Previously in "Shift:" While Sam's trapped at home, FentonWorks teems with paranormal scientists, enthusiasts, and Amity Park's best and brightest. Danny has a stressful run-in with one guest in particular that sets him back, but all in all, despite the protests outside and everyone's expectations that the GIW are up to something, everything seems to be going well for the Fentons as a whole.
Up now: Sam is desperate to get to FentonWorks, and Danny is Done.
Sam slammed the phone onto the counter. "Dammit!"
Her frustrated curse rang through every corner of the kitchen, and she spun on her heel to pace the length of the island and back again. A shaking hand dragged through her hair.
For all their insistence on having the newest and greatest technology, her parents sure as hell had a rotten habit of not using it when she desperately needed them to.
The moment she'd lost sight of them down the street, she'd tried to call them. Their work phones, their personal cells, their driver's number, FentonWorks...She'd gone down the list of emergency contacts stuck on the fridge, punching the relevant ones into their clunky landline, one after another.
She received nothing but generic and robotic voicemail messages in return.
She couldn't necessarily say for sure which phones they had on them, though she found it highly unlikely they didn't have at least one cell phone between the two of them. Why they weren't picking up was another story. She had to narrow it down to a few options: either her parents were trying to teach her a lesson in humility by ignoring her calls, which would be somewhat in-character, or they were distracted, occupied, and already preparing to schmooze the press and all the important individuals at FentonWorks, which was also...very in-character.
Then there was the worst option yet: those weird devices in their ears weren't receiving her calls at all. Maybe they were, in fact, blocking them.
To what purpose, though?
Some small part of her clung to the vague possibility this was all a misunderstanding. Maybe Danny's paranoia was rubbing off on her. Maybe she was overreacting. Vladco distributed millions of products all over the globe, after all, and not all of their products were anti-ghost. Besides, even with all of Vladco's resources, Sam found it hard to believe a freshly-hired Operative L or GIW sympathizer could put something meant to sabotage the Portal or whatever to production that quickly.
But she didn't know, and there was no way to know, especially not when she discovered that the packaging itself, once fished out of the trash, came without additional markings or attached instructions. The envelope that caught her eye was empty, too.
Sam snatched the phone from the counter and tried her mother's cell one more time. This time, it didn't even ring. It went straight to voicemail.
Panic like this couldn't possibly be contained in a single human body. It was no wonder the pressure in her chest made her feel seconds away from suffocating. Her mind felt as though it was spinning on a ceaseless merry-go-round, her thoughts chasing themselves around and around like a dog after its tail. No new thoughts or ideas could get on, and no old ones could get off. They were trapped aboard, looping inward on themselves and becoming downright nauseating with every pass.
She didn't know what to do. God, what could she do?
Her phone was who-knows-where. She didn't have Danny or Tucker's numbers memorized—the curse of modern technology—and nothing was getting through to FentonWorks either, though that, she had to admit, was to be expected. Her parents had the driver, and since she barely had her learner's permit, taking a car herself was out of the question. The moped had a dead battery, and her grandmother couldn't—
Her grandmother.
Sam grabbed the Vladco packaging and, after sprinting from the kitchen, launched herself up the stairs. In her haste, she jammed her thigh into the rail of Ida's motorized stair lift and yelped. She barely paused to shake off the pain and called, "Grandma! Grandma, you awake?"
Grandma Ida had a suite of rooms on the second floor, which she refused to give up in the name of her disability. The bedroom, she insisted, got some of the best natural light in the whole house, and the balcony attached to the sitting room had enough space for Ida to cultivate a small garden of her own. The proximity to the manor's in-home theater and library made it even more coveted. Oftentimes, the rest of the family had no qualms abandoning the first or third floors for the second, as there was also a less formal dining room to eat in, office space to work in, and plenty of comfortable corners and nooks to nap in.
Grandma had the double doors to her rooms wide open, and Sam took that as invitation to come right in.
"Sam?" Ida asked, startled. Sam skidded to a stop before her grandmother, breathing heavily. Ida ditched her book on the coffee table immediately and rolled toward Sam, her expression morphing into one of sharp concern. Her eyes danced over Sam from head to toe. "Sam? What's wrong, bubala? Are you hurt?"
Her voice sounded as though it were warbling out of an old radio, and Sam struggled to focus on the meaning behind the words rather than the shape of them. "No, no," she brushed off. "Do you know where Mom hid my phone?"
