Chapter Text
Finding a way to subsist in his imprisonment was more difficult than expected. After spending a great deal of time whispering every curse he knew at the Man in the Moon and the Guardians, Pitch had had to retame his own nightmares, to harness them back into submission even as the majority of them had withered away, starved from the lack of fear and his own waning power.
It had hurt, burned desperately within him, Pitch’s newly-regained intangibility and weakness. It had, as the youth of today might put it, sucked balls.
But Pitch was not that crass, and he had refrained from such language as he had lain in the dark, damp tunnels under Burgress, helpless for nearly a year, reduced to shivering and shaking in the shadows as he recovered even a bit of strength.
Next to him, a tiny, half-formed nightmare snorts and tosses its head, as if sensing a lie.
“Silence, you,” he hisses, newly-dull teeth bared, and the creature shuts up, sending a baleful look his way with its dim golden eyes.
He shifts away, pulling his moldering robe around himself and leaning deeper into a pocket of darkness.
Whatever.
He doesn’t need such sass from his own, failed creations.
No.
What he needs now is real power, real strength, something to feed upon while he plans his revenge and attains new power to combat his enemies, as clearly the last simply hadn’t been enough.
He’d almost had it with the last plan though - the power the Guardians wielded had been reduced down to one tiny, flickering light of belief, and that was it.
Pitch’s ultimate power, the true Dark Ages, they’d almost returned. He’d tasted it, even, had held it in the palm of his hand for one sweet, glorious second when he’d killed that short, meddling, golden goody-two-shoes.
But he hadn’t accounted for that no-good brat who came out of the blue, Jack Frost, who’d refused Pitch’s generous offers of power and belief at every turn, who’d somehow had more hidden strength than he’d expected.
No matter. Now he knows what he is up against, what he has to face next time, his plan can be better, more complete.
But first, a source of power.
Slowly, he drags himself over to his globe, his nightmare under his shoulder acting as a crutch.
The cold iron of the globe seems to absorb the already non-existent light, but he examines it carefully as he draws near, pulling himself up to sit.
He has to find the darkest spot, the murkiest place, the place with the most fear and distress and travel there, where he can languish, unseen, in the shadows, and feed off the fear created by others.
It takes him two slow turns of the globe to spot it.
But there, off the East Coast of North America, is a tiny island that seems a black hole among shadows.
It’s absolutely dripping with darkness, fear, and pain. He’s almost salivating as he locks in on it, reaching deep into his last remaining vestiges of power to wrap the shadows around him like a familiar cloak as he travels to the center of that darkness.
The last thing he hears is the whispered name of his destination, coiling through inky blackness like a cruel promise, and he shivers as he whispers it back in confirmation of his path. The nightmare whinnied loudly next to him, likely sensing his excitement as he hisses “Take me to Gotham City.”
The holiday season is superfluous, capitalistic, and, frankly, highly annoying. It makes Damian at least kind of understand his grandfather’s desire to bring the non-natural world to its knees, if he’s being honest.
That is what Damian is trying to explain as Richard hands him his coat, except he’s not being too honest because he doesn’t mention the fact that he agrees with Grandfather about this time of year.
But Richard’s grinning broadly in a way that apparently makes his ears unable to function and ignores him completely as he rushes him towards the garage door. Richard had woken him up unbearably early, for some reason, and had been lucky not to get a knife thrown at him for the intrusion.
It had helped that Titus had not started when he’d heard the door open, so he’d figure it had been family, but still.
Maybe if he had just thrown the knife they would have gone to the infirmary, instead of whatever new fresh hell Richard had planned for them at this unholy hour.
“Dami! Come on, this is just your third holiday season in the States, don’t be a Scrooge!”
Damian makes a face.
“Oh, you know that reference, we watched the movie last year! Besides. This isn’t like Thanksgiving, or even Christmas. This is Black Friday, and it’s a war zone out there.”
Damian can’t help the question, it just slips out because of his surprise and confusion. “A war zone?”
