Present Day…

Batman made plans to visit Belle Reve Penitentiary before the week was over. The entire facility was made out of thick, gray, stone dotted by uniform windows. It stood above the waters of a murky swamp, the edges of the property enclosed by high wire fences.

There were about half a dozen security protocols that needed to be done to gain access to Belle Reve's inner sanctum. Each layer and set of equipment installed and updated by various construction teams to insure that no single entity could compromise the Penitentiary's—and thus Task Force X's—security.

Batman, as he was wont to do, bypassed all of it.

He deposited himself in Amanda Waller's office. It would have been a spacious room had it not been crowded with rows of filing cabinets. A healthy dose of paranoia made Waller careful to store any truly critical information in digital form, where it can be hacked by some malicious force or given access to by some particularly helpful person. The sorting system, from what Batman could see at first glance, forwent the standard A-Z categories for something else. Probably something that only Waller could understand.

A desk sat in the middle with a comfortable rolling chair behind it and a dual-monitor on top. Behind it was a wide window that overlooked the midnight Terrebonne Parish skyline.

He did not, however, have the time to appreciate the view as Amanda Waller finally stepped into her office.

She was a stout woman with a stern expression, dressed sensibly in a dark, mauve blazer, a white blouse, pearls, and a long, black skirt. A file-folder was tucked beneath one arm. The second she saw him, Waller paused, cocking her hip to one side and free hand tucked into her blazer pocket.

"Batman," she said, nonplussed. "What brings you here?"

"Information…On a prisoner of yours."

Waller took a seat behind her desk, setting her folder aside. "As far as I recall, Belle Reve isn't currently housing any of your rogues. The last one was transferred over to Arkham a few months ago."

He threw a printed article onto her desk. A small little piece from the Terrebonne Times, more a notice than actual news with what little information it held. The headline was emblazoned on the top:

DEATH AT BELLE REVE

Inmate Dies Under Mysterious Circumstances;
Foul Play Suspected

Waller glanced at the article then looked back up at Batman, brow raised. "A little late to be investigating this, don't you think? The event in question happened six months ago."

"I need access to Frederick Isaak Showenhower's cell."

"Hm. I'm surprised you're actually asking."

Batman remained silent.

"Well." Waller steepled her fingers together. "I suppose we could come to an arrangement."

"An arrangement?" Batman snorts. "Sure. You give me access to the cell and I won't tell your superiors that Showenhower—a regular human kept in a meta prison—didn't die from some dispute between inmates, but from some outside force breaching Belle Reve's 'impenetrable' security. You don't hold any cards here, Waller."

"Oh really? If I didn't, I would have expected you to just waltz into the cell yourself without telling anyone."

"I hold some respect for you, Waller. That's the only reason why I'm asking."

Waller made a pinched, sour face. With a huff, she got up from her desk and led Batman through the winding corridors of Belle Reve to Showenhower's cell.

"What do you know about Freakshow, Batman?"

"Thirty years old, male, Caucasian, and possibly born with albinism. A bank and jewelry store robber who disguises his hits with a traveling circus show. He has connections with the occult and used it to commit his robberies. APISA apprehended him in St. Augustine, Florida, a little over a year ago."

Waller laughed. "The GIW's first and last hurrah."

The Ghost Investigation Ward—or the Guys in White as it was jokingly referred to—was a fairly new and now defunct branch of the Agency of Paranormal Investigation and Spectral Affairs, focused on the research and apprehension of ectoplasmic entities known as 'ghosts'. Their less than stellar track record made them the joke of not only APISA but the entirety of Task Force X, instilling within the ward's few members a tight-knit camaraderie and an almost terrifying level of dedication towards their mission. They were more zealots than government agents. Coupled with their incompetence and their high collateral damage, the group was forced to disband.

"Occultism aside," Batman said, "small time human thieves aren't usually the kind of criminals Task Force X would be interested in."

"You'd be right. APISA and the GIW's interest lay not with Freakshow, specifically, but with his family. The Showenhowers' research in the occult and supernatural go back centuries. They're a veritable treasure trove of information, and as of three years ago, they're also the only expert on ghosts left."

He blinked. "Ghosts."

"Ghosts." Waller echoed. "Though not exactly the kind that you're thinking of, but that is what these creatures have been calling themselves. As far as our researchers can tell, these 'ghosts' are inhabitants of a dimension tied very closely with our own."

Suddenly, a spark. A memory. Information clicked into place.. "You learned of Freakshow in Amity Park."

Waller neither confirmed or denied it.

