I had a frustrating day - thus the ending. I'm sorry! I HATE writing in this style. I hope it turned out okay.

His Own Little World
A Danny Phantom FanFiction by Cordria

The blond-haired boy shivered, surreptitiously pulling his jacket closer to himself. Eyes half-focused on the droning teacher, the self-proclaimed jock leaned back in his desk and let a grin cross his face. Not a second's thought was going towards the medieval English lecture – that much was obvious based on the satisfied smirk spreading across his "all-American" features. Nobody, not even the teacher himself, was enjoying this lecture enough to be smiling about it.

No, the boy's thoughts were far away. They drifted to tonight's football game – where he often dreamt that someday he would bring his low-rank team to the state finals against all odds – to the tortured events planned for the 'losers' after school. It was Friday. In just a few short hours, it would be the beginning of a weekend. Now that was something to smile about.

The boy shivered more violently, rubbing his hands together under his desk. He glanced around the room, not wanting to be the wimp that complained about the cold when everybody else was fine. He did, after all, have a reputation to uphold. But his plans of remaining quiet shattered when he noticed that the entire class, with the exception of one loser sleeping in the back row, was also shivering. With a quick flip of his thoughts, the young junior-varsity quarterback went from worrying about being a wimp to becoming the class savior.

"Mr. Lancer!" he shouted, standing up to draw everyone's attention to him. He was about to right a horrendous wrong. A hero's move, not unlike those of the town's spectral defender.

"Mr. Baxter?" the balding teacher asked, his eyes narrowing slightly at the disruption of his still-waxing speech. The boy paled slightly. Even with his 'free pass' as a star quarterback, this was not a teacher to mess with. Lancer's punishments were… creative at times. He'd once made the loser trio clean the entire school with their hands.

However, his boyish features took on a more stern appearance as the boy decided to stay his course. "It's freezing in here. Turn up the heat." He meant that last sentence to be a command, to show the class that he was powerful and in charge, but his voice squeaked at the end, turning the command rather vaguely into a question.

Wrinkled eyes narrowed further. "For your information, the thermometer is set up as high as it will go. The heat is on full blast."

"But we're cold." The boy was working hard to keep his voice from trembling. The teacher was just supposed to agree with him and turn the temperature up… not actually come back with a good excuse. His mind started to work as he fought to create a new plan of action. Just sitting down was not going to work.

"I realize that, Mr. Baxter," the teacher sighed, "I'm cold as well. It was rather warm in here last period; I don't know what's wrong. Now. Sit down." The stern command was accompanied with a glare that not even football jocks had the desire to ignore.

The boy, having clearly lost his fight, sank back into his seat, but not before noticing that the loser goth-girl in the back was poking the sleeping student with her pencil and hissing his name. The light-haired jock was mildly impressed. He was a pro-rate sleeper, but lately he'd noticed that the loser could sleep through anything… including being stabbed repeatedly with a pencil. Not that he would ever admit to being impressed.

Instantly tuning out the once-again lecturing voice in the front of the room, he turned his head to subtly watch the unfolding drama in the back of the classroom. The goth had her hand on the loser's shoulder, shaking him. The techno-loser was joining in now, leaning dangerously out of his seat to prod the black-haired boy with an outstretched PDA.

The jock shivered, the temperature of the room plummeting once more. He could almost see his breath in the chill air. A flash of electricity blazed invisibly through the room, shocking all the students and making everybody's hair stand on end. Overhead, all the lights popped and went out, plunging the room into a shrouded darkness. The only light was coming from the small windows off to their right.

Finally, the over-weight and slightly dense teacher stuttered to a stop, glancing around the room suspiciously. The boy joined him in searching the room. He had lived in Amity Park for years… he knew the feeling of a powerful ghost: the plunging temperatures, the sudden burst of static, the dark, pervasive feeling of the shadows. There was a ghost. A powerful ghost. A very powerful and very close ghost. Despite his claim as a powerful and fearless jock, the boy tensed and sank down into his chair. Perhaps the ghost would attack the losers instead.

Suddenly, the loser in the back cried out in his sleep, his two friends seeming to be pushed away from him. He shouted, hands balling into fists, a tortured expression crossing his slumbering features. In the dim light, the loser almost seemed to be glowing, an aura of greenish power building up around him.

The jock stumbled to his feet, a half-thought to get away from the sleeping student passing through his mind. He wasn't too sure what was going on, but when in Amity Park, smart people tended to avoid things that were strange and unexplainable. He had just gotten to his feet – which was probably what saved him – when the loser screamed.

