#red robin is ready to attend the Ghost lecture

[help-itrappedmyself]

Liminal Jason part 6

This part feels like a lot of exposition. My bad, but the Batfam does not know how Danny and his life works.

You can find the earlier parts on my masterpost

“And in this scenario, you three count as dead?” Red asked, hoping to get some clarity on this, quite frankly, annoyingly impossible scenario playing out in front of him. Because as much as he can see that they clearly have a way to communicate that is beyond him and knows that they have all died, his brain does not seem to want to compute this information into other conclusions. A glance from Tim to Bruce shows that while he may not be struggling as much with the logistics of this situation, he is still struggling.

That may be because of all the children in front of him that- regardless of current status- all did die at some point. 

“Sort of,” Danny shrugs. “What you have to understand is there are a lot of different kinds of beings from what you would consider the land of the dead, which I call the Ghost Zone, and is more formally known as the Infinite Realms. There is a lot of diversity, and It would be a real sit-down kind of lesson to try and explain them all to you guys. The important bit for right now is that the three of us,” Danny gestures to Red Hood, then himself, then to Robin,”are three different beings, as related to the Infinite Realms, and I am the only one that technically counts as dead.”

Danny is very good at ignoring the side glances being thrown around. “But Ghost Speak can be spoken by any denizen of the Infinite Realms, who falls under any of it’s categories or rulers.” 

“Rulers?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Danny does another hand waving motion. “You know, Hades and Pluto, Lucifer and the Devil, the Ghost King, and other various religions and beliefs rulers. It's all very monarchist. The Infinite Realms are all technically under the control of the Ghost King, but the Infinite Realms are infinite and that’s a lot for one person to control. So various religious leaders all  make up what is essentially Dukes and Lords and Barons and other random titles, and they all control their little Realms and make up what could be considered a council or a parliament or Congress or what-have-you that is technically under the rule of the Ghost King. But the Ghost King really only takes care of the really big stuff most of the time. Unless there’s a tyrant on the throne, like with Pariah Dark. He was a terrible ruler, very controlling.”

Danny was rambling. He was aware of this, but the others seemed too shell-shocked to be able to stop him, and he has never really been able to talk about this with anyone so now that he is he doesn’t think he can stop himself either. 

“He’s not on the throne anymore, luckily. Technically the right to the throne is transferred through single-combat, very old-fashioned. No one could beat Pariah Dark so they locked him in the Coffin of Forever Sleep for a really long time instead. I don’t think the Infinite Realms really need a King all that much, they got by just fine for millenia without one. But now we’re getting into politics. Unimportant. Death Speak, language of the Infinite Realms, totally natural, not at all bad.”

Danny forces himself to take a very long, slow breath. By the time he is done, the others seem at least semi-recovered. 

“If it’s all the same to you, I think I would like that sit-down lesson at some point.” Red mutters, fingers twitching as he pulls out his tablet to start writing down this information. Bruce grunts in agreement.

“If it's all the same to you,” Hood snaps, “I would like to get out of this cell now.” 

“If we let you out, will you stay until we have the results from all of the tests?” Bruce asked. “They’re currently running so it won’t take long.” 

“Why the hell do we need to stay for that? You-”

“Did you take my blood?” Danny interrupted, seeming very concerned.

“It was a precaution, we had to test it. We took some of Hood’s too.” Red tried to explain. It didn’t seem to be helping, Danny’s breathing was getting kind of fast. “The tests are running now, just to look for influences of mind control or magic. And to test for dimensional distortions and integrity, if you were telling the truth about being from a different dimension. And to see if you have an alternate in this dimension that we need to be concerned about you running into.”

“I don’t really care -well, yes I do, breach of privacy, and consent, and-” Danny took a deep breath. “That is not my main concern at the moment. You were safe when handling my blood, right? You used gloves and it didn’t get on you or anything? I don’t know where we are and what you people are like, but just tell me you were safe around my blood.”

The real concern and fear in Danny was starting to get everyone else.

“Don’t worry, we are very safe here. We all have training and we know and use lab and medical safety procedures.” Damian spoke softly, aiming to calm.

“What is wrong with your blood, Danny?” Hood’s concern for him came out in underling Ghost Speak, and between him and Damian, Danny was able to calm some.

“It may be… not radioactive. Not contagious either.” Danny’s voice trailed to muttering for a moment as he figured out how to word what he said next. “My blood has a contaminant in it. Just don’t let it touch you, and definitely don’t let it get inside you somehow. It can also be dangerous if you have prolonged exposure, so make sure to get rid of any samples as soon as possible after the test and keep it away from other samples. And for the love of everything that is holy, try to keep it away from anything that will ever be ingested. Keep it away from food!”

“It can contaminate other samples?” 

“It can contaminate anything given enough time, technology included. But it spreads way more easily when it’s cold for some reason, so really anything put in a fridge with it should be tossed immediately.”

“You said it’s not contagious?” There was concern in even Red’s voice now.

“You’re not ill are you?” Damian eyes Danny warily.

“I’m fine, It’s part of me being what I am. Just,” Danny sighed and ran his fingers through his hair before cupping the back of his neck with both hands and looking towards the ceiling. “Think of it like a transforming agent. I’ve already been exposed, my DNA is altered, the harm is already done. My body actually needs that substance to survive now. Hood and… I’m sorry I don’t know what to call you.” Danny swung his hands back down to his sides as he glanced at Robin. 

“Robin.” Damian stated bluntly. 

