AN: I am working on making these chapters longer more exciting, but it's been a long time since I published work regularly, and a really, really long time since I worked at getting better, so there is a bit of learning curve. That being said, I'm also studying to take the JLPT in December so my life consists almost solely of studying. It's not an easy balance. I have had some recent inspiration, though, so hopefully there will be more updates in the near future.

Also, this story has been moved to an M rating to deal with the angry prison language and any mention of blood. I don't know where the line between T and M falls, so this is just to be safe.

All characters belong to Bill Hartman and Billionfold Inc.

They pulled up in front of FentonWorks not long after three, am rubbing red-rimmed eyes and fidgeting in fear. The meteor shower had already ebbed into a still, but dazzling starry sky above them, twinkling and merry as it stared down on their dilemma.

"Ready?" Jazz asked, cutting the engine.

"As I'm going to get," Sam promised, unbuckling, gathering her things, and sliding out of the car.

"Mom is probably the one who's up, so this shouldn't be too bad," Jazz assured her, locking up and easing her door shut in the too-quiet night. Not a single house on the block had lights on, other than theirs, of course. Someone was up in the kitchen. Or Jack had forgotten to turn if off after his midnight fudge run.

"Remember the story?"

"Yes, Jazz, I remember the story," Sam grouched as they climbed the front stairs. "This isn't my first cover story, you know."

"I know," Jazz agreed, trying the front door. It was unlocked.

Slowly she peered around the front door, gazing through the dimly lit living room and into the kitchen. Sure enough, Maddie was seated at the table with a cup of hot cocoa.

"Mom?" Jazz asked, stepping quietly into the house.

"Jazz!" Maddie called, rising and hurrying into the living room. Her abandoned mug sat patiently on the table, more chocolate milk now than hot chocolate.

"What's wrong? Where have you been?" Maddie asked, drawing her house coat tighter over her nightclothes.

"We can't find Danny," Jazz blurted, completely free of preamble.

"He's missing?"

"We thought he'd gone stargazing – the meteor shower's tonight after all – but we couldn't find him anywhere. We looked in all the usual places he just…wasn't there."

Jazz's voice shook, her eyes glittering with unshed tears.

"Mrs. Fenton, we're sorry we didn't come sooner," Sam added from behind Jazz, "We just thought…"

"I understand," Maddie promised, drawing her daughter into a hug. "It's okay. He can't have gone far."

Jazz drew back from the hug and nodded, wiping a stray tear from her face.

"But just to be safe I need you to write a list of all the places you searched. Don't leave anything out."

"Okay," Jazz promised.

"Have either of you spoken with Tucker?"

"His phone was off earlier," Sam explained. "His parents said he would be home by midnight, though."

"Call for me?" Maddie asked. "See if he's seen Danny."

Sam nodded.

"I'll call the police station."

"Okay."

Maddie nodded once more and turned away, fighting down the lump in her throat as she went for the phone. Her little boy was missing? Sure, but it was far more likely that he had just gone to hide out at Tucker's for the night or found a new place to stargaze. At least, that's what she struggled to assure herself as she dialed the local police barracks. It would do no good to panic. She could think of all the 'what if's' later. For now she had to find her son.


Danny groaned as he tried to pull his arms down to a comfortable position. The chains clanked and pulled, ruining his attempts to lay flat and ease his throbbing ribs. A tear ran down his check as he curled against the wall – hands pulling angrily against the chains. Each struggle rubbed at his wounds, bruises darkening as he pulled again and again, wanting nothing more than the comfort of his arms against his aching chest.

The skin of his wrist finally split against the sharp of his shackles and a drop of blood fell into his still-operable eye. It stung viciously, driving a sob from his already wounded chest.

It burned as it ripped past his broken ribs, his raw throat, his torn lips.

It echoed around the darkened cell, bouncing from wall to wall like a thousand jeering voices.

How does it feel?

Don't you like being the weak one for a change?

What's wrong, Ghost Boy? A couple of lowly ghosts too much for you?

Danny shivered, pulling himself up against the wall as his sobs grew stronger.

Why weren't they here for him?

Where were his friends when he needed them?

The hours rolled on, and his sobs morphed into vocal cries for help. He cried for his friends, for his sister, for his parents. His voice echoed off the glowing green walls, growing louder and more frantic, pleading and screaming. The other inmates heard him, their jeers echoing back into his hollow cell.

"What's wrong little boy? Miss your mommy?"

"Stop being such a whiny ass bitch and shut your mouth!"

"Ghost boy, you scream one more time and I'm personally going to come in there and—"

He didn't hear them. He screamed and screamed until his raw, aching throat would scream no more, and still he whispered his pleas into the cell.

As even his whispers began to fail, he felt a strange sense of coolness roll through him. It soothed the pain of his injuries and lessened the hollow in his chest, calming him.

Looking down with his good eye, Danny realized that he'd gone ghost. Green ectoplasm glowed under crusted-over blood, his pale hands now encased in white gloves. Why did it hurt less in ghost form? He idly wondered, his mind oddly lethargic, exhausted from long hours of unrelenting panic. Was it because ghosts weren't meant to feel? Were they really the cold, emotionless evil that his parents thought they were? Maybe that was why no one had come for him yet; because he was just a ghost in the Ghost Zone. Another mindless imprint of ectoplasm floating through the ether.