He climbs in the passenger seat of Richard’s beat up Toyota Corolla, and valiantly resists the urge to wrinkle his nose at it as Richard himself slides, unnecessarily, across the hood in a single movement to slip into the driver’s seat.
“Yep! It’s a total American nightmare. Every store has these massive sales that go on, and people line up for hours beforehand to get in and get everything on sale. Like TVs, Playstations, couches, big-ticket items that can go for hundreds of dollars off.”
Damian furrows his brow, considering that. “But how is it a war?”
Richard laughed.
“Oh, people get into actual fist-fights over this stuff. Sometimes people will bring tasers and batons, and every year, at least in Gotham, at least one person dies, which I guess isn’t funny. But still, it’s absolutely insane. And it’s part of the American experience, so I’m really just furthering your education here!”
Domain remains unimpressed. “Tt.”
Dick glances at him even as he speeds up to blast through a yellow light.
“What?”
“Richard. Father is a billionaire. We do not have to fight the commoners for deals.”
Richard narrows his eyes, and Damian realizes his mistake. Apparently, nobody likes it and it is considered highly rude when he refers to others as common and things like it, even though it is objectively true compared to the massive wealth of the family and their status as near-royalty in Gotham. It is especially true in relation to Damian’s status as heir and prince to the League, as well, but instead of saying so he nods slightly in acknowledgment, and averts his eyes, muttering, “I will put the payment in the jar when we return.”
Mollified, Richard finally glances back at the road. “Yeah, sure, we could have Bruce buy it. But the thrill of sprinting through the store, drifting a cart around corners as people brawl over phone cases and computers? There’s nothing like it. Besides, when I was with the Titans we’d always try to go Black Friday shopping if we weren’t on a mission, and it’s some of the most fun I’ve ever had.”
Richard’s eyes are all mushy and distant, and Damian rolls his eyes. Ah. Nostalgia.
“Hmm,” he grumbles, “Drake is right. You are ancient, and now you’re resorting to reliving past memories to feel joy.”
Richard’s face falls, and his distraught eyes meet Damian’s in the rearview mirror. “What? Tim said I’m ancient? Tim? Timmy-bird? He said that?”
Ha, Damian has him now.
“Indeed. He told me after you were complaining about how they’ve changed the shape of Trix cereal. They have not changed the shape of Trix for twenty years, so yes, ancient.”
“Oh,” cried Richard, hand leaving the wheel to clutch at his heart like he’d been stabbed, “Oh, my cruel youngest brothers, betraying me like this. It’s not like you’d even know anyways, though. Trix used to be so much better!”
Damian smirked. “Yes, but Trix are also for kids, and I don’t think you qualify.”
Dick clutched at his chest again, much more dramatically than even when he was actually stabbed, now. And Damain would know. He’s seen him be stabbed many times before.
“Ouch, Dami. Ouch. I think you’ve been hanging out with Jason too much, because that was just rude.”
Then Richard was smiling again, but this time it was devious, darker, and Damian was suddenly nervous.
“And just for that, we’re staying out an hour later.”
Damian shakes his head, crossing his arms as he glares out the window at the dark, icy city. “No, I will simply call Jon to rescue me from your clutches. I will not participate in this corporate dystopia you refer to as a holiday.”
“Ha!” exclaims Richard. “Afraid not. Jon can’t leave right now – the Kents are at the farm for the holidays, and you know how they get about family time. Nothing except class three level disasters and up for them right now.”
Damian slumped back into his seat a bit. Richard’s right, as much as he loathes to admit it. He can see no way to escape now. He should have just refused to come in the first place.
Damn his affection for his siblings. He would have never done this even just last year.
Richard, likely sensing his acceptance, smiles.
“It won’t be all bad! Pet toys will be on sale, and I know you need to get Christmas presents for all of them. We’ll get a few for each. Also-”
He grins wider, and from his shirt sleeve, Father’s black amex card flashes showily across his knuckles before disappearing again up the sleeve.
