Chapter Twenty-Four: But He Couldn't Move
Sam had to resist the urge to stand between Danny and the unfamiliar ghost in Danny's room. The ghost was small and bald, and he wore blue robes trimmed with silver and wire-rimmed glasses. He'd set his satchel down on the bedside table, which Sam had originally cleared for her own supplies. Jazz was perched, coiled tighter than a spring, in Danny's desk chair, watching the ghost anxiously.
The ghost—his name is Allistor, Sam, she reminded herself—had said he was one of Dora's healers, and he'd told Jazz he was probably the best one to look at Danny, having studied recently in the Far Frozen. Jazz had found him just outside the shield, tending to the wounded soldiers from Dora's army. But though Sam trusted Dora, she couldn't trust him. She examined him closely as he moved toward Danny, as intently as bird stalking a rabbit. One wrong move…
"Hmm." He gently prodded Danny's chest, just above his core, and the half-ghost gasped in his sleep, grunting in pain. Sam's muscles tensed, and she only just stopped herself from drawing her ectogun. Danny's torso was naked except for the gauze, and Sam had awkwardly changed him out of his jeans and into some shorts so she could wrap up the burns, which were oddly circular, she'd noticed, on his legs.
She'd stitched up the stab wound on his back and splinted his arm. But unlike his other injuries, his abdomen remained as swollen as it was when she first saw it, like he'd swallowed a watermelon whole. The uncertainty of it all ate at Sam. He has to make it. He has to. Allistor poked Danny's stomach.
"Can you tell what's wrong with him?" Sam asked, trying to keep her tone un-demanding. He didn't have to come—I should probably say thank you. But she couldn't feel grateful: she was consumed by fear and dread and fatigue and pain. She still needed to tend to her own wounds. "Is it his core?"
Allistor nodded. "You were not incorrect in that assumption—something has indeed happened in his core." Sam waited for him to explain further, but he didn't. Instead, he withdrew a syringe from his bag, sterilizing it with his own ectoplasmic fire. The flame was orange, almost like normal fire. Again, Sam stopped her twitchy hand from drawing her gun. "I must take a sample of the ectoplasm around his core to confirm my suspicions. I trust you have a microscope?"
"In the lab," Jazz confirmed. "I can get it." She looked eager for something to do, and she lurched to her feet before heading out the door. Sam watched her go, wishing there was something she could do. All she could do was watch, wait, and trust that Allistor knew what he was doing. And if he can't figure it out… If Danny's core can't recover from this… He would die. He relied on his core now, as much as he relied on his heart. Sam blinked, willing herself not to cry. But she just wanted this to be over; she wanted him to be better, and she wanted everyone to be safe.
Tucker was out looking for his parents, and whenever Sam thought about it, she felt sick. What if he can't find them? What if the Empress… Had they gone straight for the school's shield? She didn't know how Tucker would cope if his parents had died. At least Sam could be fairly certain hers had lived, though she knew she would feel better once she'd received confirmation. If his parents aren't alive, he can stay with one of us. But his parents weren't dumb—Mr. Foley was a reporter, and Mrs. Foley was a top IT person at some company. They made it out. Please, for Tucker's sake…
Allistor swabbed just in between Danny's first and second left rib. He apparently knew the basics of human anatomy, too, because he'd known to clean Danny's skin beforehand. Unless that's standard practice in the Far Frozen. It wouldn't surprise her—the yetis' technology was very advanced.
"What if you hit his heart?" she asked, stepping forward in case she needed to stop him. The needle was long—certainly long enough to pierce at least six inches below Danny's skin. Allistor smiled at her gently.
"I will not be going deep enough for that, though I appreciate your concern for him. The ghost child is lucky to have such devoted friends." Sam didn't know what to say to that, so she crossed her arms uncomfortably over her chest and looked away. She was devoted to him, but having a stranger point it out made her feel vulnerable. She didn't like it. But he seems to like Danny. Still, she gritted her teeth as she watched him lower the needle.
Allistor broke through Danny's skin—shallowly, as he said—but as he did, Danny shrieked, writhing. Allistor jumped back, withdrawing the needle immediately, and Sam rushed forward. The half-ghost thrashed, his fist nearly hitting Sam as she tried to hold his arms down. What's happening? He doesn't move for an hour and now he won't stop. His skin was hot and sweaty.
"Danny! Danny, stop, it's okay. Relax." He gradually calmed as she continued to talk to him, trying to keep her voice low and soothing. "It's okay. I'm here. I won't let anything bad happen to, I promise. I'm here. Just relax." Where was that when Agent R was taking his samples? she wondered as she gently stroked his hair. She wanted to sit on the bed next to him, but her clothes were dirty. She looked up at Allistor. "Did you get anything?"
He shook his head, holding up the empty syringe. "He will have to be completely still. I would get a sample from somewhere else, but the fresher the better. In fact, it would be best if he were Phantom, but I don't think that's feasible." He capped the syringe and placed it on the bedside table, a contemplative look on his face.
"Yeah." Sam pushed Danny's sweaty hair back from his forehead. His skin's burning, she noticed. Her face crumpled as she looked at her friend. He was frowning slightly, his brow furrowed, and he twitched every so often. He hadn't been doing that before. The worry in Sam's chest expanded, threatening to consume her other emotions. "Should we try and wake him up?"
"I doubt we could," Allistor said. "And if we did, I don't believe he'd be lucid enough to do as we asked. But perhaps…" He eyed her hand, which was petting Danny's head, speculatively. "He seems to be aware of your presence. I don't think he is truly unconscious, though he's clearly not entirely conscious. We shall try again, and you must do your best to keep him calm. Yes?"
"Alright," Sam agreed. She wasn't sure it would work, but she was willing to try it. Danny was getting worse by the second, his breathing coming faster as though he were running—running from something none of the rest of them could see. She kneeled next to the bed, so her head was level with his, and she held his hand. It was grimy (she'd only had the chance to really clean his torso, legs, and head), though hers were clean.
Allistor re-prepped the syringe, leaning carefully over Danny's chest. "Are you prepared?" he asked. Sam nodded. As the ghost moved to insert the needle again, she leaned closer to Danny's face.
"You have to lie still, Danny," she said, squeezing his hand. "Can you do that? Try to slow your breathing." He almost seemed to hear her. Though his eyes remained closed, his body stopped twitching so much. Except for his panting, he could've been a corpse. No, don't think like that.
But he only gave a pained whine as Allistor stuck the needle in this time. "Yeah, that's good. Good job," Sam complimented, surer that he could hear her now. But if he can hear me, why isn't he opening his eyes? Or speaking? Or moving? Is he really conscious, or is something else going on? She frowned and gripped his hand only took a minute or so for Allistor to get the ectoplasm he needed. Watching the glowing substance come from Danny's human body was unnatural—as unnatural as it would've been for Phantom to bleed entirely red.
"He's done," she told Danny. "Can you move? Can you say something?" He let out a pained moan that could've been anything—even "Sam." She turned to Allistor. "I need to take his temperature. I really should've done it earlier." But it wasn't like there had been anyone else helping her; Tucker had already been out looking for his parents, and Jazz had been searching for a ghost to help. Not that she resented them, but it was hard to help Danny when she was the only one there. She felt like she was drowning, most of the time, struggling to keep her head above water—her head and Danny's.
"Very well," Allistor said. Sam stood and rummaged through Danny's desk drawers until she found the thermometer. She went back to Danny's side and wiped the thermometer off with a swab.
"Can you open your mouth, Danny?" she asked gently. His jaw seemed to twitch, but it did nothing else. She opened his mouth for him and stuck the thermometer under his tongue, holding it in place. It beeped. 101.2—fucking hell. His normal temperature was about 89-90 degrees—but this was as though he had a human fever. He'd had half-ghost fevers, where his temperature rose to 92 or 93, but it had never gone past that.
