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that-random-fangirl · 1 day ago

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Turn Back the Frozen Sands of Time

(I couldn't come up with a better title, lol, so we're stuck with this.)

unadulteratedsoulsweets's Prompt | Master Post | Next(to be written)

Danny didn't startle awake; he didn't gasp for unnecessary breath; he didn't cry out in pain.

No, Danny woke to the sound of nothing; the sound of wind calmly crawling through stone halls, of dust drifting through the silent air, of birds singing songs off in the distance.

This was a silence he hadn't heard in years. And for all the pain that the silence brought, he couldn't help but hold his breath, the little spark of hope settling in his heart, no, his core.

He's had years to hate, yell, and ignore his childhood. Years to accept what had been done to him. Years to forgive.

Years to grieve what had been and what could have been.

Years to wish for a chance to go back.

Years to accept he'd never would, and move on.

Opening his eyes, Danny looked at his childhood room in confused wonder. It was just as he remembered: nothing had moved from where he had left it. Loose papers scattered across an intricate desk, weapons displayed proudly on the stone walls, bright colorful paint, and tiles embedded into the stone with tedious hard work. His little jar of rocks and twigs he kept on his shelf. The horde of sweets was tucked behind books, like he had just recently added to his stash.

If he hadn't known any better, he could almost convince himself it had all been a dream. Like he hadn't walked out of this room eight years ago, walked to his first death, and right into The Fentons' arms. Like he could walk out that door and greet his brother like he had so many times before.

But he knew better; he's lived through dreams and false realities. He knows what twisted wishes and curses act like, feel like.

this wasn't a dream, this wasn't a damn wish, this was real. It was all horrifically, unbearably, dreadfully real.

And that scared him.

because he remembered being in the Ghost Zone, remembered hopping from rocky island to island in a game of tag with Dani. Remembered pranking the observants for being stuffy old geezers. Remembered hugging Clockwork and darting around the halls just to annoy the ghost. Remembered finally mastering animated Ice sculptures and sending an ice raccoon to fly to the far frozen just so Frostbite would know what he had accomplished.

But he didn't remember how he got here.

How he had gotten out of the zone, across the planet, and into a room deep inside a fortified fortress built by a cult his grandfather had led for several centuries.

One moment he had been testing just how far Fright Knight would go to follow him, and the next he's WAKING up here.

Moving to sit up, Danny froze.

His clothes were different.

He wasn't wearing his typical old tee and ripped blue jeans, nor was he wearing Tucker's hoodie and Sam's lacy skirt she'd finally convinced him to wear.

No, he was wearing a very familiar outfit. One that should be too small for him to fit in after all these years, one that had been mostly destroyed and discarded.

Sitting up, Danny stared in horror at his body. He was in his favorite deep blue and black Kurta, but that wasn't all.

No, no.

He was small.

Well, smaller. (Who knew dying multiple times would stunt his growth?) Like, as in he was eight or nine years old, small, as small as he had been when he had died, small.

If this was real (and it was, he knew it deep down in his core), then he couldn't waste any time panicking. Even after eight years, his daily routine was ingrained into his mind; wake up thirty minutes early, sneak out into the garden to watch the sunrise, sneak back in, get caught by his brother, go to breakfast, lessons, lunch, training, dinner, training, leave to go to bed but sneak out to star gaze, sneak back in and sleep.

The sun wasn't up yet, but it was close, which meant he needed to hurry if he didn't want anyone to get suspicious. Naturally, everyone knew he snuck out in the morning(he had made it wear they'd underestimate him, to make it easier to sneak out at night), so if he wasn't seen by his mother's spies and then caught by his brother, they'd know something was up. They probably wouldn't guess (what? Time travel? That's the only thing that's making sense, but then why is he small?) to be the problem, but they would know something was up and therefore, make it impossible for Danny to investigate it by himself.

Getting up, Danny grabbed a new pair of socks, snatched his special league tabi boots, and the blue strips of fabric he used almost every day. Pulling his socks on, then his boots, he carefully folded the extra fabric of his churidar and wrapped the blue strips tightly around. just like he had been taught.

Standing up, he snagged a few small knives (he always left his katana, he was supposed to be sneaking out to sight see, not fight) and stashed them on his body. It amazes him how easily he slipped back into his old habits; how easily he concealed his weapons, how he automatically silenced his footsteps as he left his room, how he pretended not to notice his mother's spies watching him.

He was acting on muscle memory from eight years ago, yet he didn't even falter as he turned down winding halls and up steep stairs.

Maybe he wasn't using eight years of dusty muscle memory.

Maybe he was using nine years of ingrained habit.

Maybe he was in his actual nine-year-old body.

