Next: Out of Body Experience
Prompter: bibliophileap / bibliophilea
Prompt: He's flying… or is he?
Summary: Dash is having the weirdest dream. …It is a dream, right?
Word Count: 3854
Warnings: Character Near Death Experience, blood, injury.
Out of Body Experience
—
He's flying.
…Or is he?
Amity Park stretches out below him, rolling on forever. Looking down, Dash can see the Nasty Burger, the Mall, the School—even North Mercy Hospital, touching the city outskirts behind him. From this angle, it looks almost like a painting hung in a museum, slowly coming into focus.
But, like a painting, nothing is really moving, so he doesn't know if it really counts as flying. Hovering, maybe. Floating. Standing on some invsible ceiling, looking down at the world.
No, floating sounds right. Floating matches the odd, drifting feeling in his stomach, and the unfocused swirl in his head. Rubbing his face, Dash shakes it off, and stares down at the town below.
He tilts to one side, then the other, to test his stability. Below, the world tilts with him, back and forth. Control comes to him readily, like he was born in the air, made to drift among the clouds. Twisting his shoulders turns him left and right. Arching his back pulls him upward. All of it feels natural.
As soon as he's got a handle on the basics, Dash leans forward. His stability wobbles a bit, but holds, and he sets off out into the sky.
His speed starts slow, careful, then picks up gradually, like a roller coaster rattling down the first hill. Adrenaline kicks in as wind whips at his face, billowing through his hair.
Dash lets out a whoop, peeling to the right and climbing harder, pushing his speed. Alright! Now he's flying!
A cloud engulfs him like mist and spits him out the other side. He spins mid-air, throwing water droplets in all directions, reaching the next cloud, he skims across the top of the fog, trailing his hand in the white. This is such an amazing dream.
It's beautiful up here. Fresh, crisp, cold… he wants to keep flying forever.
He crosses its expanse in seconds, and as the cloud's silver lining falls away, Dash finds himself staring back down at the ground again. Tall buildings and flat, winding streets roll under him as he flies.
Though, now that he's looking down, something seems — off.
But what?
Curious, he angles downward, letting gravity take hold.
He levels out about fifty, sixty yards up, skimming the top of a strip mall and threading through the alleyway behind it. Everything looks so surreal from the top down, as if he's looking at it sideways.
The bank next door, usually bustling, seems deserted. Dash rushes it, crossing the gap faster than a blink of an eye. He arches up the side of the bank, the red brick blurring past, close enough to touch.
He breaks over the top like an ocean wave, and lands on the corner, running along the building's edge. Wind whips in his face, throwing his hair back; concrete scrapes underfot. He charges across the rooftop like a linebacker trying to break past the challenger's defense. In seconds, he reaches the roof's opposite edge, and launches back into flight, laughing.
His laughter echoes, hollow, off the streets.
It's so empty here. Weird.
Frowning, Dash spins to survey the field. At last, he's able to put his finger on why the town feels so eerie—well, eerier than normal.
Amity Park is deserted.
No pedestrians milling on the sidewlak. Cars abandoned mid-drive, on the street. Traffic lights change lazily from red to green, but past that, the only movement is the fluttering of flags and grass in the wind.
Where is everybody?
A chill runs up his spine, and suddenly, Dash doesn't want to be here. This place is giving him the creeps. Turning his face skyward, he prepares to launch back into the atmosphere, to fly among the beautiful safety of the clouds, when something—a flicker at the edge his vision—catches his eye.
The bank's large windows shine like a polished mirror. Dash turns to look, and blinks at the figure that's staring back, hovering in the reflection.
Is that—me?
The reflection warbles and solidifies, blinking through the window back at him, startled. It's his face, alright. His silhouette. He's sure of it. But… who ripped his letterman jacket? Frowning, he lifts an arm, looking down. The faux leather ends in tatters, as if ripped to shreds by claws.
There's a stain, too, by the zipper. Purple and sticky, blooming by his stomach.
