Spy Guy: I have horrible writer's block, and this started just as a random, un thought through drabble to help me beat it...
Until I learned that angst day was approaching...the next day. SO, I cleaned this up a bit, and made it..decent. I hope poeple like it, Remember: It's for the good of the phandom, neh? Okay? Alright.
This is AU. Danny's POV. Inspired by a oneshot by Cordria where Danny goes the other way through the portal. I changed Danny's personality a little bit.
Remember, this hasn't been very well thought through. It's just angst for angst's sake. Please review. lolz. It gets better like, halway down.
Alright. Happy New Year/ angst day!
Stepping into the unknown…It was what I always wanted. To explore things that no one has before. To discover new things…mysterious things. It was what I always wanted.
But this isn't what I wanted.
Pulled into this world by strong hands of glowing green, and forced to breathe toxic air into my painfully human lungs? The figures around me…they laughed with every breath I took, holding me in place, their hands on my chest, excited by the weakening beating of my heart.
And when I finally stopped breathing, they simply left my body, abandoning me only feet from the portal that led to home.
I thought that I knew everything about ghosts and spirits. My parents hunted ghosts for a living. I believed them to be experts, and had learned all I could from them. In my mind, I was capable enough to handle anything that came my way.
Except the overwhelming cruelty that claimed me the moment I set foot in the ghosts' realm.
I had been all wrong about them… and it had cost me everything.
Their malice had ripped me from my world, and from everything that I had ever known. It had damaged me…and turned me into an abomination.
It was there, lying before the portal, my eyes wide and staring, filming over as the poison rotted my brain, that he had found me.
He was a hunter, by the name of Skulker, whose whole body was covered in shabby, rusted armor. He kneeled by my side, and watched me for a few moments, before reaching his thick fingers towards my throat, to check my pulse.
I was told that my heart was no longer beating.
And yet, I was slowly regaining consciousness, the horrible world around me becoming clearer. Skulker tried to keep me calm, telling me that he wasn't like the ghosts who hurt me. He told me that he had a place for me on his island where I could stay while I adjusted. When I asked why he didn't kill me, he replied by saying that he sensed something different about me.
Of course, he was right.
Skulker took me to his island, and gave me a room that was no better than a small cell. But, he kept me fed, and gave me fresh water to drink, so I didn't mind very much. My mind was still numb from the aftershock of my 'death', and I couldn't think straight at all. I was simply content to sleep and adjust.
I allowed the ghost to treat me like a pet as I recovered, in turn leaching from his knowledge of my new world. When he let me out, I followed closely on his heels, learning how to fly, how to turn invisible, how to go intangible, and most import of all… how to hunt.
Skulker knew what weapons could bring prey down the fastest, what nets would ensnare what creature, and how to build traps to ambush difficult prey. I soon became his apprentice, and quickly earned his respect…just as he earned mine.
He took to calling me Whelp, because of my reluctance to tell him my real name. I took to calling him 'Sir' to convey my loyalty to him.
He gave me a rugged black jumpsuit and thick boots, iron-soled, just like his own, to wear instead of my parent's old HAZMAT suit…and I felt more…right…in the clothes of a hunter than I had ever felt in any of my human clothes…
I was changing.
As the weeks passed, I was given new lodgings, a place of honor in Skulker's great room. He made a bed for me against the far wall, and allowed me the freedom to come and go as I pleased. I took to leaving early in the mornings, and carrying out my own hunts on the island, bringing back sacks of minor game that I cooked up and ate at suppertime. I caught mostly Earth animals--they crawled through a natural portal on the island--to sustain my strange hunger. Skulker never questioned why I continued to eat after my death. Instead, he made sure I was provided for, and if my hunts didn't turn up as much food as I needed, he ensured that I was full.
Eventually, I only hunted with Skulker when it was for sport. Together, we tackled big game, huge ghosts with red eyes, and bulging muscles. I could handle a rifle with unsurpassable skill, taking down prey with one well-aimed shot.
I knew that Skulker was proud of me, and I was content in my new life as a ghost.