"Well, Danny, your temperature's a little high," she said, trying not to let panic seep into her voice. But it was already there, leaking into her tone like water from a broken pipe. Why is he so hot? Why isn't his body reacting to everything like it normally does? It had to have something to do with his core, and Sam wanted to crumple into a heap on the floor because she didn't know. Allistor glanced at her, and then he looked up as Jazz came through the door, carrying a microscope.
"Sorry," the redhead said. "Mom and Dad had it buried with some other junk." She set it on Danny's desk after clearing some papers, fiddling with the dials. "Do you know how to use one?" she asked Allistor.
"Not a human one," he said. "You will set it up, and I will look after you have made the ectoplasm visible. This is the sample." He handed it to her, and Jazz carefully ejected some of her brother's ectoplasm onto the slide. She peered into the microscope and adjusted it periodically, Allistor hovering, literally, over her shoulder.
"I'm going to get some cold wash clothes and some ice," Sam called. Jazz nodded and waved her hand. Sam couldn't remember if this was actually a good, safe way to bring someone's fever down, but it probably wouldn't hurt Danny—his core generated ice, after all. His body was far more used to the cold than most other people's. Or it usually is, anyway. What if she ended up hurting him? Could she give him something instead to bring it down?
No, she thought firmly as she opened the hallway's linen closet. It was filled with fresh towels and blankets, and she took a few washcloths. Medicine doesn't work as well on him, and I already gave him ibuprofen for the pain. I don't want to mix anything. She had to be confident in her decisions, otherwise she'd tear herself apart. I'll do my best, like I've always done, and it will be enough.
She retrieved a bowl of cold water with ice from the kitchen and went back up to Danny's bedroom. Allistor was looking in the microscope, and he didn't even glance up as Sam entered. Jazz was tapping her foot, up-down, up-down. Sam itched to ask Tucker on the Fenton phones how his search was going, but she didn't.
"Can I do anything to help?" Jazz asked.
Sam nodded. "Yeah, you can help me with this. But go wash your hands first." Jazz left to do so, and Sam began dipping the washcloths in the water. She laid one over Danny's neck, another on his chest, and one on his forehead. Jazz came back, hands freshly washed. "We need to keep them cool," Sam told her.
"Okay," Jazz said. She looked at Danny, her eyes deep wells of sadness. "Will he be alright?"
"I—" Sam found she couldn't lie. She looked down, wringing her hands, which were pink from the cold water. "I don't know. I'm not a doctor, and we don't even know what's wrong with him."
"That is no longer the case," Allistor announced. He straightened from his stooped position, adjusting his glasses back over his eyes.
"You figured it out?" Sam demanded. Relief and dread, joy and fear, all in equal parts flooded through her like a maelstrom. What if it's worse than I thought? What if Allistor can't do anything? What if it's too late?
Allistor nodded, moving to his satchel. "Yes, I have. I sensed something was wrong when I spoke with him originally—"
"What do you mean? You've met him before now?" Sam interrupted. Why didn't he mention that before? Suspicion swelled within her like an undercurrent, warring for its place among her other raging emotions.
"Only once." Allistor didn't seem irritated by her interjection, though he did look at her mildly. "Just after he defeated the Empress's beast, he approached. We spoke but briefly. His signature, I thought, was weaker than it should've been, though since I had not met him before, I regret that I spent no more time thinking on it. Regardless, I believe there are a number of things affecting him, not all bad."
Not all bad? Sam's mouth twitched as the urge to yell at him surged through her. Not all bad? Her friend was bleeding ectoplasm internally, had a broken arm, broken ribs, a stab wound, burns, cuts, and bruises. Sam didn't know what had even happened to him—were the injuries from the Empress? Someone else? She didn't know what had happened to the Empress, or why the earthquake had happened, or anything, it felt like. And it's not all bad? She was about to start shouting when Jazz touched her hand. Sam took the message for what it was: stay calm.
"I don't know what you understand about ghost signatures, so I will do my best to explain." Allistor rubbed his chin with one finger. "They are an indication of power level, first and foremost. When I sense a ghost, I can tell how strong they are, though unlike machines that sense signatures, I don't have a number for them. Signatures, after a core has reached maturity, are fixed."
"When does a core reach maturity?" Jazz asked. Although she was still clearly worried, an academic light had entered her eye.
"Generally, five to seven years after a ghost first forms, though there are things that can accelerate this. But I am digressing. The signatures do not change because they come from the core, which houses the most basic level of energy a ghost needs to remain 'alive,' so to speak. The more powerful the ghost, the more baseline energy they need to continue to survive. Yes?" He looked to them for understanding, adjusting his glasses.
"I think I understand," Jazz said. Sam merely nodded. Where the hell is he going with this? But it was sort of interesting. It would've been more interesting, though, had Danny's life not been on the line.
"Sometimes, when a ghost is in a dire situation, they can dip into this energy—their 'core' energy—for more power in order to survive. This can give them the edge they need to fight off their attacker and escape. It is similar, I think, when a human body uses so much energy and begins to digest itself. If the ghost only uses a small amount, they enter the deep slumber, and their energy will slowly regenerate back to their typical levels." He floated until he was hovering across from them, on the other side of Danny's bed.
Deep slumber? Oh—he means stasis. It made sense that there were different words for it, Sam supposed. Is that what the yetis call it? She didn't know—Danny had heard the word originally from Skulker.
"What if it's not a small amount?" Jazz said. Is that what happened? Sam thought. Was Danny so desperate he dipped into his "core" energy and took too much? Did he take too much to recover? Was that why it was "bleeding"? Would eventually too much be gone and he would just… die?
"If the ghost takes too much from their core energy source, they will not be able to regenerate it quickly enough. Their core will be incapable of performing its most basic functions, and the ghost quickly perishes. It is my belief that Sir Phantom took a large amount of energy from his core in order to battle the Empress and her minions. However—" He gave Sam a sharp look as she opened her mouth to protest that no, he's not about to die, he's not, he's okay, he's right there, please you were supposed to help him—"he clearly has not yet perished, as other ghosts would have. This, I believe, is because his human half—his heart, brain, and organs—overtook the responsibilities of the core. They work now as they did before he became half-ghost, looking after his body in their entirety, regulating it."
"That explains why his temperature is so high," Sam muttered. And why his smaller wounds haven't healed. Oh, God, he's probably more vulnerable to infection and disease right now. And what if his human body can't handle his injuries?
Allistor's pink-ish eyes seemed to glow more than usual. "It's really quite extraordinary. His human and ghost systems are entirely integrated, more so than I would've anticipated. Had he not been able to rely on his human half, he most certainly would've died. Unfortunately, however, his human half does not have the required 'settings,' so to speak, to properly regulate his half-ghost body without input from his core."
"So we just have to wait for his core to regenerate the energy he needs?" Sam asked. Jazz re-dipped the clothes into the cold water and replaced them on Danny's skin.
Allistor shook his head. "It is not that simple, I am afraid. I think his core is more than ready to begin regulating his body again, if the ectoplasm is any indication. His core has recovered rapidly, possibly drawing on his human reserves of energy and somehow converting them to something it can use. Tell me, does he consume human food to supplement ectoplasm?"
Jazz nodded. "He has to eat more because of his powers. He drinks some ectoplasm, but not a lot. I guess that means he does supplement it with food…" She blinked. "That's so interesting." Sam glared at her—could she try and stay focused on her brother?
She turned to Allistor. "But if his core has its 'baseline' level of energy or whatever it is, why is his temperature not going down? Why isn't he healing?"
The ghost sighed and rubbed his face. "This is where it becomes more complicated. His human half isn't reconnecting back to his core like it should, and I am uncertain as to why. But his core, even with its recovered levels, should not be producing that much ectoplasm."
Sam crossed her arms. "You mean his core isn't bleeding? It's pushing all that ectoplasm out on purpose?" Why hadn't Allistor mentioned that before? But he would've mentioned it if he'd known. Ghosts maybe can't have internal bleeding, then. That was bizarre. It's strange how little we know about them, sometimes… Even though she, Tucker, Jazz, and Danny probably knew the most about them, of any human.