The color's off, too, though in some weird dream-logic, Dash can't put a finger on why. The jacket is Jade and Jet Black, though he's certain… sorta certain… that it's supposed to be red and white. And his skin, an odd, dark blue color… and matching navy hair…. That's weird, right? Only ghosts and smurfs and aliens are supposed to be blue.
Weirdest of all - the color of his eyes. An eerie orange blinks back at him, befuddled.
Dash doesn't like it, not one bit.
Something feels wrong.
In the distance, a keening cry echoes through the streets of Amity Park, then falls silent.
Dash stares off into the distance, where the sound originated. It seemed like it came from the—
From the school.
Unsettled, Dash starts after it, peeling away from the buildingside to arch over the street, following the sound.
He's seeing more signs, now. Something must've gotten under his skin, because he's noticing little things off, everywhere. A cracked windo here. A car door open, ajar, there. A couple of trash cans knocked over, spilling into the street.
Beyond it, there's a large tree branch, snapped off its tree and tumbled into the sidewalk, blocking the way. Its wilting green leaves flutter in the wind. Further down, he spies a new pothole in the street, one that hadn't been there before.
—Or has it? It's—so hard to remember, suddenly—
He turns the corner, following the signs like breadcrumbs. Bricks, knocked loose from their foundation. Cars with dents, smashed tail lgihts. Black marks— scorch marks? Dotting their way up the side of the grocery store. At the top, on the roof's ledge, he sees deep gouges set in the stone. Sets of three, like claw marks from a mighty beast.
Suddenly, he goes still, understanding.
A ghost attack.
Has to be.
That's why the street is deserted, why the place looks like a tornado hit. A ghost, or several, swept through here, leaving damage in its wake, and all the residents fled for shelter inside.
"Man…" Dash eyes the claw marks on the rooftop, floored. "What kind of ghost did that?"
Despite everything, Amity Park seems calm, like the storm has just passed through. As Dash spins to survey the street, he spots one person sticking their head out of the vinyl shop - salt and pepper hair, mustache, glancing back and forth for threats as he eases his way out of the building.
Two more across the street - their faces flicker in the windows, peering, before vanishing inside again.
Dash breathes a sigh of relief, feeling a knot loosen in his chest at the sign of normality. As a third person, a tall, dark man in a polo shirt eases out of an apartment building, a phone pressed to his ear as he peers at the sky - "Yeah, Marge, I think it flew off—towards downtown, I think?—" - Dash steps forward and clears his throat.
"Hey man, what happened here?" he asks, reaching out to tap the man's shoulder. "Must've been some fight—"
The man doesn't respond. Instead, Dash's hand goes straight through, phasing through the guy's polo like it was no more substantial than the misty clouds above them.
Gasping, Dash yanks his hand back. It stings, tingles, almost. All the way up his arm. What an eerie feeling.
What a weird dream.
Polo guy keeps walking, talking on his phone, like Dash isn't even there. "Hey," Dash calls, angry or scared, too freaked to tell the difference right now. "Don't walk away, I was talking to you! Hello?"
The man doesn't see him. "No I think you better stay inside, dear," he tells whoever's on the other end of the phone, venturing farther out onto the street. He's peering north. "Phantom will take care of it."
Dash's heart goes still.
Danny Phantom?
On impulse, Dash tears his eyes away from the guy - and all the other people starting to creep out of their homes - turning North instead, to follow the guy's gaze.
A pillar of black smoke rises in the distance. Deep in his heart, he knows where it's coming from.
Curiosity—or something stronger than curiosity—draws him onward, following the curves of the street. The wreckage gets worse the farther he travels, the closer he zeroes in on that smoke.
A lightpole lays sideways across the intersection, traffic lights blinking wildly - red, green, yellow, green.
A crater, larger than the others, bores into the pavement. The concrete cracks in a spiderweb pattern, crumbling away into the sewers below.
Cars lay, flipped on their sides, wheels spinning wildly in the air, headlights flickering to black.