Damain considers this, and then grins. “Fine. We will wage war against the bargain hunters of Gotham and we will emerge victorious. Should we discuss our plan?”
Dick nodded, but there was a strange glint in his eye. “Bargain hunters? How do you know that term?”
Damian refuses to blush, even though the tips of his ears went red as he remembers watching the show Bargain Hunters with Brown and Thomas.
It was not his fault - he had not intended to watch the show.
Just– well. It had been on, and they had been yelling at the screen, and when he’d come to tell them to be quiet so he could paint, and then, next thing he’d known, he’d been fully absorbed, yelling at the contestants along with Brown and Thomas.
He’d sworn them to secrecy upon pain of blackmail (Brown had dented the Batmobile and gotten away with it, and Duke had fought the Scarecrow and Riddler on his own without tipping off anyone but Oracle and Damian, who had seen the unused Riddler clue and investigated on his way to volunteer at an animal shelter downtown), but he’d kept coming back to finish the season with them.
What can he say? It’s entertaining, in a brainless, stupid sort of way.
But it’s also kind of fun, not that he’d ever admit it, not even upon pain of death.
Still, it is imperative to not let his current adversary know that, so he just shrugs. “I was not aware that was some sort of term.”
Grayson eyes him up and down for a second, and Damian scrambles to think of what to say next, but then Grayson refocuses on the road and Damian swallows the words down so as to not give himself away.
“Okay, we’re almost there,” says Richard, as Damian lets out a small puff of air in relief. “We’re gonna have to park far away, so I’m glad we brought our coats. From our parking spot, we’ll go meet our advanced reconnaissance team.”
Damian pulls a face as Richard pulls into a side street.
He wants to ask about the advanced team, but then he notices the sheer business of the streets for this hour. There are cars everywhere, and people, too.
They’re lined up outside of shops, bundled up and waiting impatiently. Some have tents and thermoses, and the reality of this day truly starts to settle in to Damian as they find a tiny parking lot and pull in.
Parking is fifty-five dollars, cash only, and Richard hands it over to the guy holding his hands over a trash-can fire, who grins at them with three shimmering gold teeth as he visually appraises the car.
Damian’s glad they took the lemon, now. One of Father’s other cars would have surely been stolen immediately.
In the back of the lot, Damain notes a group of men already working on liberating the rims from several other cars. As they get out, he signals Richard, who signals back in the negative paired with the sign for Signal.
Ah. Damian gets it. It’s almost sunrise, so, as Richard would say, it’s not their circus, not their monkeys. It would have to fall to Thomas to apprehend these men.
They skirt through the streets towards the biggest mall in Gotham.
Ten blocks down is when they start to hit the line, and Damian has to force himself to not openly gape even as he pulls his hood up to both reduce some of the biting wind chill and hide his recognizable face from Gotham’s public.
Luckily, he is with Richard, who charmingly is able to disarm the grumbles and pushback of people as they pass up the line, apparently searching for the advance team.
And then Damian is resting the urge to groan, when two blocks from the mall, he spots it.
Or rather, her.
The mass of shades of purple and wild blond curls under a puffy hat holding one of the largest, brightest colored to-go mugs he’s ever seen.
It’s Brown.
She spots them almost immediately and waves them in like they are jet planes meeting the runway, grinning the whole time.
They step over several people in sleeping bags and she laughs. “Are you guys ready to rumble?”
She holds out the last part like a WWE announcer, and Dick grins as he hugs her.
“Yes! We’re glad you made it out. Thanks for holding the spot in line!”
Brown grins like a shark, this time, as she releases him. “But of course! Besides, I’d never pass up a chance to spend-” here she drops her voice down, furtively glancing for eavesdroppers- “Bruce Wayne’s money on Black Friday!”
Dick’s smile grows and he does the trick with the Amex card again, and she laughs, brightly, before turning to Damian.
“Hey, champ, glad you made it!”
