"No."

Tucker Foley wined, giving his best friend puppy dog eyes behind his glasses. "C'mon, Danny! With your parents out of town, this could be our only chance!"

Daniel Fenton glared at the African American boy with his ice-blue eyes. "Tuck, we're not sneaking into their lab."

The two eleventh graders were descending the main staircase of Casper High, having just finished World History with Coach Peach, their last class of the week. The sea of students around them was relentless in their haste to escape the hell hole that is public education, making their own departure that much more difficult. As they passed a group of football players in their red and white letterman jackets, Danny almost suffocated on the smell of unwashed gym clothes and Axe body spray. Lovely.

"Why not?" Tuck wheedled, fumbling to catch the red beret that was nearly knocked off when Dash Baxter, A.K.A. Tucker and Danny's self-proclaimed arch enemy (Danny had been pretty sure Dash meant to say "nemesis" during his declaration back in eighth grade but couldn't say it properly) "accidentally" rammed his shoulder into Tucker's head.

"Because," Danny said, shooting a glare at the back of Dash's bleach-blond head, "the words 'Tucker' and 'laboratory' should never be used in the same sentence, unless that sentence is 'Tucker should never be in a laboratory.'"

Tucker swooned dramatically. "You wound me with your distrust." Danny punched him in the shoulder as they reached the entrance.

The crisp autumn air that greeted the boys as they pushed the main doors open was a welcome change from the stale air of the hallway. "Besides," Tucker continued, "I bet Sam would love it, being a goth and all."

"That is a stereotype," a third, feminine voice rang out, "and I am deeply offended."

Danny focused his attention of the speaker. "Sam, thank God! Tell Tuck we shouldn't sneak into the lab."

Sam Manson, the boys' only other friend, was leaning against Danny's cherry red motorcycle (a present from his parents for his sixteenth birthday) in what could have been called a provocative manner if it had been anyone else, a smirk playing on her blood red lips. her dyed black hair ("I refuse to be another blonde rich girl," she told Danny once) was swept back in a bun and held in place by an oriental hairpin the same shade as her lipstick, allowing the mischievous glint in her violet eyes to be visible under the fringe of her bangs. "Despite that idiotic comment," she said in her husky voice, standing straight, "sneaking in sounds like fun."

Danny groaned. "Fine," he said, rifling through the sidecar to fish out three helmets. He tossed one at Same and one at Tucker before securing his own over his black hair and swinging one leg over the body of the bike. Sam climbed on behind him, gripping the fabric of his white shirt with her black and red nails, as Tucker got into the sidecar.

"Why do I always get the sidecar?" Tucker grumbled, crossing his arms like a petulant child.

"Because," Danny answered over the revving engine, "I'm not letting you drive my baby and you refuse to hold onto me because you think it's gay."

Tucker growled as Danny took off into the street.

It was impossible to miss the Fenton house. On a street full of normal brownstones, a giant, steel grey arrow with the word "FentonWorks" written on it in neon green bubble letters stood out pretty easily.

Danny pulled the motorcycle up to the shed around the back of the brownstone, allowed his friends to get off, and locked it safely away for the weekend, While he did so, Sam removed her helmet and redid her bun, smoothing her red satin shirt, and Tucker put his beret back on his head after he removed his helmet.

Danny ran a hand through his permanently messy hair in an effort to remove the helmet-head effect. He sighed. "Let's get this over with. Jazz could be home any minute."

With the enthusiasm of a five-year-old going trick-or-treating, Tucker made a break for the back door that led to the Fentons' kitchen, as if Danny would suddenly change his mind. Danny and Sam followed at a much calmer pace, so by the time they reached the kitchen, Tucker was throwing the basement door open and nearly jumping down the stairs.

Danny had to admit that, were it not something he saw every day, he probably would have been excited about seeing a lab. His parents' lab had sterile white walls and a tile floor that let every sound made echo loudly throughout the room. Shelves upon shelves were filled with their failed inventions and experiments, and half a dozen cages specified to hold certain monsters (wood for vampires, silver for werewolves, iron for witches, etc.) littered the room.

And, yes, Jack and Maddie Fenton were monster hunters.

Danny suddenly felt very thirsty. He fought the feeling to listen as Tucker exclaimed, "This place is radical! Why haven't we ever come down here before?"

"Because it's a laboratory with deadly weapons," Danny deadpanned.

Sam let out a terse laugh even as she began to look at the few successful weapons that had been made.

As Sam and Tucker continued to explore the lab, Danny wandered over to the fridge he knew his father kept stocked with cream soda. As unappealing as the pink liquid was to him, he was parched and desperate.

To his pleasant surprise, Danny found an unlabeled bottle of water, unsealed but full. He assumed his mother had refilled it, having taken a page out of Sam's environmentalist book. He snatched the bottle, unscrewed the cap, and took a long drink out of it, sighing in relief as the cool liquid slid down his throat.

Suddenly, Danny wasn't thirsty anymore. He put the lid back on the bottle and stuffed it back in the fridge before he went to join Sam and Tucker as they examined a silver-barred cage.