It made sense, in a way. Though thought of as little more than a tourist trap, Amity Park had gained the reputation of being the most haunted city in America. Though no substantial proof ever made it outside of the city besides extremely blurry shots of light and grainy footage of streaks in the sky, the Justice League knew better than to dismiss the threats, if only because JL-Dark marked the city in the League's main database with a heavy 'DO NOT INTERACT' warning for humans and metas alike. The exact situation in Amity Park was never explicitly laid out for the League other than that it was contained and handled and that the League should not, under any circumstances, interfere.

Though for good measure, Constantine saw it fit to bold, underline, italicize, and capitalize the DNI. Most heroes since then have taken to simply going around the city—even going so far as to avoid its air space.

"Well, here we are."

Showenhower's cell was located on the highest floor of the penitentiary, at the very end of the hallway and isolated from every other prisoner. Despite it being six months since the incident, all of the cells in this particular hallway were left unoccupied.

The inside of Showenhower's cell, however, was far from empty. Frost covered the room from floor to ceiling, dropping the temperature by a few degrees. Large stalactites of ice hung down from the ceiling, patches of ice covered every corner and crept up the walls like vines.

"This is where he died," Batman stated, breath coming out in white mists.

"Right over there." Waller pointed at the single bed pushed towards the right side of the room. A frozen mattress on top of a rectangular dias that jutted out of the wall and had no space beneath it. "It was a strange thing. One moment Freakshow was sitting on the bed and staring at the wall. The next? He slammed his hand against the wall, froze the whole damn room over, and dropped dead."

Pause. Rewind. Play.

The door to the cell slid open and Freakshow walked in. He stood in the middle, surveyed the entire room, before his gaze stopped at the camera discreetly placed in the corner of the ceiling. He blinked, lowered his head, then went to sit down on his bed. Directly across from him was a mirror.

Ten minutes passed in relative silence. Freakshow just sits, tapping his foot. Tilted his head here and there. Scratched the back of his neck. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Then— He froze, shoulders stiffened. For a brief moment, a wide grin stretched across his face before it's pushed back into a stony expression. Freakshow slammed his hand against the wall, ice burst from his palms, and he dropped dead.

Pause.

Rewind.

It had been days since Batman visited Belle Reve. Bruce made little progress in solving the case. It did not help, of course, that there were other things that demanded his attention: a JL founders meeting concerning the admission of new heroes; the rumored reappearance of some stolen tech from Task Force X circulating the black market; his presentation for an upcoming fundraiser for the Wayne Foundation; his regular duties as batman and as CEO of Wayne Enterprises…The list was endless.

Play.

Thank goodness for Tim. His son had a good head on his shoulders and amazing intuition. Though as much as Tim had been arguing with Damian as to who got to accompany him on certain excursions, Bruce could see that Tim was just itching to go off on his own. To spread his own wings.

Reluctant as Bruce was to let any of his Robins fly out from under him…at this point, he'd like to think he had enough experience to know that his children would grow up with or without his consent. Bruce had spent the last year easing up on Tim's restrictions—much to Damian's envy. More solo patrols, more casework, a greater degree of decision in his own missions, etcetera. Bruce even let Tim take the lead in the stolen tech case, only stating that he reports any and all findings to Batman and to not engage dangerous enemies alone if able.

Bruce tapped a sharp rhythm on the desk, willing his attention back to the task at hand.

Ice covered the room. Freakshow slumped down, dead. Pause.

Rewind.

He played the video from the beginning once more, fingers steepled as he watched the proceedings.

An ordinary man with no powers at all walks into a heavily fortified prison cell, sits down on his bed, shoots ice from his hands, and dies. No one entered the room with him, and the door remained locked up until security came barreling through the doors a few minutes after he died.

Freakshow sat down, foot tapping loudly—

Pause.

Freakshow's character profile described him as someone who was very deliberate with his movements. A trait possibly learned from years as a showman. What few footage Bruce managed to scrounge up from Circus Gothica's shows displayed a ringmaster with a mastery over his own body, each gesture practiced and perfected for maximum effect. What videos there were of Freakshow when he was not addressing the audience—or the dozens of recordings of his stay in Belle Reve— saw a man who stood with uncanny stillness. Hands clasped behind his back, head tilted to the side just so.

Certainly not a man prone to fidgeting and tapping his foot.

Rewind.

Play.

Freakshow sat down across from the mirror, back to the camera, foot tapping loudly. The sound of it reverberating loudly in his tiny cell. He tilted his head, hand coming up to scratch the back of his neck.