And then she goes to pull on his hood, and because she moves quickly, he can't dodge it in time that would be reasonable for a civilian identity, so he just has to let it happen as she tugs it down over his eyes and then ruffles the top, like she sometimes does his hair when she (rarely, mind you) catches him off guard during patrol.
To offset the warmth in his chest, he sets the hood right and promises murder with his eyes as he glares back, crossing his arms.
“Brown. You are the advance team, no?”
She nods.
“Then why are we still two blocks from the doors?”
“Oh,” she says, scoffing, but it seems light. “I stay here all night, for ten whole, freezing hours, and this is the thanks I get? Maybe you should go back to the end of the line, Princess, and see how you like it eleven blocks down.”
Damain scoffs right back. “Eleven? I knew your math was bad – the line ends ten blocks from the door.”
Her eyes narrow playfully, and right as Damian can tell it's about to be good, Dick interrupts, hands waving wildly.
“Enough, enough! Steph, what’s your gameplan? You did this last year, right?”
Her posture changes, slightly, settling a bit as a new tone enters her voice.
“Yep. And it was a bloodbath, so we have to be on our toes. The rules are simple. Only take what you can carry, strike first and strike fast, and above all else, we stay together. Got it?”
They both nod.
That makes sense to Damian. In a battle when one is assailed at all sides, it is greatly helpful to have adequate allies. It also makes sense that they must be fast, and that being fast involves being unencumbered.
Damian has only used a shopping cart once, but it was not exactly what he would describe as swift or agile.
They spend the next several minutes discussing their strategy and path through the mall before Damain asks when the battle will start.
At this, Dick looks sheepish. “The mall opens the doors at eight.”
Damian scowls. “It is only seven-thirty now! We could have slept longer!”
Dick frowns. “No, I wanted to meet Steph so she wouldn’t keep being alone and also so we can strategize. Also, Steph, as thank-you, I come bearing gifts!”
From his jacket pockets, he withdraws three wax paper-wrapped squares, and Damain can’t help it when he lights up with delight, noting that Brown does the exact same.
“Oooh,” she exclaims, making grabby hands like an actual child. “Alfred’s famous homemade poptarts! Score!”
Dick hands them out. Indeed, these are one of the most famous, but also most rare treats Alfred makes.
Alfred had perfected the recipe after learning about Cassandra’s proclivities for the packaged monstrosities, but because he couldn’t find her stash or stop her from getting more, he’d just resorted to making his own so that she could at least reduce the amount of red forty she eats on a daily basis.
Everyone else had fallen in love with them as well, but he only makes them when Cassandra’s home, unfortunately.
Luckily, that had proved to be one benefit of the holiday season, despite its other, less desirable characteristics. Almost everyone in the family was at the manor, and if they weren’t, they at least seemed to show up once every two days (Todd. Damian is referring to Todd).
Damian reaches for his own treat, but Dick moves it away, raising it above his own head.
Damian scowls. Curse his current height! He is sure one day he will tower over Grayson, like Father, but currently, all he can do without physically climbing or tackling Richard and risking the tart is glare.
“Nope. Say thank-you to Steph for holding our spot in line, and then you get the pop-tart!”
“Yeah,” mumbles Brown, through a mouthful of crumbs. “Say thanks!”
Damian very carefully schools his features. He can do this. From here, he can tell the tarts are cranberry orange flavor, and that’s one of the best ones, so this is worth it. “Thank you, Brown, for your contribution.”
They both appraise him for a second, and then Brown nods to Richard, who hands him the treat.
“And you better remember it, kid,” she says.
Delicately, he unwraps the bar. The delicate red and white frosting glimmers at him, and the first bite is magical, as always.
Silently, they eat for a while.
When finished, Brown breaks the silence, rubbing her hands together and breathing sharp puffs of air into them.
“Man, it’s cold this year,” she says. “We’re sure there’s not a cold snap warning out?”
Dick shakes his head. Sure, the weather might be cold, but they both know she’s not talking about the weather.
“No, not right now. He’s still missing though, but it’s still just a Freeze watch.”