Allistor raised his eyebrows, his expression incredulous. "'Bleeding'? Of course not. It's making ectoplasm to use to regulate his body the same way your body uses hormones. If I recall correctly what hormones are. But I am digressing. Even though his core cannot currently use the ectoplasm to regulate his body, there should certainly not be so much of it. His core is producing it at an unprecedented rate."
"But why?" Jazz asked. "That doesn't make sense."
"It does. His core is going through a RMS—a rapid maturation stage, the yetis call it. This happens when the core accelerates its own growth because of stress. If the ghost is fighting constantly or they have drawn into their core energy recently, their core knows its current level of power is not enough. It will try to mature more rapidly to make up for this, increasing the core's power levels in order to provide the needed ectoplasm," Allistor explained. "I believe that, as Sir Phantom meets these criteria, this is what is happening. He likely has gone through previous RMSs before, given his lifestyle."
"He has," Sam said. His ice powers coming in. But why didn't the yetis explain this to him then? Perhaps he'd been in too much of a hurry; she didn't know. Maybe this wasn't exactly common knowledge.
"Why don't all the ghosts fight more or take a little of their core energy, then?" Jazz asked. "When their core's immature, they could continually force it to expand, making themselves more and more powerful." Sam shivered at the thought. Skulker more powerful? Or Aragon?
"Many don't know of the phenomenon," Allistor replied. "And the maximum power level the ghost will achieve after their core has matured is not that flexible. It is most like human height, I think. Many factors influence height—nutrition, genetics—but a human can only grow so tall. RMS would be like a targeted growth spurt. For example, if a human couldn't reach a shelf, their body would grow more quickly to accommodate them."
What a fucking time to have a "targeted growth spurt," Danny, Sam thought. She wasn't angry with him, though; he had no control over that. Instead, she found herself furious with their situation, with all the unknowns swirling in her mind. It was terrible to try and care for someone whose anatomy she barely knew anything about. It was probably worse for him, though. What does it feel like to have a core, vibrating next to your heart?
"How do you know so much about human anatomy?" Sam wondered aloud as she re-wet Danny's cloths. He mumbled something and shifted but didn't wake. Jazz leaned forward, also interested.
"Because many sentient ghosts were human before they became a ghost, the yetis find it easier to explain ghost anatomy by comparing it to biology. At least to outsiders," Allistor said. "But yet again we find ourselves on a tangent. We must find a way to reconnect Sir Phantom's core to his human brain so his body can reach equilibrium." He peered down at Danny's limp form and rubbed his chin again.
"Do you have any ideas?" Jazz asked.
Allistor frowned. "Transforming would likely help, if not completely solve the issue." Sam felt her heart sink. "And he must do so quickly—his body will soon be overwhelmed by the excessive ectoplasm. He needs to wake up."
Tucker had to find them.
It was one or two in the morning now—he wasn't sure. He wasn't looking at the clock; he was looking outside. Searching. Please be there. Somewhere. The green light from the shield gave everything an eerie glow, but at least Tucker didn't have to worry about ghosts. He was certain the Fentons and Valerie were taking care of the ones he, Jazz, and Sam hadn't—he'd seen the GAV and the Huntress on her hover-board. There aren't that many left, anyway.
He heard sirens every so often. They must've been beginning the search and rescue operations. He knew that was good, but he couldn't help but wonder if his parents were lying in one of the hospitals, injured and dying. Or maybe they hadn't been found, and were injured and dying on some street.
No. They're here somewhere. I'll find them. His car—well, his dad's car—smelled of ectoplasm and blood. There was a stain in the backseat where Danny had lain. At least Tucker knew he was okay—and Sam. If either of them had died… He wouldn't have felt whole ever again, he knew. And he wouldn't feel whole without his parents, either. Where are you?
He'd checked his phone already, but it no longer had signal. He tried not to think about what that meant. He'd seen a couple texts from Mikey; he didn't exactly have the time to get chatty, however, and hadn't even bothered opening them.
He drove probably too fast down the center of the road, avoiding the debris. He'd check his house first, then the school, then his parents' work, and then the hospitals. If he couldn't find them any of those places… He didn't know what he'd do. But I don't have to worry about that because they're fine. His headlights—or headlight, seeing as one had been busted—didn't pierce the clouds of murky dust hanging over everything.
But Tucker knew his way around, and he found his house easily enough, a short five-minute drive from Danny's place. He sighed deeply in relief—it was still standing. He moved out of the car, shutting the door quietly. He brought out his ghost radar. Nothing. Good. He moved to the front door, bringing out his keys. He'd locked it before he left—more out of habit than anything else. It wouldn't have exactly stopped a ghost, and he doubted any criminal had seen the invasion and thought yes, this is the perfect time to rob Tucker's house.
He opened the door, though he didn't have hope that they'd been here; his mom's car hadn't been in the driveway. Still, he had to check. "Mom?" he called. "Dad?" No answer. The house was dark, but when he tried the lights, they didn't turn on. Eerie. The only light came from the windows, which just barely illuminated his furniture. It did allow him to avoid banging his shin on the coffee table, however.
He checked all the rooms—office, master bedroom, bathrooms, his bedroom, living room, kitchen, guest room. But he saw no one, heard nothing. Everything looked mostly untouched: his clothes, which he'd dropped on the floor in his haste to don his vest; the plates in the sink, which he was supposed to have done before his mom came home from work; the lawnmower in their backyard. A few things had fallen to the ground in the earthquake—a couple of their pictures looked cracked. He kept calling out.
It's okay. You knew your dad probably left. He went out, re-locking the door behind him before he even realized what he was doing. Okay. Next up, school time. He got back in his dad's car and rubbed his eyes. I'm going to sleep for a week after this. He started the car and backed up out of the driveway, trying to avoid the debris. It looked like most of his neighbor's houses had been fine, too. They'd been built more recently, so Tucker supposed that made sense.
I wonder how the older sections of the city fared. Probably not well. He drove off, careful to keep an eye for anyone—ghost, an injured human, or his parents. He found it unlikely he'd just discover them on the side of the road, however. He heard sirens as he approached the school. How do you pull over for emergency vehicles when there is no side to the road? Whatever. He parked near the back of the school; there was less debris.
Climbing out, he saw that his school had been turned into a make-shift refugee camp. Dozens—perhaps a hundred—people huddled inside the shield. Some were asleep on the cold ground—no blankets, just a jacket. Others sat or stood there. Some spoke but in hushed tones. It was odd, seeing so many people so quiet. Tucker entered the shield, and the ones who were awake stared as he passed.
He guessed it was warranted—he was bloodied, limping, a large ectogun slung over his back (the Fenton's rifle model, whatever that was supposed to mean), another at his hip, along with the radar and thermos. His vest had held up nicely, though, and he'd attached a weird strap to his glasses so they wouldn't fall off. He felt like an old lady, but they weren't lost, cracked, or broken, so he considered it a win.
He avoided looking at the people he recognized—they weren't his parents, and it was awkward knowing people were seeing him, like this, for the first time. Not exactly helpless. He didn't even have his beret (it was tucked safely on the nightstand in his room). He made his way to the front of the school, carefully scanning for his parents.
Nope, not them, that's an old lady, not him either. Dammit. Hardly anyone was at the front, and Tucker didn't blame them—the stench of blood was overwhelming, and smashed cars were littered everywhere. Oh. This is where the Empress… He felt sick, but he forced himself to look at the bodies. Thankfully, none were his parents. The entire street before him was decimated, the worst he'd seen. And these are some of the newer apartments, too.
