A/N: This is a remake of my story, Second Chances, that I wrote about two or three years ago. The original has long since been removed; I found the grammar, poor characterization, and OOC Vlad to be disturbing.
So, without further delay, enjoy the prologue!
These days, most of his memories come from vague impressions.
A snippet of laughter, low and dark and crooning. A flare of red light. Upturned faces staring at him. A dark cloth, rough and worn against his pale skin.
Danny knows, faintly, that he is hardly lucid most of the time. Dreaming his way through life, hazily following a sparkling red orb.
–the crowd roars approvingly as he walks effortlessly across a tightrope, a blade held loosely in one slack palm–
Time seems to pass in a red-stained blur, in fits and bursts.
He's in the back of a moving truck now, sagging against the wall at an uncomfortable angle. The circus is on its way to a new city, where he will perform the same act once again to please his master.
The scepter keeps him complacent. It's not currently in his line of vision, but that doesn't matter–at least, not anymore. Its addictive influence has insidiously wormed its way so deep under his skin, nestled so comfortably in his brain, that he subconsciously fears the outcome of severing the link.
After the third half-remembered beating, Danny doesn't need to constantly be exposed to the orb's effects. He'd learned his lesson well. There is less pain when he obeys the master.
And why would he want to disobey, anyway?
For some odd reason, a particularly old memory does stick with him. He recalls reading, somewhere, that you never remember how your dream starts. One second, you are awake, and the next, you are asleep, and landed right in the thick of things.
The moment of clarity in the moving truck fades, along with the basso purr of the vehicle's tires beneath him. Sounds muted and distant as though he slipped underwater. He sinks easily beneath a lapping tide of red, only sleepily aware of his movements and words to the smallest degree.
Sleepwalking. It feels like he's sleepwalking all the time.
You never remember how your dream starts–you only begin in the middle of it.
He doesn't remember when he fell asleep, though.
Danny has rarely been beckoned by such a strong sense of urgency from his master, but he has felt it before. Mostly only whenever the police become too suspicious and Danny was commanded to overshadow them, to crouch in the back of their minds and whisper turn around, turn around and leave, there are no problems here.
He stops in his tracks, his legs melding together into a lashing tail. He'd been on his way to the moving truck, to assist in unloading the wares into the newly-erected tent, but the strength of the mental command is too clear to be resisted. He dives through the walls of the tent, invisible, hands buzzing with energy as the fierce summoning screams at him protect Freakshow, protect master–
He bursts through the tent and is pulled up short by the sight before him. His master is cowering, scepter protectively held behind his back. The sight jars something inside of Danny. He's never seen his master like this before.
Usually, it is Danny cowering while Freakshow looms over him.
The other ghosts enthralled by the beautiful orb appear as well, forming a ring around the intruder. Lydia, specifically, hovers closer to their master than the others. Danny knows there is a more complex relationship between her and Freakshow, one other than master and servant, but he's never witnessed it before so strongly.
"Well? What are you waiting for?" Master demands, sufficiently recovering his bravado at the sight of his minions encircling the newcomer. A condescending sneer twists his dark lips. "Kill him!"
The order is phrased so directly, so bluntly, that Danny feels his detached curiosity about the situation melt away, replaced by a mindless urge to attack. He distantly sees himself, after the newcomer has been taken care of, washing blood off of trembling hands. This will not be the first time he has killed because his master ordered him to.
Danny plants his feet on the vertical tent canvas, springing off powerfully for an extra boost, like a swimmer pushing off the wall. His powered right-hook catches the intruder–a tall ghost, with horn-like hair and cherry-red eyes–across his sharp jaw. Danny feels something crack under the crushing force of his knuckles. The blow sends the ghost skidding across the packed earth of the circus grounds.
Danny lands in front of his master, shielding him from view, already stalking forwards. A core of compressed energy writhes in his hands, small, but powerful enough to blast a hole through five steel sheets with just a flick of the wrist. He'll make the death–or afterdeath, more realistically–quick, unless his master orders otherwise. Unlike some of the circus ghosts Danny serves with, he does not derive pleasure from killing, or from following his master's orders. Only a sharp feeling of clarity at the moment the life leaves the offender's eyes, or as the confused shopkeeper looks over his missing wares with dismay.
The offending ghost slowly brings himself to a stand, broad shoulders tense in bridled rage. The intruder is obviously powerful, and very physically fit, with broad shoulders and a compact waist. Danny does not expect him to go quietly.
Dully, he touches the forming ectobolt to his other hand, ripping the condensed energy in two with his fingers to spread the flame to the other palm as well.
The ghost turns, delicately touching gloved fingers to his tender jaw. Danny slides into the visible plane a moment later as he advances closer. He can't explain his reasons for making himself known. Vaguely, he must want to give this ghost a fighting chance. It's not something his master would agree with though, and he feels nausea churn thick and strong in his stomach. A dog guiltily eating food from the table.
A fuchsia brand of electricity dances between the man's long fingers, casting strong shadows over the aristocratic planes of his face. Danny draws back his arm, preparing to fire his own ectoball. The light emitted by his ectobolt throws Danny's features under the hood of the cloak in sharp relief.