When something shuttered in her grandmother's expression, Sam quickly explained, "It's important, Grandma. Something's wrong. Something's wrong, I'm sure of it, and—"
"Sam, hold on, love." Ida's hands fluttered over Sam's shoulders, to her chin, her cheeks. "What are you—?"
Sam didn't hold on, interrupting desperately, "I'm not sure I can get to FentonWorks in time, and I'm wasting time here. I need to—"
"Slow down. Slow down," Ida hushed, her alarm mellowing into something comforting and warm. "Shh. I haven't the foggiest idea where your mother keeps the things she confiscates from you."
"Shit," Sam hissed, spinning around and throwing her hands up to her face. She dug the heels of her palms into her eyes, as though they alone could prevent the well of frustrated tears from budding there.
"Sam, what is—?"
Sam whirled back to her grandmother and shoved the Vladco box at her. "Do you know anything about this?"
Her grandmother's tendency to know things she shouldn't was second to none, but Sam's heart plummeted when Ida squinted at it. She didn't recognize it. "I know it's a box, but beyond that...Sammie, what's this about?"
Sam wanted to scream in frustration. She would have, if she didn't realize how much time she'd waste in doing so. "Forget the box," Sam said abruptly. "Did you overhear anything about those headphones Mom and Dad got recently? Did they say anything about them? Do you know where they got them?"
"Oh, those things?" Sam almost sobbed in relief. "Only that they're new tech," Ida continued. "Very new. So new they're not on the market yet, and I suppose it is a very big deal. Pamela waved a fancy letter around signed by a big hot shot at Vlaco, said it was a huge advancement as far as personal anti-ghost security goes."
The ache of suspicion in Sam's gut sharpened into a stabbing icicle of fear. "What do they do exactly?"
Ida snorted. "Well, that's the question, isn't it? Who knows. They filter ambient spectral noise or provide protection from overshadowing or some such nonsense. It seemed to me they could do a lot of things that your mother was quite pleased with. Load of hogwash, if you ask me. I realize the Fentons and their ilk are clever, but I find it hard to believe an untested product could possibly hit every single one of Pamela's undoubtedly lofty expectations without—Sam? Sam!"
Sam was already halfway out of Ida's suite, and she didn't look back, not even when she shouted a strangled apology and a promise she'd be back soon.
It was a lie. Maybe. Probably. Sam didn't know.
What Sam did know was that she wasn't wrong to be afraid. Her grandmother's comments only cemented Sam's worst assumptions. Her parents had been selected specifically: their naivete and their paranoia was targeted for the express purpose of tricking them into inadvertently bringing something they shouldn't into FentonWorks.
But what?
She had a glimpse into the GIW's mind when she, Tucker, and Danny went through those files the night before. It was more twisted, messy, and violent than Sam would have believed, and she was well aware of what they'd done in the past.
Extrapolating wasn't difficult. Most of it was obvious enough. The GIW undoubtedly held plenty of resentment toward the Fentons for the part they played in dissolving their organization in the first place. Therein lay the motivation to humiliate and discredit FentonWorks. If they could destroy the Portal to the Zone too? All the better. Destroying ghosts and their realm always was a part of their agenda.
But if sabotaging the Portal itself wasn't their goal, Sam didn't dare think about what else they could gain from pulling a stunt like this.
Unbidden, the footage of Phantom kneeling in a cage, weak and sick, sprung to the forefront of her mind.
No.
She needed to get to FentonWorks. Now.
Sam burst into the garage, gasping for breath. One of the three car bays was empty. She'd already discarded the idea of driving, knowing she'd more than likely hurt herself or someone else in her panic and inexperience.
Which left running and biking.
Running was out of the question. She was in decent enough shape, but there was no way she could run the four and a half miles to FentonWorks in time to warn Danny. Her gaze snapped to the bikes hanging from the ceiling. She couldn't remember the last time they'd been used, but it was clear from the moment she touched one, then the next, that it had been a long time since. Their tires were flat.
"Shit, shit, shit," Sam hissed as she maneuvered around one of the cars and up onto the sectioned area of the garage housing their backup refrigerator, several unused toolboxes, and storage boxes full of junk her mother and father probably hadn't thought about in years. There had to be a tire pump in there somewhere. There had to be.
What else was there? What other options did she have? Rollerblades? An old skateboard? What?
