I do NOT own 13 Ghosts or any of the characters. Dang…. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy!

It's All We Can Do

The dark was a safe place.

Most people are afraid of the dark- it's unknown, calculating, and carries a sense of foreboding. But the dark also embodies a sense of indefinity; time seems to stop in the dark.

Which would explain why some people would hate to be woken from sleep.

Especially at seven in the fricking morning.

That thought rolled through Royce Clayton's head as he plucked a screaming alarm clock from his nightstand and threw it out the window, just like every day. And like every day, it sailed straight into the window glass.

"Ughh, someday I'll remember to open the window first….." he groaned, half crawling- half tumbling out of bed. In the next half hour Royce scrounged up a semi-clean outfit from his floor, beat his sister to the last bowl of cereal before that annoying amount of dusty remainder filled the bowl, and stumbled out the door into the bright daylight.

It was actually a miracle that he had woken up at all. Normally he would sleep straight through the alarm and not arrive at school until third period. His mom swore that her child slept like the dead.

Pssh, whatever, Mom. This is my last year in high school and then I'll be off on a baseball scholarship- then it won't matter if I wake up or not- mothers can't be your dorm mate after all! Just the thought of his mom sleeping on a futon in a college room made him smile, all the way until Royce swaggered up the steps to his school, trying his best to look tough and unimpressed. He had a certain reputation around the place; he was the cool jock- the guy who went to all the best parties and dated the hottest chicks. Teachers loved his charm and coaches loved his arm (for pitching). Senior year was certainly shaping up to be a good one, now he was happy to have stuck it out.

Three hours later, Royce was debating cutting class and just heading to the park when the lunch bell rang. "Finally, about time I caught a break." He muttered, relieved. Final exams were closing in, and the teachers were all scrambling to cover the course material, often giving twice the normal workload for homework. "Figures. They can't get it all done so they stick us with the heavy reading. Like I didn't have enough to do anyway."

Finally opening his locker (it only took four tries to get the rusted lock to yield), Royce found his lunch bag and stepped into the cafeteria with a good half hour of the period left. It was a madhouse, as usual, with food-crazed teenagers all hopping around trying to get a slice of pizza before it was gone and the mystery meat was the only edible thing left. Well, it was generous to consider it 'edible' but no one had died from it this year….

Spotting his usual crowd, Royce dumped his food on the table and gave a half-wave. Donny, the captain of the baseball team, jumped up and smacked Royce on the back in greeting.

"Hey hey Roy!" the teen laughed, somehow managing to look both arrogant and humbled. Though Donny had been the star ballplayer for several years, he was the one who had recruited Royce to the team in the first place- and then had watched him take the star position right out from under him. Rather than be jealous, Donny acted more like a proud parent and saw himself sort of as Royce's big brother.

Nick and Gerald were huddled together over some magazine- probably some trashy porno they got from the dollar store. Royce didn't even want to know how they had gotten it past Ms. Steeler, the head secretary who had better eyes than a hawk. The two were so engrossed in the –ahem- reading material that they both just inclined their heads in the newcomer's direction.

The rest of the team was probably already finished with lunch and had headed outside- it was obvious that Donny had waited for Royce to show up, and Nick and Gerald were probably just too lazy to move- but the last person sitting at the table was what caught Royce's attention.

Enter Marco "Knives" Martello.

Marco was a well-known and feared greaser around the campus. Heck, everywhere in the city people had heard of him. Rumor had it that if you made him angry, Marco was NOT the kind of person you wanted to run into in a dark alley, EVER. Royce had seen Marco around school when he actually bothered to show up to class, but the two had never talked. Apparently, today was going to change that, as Marco was grinning slyly at his classmate.

"Yer Royce Clayton." The greaser drawled, a half finished cigarette dangling from his mouth. "Bet'cha think yer pretty hot, goin' ta some hoity-toity college next year!" Marco was cocky, and maybe just a little stupid, but he at least knew it. Royce was charming and funny, with a natural talent as an athlete. People flocked to him, almost on instinct, and their love for Royce was slowly usurping their fear of the greaser. And that just wouldn't do.

At the same time, said star athlete knew how to handle bullies. If you let them win once, they walk all over you, but if you push them down….

"My my, Marco, using words like 'college' and 'hoity-toity'! I think high school HAS taught you something!" Royce goaded, not even bothering to suppress a grin.

Enraged, Marco jumped off the cafeteria stool with such force that it toppled over and skittered backward, tripping a random freshman who probably should've known better than to venture too close. "Ehh?! What you say, punk?! Ya might wanna watch what you say around me- I'M the king here!" Marco's face had turned an ugly shade of red, a proven testimony to the fact that Royce had gotten under his skin….perfect.

"What's that? Big talk from a has-been. You wanna put your money where your mouth is?" was the simple reply. All right, he could admit it: Royce was sick of seeing Marco act 'so tough' and 'scary'. The athlete had no idea why people feared the punk, but they did. Plus, it was the end of the school year, and he was leaving anyway. Might as well go out as a hero, right? Something the small town would talk about for decades.

