Sorry for any mistakes in this chapter, my sleeping habits are all messed up at the moment and I'm quite tired. I'm away next week for about 10 days, without access to a computer but I'll have my trusty notepad with me just in case.
As usual, DP still belongs to Butch Hartman and not me.
Stuck to his door was a neon green square. Ghost Writer approached it cautiously, not taking his eyes off of it in case it turned out to be some form of ghost that liked eating paper.
It turned out to be made of paper itself; it was an offensively bright green post-it note (that was absurdly large for a post-it) that had been scribbled on in black ink. Ghost Writer took the note off the door and wandered inside. After filling the printer up with fresh paper and safely storing the rest, he started tapping away again.
Two hours later saw Ghost Writer happily print out the last remaining page of his current chapter. He placed the pages with the others reverently in a desk draw (which was promptly locked), and then picked the chapter notes up and stashed them away for future reference. His mood was surprisingly optimistic and content, with nothing bad having happened in the past few hours to him or his poem (he didn't count getting nearly caught by Vlad Plasmius after the destruction of his Packers collection because he hadn't actually been caught).
A few short, sharp knocks rapped at his study door. Before Ghost Writer could get out of his chair to go to the door to find out who - or what - was in his home uninvited, the door came to greet him.
With a grunt of pain he toppled off of the chair, sending ghost, chair and newly-detached door crashing down to the floor. A white blob moved from what he guessed was the doorway and came to a stop next to him, making no move to help the struggling Writer out from under the door.
After lots of wriggling, Ghost Writer managed to squirm his way out from under the door. Once free, he realised there was another problem.
His glasses were gone.
Everything was just a blur of colour. So he did the only thing he could think of. He turned to the impassive blob that was still just watching (if it had eyes), and said timidly "Um, you haven't seen my glasses have you?"
There was an awkward moment where Ghost Writer felt extremely uncomfortable, as the shape did nothing. Then it moved, and Ghost Writer felt the cool metal of his glasses press into his palm.
"Ah, thank you" he mumbled, hurrying to put them on. He soon dropped into an irritated mood after accidentally poking himself in the eye. "And just who do you think you … are …" he trailed off as his vision became clear once more, and fear clouded it instead.
A sharp-toothed grin appeared on the face of the intruder. "My name is Plasmius, Vlad Plasmius, but I'm sure you already knew that from your horrified expression" he remarked with a smug air.
"Oh. Um, in such case, how may I help you?" Please don't blame me for the destruction and general mess that is your Packers collection. Please may someone have mercy on me.
The grin slid off of his face. "I'm here" the billionaire's tone became frosty "about the destruction and general mess that is my Packers collection."
… Oh, Sense and Sensibility! He cursed mentally. Vlad's glare turned even more deadly. Then a smirk formed, and he prowled slowly over to one of the many bookcases lining the room, one of several that contained first-edition and rare manuscripts. "Nice book collection by the way."
As Vlad reached out with ectoplasmic energy curling around his fingertips, Ghost Writer lunged for him. "Wait!" he shrieked loudly (he could sense that damage would be done if Vlad was not appeased) and Vlad paused, the pink energy still in his palm.
"What if … I gave you … one of the books … from my collection?" Ghost Writer said, having to pause due to the adrenaline coursing through his ghostly veins (it wasn't everyday he fought or did something like this – he was quite happy cooped up in his study with his keyboard when it wasn't broken, not going out and haunting places and getting into fights).
Vlad stepped back from the bookcase, though he still allowed the ectoblast to remain in his palm. "You have exactly one minute to find a suitable book - starting now" and he pulled out a watch to time him. Ghost Writer scurried off, darting around the room until he found what he was looking for. He rushed back to Vlad and proudly presented him with the book.
There was a pause, in which Vlad let the ectoblast dissolve and took the book. "Is it…?" he asked, not daring to finish the sentence.
Ghost Writer nodded, stepping back from Vlad just in case. Said man looked up. "The Packers Through History: A Photographic Journey?" Another nod. "And it's signed" Vlad murmured as he flicked through the pages before gently closing the book and tucking it safely under his arm.
"In light of this, your book collection is safe." Vlad strode to past the desk, and then half-turned. "Your computer is not though." And with those words, he knocked the computer and printer off of the desk and blasted them, leaving only melted metal and plastic in the middle of the floor. "Good day" he said, and smartly turned on his heel and left.
Ghost Writer simply looked at the smouldering pile in the middle of the floor. Technus is not going to be happy he thought glumly.
Once he'd had enough moping, he shuffled over to his desk again and picked the chair up before slumping in it again. Gently he put his arms on the smooth surface and let his head fall onto them.