The black Vladco box threatened to buckle in her fist as she scrounged around. It occurred to her that she could drop it; that she did, in fact, have two working hands that she could utilize in her search.
She didn't drop it.
The edges dug into her palm, a reminder that every second she was here was a second too long. Her heart rocketed up her throat, vision blurring as discouraged and terrified tears overcame her.
Maybe the neighbors can help, came a desperate thought. They have a kid, don't they? Maybe they're home. Maybe they have a tire pump. Maybe the kid has a longboard. A pinprick of hope dared energize her, and she spun around.
Only to come face to face with a blue-faced ghost.
Sam's legs locked in place as it cocked its head at her, gaze fixated on her left hand. "What is it about this box that terrifies you so?" it asked casually.
Sam scrambled away, a shriek building in her throat. She thrust a hand behind her for something—anything—to use as a weapon. A frigid chill pressed against her back, and it was the only warning she had before a glacial metal hand clamped over her mouth.
She did scream this time, though it hardly had its intended effect. Her entire body tensed, muscles coiled, in preparation to fight.
She didn't have the chance.
The ghastly sound that erupted from behind her was a keening moan and a wail in the eaves; footsteps in the dark and inhuman snarls from the shadows. It was somehow all of it and none of it at the same time, a hushed hellscape of noise not even the most imaginative of horror-moviemakers could hope to replicate. The sound of it set her teeth on edge and sent goosebumps racing down her skin. It raised every last hair on her body, froze the blood in her veins.
Horribly captivated, Sam fought against boneless knees and steadied herself, watching as the squat ghost flipped upright from where it floated on its belly. A pouting frown quickly replaced the marveling daydreamer's smile on its—no, his—face. He crossed his arms, turned away in the manner of a petulant child, and muttered something in the same eerie manner.
They're talking to each other, Sam realized, both fascinated and horrified. In Ghost. Holy shit.
Stunned out of her initial adrenaline-fueled scare, Sam took the moment to actually look at the ghost in front of her and was slapped in the face by near-instant recognition.
Dusty, faded overalls. Floppy beanie. A pudgy nose and round face.
The Box Ghost. In her garage.
She started to laugh.
"Shush, human child," whispered the specter behind her in a gravelly English. It lowered its face over her shoulder, and from her peripheral vision, she caught sight of flickering green flame.
The Box Ghost cocked his head again as Sam's hysterics continued. Danny was going to get a kick out of this. Sam, frightened by The Box Ghost. She wasn't going to live it down. She...God, what the hell was going on right now? What the actual fuck?
"I think you've injured the human, Skulker." In a sing-song tone, The Box Ghost added, "Phantom won't be happy."
Later, Sam would take offense to how easily the second ghost manhandled her around so that she was facing him, but at the time, his careless strength was the furthest thing from her mind.
Skulker—stealth expert, infiltration specialist, and self-proclaimed master hunter—was in her garage too.
This can't be happening, Sam thought struggling to recover from her psychotic break and catch her breath.
Skulker was a striking figure, well over six feet tall, his haunting mask illuminated by the spectral fire sprouting from his head and chin. His robotic lips twisted into a frown as he looked down at her. "The human is fine," he said to The Box Ghost, exasperated. "Not for lack of trying on your part, you insolent pest."
The Box Ghost huffed and flipped over onto his stomach again. "I just wanted to know," he whined, propping his chin upon folded hands. "Her fear tasted so...potent." To Sam he sighed longingly, "It is a lovely box, isn't it?"
"It is," Sam said, more out of politeness than anything else. She was rewarded by a bright smile from The Box Ghost. She couldn't find it in herself to worry about the fact the ghost just admitted to feeding off her fear.
Of a box.
Her adrenaline spiked at the reminder, and The Box Ghost's gaze sharpened. He flitted closer, his focus solely on the empty packaging.
"Enough," Skulker snapped, grabbing at The Box Ghost's arm and dragging him away. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Apologies, child." The words sounded reluctant and unnatural at best. Sam wasn't offended. Ghosts don't do apologies, Phantom had said once, during the Shift. It wasn't in their nature. Most didn't have any inclination to mimic human niceties, and when they did, it either meant one of two things: one, they cared enough about the human-ghost alliance to attempt to integrate themselves into human culture.
Or two, they were actually far, far more dangerous than the ghosts who'd feast first, ask questions never, and you needed to run.