No. Danny mentally shook himself, driving the depressing cobwebs away. He was human, just like they were. Yeah, he had some cool powers, but that didn't make him a ghost. Besides, they loved him. All of them: Sam, Tucker, Jazz, his parents...

Even the cool of his ghost form he could feel a hollow ache in his chest at the very thought of them. He wanted them, needed them so bad that it hurt. He needed someone to talk to, someone to tend his wounds, someone to take him up and tell him it was going to be okay.

He didn't think he could stand another day out in the yard. His body couldn't take another beating like this. He wasn't sure it could handle the first beating. Jazz's old nags about infections and the like floated around his mind, sending shivers up his spine. What if he did get an infection? Did the prison have a hospital? Would they know how to fix him? What if he ended up dying the rest of the way?

That thought sent him once more into dizzying spirals of panic. He was too young to die. He had friends and a family waiting for him. Probably looking for him, as a matter of fact.

Not that he'd given them much to go on. Sam and Tuck had no idea where he'd gone and Jazz had probably spent half the night covering for what she thought was a ghost attack. When they did realize he was missing they would have no idea where to look. He could be anywhere.

With a dejected sigh he let the train of thought fade, closing his eyes into the dim green glow of his cell. For some time he lay there, floating softly on the murmur of conversation between other cell mates.

"You hear about yesterday's game?"

"Football or basketball?"

"We don't have football here."

"Yeah we do. Little black and white ball you kick around the field with your feet. You uneducated bumpkins call it soccer."

"How do you see where you're going with your nose up in the air like that?"

"At least I know the difference between a ball game played with your feet and a sad, wimpy version of rugby."

"I have gotten five times more injuries playing football than you ever did playing rugby."

"It takes a special kind of talent to hurt yourself with all that padding between you and the ball."

"Dickhead."

"Are we down to simple name calling now? How quickly the unintelligent have fallen."

"Guys, do you have to do this all night?"

"Bitch."

"Douche."

"Guys…"

"Assbutt."

"Assbutt? Seriously?"

"GUYS!"

The shout drew Danny out of his stupor and back to the dull throb of pain. His arms were not appreciative of their position hanging from the chains.

With a groan, Danny pulled himself into an upright position against the wall – arms draped loosely over his knees. The movement had hurt less than he was planning, but that didn't mean much. He hurt so bad in so many different ways that a little stab of agony from moving broken ribs was nothing. The slight feeling of relief as his arms rested over his knees, though, that was beautiful.

It seemed like he sat there for an eternity, his mind floating numbly through space. The other inmates were arguing over anything and anything. The name-calling was apparently a regular thing – one that got old rather quickly. Before long they returned to the topic of games they'd played in the yard. One team insisted that the referee's calls had been bias. The other insisted that the calls were true to the rules – that player had double dribbled. An observer to the game claimed that the referee hadn't even been looking when the double dribble had happened, so it didn't count. The angry shouting match continued for ages, echoing around as Danny rested.

And they said I was loud.

Afraid to think on his own, Danny followed the strain of the argument, thinking of it as some cheap sitcom. The childish argument between the ghosts became amusing as he pictured their voices over well-known sitcom faces, assigning male voices to female characters and vice versa. The distraction was nice.

He'd just gotten through mentally watching a bass-voiced buxom blonde harass her soprano-voiced lover over whether or not fouls on the court counted if both parties involved were rendered unable to move, when the arguing quieted down.

"Yard time," called a guard along the end of the hall.

Danny's eyes widened.

He hadn't slept at all. No one had. How did they expect ghosts to go back into the yard when half of them were so badly wounded they couldn't walk on their own? There hadn't been time to sleep, let alone heal.

But as the guards came into his cell, unchaining him from the wall and pulling him into the hall, Danny realized that he felt better.

He definitely hurt less, his ribs seeming nearly normal as he was prodded along.

And now that he thought about it, both of his eyes were open.

What the heck was going on?

But he didn't have long to ponder the revelation as he was unceremoniously shoved into the yard.

The other ghosts were busy stretching, moving about the yard to set up games and running competitions and the like. Danny moved quickly away from the door, searching for a corner to hide in. Unfortunately, the grounds were built to keep everyone in sight of the guards at all times. There was nowhere to hide. Only time to edge away, to try and run.

The halfa watched as Skulker was pushed into the yard, his armor hardly needing stretching. The hunter strode about the courtyard, eyes scanning faces for one particular target...

Danny groaned as Skulker caught sight of him, a massive grin spreading across the hunter's face.

Sliding into a nearby crowd, Danny did his very best to avoid the hunter. He knew it wouldn't last long, not in such a small yard outnumbered a hundred to one. Still, he had to hold on – to stall for time.

He had to keep himself alive.

AN2: If you look real close you can probably spot a TV show reference in this chapter. It's to my current obsession, really. Extra points if you know what it's from and who said it.