“But,” interjects Damian, “it is unseasonably cold this year. The weatherman was suspecting a snow storm within the next two weeks.”
Richard scoffs. “This early? Man, it hasn’t snowed in November without Freeze’s intervention in years here.”
Steph frowns. “I don’t really remember it ever snowing before December.”
Damian seizes his chance, pointing at Richard. “See! You are ancient!”
“Ha!” Mocks Steph, and Damian barely has time to dodge as Richard lunges at him, attempting to pull him into a hold, likely for a noogie.
They barely exchange two rapid blows before Steph whacks them on the arm, gesturing around them to the civilians, and they come to a screeching stop.
Richard glances around, but luckily, nobody’s really looking at them, or appears to be paying them attention of any kind.
Then he rubs the back of his neck, and starts to smile.
“Dami, do you remember last December? Near Christmas time?”
“How could I forget? We met Santa.” Damian deadpans.
Steph scoffs. “What’s that code for?”
Richard just shakes his head.
“No, Steph. Like we met Santa.”
She frowns. “Like at the mall? Did you lie to me? Has Damian already been Black Friday shopping and you were just lying about how his American traditions education was incomplete because he’d never been so I’d be guilted into holding your spot? Is that what this is?”
“No, no,” says Dick, quickly. “Tell her, Damian!”
He considers lying for half a second, just to see Brown’s revenge, but then decides on the truth. “I have truly never participated in this sickening celebration of consumerism, no. But indeed, he is not lying. We met Santa. Apparently, he knows my Father.”
Steph pauses, then mouths the words “Bruce” and then “Santa Claus.”
“Huh,” she says. “Maybe that’s not the weirdest thing I’ve ever heard. Maybe.”
“I know right,” says Dick. “Not even in my top ten. Maybe top twenty, but still.”
“Okay. So Santa. Is there more to this story, or is that, like, it?”
Dick grins. “Yes, there’s more, but look!”
Up ahead, Damian sees it. The mad rush as everyone in the front of the lines begins to crush forward, in between the glowing doors of the mall.
“Get ready,” says Steph, as all the people in front of them rise as one, ready to move themselves.
Damian drops into a slightly more ready stance, legs bent and arms prepped, and they do the same.
“Remember the plan,” hisses Dick. “Don’t get separated.”
And with that, they’re off.
As they push into the warmth of the mall, colors and massive banners advertising major sales and how everything’s “got to go” assault Damian’s eyes from every angle.
They push through to the pet store first, and Damian fills two expandable bags with every pet toy he can find that he thinks Titus, Alfred, Jerry, and Batcow might even have a passing interest in.
He gets into only one small fight in this room, over the massive Kong freezer toy. He ends up pulling the “small child” card, and blinks up at her with the wide eyes Grayson had taught him to utilize against Father, and she caves after a brief tug-of-war, screaming at him to take it over the biting sounds of Michael Buble crooning into the microphone.
Next, they’re off to the department clothing stores, but first they have to cross the mall, which Stephanie had previously indicated to be the highest-risk zone.
And she’s clearly right. The crowd that they slip past the edges of is violent and seething, a writhing mass of people scrambling for doors and lugging TVs and bags through.
Apparently, there’s also several on-sale cars in the middle of the mall that people are also physically fighting to sign on for, each ignoring the desperate, harried pleas of the salespeople and the security guards to get them to stop.
It is like watching a pack of hyenas on fear gas tear each other apart, Damian decides. Simultaneously too horrifying to look at and too fascinating to ignore, like a car wreck, but he can’t stay for long as Steph pulls him towards the clothing store to catch back up with Dick.
There, Steph pulls off a rather loud diversion by screaming about rats in the clothes as Richard quickly stuffs his own bag with several Justice League branded t-shirts, blankets, and pairs of fluffy socks, all extremely Christmas themed versions of hero logos in bright green, red, and white. There even appears to be some gold and silver on some.
