A little background. The Hero's Villain and Thrill of the Chase are only part of an overarching canon-compliant storyline that I have written and planned. There's a whole mythology spread around stories, shorts, and many many of the entries in the Through-DP collection. A complete listing is now available on my fanfiction. net profile listed under the 'Sides of the Same Coin' series.
Before Danny Fenton was even a thought of possibility Vlad was a normal grad student. And then things happened. First a portal accident, then escape from a repurposed mental institution, then years alone and on the run. Time spent drifting place to place, the only constants being the self-experimentation, the development of his powers, the need to publish his findings before someone else did. And while experimenting he needed certain... equipment...
This scene is from that time.
'Baiting the Trap' is rated light T.
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Yes, Sir.
I buy, sell, and repair typewriters. This here's my store.
Well, it's been awhile since anybody's asked me about that.
Okay.
It were back in 1988, June, I think. This guy comes in with an old typewriter. Pretty little machine but he said it weren't working. I gave him a quote on it and told him to come back in two days when I was finished. He looked a little nervous, I admit, but he signed the paperwork and left.
Yes, Sir, he said his name were Jack Fenton.
No, that ain't him in the picture. I believe you, Sir, that that's a picture of Jack Fenton but the one I knew weighed a good 150 pounds less. He were real skinny, like he ain't been eating enough. Pale, too. And tall. I couldn't tell you how old he was, though, not for the life of me. You see, Sir, he had this real gray hair. Like white-gray. And it were down past his elbows. But it were his skin that caught me weird. In my profession you get used to gray haired guys. Seems they're the only ones who can appreciate a good typewriter anymore. But they tend to look as old as their hair says they are. Not this guy. His skin was smooth, not a mark or a wrinkle on him.
All right, well. He signed some stuff, left the typewriter with me, then two days later he came back. And it were like Jekyll and Hyde. He still had the same big black coat, the same red scarf, the same odd smell, like he'd just been in a thunderstorm or something. I remember that smell. I ain't never smelled it on another human being since. But this time his face, he had some sort of rash or something. Covered in these big red patches of something bad. I thought he'd fallen on his face right into poison oak at first but it didn't look like any poison oak I ever saw.
Well, he didn't have the money. He tried to get me to agree to something. I don't remember what but suddenly his voice got real sweet-sounding. Like I wanted to do what he says, logic and money be damned. But… I didn't do it. And then he got angry.
And this is why the sheriff never took me seriously. Right here. Because when he got mad his eyes turned red. That ain't no metaphor, I'm not saying his eyes got veiny or he was stoned or none of that. I mean his blue eyes turned red. Pupil, iris, the whites, they all just turned red and he growled at me.
I'm telling you it was scary. I was ready to just give him the typewriter right there but he stormed off.
That night I was robbed.
Now, Sir, there's something you got to realize. I lock my doors at night. They were still locked when I got in. There weren't any broken windows. Nothing else got moved or taken or nothing. Just that typewriter.
Here's the weirdest part though. Yes, Sir, weirder than those red eyes. Every couple of weeks or so I'd find an envelope in my shop when I opened her up. Always sitting right there on the counter in plain sight. With that Jack Fenton's handwriting on it. Took four or five of these letters but eventually he paid me for fixing his typewriter.
The sheriff weren't too happy, acted like I was wasting his time. So after the first few times it happened I just stayed quiet. No need to bother him and make him all mad at me.
Yes, Sir, it happened again.
I don't know why. Well, I can guess. Maybe he knows I don't tell no one about this. You got to admit, this is a strange setup here. His typewriter shows up in the middle of the night, just sitting here on this counter. Sometimes there's a note saying what's wrong, sometimes there isn't but it's pretty obvious. Once it looked half-melted or something.
I don't know. Lightning maybe?
You're not laughing.
Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir.
What else would I do? I fix the typewriter and over a few letters I get paid.
No I don't know how he gets in. The door stays locked, the windows are locked. Nothing's broken, nothing's missing. It's like he walks through the walls or something.
No I ain't seen him do it. It's an expression.
He usually pays me in money. Except the last time. He said in his letter that he couldn't pay me in money, something about being followed. So he left me this.
Yes, Sir, that's a ruby. I got it looked at. Real pretty one. I was thinking of getting it made into something for my wife. In fact, it was worth so much that I was thinking of fixing his typewriter for free this time.
Yes, this time. I'm working on it right now, in fact.
Who are you people, anyway?
You already said you were with the government. I mean what branch.
I pay my taxes. I ain't scared of no IRS audit. Who are you with? And what's you so interested in this man for?
Wait, what are you doing?
No. Stop… NO!