Bruce narrowed his eyes. How did he miss it before? He zoomed in on the mirror, enhancing as much of the image quality as possible. Freakshow was talking . The words were too inaudible for the camera to pick-up, and his mouth's movement was too subtle, too quick to be read.

"He knew his murderer was in the room with him," Bruce mumbled.

"Father?"

Bruce looked over his shoulder. "Ah, Damian." He rotated his chair to face his son. "What can I do for you?"

"Pennyworth asked me to inform you that dinner would be ready soon." Damian's eyes flicked over to the video footage. "Any progress with the assassin?"

"Perhaps." He beckoned Damian closer to the monitor, replaying the video for him and explaining his own thought process. "Here, pay special attention to the mirror. It's subtle, but you can clearly see Freakshow speaking— presumably to someone else in the room. Notes on his file indicate that he's not prone to talking to himself or mumbling his thoughts aloud. Coupled with the uncharacteristic fidgeting—an action that causes enough noise that it masks his mumbling—we can also presume that this conversation contains sensitive topics, ones he wants to hide

"I briefly considered some kind of magic to be at work because of his connections with the occult but disregarded it quickly. Not only is a suicide spell out of character for Freakshow—and also shown no prior attempts to it or any signs of thinking about suicide—but the display of cryokinesis doesn't fit into the larger picture. And while Freakshow was noted to use magic, he does not possess an innate talent for it like Zatanna. According to Waller, Freakshow's magic is more in line with alchemy, and his cell was swept every time he leaves it for any contraband or suspicious items."

He paused the footage and rewound it to when Freakshow sat down in front of the mirror. "So, we can presume that he was talking to the culprit meaning three things." He held up his index finger. "The first is that his murderer was in the cell with him but managed to remain unseen, perhaps because of some new cloaking technology, though it's more likely that invisibility of some sort is part of their meta-ability." He raised another finger. "The second is that Freakshow could sense the presence of the culprit and has enough of a relationship with them to hold a seemingly civil conversation. And the third—" he held up a third finger then curled his hand into a fist— "Freakshow was unable to call for help. Why?

" He was overshadowed."

Bruce snapped his head to Damian. The words were quiet, so quiet in fact he nearly missed them.

"What did you say?"

Damian clamped his mouth shut, eyes widening imperceptibly as if he, too, was shocked to have said it out loud. Quickly he smoothed his face, features receding into an impassive stare as he took a step back from the monitor.

Bruce decided to press further. "Damian."

Damian pursed his lips, eyebrows pinched in such a way to indicate that he was deliberating something. "It's…" He trailed. "How much do you believe in ghosts?"

If someone had asked that question to Bruce when he was sixteen, ten, or even seven years old, he would have answered with a resounding no. Ghosts—restless spirits, monsters, things that go bump in the night—were all mere figments of imagination. Now, however, having lived in the time of gods and superheroes, intergalactic politics, and magic …

"I believe enough." He tilted his head, a piece of some unknown puzzle slowly making itself known. "You are referring to Amity Park's breed of ghosts."

Damian gave a curt nod. "Grandfather was always trying to learn more about the Lazarus Pit. He had some assets—scientists—within Amity Park tasked to do just that. Of course once these ghosts began to appear, grandfather was immediately informed," he explained. "From what I've learned, overshadowing is some kind of possession, it's an ability that all of Amity's ghosts can utilize."

"So you believe Freakshow was overshadowed by one of these ghosts." The explanation, for lack of another, worked. The lack of any physical evidence, no forced entry or exit—all evidence that could be explained away by 'the ghost was invisible,' as much as it irked Bruce to say. Freakshow's connections with the occult only strengthened the theory.

According to the penitentiary's blueprints, Freakshow's cell was lined with a special type of metal composed of ectoranium—a rare mineral with anti-ghost properties. A preventative measure in case Freakshow's partner, Lydia, or any other ghost tried to help him escape. It should have been impossible for any ghost to phase their way into the prison.

Unless the ghost walked in with Freakshow.

"The eyes give it a way. Look—" Damian reached over to rewind the footage, pausing it at a specific moment. "—His eyes are normal here." He points at Freakshow's irises, dark gray due to the grayscale footage of the CCTV, plays the video, and then pauses it again a few seconds later. "But if you look at his eyes now, you can see the faint indication of a glow around his eyes. The color value of the irises are lighter, too. One of the biggest tells if someone is being overshadowed by a ghost is the glow and the change in eye color. "

Another review through the footage revealed that Freakshow's eyes changed multiple times, often reverting back to his original eye color when he was speaking, and then changing when he was silent.