He turned back; he'd have to look inside the school, now. If it's as crowded inside as it is outside, though… He still had to try. The front doors were open, and he went in. The lights were off—the electricity wasn't working, though someone had set up lanterns and candles against the walls. The lobby was crowded, shadowy with people, and Tucker knew he'd never find anyone in this mess. If they are here… He pushed his way through, walking down hallways lined with people. They gave him looks here, too—some even gaped. He saw Dash, but he wasn't exactly about to stop and chat.
Where—
Someone's hand landed on his shoulder, and he jumped, nearly drawing his gun "Mr. Foley." Tucker looked up, and Mr. Lancer's face looked down. His face wasn't as stern as it usually was, and he held a flashlight in his other hand. "What are you doing here? Where are your parents?" Tucker frowned.
"I'm trying to find them. You haven't seen them?" he asked, not caring how desperate he sounded. "Tall black man, dressed nicely, big mustache—"
"I know what they look like, Tucker," Mr. Lancer interrupted gently, releasing his shoulder. He had dark bags under his eyes, and Tucker noticed that his dress shirt was un-tucked. "I've met them. And no, I haven't seen them." Tucker felt something claw its way up his throat. All that fighting—for what? He didn't know if his parents were okay, didn't know if Danny was okay. If he lost them… "Why don't you come sit? I can probably get you something to eat—"
"No!" Tucker backed up. People sitting against the lockers looked up at the noise. It sounded wonderful, actually—rest, food. He hadn't eaten in hours, had barely spared time to drink. His stomach was entirely empty, though it had stopped complaining a long time ago, having realized how futile it was. "I have to find them. Are you sure they're not here?" He glanced around, as if they'd suddenly materialize out of the air before him.
"I've been all over, helping coordinate the injured and distributing food. I don't think they're here," Lancer answered. He sounded like he was trying to calm a spooked animal, but Tucker wasn't spooked.
He was desperate.
"I have to find them," he repeated, turning to leave. Mr. Lancer grabbed his arm. I could stop you, Tucker thought. He was weak—weak from the fighting and his injuries—but he could easily break his teacher's hold and leave. "Let go," he said.
"I can't." Lancer gripped him tighter, though nowhere near hard enough to bruise. "It's too dangerous. What if you come across a ghost?"
Tucker wrenched his arm free, though he didn't turn to leave. Instead, he faced his teacher, determined. The need to see his parents alive and okay was overwhelming inside him. What if I come across a ghost? What if I come across a ghost? He laughed, the insane, hysterical noise bubbling up from somewhere dark and hurt. "Then the ghost better run the other way, Mr. Lancer."
His teacher looked at him, then, looked at him like he was a stranger, a person he'd never seen before. Those eyes pierced Tucker. "You never told me what you and Ms. Manson were really fighting over," he said, stepping closer. Tucker's fist clenched. "Some people outside said they saw a girl—a girl with dark hair fighting the ghosts."
No, no. Tucker looked, wide-eyed, up at Lancer. Was this it? Their secret lives—Danny's especially—exposed for the world to see? "What are you talking about?" he asked. His voice came out as little more than a whisper; he could barely think, let alone lie.
"You were distracting the agent, that day," Lancer said softly, his flashlight limp by his side. "You and Samantha." She hates that name. It was all Tucker could think, in the moment. He couldn't really think at all. "So Danny could take the scanner off him."
Oh, God, he knows. What would he do? This wasn't like Mikey or Abigail—Lancer was an adult. He had obligations. He wouldn't just let them run around fighting ghosts like they had been. He'd tell—tell the police or someone. Oh, God. "What would be the point?" Tucker asked, trying to stay calm. "Hypothetically speaking. Taking the scanner off him. There's—there's nothing we could've done with it, anyway." Well, nothing those unfamiliar with ghost technology could've done.
"I seem to recall," Lancer said carefully, "a certain student particularly gifted with technology. In fact, he once hacked in to the school's computer system at an assembly, though we couldn't prove it was him. Right before a certain other student disappeared, while I was distracted, and a ghost attacked." Tucker had almost forgotten he'd done that.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he said, unconvincingly. He took another step back, but he was almost at a wall. Cornered. "You have no proof."
"The tardies and absences, the weird behavior, the injuries," Lancer listed, seemingly far away. As though he could see the puzzle pieces falling into place. "The dip in grades—for all of you. Danny is Phantom, isn't he?"
"No, he's not," Tucker hissed. No one is supposed to know. But now Mikey and Abigail and Nathan knew—and Mr. Lancer. That is, if no one else has connected the dots. The thought was daunting. How many almost-strangers had seen them together, had seen Sam and Tucker fighting the ghosts, apparently missing a third of their trio?
"I have eyes, Mr. Foley." Lancer straightened, the far away look gone. "Look at yourself. The guns, the thermos. I'm not, contrary to what my students often assume, an idiot. Great Expectations, I was a fool not to see it before."
"You're wrong, Mr. Lancer," Tucker said. He felt cornered. Not physically, but mentally. Emotionally. "You're wrong. And I—I have to go." He edged out, waiting for Lancer to make a grab for him again. The man didn't move.
"Okay," he said. Tucker's eyebrows raised in surprise. "I'm assuming you took out nearly half the ghosts that were invading anyway—I'll trust that you can keep yourself safe."
"I—I didn't," was all Tucker could think to say before he fled. Lancer just watched him go. Down, down the hallway, past people in the halls, lit by the glow of phone lights and candles. He nearly stepped on someone, but didn't stop to apologize. He hurried out the side door, nearly exploding into the cold night air.
He stood there, as the door swung shut behind him. Panting. He crouched, cradling his head. He knows. If Lancer told, would Tucker ever see his best friend again?
No, focus. Lancer didn't sound like he was going to blab to the whole world. And I have to find my parents. He stood upright and forced himself back to his dad's silver Chevrolet Impala. He started it and drove off. His next stop was further away—his mom's office building.
She was an IT manager at Texicon, a local tech company that specialized in security—and now anti-ghost—software. The streets were silent as Tucker drove them, the fallen buildings like tombs in the gloom. And for all he knew, they really were tombs.
Tucker was relieved to see that the office building was standing, though the one across from it had collapsed. He did his best to park the car out of the way.
The letters spelling out Texicon on the front were dark—the lights had gone out. He left the car and entered the building. The lobby was dark, too, the usually shiny floors dusty.
"Anyone here?" he called softly. No one answered. He peeked around the secretary's desk, the waiting area—nothing. He stepped over broken ceramic; it looked like a coffee mug. One of the potted plants had fallen, dirt spilling across the floor.
Tucker moved to the stairs. Third floor. His boots made clanging noises as he made his way up. He opened the door carefully. This feels like the Walking Dead. He half-expected to turn a corner and see someone lunging for him. But there was no one, not even a ghost. Just desks, lined with dark computers
"Hello?" he said.
"Who's there?" Tucker almost jumped out of his skin at the response. It was coming from under one of the desks. He peered down to look, and again almost jumped when he saw someone staring back at him from the darkness.
"Holy mother of God," he muttered. It was one of his mother's coworkers—Brian, he thought. Brian… Fisher, that's right. "Mr. Fisher? It's Tucker—Angela's son. Have you—do you know where she is?"
Fisher crawled out from underneath the desk. He was wearing slacks and a nice button down, now dirty. "How did you get here?" he asked, brushing himself off. "You should be at the school."
Wow, really helpful. "Look, that doesn't matter. Do you—"
"Tucker?" someone asked, and he turned behind him to look—and there were his parents. Both disheveled, haggard-looking, with scared eyes, but he'd never been happier to see them in his whole life. But he was lodged in place. They're here. They're here. They're fine.
"Tucker!" his dad shouted. Neither of his parents seemed to be under the same compulsion as he was, because they raced forward to hug him. He could smell his mom's lotion, his dad's subtle cologne—the soft fabric of their clothes against his cheek.
They stood like that, all three of them, hugging and basking in each other's presence. Tucker closed his eyes—he could feel tears building there. They're fine. It kept repeating in his head like the words of a lullaby. They're fine.
