A final invasion. How…quaint.
Oh, I will relish this one.
The tip of my violet tongue pricks The Quill's nib with a soft, wet snap. Delicately, I stroke the tips of my long, emaciated fingers down its feathery spine. A hush seems to fall like frozen crystals across this deserted moor in the Ghost Zone, as every ecto-particle within earshot holds its breath in anticipation.
How shall we begin today? A romance, perhaps? Oh, Masters, no – too disgustingly quixotic. Though I do like the notion of using the infamous half-breed's name as a curse word.
"Quill!"
The feather jumps from my fingers and stands, quivering, on its tip. A minuscule blot of verdant ink drips.
"Jot that down, somewhere permanent…Vlad Masters is a curse." A sneering grin twisted my lips. A double-entendre, indeed!
With a burst of energy, the writing utensil whose power goes far beyond any mere pencil whirs about so speedily that it seems, for a moment, to be nothing more than a soot-colored tornado. As always, I can see its effects as immediately as they occur – dear Johnny 13's surprise at his latest motorcycle crash draws the new obscenity from his lips; Ember's latest Vlad-centered honorary ballad receives an immediate GG-17 rating (ghostly guidance until seventeen); and the despicable mutt himself, cowering alone in his mansion, trembles suddenly at the sudden feel of a name losing power. How delicious.
"Right. That will be enough, Quill."
I tap my brittle fingers against one another. Having ruled romance out, I am significantly limited – who was it that said "Every story is a love story?" Bah. I can snap my fingers and create an anecdote with more power than all the bad soap operas, romance novels, and "chick flicks" in the world combined – and not even a whisper or intimation of "I love you" within it.
An angsty poem, then. Heaven knows they're certainly in vogue. But, would it really befit the situation?
Ah, yes. A drama. In the style of an ancient myth, perhaps. What can be more dramatic than a final invasion, after all? My eyes glow red as it begins.
As the world turned, creaking, on its hinges, the inhabitants within could feel a sudden change – as if a jolt of electricity had shocked them and moved on. Wave by wave, the citizens of the earth turn their focus to their last hope – the place they would make their last stand agaisnt the demons that haunted them – in Amity Park.
Oh, please. I roll my eyes. Just a city far below par in intelligence and depth.
The heroes would gatherfor a final defense. The ghosts would amass an army from the depths of their traitorous Zone. Soon, the two forces would meet.
Danny Phantom, the enigma that had risen and fallen in the public's eye with more vacillation than the national economy, floated alone. He lingered silently somewhere between the high school bell tower and neighborhood rooftops. Would he make it? Would he wake up another day to find that half of him had gone…had died? Whether ghost or boy, he didn't know. But he was afraid to find out.
Danny Phantom. As an opponent, he made no more than a pest. But that was as an opponent. As a character…what could be more fulfilling, more refreshingly gratifying, than literarily stripping him down to the soul of his worries and fears – if he even had a soul anymore? The possibilities with a boy half-ghost were endless.
Across space and dimensions, in a land the young hero and his friends called "The Ghost Zone," a villain awaited.
How I do love self-insertions.
Scrivenshaft was his name. Scrivenshaft and his Quill. To the naked eye, he seemed only a wrinkled, haggard old man with tired, bloodshot eyes and a liking for words. But beneath the pruny exterior, beneath the aged skin where words coiled like living tattoos around his very limbs, Scrivenshaft had more weapons in his power than he cared to admit to anyone, ghost or human, 'friend' or foe.
Plagiarism, of course, was one of his favorites. He had the ability to summon a shadow-form of any adversary. The shadow's mimicking of action and weapon often drove his opponents to distraction. And, of course, the "plagiarized" being could be controlled by Scrivenshaft alone – for it would ultimately be a creation of the mind, though its powers would certainly be as real and damaging as the powers of whomever it was based upon. Mindless copies always had their disadvantages – but oh, how many advantages!
Narration fell along the lines of psychological warfare more than anything physically damaging. The wizened writer liked to cast this at the beginning of his duels, and expose for all to hear the secret thoughts and fears of his opponents. Of course, as resident author, Scrivenshaft controlled all of it. The Narration had bias. It would describe every event as it happened, every move and blow – but always, always, it used its booming voice to paint its master as the victor.
How I love to see the sweat bead on their foreheads, even as the Narration shouts aloud their thoughts, "It's just a trick, he's just trying to get to me, he's just…getting…trying to…."
And then there was Tendinitis.
I shudder at the word, even as The Quill scribbles it across the oblivion. Every artist who dares call himself an author fears this treacherous beast. In its natural state, tendinitis causes its victims' tendons and muscles to stiffen, swell and ache, rendering most writing impossible. But Ihave found a way to harness its power. I shall never call it master; never again. Somehow, it gives me a sick joy to see my rivals' hands seize in the midst of whatever clever move they thought they would pull. Tendinitis leaves one helpless, and saps all the body (or non-body)'s energy into healing.
Of course, such a powerful thing has its limits. In its harnessed form, Tendinitis can only afflict a ghost or person for one full minute. But so much can be done in sixty seconds.
But the prize Scrivenshaft treasured above all was his quill. The Quill.
It must be a definite article; there's none other like it in this world or the mortal world.
With its powers of the manipulation, Scrivenshaft used the quill to modify reality. Never be anything large; neither man nor ghost could control fate. But with The Quill, this ghost could tweak it. Make seconds jump forward or back a few seconds, perhaps, or perhaps push a bump into the pavement or a breeze into the sky.
And with a touch, The Quill could bring the words circling on his skin to life. Like coils of rope, they would bind his opponents.
I do love to see them squirm.
Amidst these strange powers, the standard ecto-blaster on the master's belt seemed a bit prosaic. But Scrivenshaft knew the power of traditions – they certainly can make for the best stories, anyway, traditions – and would not approach something so foul, so crucial as this ultimate showdown, without at least a Neutrino and arm-barrels, never mind their anachronistic high tech feel compared to the poeticism of his other weapons.
Hovering at the summit of the Ghost World, Scrivenshaft finally completed his recruitment, and lay down his Quill.
Figuratively, of course. The Quill follows me of its own accord, and I never allow myself to go where it cannot follow.
It was time for the first round to begin.