Bruce grunted, fingers drumming a steady staccato on the arm of his chair, head leaning on his knuckles. Their culprit was a ghost. That information certainly changed things. Not only was Bruce's suspect list now wiped clean and placed Freakshow's murder as the lynchpin of their case, there was also the worrying implication that the League of Shadows held command over an extradimensional being whose powerset he was not familiar with.

He glanced up at Damian. "What else do you know about ghosts?"

Damian shrugged. "Not as much as I'd like. Grandfather didn't share much with me."

"Hm." He rose from his seat and set a hand on Damian's shoulders with a light smile. "You head up first. I'm sure Alfred needs help setting the table."

"What about you?"

"I'll head up after you. There's still one last thing I need to do."

Damian raised an imperious eyebrow before ducking his head and heading to the elevator. Bruce watched his son's retreating back, hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans. His eyes narrowed, the corners of his mouth downturned.

Damian was hiding something.

Beneath the eerie, grim torchlight, Plasmius observed the Sarcophagus of Forever Sleep. It stood, looming above a raised dais where a throne might have been, once. Beneath it on each side were two pedestals encased in glass, protecting the two most powerful artifacts of the Infinite Realms.

The glass cases were a mere formality, however. No one would steal either of the artifacts. To take only one of them would render the artifact useless as only with the ring and crown combined could the awesome power of the Infinite Realms be harnessed. Taking both would be an even riskier gamble. The crown and ring would only deign to bestow its powers on those it deems worthy. Strong. If the wearer did not suit, then the artifacts would eviscerate them before they could even blink.

It was strange to think that Pariah Dark's awakening would be the felix culpa that saved Plasmius from his own demise.

Plasmius was prideful and vain in nature, but even he was self-aware enough to realize that the artifacts would only accept those equal or greater in power to Pariah Dark— and Vlad was simply not that. Even the Ancients, powerful as they were and the original victors against the old king, were not considered worthy. The only one who might have come close was young Daniel.

'Close' being the key word here.

It was unfortunate that the boy never stayed long enough to grow into his powers. If he did, he might have become someone powerful. Someone worthy. A king. (Only if it was under Vlad's terms after all. A child monarch was never without an older and wiser regent at their shoulder. Taking Phantom under his own tutelage would be a worthless endeavor if Vlad could not come out on top).

Instead Daniel ran away, squirreled himself into a hovel so deep that neither of Vlad's ghostly nor mortal resources could dig him up. (Yes, Daniel ran away. Was missing. No matter what forensics or the police or his own private investigators tried to say, that mauled and burned body placed beside the Fenton memorial was not Daniel James Fenton. The boy was still alive. It was only a matter of where.)

The sarcophagus shuddered.

Plasmius lifted his gaze to the death mask of Pariah Dark. "It is weakening," he said, voice reverberating across the near empty throne room. He pivoted on his heel, a sardonic grin on his face as he faced Fright Knight. "Should we prepare for His Majesty to awaken any time soon?

Fright Knight cut an imposing figure in the torch light. "No." Plasmius could not tell if the ghost was disappointed or relieved. "The sarcophagus holds strong still. In a year or in a decade, my king may wake once more, but that time is not today. For now, he rests in a fitful sleep."

"A year or ten…how comforting." Plasmius rolled his eyes. "What brings you here, then?"

"It is the duty of a knight to protect his liege lord against all things."

"Oh don't go pretending you're a loyal knight now. Not when you betrayed your lord the last time."

Fright Knight narrowed his eyes, then gave a derisive snort. "No, I suppose not. If you must know, half-breed, I was summoned by my creator, and regardless of my own desires I am obliged to answer the call."

"Your creator— Pariah?"

Fright Knight shook his head.

"Then who—?" He turned to look at the dais again. At the sarcophagus. At the crown of fire and the ring of rage emitting a preternatural glow.

Ah. That explained it.

Of the many paradoxes there were in the world, Vlad's favorite one concerned the nature of Omnipotence. There were many versions of the Omnipotence Paradox, but the most well known one went like this: could god create a stone so heavy that he could not lift it? While there were many answers to the question and many conflicting ideas, Vlad favored the notion that an omnipotent being could do absolutely anything it desires except that which compromises its own omnipotence. If god is essentially omnipotent, then he cannot make a stone that he cannot lift, for that would mean making a stone that is equal in power to god.