It would explain how his memory of the day before was almost crystal clear now, how he remembered that there wasn't anything special planned for today, how his brother had been teasing him about his horrible stance in training. Crystal clear, just like his memory of playing with Dani, not even twelve hours ago.

It was like the present him was merged with the past him's body and mind. (Would that make his memories square? memory^2? Like they're both his memories, just one's fresher than the other, but now they feel... More? Tucker would know. It doesn't hurt, but man, was this weird.)

Finally making his way into the garden, Danny turned and scaled the stone walls, his fingers turning slightly red due to the frosty cold air and rocks.

Once at his usual spot, Danny turned and sat down, watching as the sky grew brighter and brighter. Hopefully the spies don't question his delay, maybe they'll chalk it up to him needing a little more sleep. he had pushed himself in training the day before.

Ok, focus on his situation.

What are the facts?

He had been in the ghost zone, nothing was out of the ordinary, and then he was suddenly waking up in his nine-year-old body, his childhood memories revived like he had just lived them(because he technically had, apparently), and he couldn't let anyone know something was wrong. (partly to keep the timeline intact, and partly because assassins get very... pointed when things aren't like how they're supposed to be.)

From his memories, he knows there is nothing extra planned for today. It's a typical boring day in the league. The most exciting thing that could happen is his mother stopping by to teach him instead of his normal mentors. But she did that three days ago, so chances are close to zilch.

Oh, and if his older memories are to be trusted, he is three or four days away from his first death.

Ok, Danny. Take a deep breath.

You've been sent back in time, somehow.

The most obvious cause: Clockwork.

But if he was the one responsible, then there should be a note, and you'd remember why and exactly how you got sent back. Clockwork time travel doesn't typically involve de-aging, and there wasn't a note.

So not Clockwork.

But if not Clockwork, then who and why?

He'd say another ghost broke in and maybe stole one of Clockwork's time manipulation stuff and used it on him, but that wouldn't make sense for multiple reasons. First, most ghosts who have enough audacity to pull a stunt like this, either refrain from doing so because Danny's the king or because they'd rather use their own stuff to screw with him.

Secondly, Clockwork wouldn't just let anyone steal from him, let alone use the stolen stuff against Danny.

So, not a ghost(or other realms being), or at least not one Danny knows of. But the likely hood of a random ass ghost/being doing this was still bogus because of reason number two.

So, that left living beings.

Who among the living would be powerful enough to affect-

"Danyal,"

Danny tensed; he knew that voice. He hated that voice. He's missed that voice. Glancing down with a frown, Danny stared at his brother.

no matter what he wanted to do (stangle him, hug him, cry, laugh, yell), he had to act normal, and normal nine-year-old Danyal al Ghul would be annoyed and confused that his morning sunrise was being interrupted, yet nervous because he'd been 'caught'. Normal nine-year-old Danyal al Ghul was 'weak' and 'innocent'. Or, well, compared to his brother, that is. (he knows now that nine-year-old him was nowhere near normal compared to everyone else.)

Damian was staring up at him, his body tense and eyes sharp with something Danny couldn't place. He looked upset, if Danny was being honest. But why would he be upset?

wait.

A memory from yesterday popped up; Damian had stolen his favorite knife, teasing him for failing to hit the target dead on like he could. Danny had stolen his shuko hand claws in retaliation.

"I swear I didn't do it," Danny blurted, glancing around to see his escape routes. He had two, the other side of the roof, or risk trying to get past Damian and back inside.

Damian blinked, looking thrown off for a second, his brows furrowed, "Do what?"

Danny glanced back, forcing his body to nervously shift, "Take your shuko claws." (Present him would have never given himself away like this, but past Danny had no brain-to-mouth filter and enough anxiety to fuel a rocket ship, which usually led to him being a horrible liar.)

Damian was silent for a moment, closing his eyes as if he were pained. "That's not," he started, before stopping and taking a deep breath to center himself.

This was weird. Danny didn't remember an interaction like this happening. what was going on? had something changed? had he screwed up the timeline by not getting outside fast enough?

"I'm not mad at you," Damian continued, finally opening his eyes and staring up at him with a blank face.

"You're not?" Danny asked, moving to make it look like he was ready to bolt at any moment. (It wasn't hard to act like it when he truly did feel like he should run.)

"No, I wanted to know if," Damian paused, pursing his lips just slightly. It was his thinking face, the face he only got when he really was panicking about what to do next. Why was he panicking?

"If?" Danny pushed, slowly leaning forward and weighing the pros and cons of jumping down and being face to face with him.

"If you," Damian started slowly, "would allow me to join you."

Danny blinked, then blinked again. (Damian was acting weird, what the hell? Wait? Has he been misinterpreting his brother this whole time? Was he always catching Danny as he snuck back in because he wanted to join him? wait, no, focus, Danny!)