Sam didn't have (many) doubts that these two belonged to the former category. Phantom had utilized both as allies during the Shift, despite the extensive history lying between them. Skulker's skill had placed him in charge of intelligence, and The Box Ghost's general lack of skill and propensity for causing an annoying amount of mayhem made him the perfect distraction in more than one instance.
Underestimating either of them would be foolish, but according to Danny, his alliances held firm enough, even now. She wasn't worried they'd hurt her. Not intentionally. What worried her was why they were here.
As if in answer to her unspoken question, Skulker continued, "I was instructed to observe, to stay out of sight." He shot a sharp look at The Box Ghost. "But I fear I was unaware of my tagalong until it was too late for me to escort him back into the Ghost Zone."
Skulker's explanation took a moment to register in her mind, several pieces of a puzzle slotting together into an imperfect picture.
"The Council sent you," Sam realized aloud.
Skulker hummed, a mildly impressed expression on his face. "It seems the ghost child has chosen some clever human confidants. How fascinating." He lowered his face to hers. Sam shivered. With two ghosts in such close proximity, Sam felt the tip of her nose begin to go numb with the chill. "What do you know of the Hunters' Portal?"
"Enough," Sam said immediately. "Enough to know Princess Dorothea made Phantom a promise that you wouldn't interfere."
Skulker grinned. "Oh, that she did. She did not, however, promise we would not be watching."
Sam remembered how Tucker mentioned, almost offhandedly, how Danny looked when facing off with Dora in his family's living room. How the temperature dropped, how his voice took on a cold, hard edge, how his eyes flashed green in warning. A Dispute, Danny had called it. "It was weird," Tucker had said, when Sam asked him to describe what happened. "It was like watching two snarling dogs trying to get an idea of just how dangerous the other was before they went for each other's throats. It felt...territorial. Would not recommend the experience, actually. There was enough tension in the room to suffocate anyone in the vicinity."
"And yet, this is a breach of trust," Sam said to Skulker, as though she had any authority to meddle in ghost affairs and speak on Danny's behalf. As though she understood half of the instincts that drove Danny to do what he did when handling other ghosts. "Amity Park is his to protect, as I understand it. He's not going to be happy."
"Perhaps not," Skulker shrugged. "But the ghost child preaches of staying allied. Of helping one another. He will understand. What is the human phrase? Better to ask for forgiveness rather than permission?" He grinned, and Sam couldn't help the shudder that rolled down her spine this time. "We have no quarrel with him or his human family and friends. We only wish to protect that which is ours, too. Will you stand in our way?"
There was a challenge in his tone. She rose to face it, grasping for the tiny thread of opportunity that just presented itself. "Only if you don't take me with you."
Skulker barked a dark laugh, his eyes flashing. "I'm not a taxicab, girl. I'm the Ghost Zone's greatest hunter. You dare—"
"I do dare," Sam asserted. "Something isn't right. Phantom—"
"Is still a child," Skulker hissed. "Is still learning how to navigate our world, and no matter how powerful he is, no matter how much he's proven himself during the recent crisis, this is fact. You, too, are a child. And worse yet, a human child. This has nothing to do with you. Now, I have apologized for my companion, as human custom dictates, but—"
Sam's temper ignited immediately. "Phantom may be in danger, and I have the information he needs to keep everyone safe but no way to get it to him without you!"
Skulker stared at her, and she tried not to react when a sleek, glowing machete slid from the armor on his forearm. "What information?" he asked in a dangerous tone.
Shit. This was about to backfire in a horrible way. So much for underestimating the ghosts, Sam. Good job.
"Does it matter?" she retorted, hoping the quiver she feels in her chest wasn't apparent in her voice.
"Of course it does!" Skulker hissed, his voice grating and harsh. "This is my home. The ghost child is my prey."
For a moment, Sam was both touched and disgusted on Danny's behalf.
"Ooo, careful, Skulker," The Box Ghost interjected. "Phantom's mate has a claim first, you know."
"His what?" Sam snapped, narrowing her eyes at The Box Ghost. He blinked vapidly at her, unashamed. Her wrath meant nothing to him, she realized. Reminded of who she was speaking to and why, she said, "No, you know what? Not important."
Refocusing, she turned back to Skulker. "You won't be able to get close to FentonWorks, anyway. The Fentons have numerous protections in place to ensure the Portal activation goes smoothly and doesn't invite unwanted attention from unfriendly ghosts."