But, one day, about a year after my death, while I was polishing my favorite throwing knife before the hearth, a group of ghosts in police uniforms approached the cabin, knocking loudly on the door. Skulker was out for the day, leaving me alone to clean my weapons. A small rabbit cooked over the green fire, its skin popping loudly as the aroma filled the room. I got to my feet, slipping my knife into my belt, slowly opening the door, pulling it taut against the deadbolt. They were waiting for me, their hands on the guns at their sides. The one who stood in front had jagged shark-like teeth, and rough gray skin. His chest was bare, and he wore a pair of ragged frayed jeans. A red cape hung around his shoulders, emblazoned with a symbol that I assumed stood for his rank. I learned later that he was Bullet, the right hand of the warden of the ghost zone.
"So, you're the kid Skulker took in." Bullet laughed, his black eyes filled with mirth. I slipped my knife into the palm of my hand, keeping it concealed from him.
"Who are you?" I demanded, keeping my other hand on the doorframe.
"You don't need to know." The ghost replied, taking a roll of parchment from his belt. "This is a warrant for your arrest. If you resist, we'll be forced to subdue you. Do I make myself clear, child?"
I still hated ghosts. The only one who had ever earned my trust was Skulker, and I was not going to let some goons take me on a whim. Skulker had taught me better. He had taught me to fight as hard as I could, in all situations. No strange ghost was ever going to lay a hand on me ever again. I had let my killers get away…
I would not make that mistake again.
I threw my knife into Bullet's face, striking him in the center of one of his soulless eyes. I had the cabin door shut before his men could retaliate, and was running towards the back of the home, quickly picking up every weapon I passed: a machete, a pistol, a few bolas and a small assassin's knife. I stuffed what I could into my belt, but kept the machete in my hand, my fingers wrapped around its worn leather grip. When I got to the back door, I saw that the goons were gathered there as well, weapons drawn. They fired, electrical charges shattering the grimy windows. One struck my left arm, and I cursed loudly, trying to shake off the numbing pain. I dropped the large knife, using my remaining arm to fish the pistol from my belt. I fired its contents at the goons waiting outside, taking out a good majority of them. As they collapsed, I felt adrenaline rushing through me. It was just like another hunt, except I was hunting more than beasts. I was hunting the things that killed me.
I felt powerful.
The ones that remained stormed the cabin, firing blindly at me. I picked up the machete and charged them, my eyes wide with madness. I imagined that they were animals, and that the spray of blood warming my face was the spray of an animal's blood. They were cruel creatures, stuck in their ways, bringing death to the living. I knew the truth about them. Only I could bring them to justice.
I stuck my blade into a goon's chest, whirling around to behead another. I was high on adrenaline. I felt as if I could do anything.
But I grew careless.
One of the ghosts managed to fire at my leg, striking me in the thigh. I fell over, unable to stand. It felt as if my leg were swollen, though I knew nothing had changed. It was simply numbed by the volts. I lay, on the cabin floor, in a puddle of ectoplasm, trying to catch my breath as the circle of spirits gathered around me. I swung out at them in vain, trying to take as many down as I could, but Bullet's hand seized my wrist, and pried the machete away from my grasp.
"You are a strong one, child." He growled, his face coated in green ectoplasm. "But, not nearly strong enough to best me. Did you really think you had what it takes to challenge the law?"
"Hell yeah, you bastard!" I spat, writhing against his hold. "One on one, I could take you. I could kill you! Like the scum you are!"
Bullet simply laughed, sharply bending my wrist backwards. I cried out as it snapped, and my hand hung limp, pain shooting through my arm.
"You have bones?" the ghost mocked. "Real ghosts don't have bones. Real ghosts made entirely of ectoplasm. That must make you some kind of freak!"
"Shut up!" I hissed through my teeth as I struggled to crawl away. Bullet simply tugged harder on my wrist, and I screamed, buckling from the pain. Around me, the ghosts laughed, only fueling my hatred.
I knew that I could kill them all.