"Sure!" Danny smiled, patting the roof next to him. Nine-year-old Danyal would be ecstatic if his brother wanted to join him. So ecstatic in fact, he might even start ranting about everything he knew about the sun. (Present Danny was also about to start ranting, just more out of nervousness than excitement.)

Shaking his hands to get rid of the excess energy (excited energy because, even if Danny never forgave his brother for what happened, he still loved him, and spending even just a moment with him was like a dream come true), Danny beamed as his brother hauled himself up onto the roof and sat down.

"Did you know the sun has layers?" Danny blurted, turning to glance up at the mountains around them. Technically, the sun was up, but it still hadn't broken over the mountain ridge. Ancients, he never realized how much he missed the peaceful mornings here in Nanda Parbat.

"Really?" Damian asked softly, turning to watch the sun rise as well. A new bird song broke out, their chirps and whistles echoing off the rocky walls and building a symphony for just the two of them to enjoy.

Danny wasn't sure what he had done to change things, but maybe, just maybe, he could be selfish and not worry for just a moment. He wanted to enjoy the precious little time he had with his twin, even if the knowledge of what would happen in three days hung over his head.

Damian turned to look at him again, his green eyes focused intently on Danny's face, and with a smile that Danny's very rarely seen, asked, "Can you tell me about them?"

Next(to be written)

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that-random-fangirl · 1 day ago

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WIP WEDNESDAY

Every bat has a cat.

There’s an old phrase in Gotham: every Bat has a Cat.

Like most things whispered through Gotham’s smog, it’s only mostly untrue. Technically, the only Bat who ever really had a Cat was Batman himself—and even that’s been more of a tug-of-war than a love story. Not for lack of effort on Catwoman’s part. She’s tried everything: seduction, threats, borderline kidnapping. At one point, she swore she’d adopt all of Batman’s kids just to spite him. She’s teamed up with the Birds of Prey—where a few of the Bat-daughters moonlight—and once even tried to snatch up Little Timothy Drake back when he was still Robin, dangling the offer of being her “pet stray.” It didn’t take. Timmy was too invested in feathered spandex and daddy issues.

And then there was that… incident with Nightwing. But Gotham doesn’t talk about that. Gotham forgets. Gotham represses.

Still, the saying stuck around, mostly as a joke. A rite of passage, the locals would wink: “Once the birds become Bats, they’ll find their Cat.” Like puberty, but with more rooftop flirting and potential felony charges.

It was all fun and folklore—until it wasn’t.

No one really knows when the joke stopped being a joke. When the line between myth and prophecy started to blur. All anyone can remember is the night it finally got everyone’s attention.

It happened at the grand reopening of the Gotham Museum, debuting a new exhibit on Ancient Sumerian artifacts. Bruce Wayne showed up with two-thirds of his grim duckling trio—Tim and Damian in tuxedos, sulking appropriately (Jason, the other brooding duckling has refused to come, and everyone knew Duke and Dick to be too much of sunshine boys to be part of the brooding bunch). The opening night was invitation-only, with patrons shuffled between exhibits like a very wealthy cattle drive: first Sumerian, then Medieval, then an optional wine bar where the Chardonnay was too warm.

It was during one of these exhibit rotations that Tim saw it. A flicker. A whisper of motion at the corner of his eye. Something feline, something familiar, slipping back into the shadows of the Sumerian wing.

He didn’t hesitate. He turned to Bruce and Damian, voice clipped and sharp.

“Catwoman’s here.”

As soon as Tim muttered the alert, the Bat Family trio slipped into action with the kind of silent efficiency that only years of crimefighting, trauma bonding, and tactical group chats could provide.

Bruce gave a curt nod. “We’re changing. Now.”

It took them less than five minutes to disappear from the gala and reappear as the Bat, Red Robin, and the Robin—silent shadows in kevlar and purpose. They moved through back corridors, slipping past distracted security and tipsy patrons, until they reached the Sumerian exhibit once more.

Only this time, the lights were off.

Tim frowned behind his mask. “That's not ominous at all.”

“Should we announce ourselves?” Damian asked, already reaching for his sword.

“No,” Bruce answered curtly, gesturing for silence.

That’s when the voices drifted through the shadows. Muffled, conversational, and—oddly—playful.

“I dunno, Kitty,” a teen male voice said, exasperated but not particularly hurried. “Mama said not to overindulge, and we already got most of the artifacts we wanted.”

Tim blinked. Mama? Oh great. A new Cat-themed villain with actual parental boundaries.

“Sure,” replied a teen girl, voice bright with amusement. “But look at this diamond, Stray. Tell me it’s not gorgeous. Wouldn’t it look perfect in our collection?”

There was a dramatic sigh, the kind of sigh that implied someone had already lost this argument many times before.