They’re awful to look at, and Damian unfortunately expects that everyone in the family will be receiving one for Christmas from Richard.
He can already tell who the massive Green Lantern one he catches a glimpse of is going to, and although he refuses to chuckle, he does have to admit that that’s going to be pretty funny on Christmas day.
They also grab several other things from a few other stores, including, but not limited to, a whole new set of makeup at Sephora for Stephanie, who moves like a warrior through the crowded, narrow racks of items as if possessed to find each individual item.
Quickly, Damian discovers that Sephora is the scariest store yet, as he watches people snatch up armfuls of products only to be tripped or have the products literally stolen out of their hands as others make mad dashes for the relative safety of the more heavily guarded line at the front.
Dick also ends up with a few new things, especially when a pretty sales lady starts rapid-fire recommending products and color-matching new eyeliners and lip gloss to his skin.
Damian considers a 25%-off kohl, and remembering his mother’s dramatically lined, intense eyes, shoves it in with the rest of Stephanie’s things, who smiles and nods approvingly at his choice.
Eventually, a brawl breaks out over some sort of newly half-off for ten-minutes perfume, and they decide they have to leave before things get any crazier with a brief flurry of hand signals.
Stephanie swipes the black card with glee, and then tips 200% of their frankly insane bill to the slightly-shaking cashier, who looks at them with such bone-tiredness in her eyes and soul that Damian immediately associates her with Drake, which is truly saying something.
They mutter their thank-yous and leave, luckily escaping through the crowd pushing their way in just as Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas Is You” starts playing for the third time in just the twenty-two minutes they’ve been in the over-crowded store.
But it doesn’t get quieter.
Instead, it gets louder, but not with the sound of tinny, canned Christmas music.
Damian’s hackles rise as they make it to the edge of the hallway, keeping quiet and to the sides of the hall on instinct.
Because that was screaming, down towards the center of the building.
And not the screams of bargain hunters fighting and demanding things, either, or of people fighting with security.
No, those are real screams, desperate, terrified, and raw.
Grayson slips into point position, and they flank him automatically as he peers around the corner.
They do the same, and then all immediately duck back behind.
Because what’s out there is war.
Not fake war, like Richard was describing when he was jesting about Black Friday, but real, bloody war.
Men and women are attacking each other, swinging fists and feet, laptops and home appliances at each other, clearly aiming to kill or at least maim.
And from the blood on the floor, some likely had.
But that wasn’t all. There was a smokey miasma, a gray-tinged green with an odd dark quality that was hanging heavy around the people’s heads, floating and shifting around them like a dense fog.
“Fear toxin,” mutters Damain, at the same time as Richard and Stephanie.
“Okay,” says Richard, almost to himself. “Gas masks?”
They both nod, already reaching for their masks. Damian pulled his emergency mask out of his interior jacket pocket. No self-respecting Gothamite goes anywhere without them, but it was clear from out there that this attack had been fast and unexpected enough that not many had been able to escape the gas with their mask.
“We need to find the emergency ventilation and air purification system switch. Does anyone know where the control room is? Steph?” Asks Dick, putting on his own mask deftly.
The systems were new – Wayne Enterprises had been funding their installation into public indoor spaces throughout the city as a way to better combat the frequent gas attacks from the rogues, and so far, they’d been effective - at least when people had been able to activate them in time.
She frowns with her eyes behind her own deep purple mask. “I think so. I don’t come here often, but it’s kind of more central, near the food court.”
Dick grimaces, eyes darting around until he spies a fire alarm a few feet behind them.
He doesn’t need to say anything before Damian moves to it, breaking the glass with a punch to pull the handle down.
Immediately, the shrill sound starts up, paired with blinding lights and a vibrational system Damain can feel in his teeth.
That would at least get some of the people out into the fresh air and wind through the fire doors (Gothamites are very capable during crisis compared to most) – and it would alert the police and fire department, both of whom had fear toxin antidote available
“Okay,” shouted Dick. “That’s all we can do for now. I’ll call Bruce, Steph, you call Commissioner Gordan. Damian, you call Duke. He should be starting patrol by now! In the meantime, we’ll go get ready – there’s an emergency bolthole four blocks from here.”