Something tacked onto his nose and he sat bolt upright, scrabbling to get it off. It turned out to be the vibrant post-it, still intact though a little crumpled. Ghost Writer smoothed it out, and then read it.
Or at least he tried to. The – he hesitated to call it writing – ink was just splattered all over the giant post-it. He sighed and switched a light on. This could take some time …
Finally the code was cracked. Ghost Writer picked up the bit of paper he had written the message on in his own neat handwriting.
Ghost Writer (it read),
I, Technus, master of all things electronic and beeping have finished repairing your keyboard ahead of schedule due to a GLORIOUS baking victory that only I could accomplish. Come and collect it as soon as possible (It's taking up the space for my shiny trophy)!
Technus, master of all things electronic and beeping.
Hope crawled out of the box deep within him and rose, filling him with a bubbly cheerfulness and banishing misery and muting the pain of having to give a rare book away.. The keyboard was repaired. It was ready to be used again, and he would never have to face temperamental printers and demonic, overly-helpful paperclips ever again!
Needless to say, he went to get the keyboard immediately.
He'd arrived at Technus' in half the time it usually took him to get there, excitement lending him the extra speed. He battered on the door with his fists, and in his delirious mood didn't think to stop when Technus opened the door.
"Ah Ghost Writer – mrph!" the technology-obsessed ghost grunted as he was smacked square in the face. That seemed to snap Ghost Writer out of his cheery trance.
"Sorry!" he cried immediately, but Technus waved his hand dismissively.
"No worries, Writer." He pulled a spare pair of glasses out of the pocket of his lab coat, replacing the broken ones that had been mashed to his nose. "Come on in, sit down" Ghost Writer floated on the spot, his good mood ebbing away slightly. This was … unusual for Technus. Maybe he should come back later, when Technus had resumed being his loud, dramatic self.
Well, there was one way to test if Technus was his usual self. Carefully glancing around for rabid electrical devices as Technus motioned again for him to come in, he said "your laptop and printer -"
"Got trashed by Plasmius in revenge for his Packers collection." Technus grinned, looking at the Writer in a kind of awe "how did you do it? You completely obliterated one-of-a-kind merchandise, and then he tracks you down and leaves you – and your priceless collection of unique books – unharmed." Technus flopped into an armchair before gripping the sides and leaning forwards. "How?" he whispered. "Even I, the great Technus, would not have been able to accomplish this amazing feat!" he finished in his usual, dramatic voice.
"For a start, I didn't destroy his collection. It was this glowing, green puppy that ran off with the paper I needed for the printer. And I gave him one of my books" Ghost Writer supplied.
Technus looked shocked. "You, Ghost Writer, who is known for being highly possessive of your books, freely gave one away?!"
"It was only a Packers book" he grumbled "and it was mainly photos. Not my kind of book."
Technus merely shook his head in amazement. "Note to self; if I ever get into trouble with Plasmius, find a random little object with a link to the Packers."
Ghost Writer frowned. "That book was a signed and limited edition I'll have you know." The other ghost held his hands up in a pacifying gesture. "I didn't mean anything by it. Shall we go sort the keyboard out, then?"
The happy mood returned. "Yes please" he said pleasantly, and followed Technus.
Ghost Writer waved a slight thanks to Technus, then turned and practically skipped back to his study. He arrived and looked at the center of the room. The Quantum Keyboard stood proudly in the middle, floating a few inches off of the floor and nearly gleaming in the lights dotted around the room.
He floated over and sat in the seat, running his hands over the surface of the desk before he typed out the chapter title. He picked up his notes and scanned them briefly, then set them down and rested his fingers on the keys, waiting for the first word to form.
He started tapping away a moment later, only to pause, read the words and then delete what he'd written. This process continued, and when Ghost Writer next went to get another coffee he noticed the time. That was when the dread started to creep back.
Four and a half hours he mouthed silently. Four and a half hours and I haven't been able to write a single word, let alone a sentence.
He finished pouring the coffee and stumbled over to a chair, slumping in it slightly and burying his head in his hands as tears of frustration slid down his cheeks.
He'd got his keyboard back … and had gotten a free dose of writer's block with it.
I feel really bad now, I got his hopes up twice this chapter (Vlad and keyboard) only to get them trampled into the ground.
A couple of notes:
1 - Lancer isn't the only one who shouts book titles out, it seems.
2 - The hope and box imagery is a reference to the legend of Pandora's box (I'm on a greek mythology kick at the moment)
3 - As far as I know, there is no Packers book like that.
Thanks to MoonlightUmbreon, Manyara, witchdoctor42 and TPcrazy (you have wished it, so it was!)