The man freezes, icy mask degenerating into an expression of dismayed shock.
"Daniel?" He demands.
Danny stops as well, confused. This ghost should not know his name. Master never published Danny's name in the Circus Gothica pamphlets. He tilts his head, black eyebrow arching lightly in apathetic interest. The hood is dislodged by the small movement, crumpling around his neck and shoulders in black folds. The stranger's eyes widen further, and Danny experiences a flash of emotion–an acute, burning shame twisting in his gut. He feels the need to right the hood, to hide himself from this ghost's scrutiny for reasons unknown to himself.
"Stop staring, you useless fool! Kill him!" Freakshow shrieks hoarsely. Danny flinches visibly at the outrage. The warm red haze thickens like soup, plugging his nostrils and eyes and mouth and ears, suffocating him–
Before he can react, the bolt of reddish-pink lightning splits inches past him, emitting a thunderous boom as it breaks the sound barrier. The brightness of the energy blinds Danny momentarily and he ducks to the side, grinding the heels of his hands into his watering eyes to clear the afterimages.
Lydia lets out a piercing wail. The ring of seething ghosts withdraws in surprise, and Danny knows what he will see when he turns around, knows that he does not want to see it, but he pivots his upper body anyway.
Lydia is crouched over his master's smoking corpse, her hands splayed across his unmoving chest. Danny watches a tongue of smoke curl upwards from the charred skin. The acrid smell of burned human flesh flavors the air with its pungent odor.
The ghost who just effortlessly killed Danny's master stalks right up to him. His steps do not bend the grass beneath them. Danny realizes that the ghost is actually floating just an inch or so off the ground, adding to the appearance of limber fluidity. He stays still. He is strangely unsure of himself all of a sudden, his head aching. Master gives him directions. But… there is no master now, so what does Danny do?
His eyes cut from the dead body to the seething ghost hovering before him, white cape snapping around his heels. He supposes that he is now the servant of the new ghost, so he stands complacent and still and waits to be acquainted with his new master.
The ghost looks at him strangely. Danny endures the inspection patiently, mind already sliding back into the protective haze.
With a supernatural speed that even Danny can barely track, the ghost captures his chin between his forefinger and thumb and roughly tilts his head from side to side, examining him critically. The other hand rises absently and brushes the long strands of matted white hair from Danny's eyes, a strange contradiction to the severe hold on his chin. The movement is tender, slow with disbelief. Danny stiffens unyieldingly beneath the touch, subconsciously anticipating a blow. The hand gently hovering around the curve of his cheek is snatched back as though bitten; the grip on his chin is dropped.
"Wait. Here." The voice is lightly accented, obviously very educated and currently very angry. Then the ghost shoulders past him and stalks over to Lydia and the corpse-that-used-to-be-Freakshow. She looks up at him as he approaches, tears bright in her glowing eyes. His approach is welcomed with a livid hiss, the tattoos beginning to peel from her skin. The new ghost's arm darts out before she can do anything, gripping the crown of her skull. Another bolt of electricity, this time not as strong. Lydia's body seizes up and she screams shortly in agony before the stranger ends the flow of voltage and nudges her unconscious body to the side.
Surrounded by the gentle ethereal glow, his cape flaring powerfully around his legs, and his hands sparking with deadly energy, the ghost looks unstoppable.
"Does anyone else want to try?" The stranger questions, muscled arms crossed across his chest, chin tipped in a condescending look of superiority. The ring of watching performers ripples uneasily. Danny understands their uncertainty. Without a master, but still enamored by the red orb, they are a horde of chickens with their heads cut off.
The stranger grunts. "Good." He bends over to prise the staff from Freakshow's slightly charred fingers. Danny watches him hold it up to the moonlight, inspecting the red orb adorning it critically. The ghost turns, swinging it experimentally, and looks right at Danny. The eyes burn into Danny's, two cut rubies shining in the shadow of the moon.
"It's been two years, Little Badger," the man challenges him, chin jutting. A condescending smirk curls his thin slash of a mouth and he raises one shoulder in an off-handed shrug. "Amity has missed you for quite a while." His posture turns aggressive, lightly combative, as though trying to incite Danny into replying.
But he hasn't given him a direct order, so Danny remains quiet.
A beat of silence.
"Can you understand me?" Spoken more carefully, this time. The smug quality of his voice is gone, leaving behind a curiously flat tone.
It's a question. He is forced to answer. "Yes," he admits distantly, compelled to the truth.
Another pause.
"Do you know where you are?"
"No," Danny answers, just as detached. He's existed in a tornado of red colors and hues for so long… he thinks the circus might be in California at the moment. Or maybe that was a month ago–maybe they're in New York right now...
"I see," the ghost nods, eyeing him in a strange mixture of emotions–relief, anger, and greed all rolled into one. His penetrating red stare flicks back to the scepter in his hands. He turns it over in his palm, obviously mulling something over. A decision is reached after a moment. He sighs longingly, his hands tightening on the staff. "What a waste," he snorts, and then repeats as his hands slide up the metal framework to gently enfold the innocently-twinkling orb, "a waste".
He crushes the orb a moment later.
Danny's world shatters.
A/N: Review, por favor?