Ash and smoke tickle his nose, burnt wood like a bonfire. A thin haze settles low over the street. More people begin to venture from their homes into the calm, but ominous air, reaching for each other or talking with their ears pressed to cellphones. They scan the skies warily, watching for whatever beasts swept through here. None spare a look at him.
Determined, he cuts across to King Street, following the path to the smoke. He flits through the neighborhood, zeroing in on his target - certain, now, what he'll see when he turns the corner.
Sure enough, the school comes into view, and he sees the nightmare laid out before him.
Casper High is in shambles.
The building looms tall, all its windows blown out, the rooftop caving in. A chunk's been taken out of the upper right corner of A-Wing, smoke rising from the crater. The missing slab of wall is crumbling at the base of the school, gouged with claw marks and slicked green with ectoplasm.
Dash's stomach sinks. This place, it's—like a second home, filled with good friends and memories, and seeing it in ruins unsettles him to the core.
The truant officer, an old weathered man, ducks out the double doors. He's got a radio in one hand, and an ectogun in the other. Holding the radio to his face, he thunders down the wide steps, flagging someone down.
A cop car, sirens whirling, speeds across King Street. The Policewoman screeches to a stop and throws open the car door to meet the man, speaking into her own radio for dispatch. The whole street is thrown into stark contrast from the police car lights, flashing red and blue.
Backup will be here soon. Ghost hunters, cop cars, firefighters, the whole shebang. This attack is too big to ignore; it'll be on the evening news. School might close - maybe even for good. Dash shakes his head, dazed and drifting; it all feels so surreal.
—this is such a WEIRD dream, he thinks, detached.
And then a voice in his head says: What if it isn't a dream?
A shudder resonates down his back. He's sick of this nightmare, he really is, but somehow, despite the flying and the phasing and the fight's aftermath, it all feels unsettlingly real.
He has to get to the bottom of it.
Compelled onward, Dash rises in the air. The wreckage has carried past the school's courtyard, over the roof and beyond, to the football field and track circuit in the back. The place, which Dash used to know like the back of his hand, now looks tumbled in chaos.
The far bleachers are buckled inward, as if some massive thing landed on top of them, crushing them underfoot. Green fire burns sedately, at the corner of the yard by the equipment shed, almost self-extinguished. Craters litter the field, one goalpost askew like the leaning tower of piza—
In the distance - clustered at the 20 yard line, Dash sees people clustered in a tight knit group, one lying flat on the ground.
Something in his heart goes still.
In an instant, he closes the gap, racing to see a scene all too familiar, if only he could remember.
Four people. Sam Manson and Tucker Foley, knees bent and stances wide, ready to run for help the moment they need to. Between them, Danny Fenton, on his knees, giving steady CPR. And the last figure, the unconscious teen lying flat on the ground, that's—
That's—
Dash swallows, hard, his breath stopped in his throat.
That's him.
Dash Baxter's body lies flat on the ground, blond hair slicked back, letterman jacket in tatters, an injury blooming at his stomach.
That is Dash Baxter, star Quarterback of Casper High, and he looks like he is dying.
Danny's lips move, snapping orders at his friends; "I hear sirens. Tucker! Paramedics! Go!" Tucker Foley nods and runs off, soup thermos in hand, beelining towards the flashing red-blue lights in the distance.
Danny jerks his chin at Sam, then at the bleachers a moment later, where - Dash twists to look - more teenagers—sophomores, by the looks of it—are emerging from their hideout clustered under the meager shelter of the benches, shaken but concerned.
The sophomores start to move towards Danny and Dash, and Sam steps in to head them off. She starts arguing with them, making expansive, commanding gestures at the stragglers and then points at the crumbling school building. They, in turn, argue hotly with her, but the fear is more than a spark in their eyes, gazes flickering to the bloody quarterback on the ground and the damage littering the field. Eventually, Sam urges them towards safety, leading them away.
Dash barely registers all of this, unable to tear his eyes away from the prone body on the grass that looks so much like him.