They broke apart as his mother stood back, her hands on his shoulders, to appraise him. Her sharp eyes took in the guns, the thermos, the radar—all of it. "Where have you been?" she asked. "We didn't know where you were—in the middle of a ghost invasion!" Tucker stood there, not knowing what to say, how to smooth-talk his way out of this one. He was just happy they were still alive to demand answers. "Well? We're waiting for you to explain."
"I—" If Mr. Lancer knows, and possibly Danny's parents know… Was it time for everyone to know? "I'm not sure how." That, at least, was more truth than he had given them in a long time.
His mom put her hands on her hips. "What do you mean you're 'not sure how'? Clearly you were somewhere."
"Just start at the invasion, Tucker. Why did you take my Impala?" his dad asked. "Why did you just—leave?"
I could lie. I could say I panicked, just left. Left him there, at the house. He looked at their anxious eyes, the determined tilt of their heads. They want an explanation, and I could get them to buy this. He could. But he didn't think he was going to.
"I needed transportation to get to the ghosts," he found himself saying. His mouth almost said it of its own accord. "To fight the ghosts. To—to put the shield up."
"You're not making sense," his mom said. "Why—why did you go out to fight the ghosts? Did the Fentons give you all this equipment?"
"No," he replied, meeting her gaze steadily. "Danny did." He couldn't come out and say it; his mouth wouldn't make the motions. It had been too long—the secrets had festered. They weren't so easy to draw out.
He could see the light dawning in his dad's eyes. He was a reporter, good at gathering information, interviewing people. Thinking critically and reading between the lines. His mustache twitched, the way it did when he was on the brink of discovery. I need to get back to Danny. They can use Mom's car to get home.
"Was he worried about you?" his mom asked. She wasn't getting it, and his dad simply stood behind her in stunned silence. "You're going to have to give me more information here, Tucker. You fought the ghosts? Are you crazy?"
Probably. "I don't know." He turned to his dad. "How did you get here, anyway?"
"Before you go asking questions you need to answer mine!" his mom said, raising her hands. "You can't—"
"I called Angela. She came and picked me up, but when we heard the shield wasn't working right…" His dad seemed faintly dazed. "Is he—is he really…"
"Yes," Tucker answered simply. His mom looked back and forth between them, as though she couldn't believe what she was hearing. Her earrings moved with the motion.
"What are you two talking about?" She faced her husband. "Maurice?"
"I have to check on Sam's parents," Tucker muttered. And then Danny. "You should go home. The house is fine—I checked."
"You're not going anywhere—"
But Tucker had already left, leaving his dazed, disbelieving, but entirely alive parents standing there.
Danny couldn't wake up. He was drifting on a bed of fiery coals, roasting slowly in the burning flames. He tried to move his arm, and he couldn't. He tried to open his eyes, and he couldn't. All he could do was breathe and lie. The world was only darkness—darkness and heat. I'm going to melt. I'm stuck in a volcano, and I'm going to melt.
That made sense. Agent R had tossed him in a volcano: a sacrifice to his gods. He must've stabbed Danny's core first; it throbbed, under the numbness and the heat. And now the magma was swirling around him, melting his skin. His last breath felt like hot, ashy smoke. Except his diaphragm kept moving. He must've been breathing in the magma. He could almost feel himself dissolving in it. That was what he was really drifting in. Not a bed of coals—a lake of hot, hot lava. He could hear Agent R distantly, talking.
…So weak… You can't even move… The things we have planned… You'll regret lying to me, you filthy half-ghost… When we're through, you won't know which way's up or down… He was praying over Danny, praying over him at the lip of the volcano he'd tossed him into, his bright white suit blinding in the sun. …We're going to cut you up… Just here… You'll beg for me to end your pain…
This doesn't make sense, Danny thought. I heard Sam. Sam—was Sam dead? Alive? Had Danny killed her through his failure? My failure—I failed. I failed and now I'm dying… He could feel it—he was still numb, he couldn't move… He had to be dying… I failed, and I can't even try to fix it. Died because of Agent R—or something else? He'd been dying before then. The Empress was right. She was right, and she'd 'd been smarter, stronger, better than Danny. I couldn't win. I failed.
It echoed in the heat, taunting him. I failed. I failed. She'd merged the realms—how long ago? An hour, two hours, a day, a week, a year—a year he had been trapped here, dying in this volcano, Agent R praying over him, praying for his pain and his despair. He could feel that pain distantly, through the heat—and that same numbness. How odd, to be numb and overly sensitive at the same time. I'm being punished for my failure. Maybe I'm already in hell, not just the volcano.
He could feel sweat running down his temples, pooling underneath his back and at his armpits. Was it sweat? Or was it tiny droplets of magma, burning him away piece by piece? He was dissolving, dying… Or already dead?
"—parents made it."
Sam again. He tried to move, to touch her, to see if she was real—she's just a ghost, a ghost in my head. She's dead. I killed her like I killed everyone… Everyone in the whole fucking world… They're dead because of me. But he couldn't move. He was trapped, entombed in stone. Hot, hot, stone, melting underneath him to the core of the earth.
He wanted the cold, ice and glaciers and frosty landscapes. The comforting chill from his core, next to the gentle warmth of his heart. But there was nothing. Nothing but this unending heat. Please, just end. Just be over. He wanted to cry, but he couldn't even do that. His tears evaporated before they even left his tear ducts. I failed, but just stop. Stop! He was burning burning burning burning burning burning burningburningburningburning!
No more. No more. Why wouldn't Agent R's gods just take him? Why was he still left drifting? Was he such a bad sacrifice? He could still hear the man praying, praying for his punishment. …I'm not an unfair man… We will not leave you broken, though you deserve to be… I've watched you… How painful it must've been, with your parents… Or did they know? Did you tell them, filthy fucking ghost…
He couldn't move. He couldn't move. I can't move!
"—not about to start blood-letting—" Was Sam real? Her voice sounded real. How could he know, if he couldn't move? If he couldn't breathe—even though he was breathing? If he couldn't feel, even though he felt the heat and the pain in his arm and his ribs and his back? Please be real. As real as the volcano where he burned…
Focus.
He tried to concentrate on her voice. Her voice, which had defended him and comforted him in turn—yelled at him and for him. He tried, but it was useless. He couldn't move. I'm useless, so useless. This must've been purgatory. The helplessness ate away at him, faster than the heat did. It cracked his bones and stole away his breath—except he could still feel himself breathing, breathing, breathing! The only thing I can do is breathe. Useless.
He was trapped, trapped forever.
"—tried to—" That was Tucker. His voice was deeper than Sam's. Is he alive, too? Or is this to punish me further, because they are both alive, right there, and I can't move! What a torment, the combination of the heat and their voices. He even thought he heard Jazz at one point, her tone worried. She's alive. Or she wasn't. Danny didn't know if anyone was real, or if he was dreaming from a cage in a GIW laboratory. Or I really am dead. But I should be a ghost, then. Unless it was different for half-ghosts. Did he not get to go to the Zone?
The Zone doesn't even exist anymore. The earth doesn't exist. How many people were dead because he had failed? Had everyone across the world felt that terrible earthquake? Had they noticed the sky? And I couldn't save them. I failed. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
"Once he changes—trying to reach equilibrium—sick for a few days, maybe longer—RMS is the most violent I've ever seen—care of him—must go—have his thermos?" This voice was familiar, but Danny couldn't place it. It's so hot; how can they be here with me? Did Agent R sacrifice them, too? He must've used Danny as bait, luring his still-alive friends to the lab where they were keeping him…
And he'd tossed them in after he'd stabbed Danny and thrown him in. They were all here in the volcano with him… That was nice—to die with his friends. I failed you, too. He tried to tell them, but if he opened his mouth, he knew the lava could come in. Except it's already in—I'm breathing. I've thought this before… It went round and round in circles in his head.