Damian spares one last glance around the corner before they leave.
The fight is still going strong, even as people scream and shake through their punches, but the green mist with the odd dark tint is moving slowly towards them, almost like it’s walking or ambling in odd groupings instead of dispersing evenly like a normal gas.
Most strikingly, though, is the person in a gas mask, the same WE brand as Damian’s, who dashes into his field of vision, heading towards the main doors at full sprint as they attempt to cross the main field of the gas attack. They get all of two strides into the fog before collapsing on shaking legs, but that’s all that Damian can see before Dick’s hand on his shoulder pulls him away, and then they’re running towards the emergency exit they’d clocked back in the Sephora.
As he runs, the sight of the man in the mask collapsing lingers on.
Either he hadn’t gotten the mask before inhaling the toxin, or this was a new, more dangerous strain, finer than the filters on the newest WE mask can handle.
And that’s a terrifying thought, he realizes, as they sprint down the street towards the safehouse.
Damian pulls out his comm from his jacket pocket lining and jams it in his ear.
“Signal, Signal, do you read me?”
It takes a second, but the comm cracks to life with Thomas’ voice.
“Yeah, Robin, I hear you. And I know. Reports of fear gas at the mall, Costco, and the Shopping Plaza. Maybe others. I’m closest to the Plaza now, I’m on my way to investigate.”
“Wait,” cries Damian. “Do not engage. I saw a man in a WE mask collapse in fear. Your mask might not be able to filter the new Scarecrow strain.”
Next to him, also on the phone, Dick shoots him an alarmed look and then repeats what Damian said into the phone, most likely to Father or Alfred, if Father is somehow still asleep.
Stephanie almost missteps at the news and then does the same to Gordon.
“Should I try and get a sample?” Asks Signal.
“Negative,” says Damian. “It is too risky. Observe and report for now.”
The orders feel natural - he’s been doing this for longer than Thomas, certainly, and he’s sure Duke will listen, because he’s reasonable like that, generally.
He feels relieved when Duke replies with the affirmative as they’re vaulting up the stairs to the third floor bolthole.
“Do you see anything,” he asks after a minute, and sees Dick and Stephanie put their own comms in to join, now that they’ve hung up their own calls.
“Not with my ghost vision. Or my normal vision, I guess” says Signal. “Either the gas was planted more than twenty minutes ago so I can’t see the plant, or it just appeared out of nowhere by itself. Also, yeah, people in masks are being affected. I can’t engage without getting drugged myself, and it looks like people are reacting more with fight rather than flight to this strain. I’m gonna find the exterior ventilation override to help clear the place out, but I’m not sure if this smoke is going to respond. It looks weird.”
“Weird how,” asks Nightwing, voice hard.
“I’m not sure if you’d be able to see it, man,” says Signal, “but it’s like it’s sandy, almost. Like glistening black volcanic sand turned to gas. I’m not sure how you’d see it, but it’s almost absorbing the light around it, like each particle is a tiny black hole. Whatever this strain is, that’s not how the normal gas has ever looked. It’s also moving weirdly, like it’s lurching or walking. I don’t like it.”
Damian affixes his mask and feels Robin rush over him, centering and powerful.
Nightwing points to Spoiler, but also speaks into the comm. “Spoiler, go ventilate the Costco and help direct emergency aid there. Take the bike in the back alley, in the fake dumpster. Robin and I will return to the mall to do the same. Signal, finish ventilating the center and help with emergency services. Everyone, avoid the gas at all costs, and report back any more attacks or Scarecrow sightings on this channel.”
And with that, they’re off.
Nightwing and Robin fly out the window back towards the mall as Spoiler zips out west towards the Costco.
It doesn’t take long by grapple to move across the rooftops back to where they were, and in the distance, Damian hears the wail of police and fire sirens beginning to make their way towards the mall, which is a relief.