Through all this, Danny does not stop his rhythmic compressions, giving steady CPR. He pauses only to give two breaths at intervals and to listen, and watch, for breathing. If it's helping, it's not obvious; the body is rapidly turning blue.
Fenton…
It's shocking that Danny would even bother. Fenton's not a good friend - not even a good enemy - and Dash would, under pressure, reluctantly admit he's been unfair to Danny through their entire highschool experience.
An antagonist at best, an enemy at worst, they wage war between classes over a grudge long forgotten. Given how many times Danny's been shoved into lockers, pinned to the wall, tripped in the hallways — giving lifesaving support to his tormentor ought to be the last thing on his mind.
Dash just stands, and stares. Seeing Danny's stony, determined face, as he doles out one rhythmic push after another… it makes his insides twist.
They're interrupted, suddenly, by Tucker's return. The techno-geek runs up to the pair on the ground, pointing at them, shouting "Here, he's here—" to someone in the distance.
Confused, Dash turns to see who Tucker's talking to, and finds a pair of EMTs rushing towards the scene, wearing dark field suits and carrying large cases laden with equipment.
They don't see him. Like everyone else in this dream, their eyes bore straight through him; Dash seems to be utterly invisible.
And they're coming right at him.
Startled, Dash goes to dodge out of the way, but the first EMT rushes up to—an then through—him. The rippling sensation warbles through his body then fades, ebbing, as he reforms.
Dash touches his chest, heaving deep, unsteady breaths. That felt terrible.
The second EMT clips his shoulder, moving through it like he passed through the clouds minutes ago. His arms swirls like mist, then reforms in her wake.
He flexes his still-tingling hand, shaking.
God. This dream feels so real.
A flurry of motion catches Dash's eye; he discards the thought, turning to face the scene again. Danny's telling the paramedics something, still pumping at the quarterback's chest—7, 8, 9, 10 compressions—and then, he breaks, leaning back from the body. The transition is seamless, the Paramedic moving in as Danny eases out, resuming the steady pumps.
Tucker hauls Danny to his feet. Fenton seems exhausted.
The paramedics take over. One does compressions while the second presses her fingers down key points on Dash's body, checking for broken bones. Once done, she peels the shirt back to reveal his bleeding abdomen. Danny and Tucker move back to give them space. Tucker doubles over, out of breath from running. Danny's arms hang uselessly at his side, hands stained blood red, as he watches the scene play out.
"You think he's gonna make it?" Tucker asks, between breaths.
Danny, staring at the scene, shakes his head.
Two more paramedics arrive, wheeling a stretcher, slowed by the grass and the many, many craters riddling the field. Tucker and Danny split to the sides to make way, watching the newcomers wheel it over to the unconscious body to lower it to the ground.
Tucker flashes a hand sign at Danny, who nods back. With great effort, straining, Tucker takes off towards the school, probably going in after Sam. Only Danny lingers behind, watching the paramedics, looking lost.
Dash lingers behind him, watching the scene unfold. Through it all, he can only marvel at what he's witnessing. Judging by the urgency of the medical team, his body is in critical condition. The paramedic is still giving chest compressions, pressing on, but the kid's skin just keeps getting bluer.
He's really going to sit here and watch himself die, huh?
The day started with a killer awesome flight through the clouds and now it's ending with a futile struggle, watching his body die while he hovers just beyond the crowds.
With each second that passes, he feels hazier, feels more exhausted and lost.
Dash, dumbstruck, shakes his head.
"What a weird dream," he murmurs aloud.
Danny, standing in front of him, goes stiff. Fenton twists and pivots to look behind himself, bewildered.
And for a second, Dash swears Fenton is looking straight at him.
Stunned, Danny blinks once. Twice. Dash blinks back.
Danny tears his gaze away, glancing at Dash's body, then back at Dash, then at the body—
"Oh my god." Fenton mumbles, voice barely a whisper.