Round and round forever. It was endless, endless… he lasted eons here—whole eternities he would pass…
"—please—core again?" Jazz—for sure this time. Maybe they thought he could save them, using his ice powers. Escape the heat. I can't. I can't move, I can't use my powers, I can't do anything. Useless.
But there was—something. It hurt—it hurt so badly—but it was overcoming the numbness. He gasped. I can feel it—feel my body. I'm not dead. I'm not. But he still couldn't open his eyes. He tried to move. There was something hot on his ear—breath?
"You need to change, Danny? Do you understand? You have to transform," Sam said. It was the first time he caught the full breadth of what they were saying. On his other side, he could feel someone gripping his too-warm hand. Their hands were large and callused.
"Danny." It was Tucker. "If you can't turn into Phantom…" He sounded like he was trying to make a joke, but all Danny heard in his voice was tears.
Turn into Phantom. Right. He didn't know if he was hearing right—if this was all some kind of dream. Maybe he was in some government lab. Maybe he was dead. But when his friends asked him to do something, he did it.
Danny reached for his core—the numbness and the pain. It felt… swollen. Not swollen like a body part, but more saturated—the way a sponge soaked up water. He tugged at it, and it resisted. It was usually so easy—why wasn't it working? He pulled harder. Harder. He heard himself grunt. And this—whatever had been resisting him—gave in. It was the worst transformation he'd ever had—except for when he'd originally died.
The rings, normally so smooth and calming, were jagged and painful. The shift in his molecules felt like pins and needles—not just on his skin but in him—his stomach and intestines and kidneys and liver, as though every cell in his body had fallen asleep. He could move—he could see—his eyes were open, but the light from his rings was blinding. Nausea rose in him—the nausea of eating too much, too quickly. The terrible warmth didn't help.
He sat up—he was in his room, he realized belatedly, on his bed—how did I get here—and turned, already gagging. I'm going to vomit all over myself. But no—someone was there, with a bowl, under his head. People were talking, but he couldn't register what they were saying. He clutched the bowl as he heaved. And heaved. He was shivering all over, shaking, sweaty. So hot. He was vaguely alarmed to see that all he'd vomited in the bowl was ectoplasm. It didn't smell like bile, either—just the acrid scent of his ghostly blood.
He coughed and heaved again. So hot. God, I'm so hot. Without him willing it, he could feel ice forming on his arms, his chest, on his sheets, and he sighed, relaxing minutely. Better. The numbness was gone, as was the tingling. He blinked tiredly. How… how did I…
"—okay? Danny, are you okay? Can you hear me?" He looked up to meet his sister's anxious eyes. Her hair was up, and she was still dressed in her combat gear. She had a scrape on her face. He nodded slowly, clearing his throat. His mouth tasted like ectoplasm.
"H-how did I get here?" he croaked, his voice shot from his wails. "How did you find me? What—" He became frantic as he remembered all that had happened. "What happened to Agent R? Did the g-ghosts break through? How many people died—"
"Danny." Sam appeared next to him, almost out of thin air. How did she get there? Has she always been there? "Calm down. We'll explain everything in a moment. But first, how are you feeling?" She gently took the ectoplasm-filled bowl away. He felt someone pat his arm, and he looked to his right to see Tucker. They're all here, he thought, dazed. His hysteria left him in a torrent, all at once. None of them are dead… They're here. They're alive. How… how…
Were they okay? He tried to focus himself and properly look them over, but he couldn't concentrate. His head was stuffed with lead, too heavy to think. His arm hurt. His legs hurt. His back hurt. But he didn't mind because the numbness was completely gone—he could feel everything. He could move… He flexed his fingers slowly, amazed. I'm not trapped. And this was real—he was sure of it. His friends were here—Jazz was here. They were okay, and it was okay if he eyes drooped—he was tired, completely exhausted. Without meaning to, he transformed back into a human. That's fine. Probably better, actually.
"Danny!" Sam, Tucker, and Jazz yelled in synch, all moving toward him. That's—that's funny… His mind moved sluggishly. He began to sink back down to the bed. It stunk. Or maybe I stink… I probably need a shower…
"Hey, dude, you have to stay awake!" Tucker cried. Three stressed faces loomed over him. I wonder where Mom and Dad are. He yawned. He couldn't keep his eyes open, but it didn't matter if he slept now. He wasn't scared. They're here, they're right here. His core buzzed, more forcefully than normal, but he barely noticed. His hear beat slowly, ever so slowly, and he drifted off to the sounds of Jazz, Tucker, and Sam desperately trying to keep him awake.
"Your parents did end up throwing something at me."
"What was it?"
"Your mom's shoe. She wanted to know where you were. And it wasn't like I could tell them, but they thought you'd been with me the whole time. Your dad looked like he was about to hit me."
"Sorry. Thanks for checking. I… I don't know what I would've done, if they'd… Anyway, I'm glad your parents made it."
"Me too, Sam. Me too."
…
"How long has he been unconscious?"
"Hours now. We've been extracting the ectoplasm to relieve the pressure, but his core just keeps making more."
"What if we cut him, maybe? It'd be faster."
"Yes, Tucker, and then we could watch him bleed out and die. Thank you for your excellent suggestion."
"Do you have something better?"
"I would not recommend cutting Sir Phantom. He is already dealing with a myriad of issues, all of which will be exacerbated by further injury."
"See?"
"Look, I was just throwing out suggestions! Look at him, he's—he needs help. We have to be able to do something for him somehow."
"We're not about to start blood-letting like it's the fucking Middle Ages."
"Some of my fellow healers still blood-let. Ectoplasm-let, rather."
"That's not helpful."
…
"Once he changes, his body will be trying to reach equilibrium. It will be hindered by the fact that his core is expanding, and will be sick for a few days, maybe longer. This RMS is the most violent I've ever seen, and you will have to take care of him. He needs to have a lot of fluids and food, as well as small doses of ectoplasm every two hours. He will be tired—that's normal. You will have to wake him up."
"Why? Are you leaving?"
"It is unfortunate but I must go. Do you have his thermos? It should've been with him, I believe."
"Yes—it's over here. Why?"
"My Queen was gravely injured, and Sir Phantom captured her in his device to preserve her life. Please, I must have it. I believe, with this concentrated ectoplasm, I may yet save her—if you will allow me to keep it."
"Of course you can have the ecto-dejecto. Do you need anything else?"
"No, thank you, Sir Tucker. Sir Phantom is fortunate to have family like you."
"We're friends, but thanks."
"No. I do not think anyone could be as close as you are and not be family. Perhaps blood does not bind you, but there are things far more lasting. Far, far more lasting."
When Danny next resurfaced, it was to gentle hands and gentle words. Someone was tapping his cheek lightly with one finger.
"Danny… Wake up. You need to eat." Jazz? He opened his eyes, grunting—and sure enough, there was his sister, next to him. She had changed out of her dirty clothing, and her hair was wet from the shower. He could see the hint of medical tape on her shoulder—she must've been injured. She tap-tapped again.
"Stop that," he mumbled sleepily, trying to sit up. He looked around his room, but there was no one else. "How long have I been out?" He rubbed his face. His head felt clearer than it had before—less like it was filled with cotton and more like it was filled with his actual brain.
"Only an hour. We made you a sandwich," Jazz replied, gesturing to his side-table, where a sandwich rested. His sister leaned back. "Well, I made you a sandwich. Sam and Tucker are cleaning up. How are you feeling?"
"Surprisingly okay," he muttered. Have I forgotten something? He yawned deeply; he already wanted to go back to sleep. "I'm not hungry." His eyes began to drift shut, and he slumped.
"Don't fall asleep!" Jazz yelped, poking him on the cheek again. "You need to stay awake and eat, okay? And you have to tell me what happened—we couldn't hear you over the phones after you left the shield. But I—I thought I heard Mom and Dad."