Or maybe forever, seeing as how NOTHING ever happens here….

"Haah, HAAAH??!" It took a colossal effort to stay coherent, given Marco's fury. "How's about we race Dead Man's Curve tomorrow? See how tough you are then, punk!" Marco pulled the cigarette from his mouth and crushed it on the ground before spinning around and stalking off, yelling "Be there!" over his shoulder before finally exiting the cafeteria, which had descended into a silence Royce hadn't noticed. Nick and Gerald had finally looked away from their mag, and were staring at Royce with horror and more than a little respect- no one had challenged Marco before- and to a race?? It was suicide on the highest scale. Even Donny was gawking, his usual smile absolutely gone and replaced by a gaping mouth.

"R-royce? Are you s-sure about this?" the captain stammered, finally finding his speech. "Coach'll pitch a fit when he hears about this-"

Royce cut in easily "Then we don't tell him. Come on guys, it's me we're talkin' about! It'd take more than that pile of garbage to beat me!" With a lazy grin, Royce scooped up the remains of his lunch and walked out the school doors, fully ignoring the blatant stares from his classmates as whispers erupted in the cafeteria. Shutting the door behind him, Royce took off for home. What the heck, he'd stayed for half the day, and by all means he'd probably just earned the rest of the day off. Time to head home and relax….

The next day, Royce woke up at noon and had just enough time to polish up his sweetheart car before heading over to the race. His car gleamed brightly in the sun, along with his shades and polished baseball bat, which he had brought along for good luck. The bat represented everything Royce had worked for: a way out of this small town life! If anything could bring him good luck, it was this bat.

Just you and me, baby, always.

Pleasantries were exchanged, ending with a group of greaser boys pulling Marco back before he could take a swing at Royce's nose with one of his famous knives. Royce just laughed, giving a cheery salute to all his friends and fans who had shown up before climbing into the driver's seat.

The race flag went up, and both drivers started their cars, ignitions growling and snarling like panthers seeking prey. Gears were shifted, and the flag went down.

Both cars shot forward as if fired from a rocket. Fans scrambled to higher ground to catch a glimpse of the first turn only a quarter mile away. It was obvious from the start that Royce would win: his car was at least three lengths ahead of Marco's and gaining more ground each second. Inside his car, Royce was mentally cheering: he had done it, after this race Marco would slink away and his friends would cheer and he'd go on to college with a bang.

The first curve was coming up, so Royce shifted to slow down slightly, and that's when the car lost control. He couldn't explain the feeling, it was just as if the car had shrugged, and then Royce felt himself and his sweetheart tipping into a roll. Once, twice, three times….

Boom.

Something in the front of the car exploded (with dread Royce guessed it was probably the engine), and the entire vehicle burst into flames. The turn came and went, and Royce felt a sudden vertigo as the car careened over the edge and kept falling.

No escape then.

As the flames reached toward him, Royce dug around in the backseat until he found his bat and gripped it tight. It was ironic that he would end before seeing the rest of the world, ironic that he would lose to a snot like Marco, but he had suddenly stopped caring about everything but the polished wood in his grip.

Just you and me, baby, always.

That final thought was drowned out in a roar of flame and screeching crunch of metal on rock, flowed by the horrified cries of the spectators above- even Marco couldn't hold back a gasp. Paramedics were called, but it was far too late- Royce Clayton was gone.

Long live the king.

The Torn Prince opened his eyes grudgingly to see the transparent walls decorated with fancy swirls in white. Over time, he had learned that they were in fact Latin letters, and served to keep him hostage in a glass cell. Why someone would want to chain up a ghost he had no idea, but whoever did certainly had done their homework. With a sigh, the Prince yawned and sat up.

That stupid dream again….!

Since his death, the Torn Prince had haunted his old hometown until the day he was forcibly extracted by several people all wearing weird costumes and odd glasses. He was to be number five out of what so far was twelve ghosts in a basement- they had just wheeled in the latest guy (some taaall guy riddled with bullet holes) in yesterday.

The irony was that wherever the Prince went, he still looked the same as the day of his death- same old varsity jacket, same old haircut- hell, even the same old burn scars. But his demolished car would appear as well, as long as his trusty bat. The car, once what he considered his sweetheart, seemed to always mock his failure and premature death, but the bat always made him feel calmer. Kinda funny, since bats usually break things, but whatever….

Across the hall he could see the Angry Princess staring idly at her knife, though it was hard to see through all the blood smeared across her walls.

I guess blood is a fair substitute for paint, but that's just grody, man….

Biting down a shudder, the Prince glanced back up to see Dana's knife poised above her wrist, the crimson-stained blade nearing the scarred arm.

"Wait!"

Sooo, what do you guys think? This is my first actual story up here. It was all written in one sitting so I will actually be 100% surprised if somebody doesn't find something wrong with it. That said, I want to learn to write better, so any critiques are greatly appreciated, they can be short, long, anything you want. As for the story, I don't really know where to go with this, or even if the whole thing will center around Royce. What do you guys think? Please R&R!!!!