But, before I could make my move, Bullet brought a nightstick down hard on my temple, staining my world black…
When I awoke, I was locked in a jail cell. It was a cold, dirty room covered in glowing moss and dried ectoplasm. My hunter clothes had been taken from me, and I felt vulnerable in the thin striped garments of a prisoner.
The guards treated me like dirt, leaving me to fester alone in my cell without food and water for days. I hated looking weak to them. Inside, I knew that I held the power to destroy them, if I was only given the chance. Of course…they would never give that chance to me…they weren't entirely stupid.
Eventually, I had to demand food, the pangs of hunger becoming too much for me to bear. All I got were jeers and trash thrown at me. The guards told me that real ghosts didn't eat…so…if I wasn't a real ghost…what was I?
I thought a lot in my cell…about me, and about my life…how I threw it away so carelessly, just to sate my curiosity. I thought about what I had become…and about the blood I had felt on my face as I tore through the guards. I wanted to feel that rush again. I wanted to destroy all of them…all of my tormentors.
I also I thought about Skulker, and wondered how he had reacted to my absence when he returned from his hunt. I wondered if he looked for me.
I wondered if he was proud of my struggle.
It was in my cell, after agonizing days of starvation, that I remembered what he had said to me when he discovered my body after my death. He had said that there was something different about me. He had sensed it.
I ate food like a human, and had bones like a human. From a few cuts along my arms, I could see that my ectoplasm was tinted with red.
What was wrong with me?
About a week after my capture, I was dragged to see the warden. I couldn't put up much of a struggle…my stomach was completely empty and I was severely dehydrated.
The warden's name was Walker.
He was a severe looking ghost, wearing a prim white pinstriped suit, and a crisp black hat over a bleached skull. In his gloved hands, he held a leather-bound book, constantly turning the pages as he watched me. I was tied to a metal chair before his desk, two guards holding my eyes open with their cold, dead hands, forcing me to gaze at their boss.
His eyes were black sockets, soulless, and empty.
"Do you have a name, ghost child?" He asked, sneering cruelly.
I held my silence, clenching my jaw to contain my rage.
Walker grinned.
"Right now, you're listed simply as Phantom…kind of a John Doe for ghosts. Wouldn't you rather your real name go down in infamy?"
I still refused to speak.
"I hate scum like you." Walker growled, pushing himself to his feet. "Think you have every right to hunt like you do. Those creatures, the big ones, they're sentinel species, and killing them goes against the rules."
"I…hate scum like…you." I growled, taking a rasping breath. One of the guards jabbed me in the gut with his nightstick, making me double over in pain. I hissed through my teeth, feeling the sting of tears forming in my eyes.
Walker laughed.
"Look kid, you're a strange one. My spies told me that you catch earth game, and ate it. You do know that ghosts don't have to eat, don't you?"
"No." I rasped, forced to stare once more into his eyes. "I…have to…"
"Is that why you're so weak?" The warden demanded. "Is that why you lost that fire I heard so much about? Are you really limited by foolish human weakness?"
He was right in my face, his rancid breath assaulting my nostrils. I tried to look away, but the guards held my head in place. I hated staring at the warden's eyes…they made me feel cold…they made me not want to fight.
Walker glared at me for a few moments before reaching out to rest his hand on my chest, where my heart was. I hated the look in his face that formed…the look of amusement…of glee.
"You have a heartbeat, Phantom." The ghost laughed. "You're not dead!"
I could feel the atmosphere in the room shift. It was instant…sudden. The guards looked down on me, a hungry expression on their faces.
I remembered that expression…the ghosts that had killed me…the ones who had taken me away from my home. They all looked the same.
They had had the same look of madness…of thirst.
I couldn't help but feel fear as I remembered the day of my death…
Walker laughed.
"Give him a thousand years! And get him some food…it's looking like we have a hybrid on our hands…"
That was the first time I had a name for what I was…I was a hybrid. I was both…and yet neither, a thing that walked the fine line between worlds. I wasn't a human…I wasn't a ghost. I was something else.
And, inside, I knew that in the end, I would make all of the ghosts pay.
They all deserved to die.
And that was how my story began.