Oh. Right. Danny was shocked entirely awake. His parents. The Empress—the world. He had to do something to stop her. He straightened entirely, fighting off his sleepiness. "Do you know how many buildings were destroyed? How many people died?" he asked. He had to know—he needed to know the price of his failure. And he knew it wasn't just Amity paying; it was the entire world. Seven billion people, and he had failed them all.
I was supposed to protect them, but I lost. I lost, and I failed. I'm sorry.
Jazz pursed her lips and shook her head. "I don't. And don't avoid the question—what happened? Do you know what that earthquake was?" Danny's throat was dry. He couldn't confess to his failure, to his inability to protect the people he had sworn to. But he had to—he had to, and he had to try and fix it.
Haltingly, devoid of the emotion that would make him crack, he told the story, in between his meal, which Jazz insisted on. He told her about how he'd had to reveal himself to their parents, how he'd fought the Empress, how he had broken the crystal, how she had merged the Zone and the human world—somehow. Jazz didn't interrupt—not with questions, not with anything.
Her face was devoid of its usual curiosity; horror and fear had replaced the emotion poorly. She grew pale, drawn. Danny wanted to make himself stop, stop saying what had happened, but he couldn't. It just kept coming, coming like a flood out of his mouth until he was sure she would drown in it. It was cathartic, in a way, though Danny didn't let himself really feel it. How could he? If he felt it, he would be swept away by it, blinded by it.
"I…" he trailed off. There was nothing more to be said—nothing except for the emotions secured deep inside him. Failed. I failed. "I'm sorry," he said miserably. He couldn't meet her eyes, didn't want to see the disappointment there.
Jazz patted his arm and took his plate away. "Go to sleep, Danny. We'll figure it out in the morning." Her voice held no rejection, no malice—only a soft acceptance. Danny was glad she hadn't lied and said it would be okay. Not that he wouldn't have believed her anyway.
He laid down and let the odd tiredness carry him away. I forgot to ask her about how I got here…
It was Tucker who roused him next, nudging his shoulder. Danny blinked blearily up at his friend's form. He was missing his red beret, and he looked banged up: he had cuts on his arms and hands, and his face was swollen with bruises. He was wearing one of Danny's (few) clean shirts and pair of gym shorts. And my NASA socks. Those were his favorite. Why had he decided to stay with Danny instead of going home?
"Was your house destroyed?" he asked without preamble. Tucker raised an eyebrow, stepping back.
"Am I giving off a 'my house was just destroyed' vibe or something? It's fine," he said. He held up a cup of ecto-dejecto and waggled it around. "Dr. Tucker has your medicine." Danny didn't feel any desire to drink it, but he supposed he could probably use it with all of his injuries. It was odd—his core felt fine, now. But how? How did it get better so quickly? His injuries still ached, though. And while he was no longer burning up, he felt slightly too warm.
"Thanks." Danny accepted the cup and took a sip. The ectoplasm was lukewarm, and he could feel it pooling in his stomach. He recalled, suddenly, the questions he'd forgotten to ask Jazz. "How did I get here?"
"Sam followed your signature on her radar and rescued you from Agent R. You're starting to become a bit of a damsel in distress, Danny. You need to step up your game," Tucker replied, sitting on the edge of Danny's bed. "You, um—you weren't okay, at first." He didn't sound normal—not as cheerful. Not that Danny blamed him.
Danny laughed—a dark sound. "Yeah, I remember. Is—is everyone else alright? Your parents…" Was that the reason Tucker was here, instead of at home? Were they okay? What about Danny's parents—and Sam's?
"Yes." Tucker smiled at him, an odd fondness in his face. "Everyone's fine. My family, your family, Sam's family. In fact, your parents are still out rounding up the last ghosts. We missed a couple. Though I'm not sure how they have the energy; sometimes your parents are a little scary, Danny."
"Yeah, I know." Danny sighed, taking another sip. Fatigue lingered in his muscles, and he already wanted to curl up and fall back asleep. Why am I so tired? It was probably just his injuries, but it felt like it was more than that. "Did Jazz tell you everything?" Tucker nodded, fiddling with his glasses.
"It's insane." He rubbed his face. "This has all been insane."
Danny nodded; what else could he do? If he broke down now, he didn't know if he'd be able to put himself together again. They couldn't stand still, couldn't stop. If they did, they would be crushed by the weight of their own despair. The Empress had merged the worlds. How were they supposed to fix that? How were they supposed to do anything?
He remembered the oppressive, crushing power of her telekinesis, her grating laughter as she slaughter human beings, the hatred, the callousness. The strength. She had been unlike any other villain Danny had ever faced, and the memories of her lurked in the back of his mind, accompanied by pain and terror. He pushed them down, feeling sick.
How are we supposed to fix this? If only he hadn't failed in the first place, if only her plan to distract him hadn't worked so well, if only he had been smarter, faster, stronger, better. But I was weak—I am weak. I couldn't beat her. And who knew how many had died because of it? What did it even mean—the worlds being "merged"?
The uncertainty tried to claw its way up his throat, but he pushed it down. Does this mean the world is over? Because I couldn't stop her?
"—anny. Danny," Tucker called. "Earth to Danny." The half-ghost looked up, breathing deeply. I can't break. I can't break. At least he wasn't in some government lab, locked up with Agent R. The things the agent had promised to do to him… The things he had done to him. He shuddered. Tucker waved his hand, obnoxiously, in front of his face.
"Okay, you can stop," Danny muttered.
"I don't know—you still look a little space-y. Maybe I should keep doing it, just for good measure. They say there's no such thing as too much medicine, after all." Tucker started waving his hand again, and Danny's mouth twitched in spite of himself.
"I'm pretty sure doctors would disagree with you there," he said, looking down at his cup. It was half-full, and he tried to conceal his yawn. "Did Sam head home?" If she has a home to head to.
"Definitely not." Tucker pointed to Danny's left, and when the half-ghost looked, he saw his other best friend curled up on his bedroom floor, cocooned in blankets. Her hair was damp, and she snored softly. I don't know what I would've done if I'd lost them. His profound sense of relief was belated, but it burst within him, almost unexpectedly, expanding and rippling through him. He wouldn't have been able to go on; he was sure of that, at least.
"I—"
He froze. He could hear the door downstairs opening, the voice of his dad. The answering voice of his mom. He trembled—this would be the first time he had seen them—properly seen them—since they'd found out. But they accepted me. I have nothing to worry about.
"What is it?" Tucker asked. Could he not hear it?
"My parents are home," Danny choked out, and Tucker stood up, as though preparing for a threat. My parents. They aren't a threat. Are they?
"How did they take it?" he asked.
"They didn't shoot me," the half-ghost said. "But it wasn't like we had a lot of time to chat about it." The hand holding his ectoplasm was shaking. They reacted fine. They consider you their son; they love you. But what if they had changed their minds?
Tucker walked around and crouched next to Sam. "Wait, you don't need to…" Danny said, but Tucker was already doing it.
"Sam, Sam, wake up. Danny's parents are home," Tucker said.
"…wake her up," Danny finished lamely. Sam made a hrr noise and sat up, yawning. The sight made Danny want to go back to sleep, too. Her hair was mussed, and she wore some of Jazz's clothes, he noticed (which fit infinitely better than Danny's. And were cleaner, too).
"His parents?" she asked, sitting up. That was as far as she got before Danny's door creaked up, and there stood his mom and dad.
They were filthy, but though they had scrapes on their limbs, they looked okay. They looked surprised to see him there, lying in his bed, Sam and Tucker sitting—or crouching—on his floor. They both scrambled to their feet, awkwardly, but Danny's dad lumbered past them to his son. He hugged Danny, who froze in the embrace, his broken ribs, bruises, and hurt back protesting. Ouch.
"I'm so glad you're okay, Dann-o," he said, sounding close to tears. Oh. They really do love me.