“Mmhhmm... you know what? Fine. What’s one more diamond in the bag?”

That was their cue. The trio advanced, silent as breath, until they reached the edge of the display hall and got their first clear look at the culprits.

It… wasn’t Catwoman.

It was a girl, sure—dressed in what looked like a Catwoman suit, but styled after a tuxedo cat, complete with white accents at her gloves, boots and torso. Her partner, taller and broader, wore a sleeker suit—blacker than night and painted to his skin, save for white hands and feet—and had a calm posture that said yes, I do this a lot and no, I’m not impressed by any of you. Both wore green-tinted goggles that glowed faintly in the dark, and both had visible tufts of snow-white hair peeking from their hoods.

Tim stared. “Okay, so… not Catwoman.”

“No,” Bruce confirmed, grim.

Damian narrowed his eyes. “They are amateurs.”

“Amateurs who just stole a priceless diamond,” Tim muttered. “And called it ‘pretty.’”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “We move. Now.”

Batman dropped down in front of the display case like thunder in a cape, his shadow stretching long and ominous over the marble floor.

Red Robin and Robin flanked him a beat later, dramatic and ready—Tim in full tactical mode, Damian practically vibrating with the urge to stab something.

“Step away from the artifacts,” Batman growled.

The two teens froze mid-theft. The girl blinked behind her green goggles. The boy raised an unimpressed brow that none of them could see but everyone could feel.

“Oh no,” the girl deadpanned, dramatically clutching the diamond to her chest. “It’s the law.”

“Panic,” the boy muttered with a lazy smirk.

“You’re trespassing on federal property,” Batman continued, all gravel and menace. “Surrender. Now.”

“Hmm,” the girl—Kitty—tilted her head. “No thanks.”

“Yeah,” the boy—Stray, apparently—shrugged. “We’re kind of indoor ferals. Surrendering isn’t in the skill set.”

Tim lunged first. He was fast, calculated, and nearly caught her.

Nearly.

Kitty somersaulted backward over a Sumerian statue with all the grace of an Olympic gymnast raised by a jungle cat. She landed en pointe on the exhibit railing, wiggled her fingers in a “ta-ta” motion, and vanished into the shadows like smoke.

Damian growled and went after Stray. “I will neuter you.”

“Big words, Bird Boy,” Stray laughed, ducking and weaving as Damian’s staff sliced through empty air. “But you gotta catch me first.”

Batman threw a batarang—clean, perfect arc, museum-quality aim.

It bounced off the floor as Stray backflipped over it, landing in a low crouch. “Mama warned us about this. Rule number one: Don’t play fetch with the Bat, you aren't a dog, you are a cat and cats has stabdards.”

“Not that she has anything to talk about” answer Kitty, sitting over a display. “She is the first one who plays cat and mouse with him”

Tim leapt from above, a textbook ambush.

Kitty twisted in midair, caught his cape mid-descent, and used it to swing him into a wall.

“Ow,” Tim muttered from the floor, sprawled in an undignified tangle of limbs and regrets. “That’s—okay. That’s fair.”

“Gotta admit,” Kitty said, lightly jogging backward while juggling the diamond between her hands, “you guys are way more coordinated than the usual mall cops.”

“But you still can’t catch us,” Stray added cheerfully, cartwheeling away from Damian’s latest sword swipe and Batman batarang. “Seriously, has anyone ever told you three you try really hard?”

“They’re cute,” Kitty said with mock affection. “Like, ‘aw, they think they’re scary’ cute. Specially the little one, you think I can add him to my display? I always wanted a bird”

“I call dibs on the one who smells like coffee!!”

Batman’s eyes narrowed. “Who trained you?”

They shared a glance. Then, in perfect unison:

“Mama did.”

Robin skidded to a stop, scowling. “You mean Catwoman.”

Stay grinned, sharp and smug. “We call her Mama. You probably call her when you're lonely.”

“Ooooh,” Kitty winced. “He’s gonna stab you for that.”

“Let him try.”

Another dive. Another swipe. Another miss.

They danced around the trio like mischievous spirits in catsuits, leaping, tumbling, and disappearing behind columns and curtains, always just out of reach.

By the time security finally wandered in—late, confused, and holding tiny flashlights—the Sumerian wing looked like someone had hosted a parkour-themed wedding in it.

The only thing left of the mysterious teens?

A single calling card, perched atop the display case like a signature.

It was shaped like a white paw print.

Tim picked it up and read aloud, “From Mama’s kittens, with love.”

Damian scowled. “I hate cat rogues.”

Batman just stared at the shadows, his voice low. “She trained them.”

“Yeah,” Tim muttered, rubbing his sore shoulder. “And apparently, she trained them too well.”

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