And then, suddenly, Danny snaps back to him, arm shooting out to grab a handful of the tattered leatherman jacket in his fist. Dash doesn't even think to dodge, expecting Fenton to pass right through him like all the others, but he doesn't.
Dash feels it—an energy thrumming straight from Danny into his own body, an insurmountable power hiding just beneath Danny's skin.
Danny meets his eyes - and the colors are off again, just like in the bank windows - Danny's skin seems to be glowing, his hair gives a flash-impression of white, his eyes thrumming with an electric, otherworldly green—
"Sorry Dash," Danny says, his voice like thunder in Dash's ears, resonating with a faint afterecho. Dash flinches back.
And then Danny tugs at the Letterman jacket in his fist, pulling Dash forward, yanking the jock straight off his feet.
"Coming through!" Danny announces to the paramedics, who part for him only out of surprise. Danny shoves his way through the crowd, towing Dash's dream form behind.
Drawing up to the body's side, with one last yank, Danny throws Dash down onto—into?—his own unconscious body.
Panicked, Dash twists, clinging to Fenton's toothpick arms yet somehow unable to break through. Staring up, he sees is the sky arching above him, a hazy blue dotted with clouds, a freedom that now seems so far out of reach.
The moment he collides with his own body, it's like being plunged into icewater and darkness.
The last thing Dash sees are a pair of glowing, green eyes.
The world cuts to black.
—
Dash Baxter wakes with a gasp, his body on fire and the world in chaos around him.
He coughs, the motion wracking his entire body. Something's squeezed the life out of his lungs. He coughs again, and again, gasping, trying to suck in air.
Strong hands guide his shoulders back down, holding him steady, as voices shout every which way.
"He's up! He's conscious, Trina, get the—"
"—Ok, Dash, we need you to remain calm—"
"—eathing and heartbeat restarted… what the hell did you do, kid?—"
When he manages to stop coughing, briefly, Dash clenches his eyes shut, trying to block out the pain and the voices and the blinding light shining above him.
"—eartbeat at 108 bpm, let's get—"
"—still bleeding out of the left cartero—"
"—and light ectoplasm burns on the—"
Pain sears through his whole body as multiple hands find themselves under his back, and he's lifted, shifted, and placed onto the stretcher. When the stabbing pain recedes, Dash finds himself staring up at blue skies, clouds drifting lazily above him.
A face sticks itself into Dash's field of vision. "Dash, are you with us?" she asks, drawing him out of his reverie.
Dash feels the world drifting around him, though pain keeps him grounded and hazy by turns. Dash grips his hands into fists. "I was flying," he murmurs, trying to make sense of it all. He was flying—or was he?
The paramedic stills for the barest moments, then nods. "You were in a ghost attack," she tells him, as the stretcher supporting him lifts. "We're taking you to North Mercy."
He can feel the movement, can see her running beside him, but bloodloss has him disoriented.
"I dreamt I was flying," he says again. He licks lips that are cracked, dry. "There was fire."
"Don't worry, the firefighters took care of that," the paramedic says, apparently pleased to keep him awake and talking.
The corner of the ambulance edges into his view, and he hears the doors open. Dash feels relief, like he's almost home, but he has to tell someone - anyone - what he saw. "I thought I saw—it was… Danny—"
"Yeah, Danny Phantom captured that behemoth of a ghost," she agrees. "His quick response probably saved your life."
"No—" he starts. That isn't right.
The medical officers holding his gurney motion to her, and she steps back to let them pass. With quick efficiency, they load his stretcher onto the abulance, and before the door slams, someone climbs in behind him. A new face.
No, he was going to tell her, though it's too late now. I meant I saw Danny Fenton—the person who'd been giving him CPR, the one who'd saved his life—it wasn't Danny Phantom.
But then…
Danny's afterimage floats across Dash's mind. The inverted white hair, the flash of green eyes, sear into the blackness behind Dash's closed eyelids, and he goes rigid.
That wasn't… Dash licks his lips. It wasn't Danny Phantom, he tells himself.
But another, small voice, echoes in his head:
Or was he?
—