AN: So, first fanfiction, long time reader. And that's all I can think to say here.
Disclaimer: I do not own Danny Phantom or any characters affiliated with it. The title, Float Like A Cannonball, is from Damien Rice's song "Cannonball," which you should most definitely listen to.
Samantha Manson was not having a good day.
First of all, her car broke down on the way to work, and she managed to get covered in grease while trying to pry the hood open. Then, when she realized she couldn't fix it, she had to do what she least wanted: give up and call a tow truck, then call a cab.
It was bad enough to have to admit defeat - it was even worse to pay good money for it.
By the time she had managed to get to work, she was instantly sent back out on an assignment to cover the grand re-opening of Dalv Corps' Amity Park labs, which would have gone fine - if Dalv Corp had actually bothered to bring their factories up to code. Isn't it every good journalist's job to be thorough and sifting in their work? At the very least, she shouldn't be arrested for it, even if she did verbally harass Mr. Masters, Dalv Corp's head honcho himself. He deserved it, anyway. Think of the ozone.
But no, apparently none of this mattered - because she doubted very much that she would get summoned to Mr. Rice's office for a pat on the back.
Which was where Samantha now found herself, scuffing her large black combat boots on the linoleum floor of his office, and then erasing the marks, over and over again. Mr. Rice, on the other hand, had not moved since she had entered - the middle-aged man was currently holding his balding head in his hands, elbows resting against the desk. Usually he would have been shouting at her before the door even opened, but today was different.
Today, he was waiting for her to make the first move.
Samantha was not one to take bait, but then again, the 23-year-old didn't have the patience to stand around in a staring contest with a bald spot. She huffed, tucking a short raven lock behind a pierced ear.
"You wanted to see me, sir?" She said flatly.
"Samantha, how many times is this?" He asked. Samantha didn't like the way he added a small chuckle to the end of the question. He didn't look up.
"How many what, sir?" Samantha stared straight ahead at the wall, whereupon hung framed articles of varying shades of parchment and yellow, a few ribbons, and one rather ostentatious diploma from some school that she couldn't quite make out. She began to pick at the edge of her short green mini-skirt - another company rule that she had broken, but one that Rice had given up on long ago.
"You know what, Manson," he growled, then sighed. "I've lost count. I've lost count how many times your tree-hugging lifestyle," he spat the word, "has gotten me into hot water. Do you even know why I had you cover that story?"
Samantha sighed a simple "no, sir." Normally, she would have bit back at the insult to her vegetarian choices, citing how at least she wasn't killing thousands of animals a year for a measly burger. But, she knew that it was better to just go along with Mr. Rice's tirades - she'd been through it many times.
"I had you cover it because Mr. Masters is a large contributor to this paper. Because he's someone who's out there doing something for this community. Because I thought, just once, you would keep your "save the planet" crap to yourself, Manson! But no. It's like you don't even realize you're supposed to be covering the actual story. I can hardly even print your articles - no matter what you're supposed to be covering, you find some poor squirrel in a trap or a 3-legged dog with kennel cough and stop caring about the real assignment!" He was so angry that even his shiny bald spot had gone beet red - something Samantha had to try very hard not to laugh at.
"I'm sorry, sir," she managed to get out.
"I know you are, Manson. You always are - you're always sorry. But I don't need sorries - I need stories. That's why I'm firing you."
"WHAT?!" Samantha's unnaturally violet eyes jerked downward to the man's receding hairline, her face heating, tongue getting ready to lash into overdrive. The flowers that Mrs. Flannery, the secretary, had put in a vase earlier, seemed to wilt a little. Samantha may be a small girl, but you wouldn't be able to guess that if you saw her angry.
Suddenly, and very out-of-character, Mr. Rice began to laugh, completely unaware of the woman's gaze. His laughter continued to grow in volume until he was banging his fist against his desk in mirth. "Oh, so you do have emotions - looks like I lost that bet." Mr. Rice removed his head from his hands and leaned back into his (leather, she cringed) chair. "Look, the fact is, I can't fire you. You have a commitment to something...a passion. That's more than most journalists can say nowadays. I admire it."
Samantha sighed and pushed another dark lock of hair from her eyes, still displeased at the low trick he had pulled, but steadily growing more curious. What was he getting at, "admiring" her "passion?"
"See, Manson," he continued distractedly, as he searched through a drawer "I need passion here. But I also need serious work. That's why I'm assigning you this." He held up a manila folder between three ink-stained fingers, smiling crookedly at something. Something which Samantha was sure to find very, very unfunny.
She glared a moment longer, before snatching the folder in her own small hand. She opened it very cautiously, never removing her gaze from the still-chuckling Rice; so cautiously, in fact, that a few moments later, he pointed to the exposed papers and asked her, more or less, if she planned to actually read the assignment.
Her gaze shifted down and she instantly took in the first word: "ghost."
"No," she said simply, tossing the folder back on Rice's desk. She leaned over towards him, leveling the middle-aged man with a glare that could turn glass back to sand. "Since when do you think I do stupid assignments." It was not a question.
Rice was not affected. "Since you decided to insult our largest benefactor with slander," he stated simply, blinking at her. "At least read it, Manson."
Half a minute ticked away. "We've had lots of requests to cover the Amity Park Phantom."
A minute and her glare was still going strong - he'd have to pull his trump card. "If you do this one assignment, and do it well, I'll let you have that environmental column you've been begging for."
The file and Samantha disappeared so quickly that Rice was almost convinced that she was Phantom.
Gregory Rice shook his head. He was going to give her that column anyway, but why not get a popular article and a few weeks to himself out of it?
Plus, with or without her uncanny ability to pry the truth from any situation, the most that she'd bring back from this assignment is a bruised ego and an empty sheet of paper.