just found out about him, but I don't think he will be willing to get help from CPS or me until I build a better relationship," Bruce replies. Jason lets out a huff of annoyance.

"No CPS," He grouches, the memories of what that particular system did to him, hidden in Jason's voice. "They never help. Not in Gotham."

"I know. I'm trying to make it better," Bruce acknowledges, but both know his efforts are not enough. For ever corrupted person Wayne Enterpirse had removed, three more took thier place. The system was broken in the country, but in Gotham, it was utterly shattered. "Until then, I want to keep an eye on Danny, and I'll keep talking to him-"

"Talk to him? How are you talking to him?"

"I got connected to him through a website. It's called Kitty's Connections, and apparently, it's to help people meet like-minded individuals, but through phone calls only." Bruce responds without hesitation.

Jason is silent for a long moment before he lets out a long breath. "If it were anyone else, I would be accusing them of being a perv, but I know you. So, we are investigating this website?"

"Yes. I want to make sure it's nothing harmful to children." Bruce had already sent a link to Barbara, along with an explanation. She replied with a thumbs up and a promise to give him a report on whatever she found. "O is on it. In the meantime, tell me about Danny. Does he look alright?"

"He's skinny, in the same way kids who've haven't eaten well for years are. But he's clean, like I said, seeming to keep up his laundry, and his washing well enough through the store's water supply. He also seems unaware of his surroundings. Either he's new to the streets or so used to them he doesn't look out of place." Jason reports, sounding like he was leaping onto the roofs, based on the change in voice and the slight thumps. Bruce wishes he could be leaping over rooftops right now, too. "features wise, he's small with black hair reaching his shoulders, blue eyes and limp in his left leg. Can't be older than twelve or so."

"He said he was fourteen," Bruce corrects, "Didn't sound like a lie. How bad was the limp?"

"Looks new. The kid steps wrong, for it it be a old issue."

"Did he seem ingured?"

"Not that I could tell, but I was observing at a distance. Didn't want him to run,"

Bruce sighs, "Alright. I'll call him again tomorrow. See if I can get more information out of him. Do you mind finding a way to give him food-"

"Already have that covered. Tomorrow, one of my contacts will offer him free food in exchange for some help taking out the garbage or something."

Bruce smiles, pride blooms in his chest. "Thank you, Jaylad. You always do good work for the street kids."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Not a big deal." Despite the words, Bruce knew his son was blushing, attempting to brush off the praise as he had when he was twelve. His boy has never handled praise well. "That's all?"

"For tonight. Thank you"

"Alright, then I'm heading off. By the way, I'm going to call Alfred about this. You better be resting by the time he come up to check on you."

Bruce groans, "I wasn't even doing anything. Why do you have to call him?"

"You know why."

"Fine. I'll watch some cartoons or something while you call him."

Jason huffs out a surprise laugh. "Cartoons? Why cartoons?"

"Danny told me about some. He sounded so passionate, I felt like I should give them a chance." Bruce shrugs, clicking on the TV and typing in the search bar, the first one. It pulls up the streaming service it was on, and since Bruce had all the subscriptions, he was able to start the first episode right away. It was just as brightly colored and playful as he would expect from a show about imaginary friends living in a foster home.

"Alright, have fun." Jason laughs again, "Night, old man."

"Goodnight, Jaylad. I love you."

Jason sputters for a second before he grouses, "Yeah, love you too."

The line drops, and Bruce settles more comfortably to watch the show. He has about twenty seconds before Alfred is running up to ensure he's actually watching TV, but he makes a mental note to look more into Danny's situation and the Ghost King's Crown of Fire.

Something tells him that it's a very important connection with the boy in the broken-down camping store and the reason he wound up there. Bruce would ponder on it more, but he hears the loud stomping of his bulter, so he has to force himself to look utterly captivated with the cartoon and let his thoughts settle.

Just as he does so, Alfred throws up the door with a shout, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING, BOY!?"

"Watching cartoons."

Alfred narrows his eyes at him, rightfully suspicious. If Jason hadn't given him the warning, Bruce would have likely done something crazy, like limp to Tim's room to steal a tablet and look into the Ghost King. "Keep it that way."

"I will."

"I will, what?"

"I will, sir."