Quickly, Nightwing zeroes in on the external ventilation activator on the roof and they key in the series.
From the skylights, he can see that the fighting has almost gotten worse, and that somehow, the gas seems to have doubled in size without a clear point of origin. He can also see that several more people in gas masks have joined those cowering on the ground and those fighting, and he relays to the comm and with a snapshot of domino footage of the victims to Commissioner Gordan that his men should not enter until the ventilation system completes its full six-minute cycle.
Luckily, though, he can trace the muddy green fog being spiraled up and out of the building as the ventilation system kicks on.
It seems to be working, thankfully.
Signal reports the same from his end, and then a few minutes later, Spoiler calls in with her own success in activating the system at the Costco.
But now all they can do is wait and watch, and it’s a gnawing, horrible feeling.
Slowly, the gas leaves and the room below clears, and then they can see the emergency services start to flood the room, ready to spray the aerosolized version of the catch-all antidote that will at least alleviate some of the symptoms, if not all, of this new strain.
But the people haven’t lost their responses, and the second they start attacking the firefighters and medics, Robin follows Nightwing through the glass ceiling in a burst of shards down to the floor, and fight, below.
From there, it's a delicate balance of control and strength as they work together to distract and subdue the most violent victims without major damage.
“Whoa there pal,” jests Nightwing to one particularly tough looking guy dual-wielding large American Girl Dolls like clubs, “whatcha seeing? Let me guess, spiders?”
The only response is an enraged yet tremulous roar, but it gives Robin enough time to enact a rapid blood choke and bring the man down quickly.
Then they’re knocking the legs out from under a seething group of teenagers with video games spilling out of their many pockets, and Damian gapes as he notices the new DLC for Cheese Viking among the pile, and he has to stop himself from picking it up out of instinct.
He hadn’t even thought of trying to buy that today!
But it doesn't matter. After quickly, but gently, zip-tying the teenages, he moves on to taking down a man swinging half a TV, two older women trying to decapitate each other with golf clubs, and a man punching dents into the for-sale cars with his bare, bleeding fists who is screaming something about evil shadows with yellow eyes before Robin sends him into a painless nap.
Then, thankfully, the cure starts to spread.
It’s not any one color, but it does have the pleasant and calming scent of light sage as an indicator of spread and effect, and Damian notices a slow reduction of violence in the crowd, if not necessarily the fear, as he tag-teams protection of medical with Nightwing.
Eventually, the response teams have it under control, and they take that as their cue to leave, grappling back to the roof to the ventilator system, because here’s the full beauty of the system: Not only does it remove the gas from the space, but it also loads three pressurized sample containers with whatever gas it was removing to help aid the Bats in their analysis and antidote production.
Robin moves to remove the gas, but Nightwing shoos him out of the way quickly. “Nope, little birds don’t play with new toxins. Let me do it.”
Damian huffs – he’s been trained in advanced chemistry and toxins, thank you very much, but he recognizes Grayson’s determined set of his jaw and knows better than to interfere.
As the small canisters are safely deposited in Nightwing’s pouches, Damian checks in with the others.
“N and I are finished. Do either of you require assistance?”
“Nope,” calls Spoiler, ever so slightly out of breath, “all good here! Just helping the EMTs round up the last of the fleers. The fighters are all down here, and I’ll get the samples on my way out.”
“Same here,” responds Signal. “I had a bunch of fighters but they were just civilians, so easy money. I have the toxin samples though. Drop-off at the Cave?”
“Yes,” says Nightwing. “Whatever this stuff is, it’s strong. Be careful transporting it, and come straight back to the cave. We’ll see you there.”
Together, they make their way out and down a few blocks, where a version of the Wingcycle is already waiting for them, screen lit up in Oracle green to tell them that she remote piloted it out here for them to use.
Robin settles in behind Nightwing and they zip back to the cave, dipping into the sewer and tunnel system to avoid any eyes as they head back to analyze the gas.