"Me too," Danny said, and his dad pulled back to look at him. His mom approached, too, cautiously, the way one might approach a wild animal. His friends were like statues in the background, clearly torn between staying and going. Danny smiled at them, and they seemed to realize he wanted them to stay.
"You're hurt," his mom said. She reached out to touch the gauze, and then pulled her hand back. "We have to take you to the hospital—your arm was broken, and God knows how many other injuries you have."
"No!" Danny, Sam, and Tucker yelled in unison. "No hospitals," Danny said, more quietly. "What Sam did is fine."
"Danny," his mom sat on his bed, her hazmat suit getting dust on his covers. Her guns and other equipment clanked as she moved. "Your friends are great, but I think this is beyond Sam's capabilities. I know you're used to taking care of things on your own, but we're here now. You can—you can rely on us, honey. Your friends—" She turned to look at Sam and Tucker. "I'm sure your parents are worried sick about you. You both need to go home. Jack or I can drive you."
And that was it. Were they going to let him continue to ghost hunt? The world was ending, and here his parents were acting as though everything were normal. They were trying to take control of the situation. Will they make Sam and Tucker go home? Will they make me go to a hospital? They had to see the problem with it; he couldn't just go to a hospital as a half-ghost.
"Sorry, Mrs. Fenton, but we're not going anywhere," Sam said, crossing her arms. "We stay as long as Danny wants us to." He wanted to smile at her, but his mouth wouldn't move. Sam glanced at him briefly before going back to staring at his mom—not quite glaring, but close.
His dad sighed. "Kids, we know these past few years have probably been as hard for you as they've been for Danny—"
"But you don't know, do you?" Danny interrupted quietly. "You don't know what it's been like."
"So tell us," his mom said, gripping his hand. In the other, he still held the ectoplasm. He didn't grip back; his hand was limp, like a dead fish. "Please, Danny. You're injured. You need to get professional help. Doctors are confidential; they won't tell anyone."
"And the people who actually need their help?" Danny asked. "I'm not going." He pulled his hand free. His tiredness was tugging him down, begging him to sleep. "I'll be fine, I promise. Everything—" He yawned. "Everything will heal." You can't fall asleep. You have to stay awake; you have to deal with this. With all of this…
He had managed to fight off the portion of the Empress's army that she had brought with her, but his multitude of problems wasn't over. Nothing was over. The worlds had merged; his parents knew. The Empress was still out there. Somewhere.
His friends moved closer, clearly recognizing the signs of his looming tiredness.
"You can't know that—you can't know anything about—about this!" his mom exclaimed, throwing her hands up. Resentment flared in Danny's gut, but it was smothered by his exhaustion. It was demanding, unrelenting. "You are sixteen, Danny. You will go to the hospital, so help me—are you falling asleep?"
"No," Danny denied, shaking his head to clear the fog. "And I know everything about 'this'—I've been living it for two years, okay? I don't need a hospital; I'll be fine. Okay?" He said the word forcefully. He just wanted them to agree, to leave him in peace. They could discuss this when they all weren't exhausted. He looked down at his cup of ectoplasm, realizing in his gestures he had nearly spilled it.
"What is that?" his mom demanded, taking it from him. She gave him no chance to respond. "Danny, this is poison. Have you really been drinking it?"
"It's not exactly poison for me, is it?" he said. "And I need to finish it, so if you could just—" He reached for it, and his mom stood.
"No, this has gone on long enough. We're proud of you, Danny—so proud of what you've done, but this isn't good for you," she said. Danny's eyes widened. No… She couldn't seriously… They had seemed to accept him. He'd realized they would need time adjusting, but… But he was still there son—they loved him. They'd proved it, when they came to get him, when he'd saved them. They had let him go fight—they had, for once, listened to him. They cared for him—him, not the son they'd thought they had. They hadn't seemed disappointed.
But his mom's words weren't matching her emotions. Proud, she said, but her eyes—her eyes said afraid. For him? Of him? Danny didn't know.
"What—what do you mean?" he asked. He was far away—he was tired. Did they have to do this now?
…We're so proud of you…
…They want to fix me…
"Don't worry, Dann-o," his dad said, laying a hand on his shoulder. "We'll find a way to make you better, just like we said we would. You being our son doesn't change that."
No. No. No. No. It was just the same as before. Just the same. They hadn't changed—they didn't love him. They wanted to fix him. Cure him. They wanted him to be human, not some half-ghost freak. They didn't accept Phantom, and they never would. He'd forever be half a son in their eyes. Half a person. A diseased person. And they were going to try and get out the disease—the ghost.
Half of him.
"—why you need to go to the hospital," his mom was saying. She wasn't yelling, but her voice seemed to boom in his ears, louder than any bomb. "We need to understand what exactly has happened to you in order to reverse it."
He was strapped to a table, his parents above him, pulling out scalpels to carve the ghost out of him. He was begging them not to but they weren't listening because they knew they knew he was their son and they didn't care they didn't care. He was part ghost, an evil ghost—diseased. Sick. In need of a cure, in need of being fixed.
No. His worst nightmare wasn't coming true. I thought they loved me. It wasn't happening. The world had ended, and now his world was ending. Please, please. Phantom is your son as much as Fenton is. Born from a creation they had made. His chest was tight, and he felt like he might up-chuck the ectoplasm and sandwich. They'll never accept me. He could see them with Agent R, all three trying to figure out how to cure him.
We're going to cut you up… Just here…
His dad was talking. "—physical symptoms. And we should start documenting the other ones, too. Have you experienced any uncharacteristic urges? I suppose consuming ectoplasm could be considered one…"
Uncharacteristic urges… He tried to take in a deep breath, but he couldn't. His mom put her hand to his forehead, and he wanted to move, but he couldn't. He was as helpless as he'd been when Agent R had—when he'd—I have to move.
"—temperature is too cold—"
Her hand felt fake, like a mannequin's plastic mimic. Move, Danny! She was the same. She was going to do the same. She was standing over him, holding a knife. His dad was there, ready with another. His friends were shouting, moving closer—Jazz was there, in the doorway—she must've heard the talking—
…Just here…
They were going to kill him in the name of saving him, and they would never realize the difference. He had to move. He had to save himself. He wanted to vomit. His mom was saying something, her lips were moving, he didn't understand, her brows were furrowed, tone concerned, leaning forward, her hand still on his forehead.
Finally, his body responded to his movements. He threw himself from his bed—his legs were weak, refusing to take his weight—away from them—tangled in his sheets—get them off—he was intangible, going through his sheets. He crawled backward until his back hit his wall, just beneath the window. His stab wound smarted and burned terribly. His breath came in pants. His parents moved closer, and all he could do was look up at them, body aching from his movements.
And then Sam and Tucker were there, standing in front of him, blocking them. Jazz was tugging on them, they were shouting. What are they saying? He couldn't tell—he couldn't hear. He wasn't in his room—he was in a lab, somewhere. He wasn't here. His sister was in their faces, gesturing and pointing and shouting. I can't tell what she's saying.
Tucker crouched down next to him, and Danny only realized he'd been gripping his hair with his hands when his friend gently removed them. Don't touch me. No one touch me. He was helpless again—he couldn't move. The Empress was tearing out his tooth, breaking his arm, he couldn't move.
"—can't stay here," Sam was saying. Oh. I can hear again. "I don't trust them not to try and pull something. And they definitely won't let us give him ectoplasm. Or check his core."
"Should we go to your place?" Tucker asked, but Sam was already shaking her head. Danny could barely keep up, both of them speaking on either side of him, squatting on the floor.
"No. My parents might be worse. I was thinking yours," she said. "If you think they'll be better."
"I think," Tucker said slowly, "with a bar this low, they'll have to be."
AN: Another one done! Thank you all so much for the response, and be sure to stay safe. Thanks to TheSteelShadow for being my beta. Questions: Did the ghost/half-ghost anatomy/bad science at least make some sense? What did you think of Tucker's POV? Sam's? Did you like the section with only the dialogue or was it hard to follow?