Danny nodded and continued. “Hood and Robin have already been exposed so they’re fine for low to medium amounts of exposure. You two,” Danny pointed a finger at Red and then Batman, “Have not been exposed and therefore should avoid it as much as possible. Even a little bit can cause lifelong effects.”

[rikudaa]

༉‧₊˚Blue Paint and Binary

Tim Drake/Red Robin x Reader | Part 1. >>>

ღA/N: I haven’t finished the Jason’s one yet but already started on Tim, I don’t have any excuse your honor. Dividers are made by @cafekitsune ! Also there’s a familiar name, I wonder why it’s there👀

Note: This is a Yandere story but for the start off the chapter it’s just a life of being student in university. You’re an art major with a psychology focus, and he’s in another major likely something strategic, analytical, or tech-heavy. Academic rivals are ruled.

No gender mention for reader, just “You” and “Y/N”. Enjoy!

You see him again.

Fourth time this week. Fifth if you count the reflection in the library window Monday night, where he didn’t notice you watching him stalk through the neuroscience wing like he had a hitlist tucked in his backpack. He probably did. Probably alphabetized, color-coded, timestamped. You don’t know what his major is, exactly. You just know it involves enough data and silence to make your teeth itch.

You’re not even sure how it started, this thing between you.

Maybe it was the day he tore down your entire color-theory thesis in front of the honors seminar like you hadn’t poured eight weeks of insomnia into it. Or maybe it was when you psychoanalyzed the subtle ways he corrects professors, like he’s trying not to challenge their authority outright. A boy raised in the shadows, needing to be smarter than the room but invisible at the same time.

He hated that.

You liked that he hated that.

It made things interesting.

Now you both sit two rows apart in the interdisciplinary lecture you don’t need, but keep taking anyway. You, because it fulfills a loose psych elective. Him, because–well, you’re still figuring that out. You suspect it’s just to keep an eye on you.

His laptop is open. Of course. Always typing, even when the professor is off-topic or ranting about Kantian frameworks like anyone in this generation gives a damn. You sketch while he types. His fingers never pause. Neither does your pencil.

You don’t know what he’s writing. He doesn’t know you’re drawing him. (He probably does)

Sometimes you wonder what it’d be like if you weren’t circling each other like dogs bred for war. If you weren’t two kids with too many ghosts and not enough peace. If you weren’t chasing two versions of control in different languages–his clean, hard logic versus your bleeding, beautiful chaos.

“Drake,” you mutter when he passes by your table at the campus café.

He looks up. Neutral expression, polite voice.

“Y/N.”

The way he says your name–it’s never soft. Like it’s a task. Like he’s filing you under ‘problems to solve later.’

You sip your coffee. He doesn’t sit, but he also doesn’t leave.

“I heard you’re presenting at the symposium next month,” he says. Tone clipped. “Didn’t think postmodern expressionism was ready for prime time.”

You smile over the rim of your cup. “I didn’t think future CIA agents attended art showcases.”

His lip twitches. A crack in the porcelain. You almost write that down. Instead, you offer a shrug.

“It’s about trauma translation in visual mediums,” you say casually. “Memory distortion in painted narratives. Thought you’d be into that, don’t you guys love poking at trauma?”

“I don’t poke,” he says. “I dissect.”

“Wow. That supposed to impress me?”

“No,” he says. “But I’m guessing that’s your default response to feeling threatened.”

You narrow your eyes. “I’m not threatened.”

“Sure.”

You hate that you want to throw your coffee at him and kiss him at the same time.

There’s no label for what you two are. You share a dozen classes. Compete for the same awards. Sit on the same late-night panels when professors need overachievers to flex for alumni donors.

You’ve even been grouped for the occasional cross-discipline project where you talk, and he listens, and then he talks, and you sketch the slope of his mouth when he forgets he’s performing.

Sometimes you work in silence for hours.

Sometimes you fight.

Sometimes you wonder what he dreams about when he forgets to pretend he doesn’t dream.

You catch him reading your analysis paper once. The one you left out in the shared research lab. He doesn’t know you’re watching from the stairwell. He reads it twice.

You never mention it.

Weeks pass. You win the campus-wide art grant. He wins the dean’s medallion. You both pretend not to care about the other’s win, but neither of you stop looking. Comparing. Weighing.

During one particularly brutal review, your advisor calls your piece “Catharsis in Crimson” emotionally erratic.

You leave class furious, chalk-stained fingers clenching your coat.

Tim’s outside already, leaning against the wall like he’d been waiting. You scowl.

“If you came to gloat–”

“I liked it.”

You blink.

“What?”

“I liked your piece,” he says. “The one they tore apart.”

Your voice is smaller than you want. “You don’t get to say that.”

“I know.” He nods. “But I’m saying it anyway.”

It’s quiet for a beat. You look at the sky to avoid looking at his face. The clouds are heavy and gray and stubborn. You think, Maybe we’re like that too.

“I don’t know what we are,” you admit.

Tim exhales slowly. “Neither do I.”

You laugh softly but the bitterness already etched on your tongue.

“Must drive you crazy. Not knowing.”

“It does,” he says. “You’re an outlier. I don’t have a model for you.”

You look at him then. Really look. There’s something honest in the way his hands curl at his sides. Something tired in the slouch of his shoulders, like he’s been fighting a war no one sees.

“I could say the same.”

“I know.”

And there it is again. The space between you, small and sharp and unbearably loud.

You don’t touch. You don’t cross the line.

But you both know it’s there.

Waiting.

Next up: Observe and Detach | Part 1. >>>

©𐙚 rikudaa—Please do not repost or copy this content to other websites.