The Guys in White had a very simple mission statement: Protect the living from the dead, and the dead from the living. The living and the dead came from vastly different worlds, and where they accidentally met chaos tended to follow. Keep them separate, keep them safe.
Then a fourteen year old hybrid had been dragged into their facility, bleeding all over the hallway floor and screaming for his life.
H didn't know how O and K had managed to misinterpret their mission statement so thoroughly. Sure, they were supposed to catch ghosts and bring them to the lab, but without harming anything! Scientists such as H would take over from there, checking for any damage and trying to figure out what kept the spirit trapped in the mortal plane. Some ghosts were then returned to the Ghost Zone through a small permanent natural portal beneath the building, whilst others were perfectly happy to return to their haunts and keep out of trouble. The majority of the experiments carried out in the facility actually involved ectoplasm itself, with the focus of the last few decades ranging from the substance's effects on the living to different ways to potentially harness its chemical energy. If anything sentient developed during their testing, it was typically released into the Ghost Zone. Peace was always better than a fight.
The Guys in White were intimidating sometimes, but never violent. Agent H liked to think of himself as a protector of both worlds, helping to maintain a delicate balance. He was content to live like this, working in the quiet white rooms, tinkering away at different ideas to improve coexistence between the living and the dead. Sure, sometimes it got a bit boring, but nobody's job was perfect. Working here paid decently, and left him feeling like he'd done some good in the world whenever he ended his shift.
Things had been peaceful up until a few hours ago.
It had rattled him. The kid just looked so scared, and then his skin had turned a pale grey pallor and he'd passed out practically in the agent's arms. There wasn't anything remotely like this in the handbook, but it had happened and now he needed to deal with the aftermath.
H hadn't even bothered to change into clean clothes. He sat beside the bed and watched the gentle rise and fall of Daniel Fenton's chest beneath the blanket, unable to look away.
In the end, he'd needed a transfusion. They couldn't exactly take a halfa to the hospital, but the Guys in White had an extensive facility, and a doctor had been stationed in the building next door. Of course they didn't have any blood on hand to give, but a quick finger prick and blood typing test later and it was confirmed that H and another agent shared blood types with the kid. It was a relief that typing kits were in the labs, and H dimly remembered that they were used to help make internships more exciting or some such nonsense. Teach the greenies how to handle their own biohazardous waste before touching ectoplasm, or something like that.
He typically wasn't that fond of needles, but he was in the chair with his sleeve rolled up and arm stretched out as soon as they realised the type match. He had sat there, squeezing his fingers around a balled-up glove to try to increase the flow of blood through the tube, and watching as a very still Daniel Fenton was laid out on a table with an IV bag full of ectoplasm attached to the cook of his elbow.
The donation went smoothly, but the juice and sandwich they forced down his throat felt like chewing sand. H stayed in his chair, cradling a bottle of water in his freezing hands and watching as the slightest colour slowly began to seep back into Daniel's skin. He would remain unnaturally pale for a day or so, and those hastily-applied stitches would hurt like hell, but at least he was still breathing.
J eventually abandoned trying to get H to clock off and go rest, instead pulling up another chair so they could sit and watch the boy together. "Didn't think my day would get more exciting than rust spots on bunsen burners," he muttered.
H sent him a sidelong glance. "What do you mean?" The terrible fluid soaking their white clothes had dried into stiff patches, no doubt leaving stains that would be impossible to remove.
J shrugged and leaned back in his chair. "This is a scandal unlike any in the company's history. Sure, we shot Masters twenty years ago, but we didn't know any better back then, and he wasn't even really that hurt. This, though… this is a disaster, and we're right in the middle of it now."
He still didn't understand the point of this conversation. "What, you're unhappy that we'll have a roomful of paperwork tomorrow?"
"No, what I'm saying is that we have a chance here. We can work with this kid, help him, and maybe get out of the lab sometimes and learn a bit more about halfas in the process. Masters has a stick too far up his butt to give us anything willingly, but maybe if we help the kid out then he'll help us in return?"
"I don't think they get along," H mused, leaning back as well. He felt heavy and tired, and wondered if it was thanks to the blood donation or the extreme stress of the past hour. Probably both.
"No, they fight pretty regularly," J confirmed. "Maybe O and K thought since Masters was always going after Phantom that he really was just a ghost?"
"Don't defend them," H spat. "If they really didn't realise that he's a halfa when he was bleeding red then they don't deserve to work here."
"I'm not saying they do." J gestured to the boy on the bed. "A set of agents'll probably be assigned to him tomorrow. O and K are our only field team right now since M quit. I was thinking that the two of us could do with a bit of sunshine every now and then?"
"That's not even a question," H snapped. "There's no way I'm letting those morons be assigned to him."
"Then maybe we should volunteer."
H jerked his chin in a curt nod. "Go let the directors know before someone else tries it."
"We have a good chance of being approved, since the Fentons have no idea that they shoot their own son as often as possible." J stood up, brushing at the bloodstains on his lab coat. "The kid probably trusts us more than he trusts any other ghost hunters."
"You're probably right."
He left without talking further about Danny's parents or the disastrous field agents, and H was alone again with the boy who'd almost died at the hands of people who were supposed to help him. Daniel slept on, the smudges beneath his eyes dark and deep against his pale skin. He was painfully skinny, and the doctor had found several partially-healed wounds that had obviously been tended to by someone without much medical experience.
The boy was a complete mess, and as H slumped forward in the chair and watched the steady cycle of his breathing, he silently promised to do everything in his power to make this right.