A wave of energy boiled off the loser, blasting through the classroom. It picked up anything in its path: desks, students, teachers… and flung them away from him. The jock, out of his seat, smashed up against the piles of desks. Other students were trapped in the rubble, screaming in terror and shrieking in pain. The jock curled up into a ball, fragments of tile cascading off the ceiling to strike his bruised form.

When he finally looked up, he took in the devastation with a single glance. Windows were smashed, the backboard was shattered on the ground, bits of the ceiling were dangling dangerously, every piece of furniture was now twisted firewood, and students were cowering against the burned walls, pressing bloody hands against gashes and broken limbs. But the jock's eyes were not for the horrifying destruction surrounding him. He was staring at the one thing that had survived the attack unscathed: the loser, still sleeping in his desk.

Black hair tousled and disheveled, the boy pressed his hands against his head, groaning in pain and nightmare-driven fear. "Stay away from me," the jock heard him moan. "Stay away."

The goth-girl was struggling against the wreckage that was pinning her to the wall. "Danny!" she yelled. "Wake up!"

The jock shook his head in wonderment. How could the loser still be sleeping? However, the boy stopped his shaking as a new thought crossed his quick mind. The energy had come from the loser. Thus this chaos was the loser's fault.

But how? Puzzled, the jock continued to watch the loser writhe in his seat, tears leaking from his eyes. What was he… possessed?

"Daniel Fenton!" the teacher bellowed as he pushed himself to his feet. Blood trickled out of a slice on his forehead and a length of wooden shrapnel stuck out of his arm. Lancer pressed his hand around the remains of the chair, trying to slow the bleeding. Slowly, the teacher began to stumble towards the center of the room, his steps uneasy and dizzy. "Daniel!" Finally, he released his broken arm to shake the loser's shoulder.

"No!" The loser shouted, his head coming up. His eyes opened, but his gaze was unfocused and dreamy – the loser not anywhere near awake. The jock quivered, pressing harder against the wall, every thought of trying to appear brave disintegrating from his mind. The loser's eyes weren't their normal, timid-looking blue. They were an eerie, vaguely scary, glowing green.

"Stay away from me, Plasmius," the loser seethed, disintegrating his desk in a blast of emerald power. Students shrieked and cowered as the splinters flew in every direction to imbed themselves in the walls and any person in the way. Lancer winced, bits of wood slicing through his bruising skin. The jock covered his head, feeling the sharp shrapnel pierce his thick letter jacket. By the time he looked up again, the loser was standing amongst the remains of his desk, glaring sleepily at the teacher. "I'm not your little pawn."

"Danie…" the teacher started.

"Don't call him that!" the techno-loser interrupted, pushing futilely at the remnants of the desks holding him down. "That's what Plasmius calls him."

The goth jumped in. "Danny! Wake up!" She struggled harder against the rubble keeping her in place, but it was to no avail.

The loser never even glanced away. He kept his unfocused eyes trained on the balding teacher, taking a menacing step forwards. Grinning sleepily as Lancer backpedaled, green light flared around the loser's clenched hands. "Stay away from me," he hissed.

Still shivering against the wall, the jock could not tear his eyes away from the scene unfolding before him. Only dimly did he take in the pain-filled moans and groans of the students around him that were still trapped in the ruined classroom. He stared at the loser advancing towards his teacher, unable to breathe, his heart pounding in his ears, his hands pulled defensively in towards his chest.

"I will never bow to you," the loser snarled, jumping easily over a large bit of ceiling that littered the ground.

"Danny!" the goth shrieked as the loser suddenly lunged for Lancer, her breath pluming in the freezing air. The overweight teacher stumbled and fell heavily on his back, an unstoppable yell of pain slipping from his lips when his mangled arm hit the ground. The loser straddled the teacher, his feet planted firmly on either side of Lancer's waist, glowing fists held ready-to-strike.

The jock blinked as a hastily-thrown notebook flew through the air towards the loser's head. He was about to smile at the tactic, but the loser simply caught the paper in one hand. Within seconds, the flaming energy of the loser's fists disintegrated the notebook to ash. "Your stupid vultures can't beat me," the loser muttered darkly.

The loser raised his hand, supernaturally lit eyes flaring brighter, a ball of energy forming. It glowed like a small sun, casting creepy, green shadows harshly against the wall. "You won't ever bother me again," the loser vowed.

Still unable to breathe, staring at the loser's unfocused and spectral gaze, the jock pressed his hands into his ears. He curled up into a ball, turning his head away from the scene and, finally, was able to shut his eyes. He didn't want to be here. He didn't want to see what was going to happen.

Locking himself into his own little world, the jock only heard one other thing.

The goth-girl, screaming.

"Danny! NOOOOOOOO!"

Written February 22, 2007
This has been stuck in my head for weeks. Glad it's out!
Thanks for reading.