Vlad often wondered why Fright Knight never attempted to seize the sovereign's artifacts for himself, what with his predilection for ruling. Though bestowed with the title of knight , anyone could see that Fright Knight's true desire was rulership. Dominion . A desire that he could never satiate. The closest he could ever come to it was to serve and stand close to power.

Apparently it was not because Fright Knight didn't want the artifacts, but because he was, by nature, incapable of wielding them. The artifacts cannot create something stronger than themselves, and they refuse to be worn by anything it perceived as lesser than them.

"My, my," Plasmius laughed. "It must have absolutely burned you to bend the knee to Pariah Dark."

The fiery plume on his helmet flared dangerously bright as Fright Knight let out an inhuman growl. "Watch your tongue before I relieve you of it."

Plasmius held up his hands in mock-surrender. "So, why did your creator call you to Pariah's Keep?"

Fright Knight paused, intrigued. "Can you not hear it?" He asked. "They are singing."

Vlad strained his ears, but he heard nothing. Just the echoey silence of the throne room and the flickering of torchlights and Fright Knight's armor.

If Fright Knight had a mouth, he would smirk. "No, you cannot, can you? Someone of your ilk is not privileged enough to hear their song. But I suppose there's enough of a ghost in you that you can feel the artifacts' call even if you cannot hear it." He quiets, head inclined just so as if he were listening to the song right now. As if the artifacts were speaking to him. "They are in mourning."

"What would they even be mourning about?"

"A lack of purpose," he said. "For what is the worth of a tool if nobody uses it?"

Vlad frowned. So they are the reason why the Ghost Zone has been so agitated recently. Like Eris and the golden apple of discord, the artifacts have thrown their song all across the Infinite Realms, proclaiming to everyone to prove their worth, to prove their strength. Even Pariah Dark, trapped in his slumber, cannot resist the call.

Even Plasmius, who was deaf to its song, was drawn to this place.

Plasmius rubbed his hand across his face. "It will tear the Infinite Realms apart just to find someone strong enough to wield it."

"Perhaps," said Fright Knight. "You cannot hide your portal forever. It will be found, mark my words."

"Is that a threat?"

"A warning, Plasmius. If you wish to preserve what modicum of peace you have in the material world, then you would do well to close the portal and destroy it."

Plasmius' face curled into a snarl. "You know I can't do that."

"Then you invite your own folly." With a dramatic flourish of his cloak, violet flames licking at the cobbled floor, Fright Knight leveled the Soul Shredder between Plasmius' eyes. "Challengers will seek out the Uncrowned to prove their mettle, collateral damage be damned. They will find him, or he will find them."

"Will you be one of them, then? A challenger?"

Fright Knight stilled, anger simmering just above his armor. "Mocking me, are you? No, a challenger I am not. My grand purpose in this world is to guard my creators, bestow them to and swear my oaths to my future liege lord, whoever that may be."

With those parting words, Fright Knight flew off, taking his post at the entrance of the keep, leaving Plasmius alone in the presence of the ring and crown. To bear their heavy gaze.

(Something within him, something that he once thought controlled, thought leashed to his will, reared its head. Want , it said. Want-have-mine. It gnawed at the back of his mind like a starving rat chewing on the bars of its cage. Want-have-mine-want-prove-prove-worthy.)

Vlad squashed that voice with a grimace. He was the one in control, not his ghost. He was stronger than such baser instincts.

(Prove-worthy-power)

Danielle had been working far too hard lately, and as a result she's been in and out of the portal more times than Plasmius would prefer. It was attracting too much attention. Perhaps a quick vacation was in order.

Besides, it wouldn't do to reject an invitation from Bruce Wayne himself now, would it?

A/N:

Task Force X - a government intelligence agency headed by Amanda Waller. Most well known for creating and being in charge of the Suicide Squad. While DC has made the two organizations synonymous over the years, in this fic they're still 2 separate entities.

"felix culpa" - in Catholic tradition, the phrase is most commonly translated as "happy fault: (alt. "blessed fall", "fortunate fall"). Literary wise, the phrase is used to convey how unfortunate events can lead to a happier outcome. It's most often used in reference to the fall of Adam and Eve.

Fun fact: when Skulker is explaining to Danny who Pariah Dark is in Reign Storm, he implies that there are entities within the Crown of Fire and Ring of Rage that only Pariah was strong enough to control

Skulker: He was a ghost of such power and magnitude, only he could control the entities contained within the Crown of Fire and the Ring of Rage. When wearing both- he could do anything.

(Reign Storm episode transcript provided by the DP wiki)