Danny had reviewed those plans with Vlad rather extensively yesterday, as had his parents, who had to reprogram their devices to ignore Vlad's ectosignature like they had Danny's. She'd understood maybe half of what they said, but the gist was undeniable. "Only a human can get in now."
Skulker's eyes flashed, but Sam didn't have the patience to wait him out as he contemplated her veracity. "What do you have to lose?" she challenged.
"Everything," Skulker said darkly. "If it as serious as this."
"We don't have time for this!" Sam exclaimed, standing her ground. "I don't have all the answers, Skulker, and I need to act on what I do have now or we'll all regret it."
Inspired by pure impulse and a fair amount of spite, Sam turned to The Box Ghost and held out the Vladco box. "It's yours if you take me as close to FentonWorks as you can," she bargained. "In return, I'll stop whatever's about to happen, and you can go back home knowing you helped protect both the Ghost Zone and the Human World from the Guys in White."
Before Skulker could argue, The Box Ghost snatched the box from her hand, eyes alight. "Done," he announced. He cradled the package to his chest for a moment and then gave her a look so delighted, Sam was made uncomfortably aware she had just earned a lifelong friend and forever loyal ally.
And most definitely a knife-wielding enemy in the same move.
To her utter surprise, Skulker defied expectations and laughed, deep from his belly. "You would enter a deal with one of us? For the ghost child and his kin?"
"I'd do a lot more," Sam admitted hotly. "Especially if it meant stopping the Guys in White, too."
Skulker's grin broadened. "You have stones, girl. I like you."
"I like you, too," The Box Ghost said unnecessarily. "Phantom never found me boxes as nice as this one. I hope he keeps you."
Once again, Sam found herself stuck between feeling flattered and offended, but she knew better than to lecture a ghost on the idea of possession. She swallowed her initial retort. "And your reputations proceed you," she returned, not entirely sure if it came out as a compliment or a pointed barb.
The two ghosts did not seem to care either way. Skulker whispered something to The Box Ghost in their shared language—a joke, perhaps, judging by the chortle it elicited from The Box Ghost—and before Sam could prepare herself, she felt two hands wrap around her biceps.
Her feet left the ground, and she was plunged into a realm of mist and ice.
~...~
When Jeremy Manson made to intercept Danny and Tucker not even a stone's throw away from the kitchen, mere feet away from the conversation they had just oh-so-gracefully escaped from, Danny's first thought was god, will it ever end?
Tucker accurately verbalized his second reaction with a disbelieving, "You've got to be kidding me."
Danny really was going to need more than a can of Monster and several Motrin to get him through the rest of this day without losing his mind, wasn't he? Maybe he could guzzle two cans without his mom or Jazz noticing before the presentation.
That'd be nice.
Danny halted in place, rubbing his forehead ineffectively and taking a deep, stabilizing breath. He knew he was doomed to socialize the moment he and Sam's father saw each other. Better to brace himself and accept the inevitable. He'd faked composure plenty of times when he was running on fewer than two hours of sleep in the past. He could get through this, no matter how shitty he felt now. He would.
Mr. Manson approached alone. A brief scan of the first floor placed Pamela Manson with his parents. They stood off to the side of the kitchen in semi-private, their faces uncharacteristically emotionless as they listened to whatever she had to say. Jazz caught his eye from across the counter from the other room, and he immediately sympathized with the pained grimace she sent his way.
Lingering resentment from the night before prickled under Danny's skin, but he reminded himself he didn't really have anything against Sam's father necessarily. Jeremy's only crime was association with Pamela, who, for all intents and purposes, looked as though she was in the process of humbling herself to his parents. If she could swallow her pride for that much, the least he could do was attempt civility in return.
Besides, so soon after his stressful conversation with Verity Vu, he felt... hollow. Completely spent. Whatever spit and spark he harbored for the Mansons wasn't nearly enough to fuel anything more than a neutral mask as the man stopped before him.
"Hello," Jeremy said with a polite smile. "You must be Daniel. I'm—"
"Sam's dad," Danny finished. The man blinked in surprise but recovered quickly enough when Danny accepted his handshake. A mild static shock discharged between their hands. Mr. Manson winced more out of reflex than anything, and Danny quickly disengaged, cursing his bad luck. "I know."
"Hey, Mr. M," Tucker greeted. "Didn't expect to see you here. How's Sam?"
"Tucker," Mr. Manson returned. Danny wondered if the man could hear the casual burn in Tucker's words, up until the moment he added drily, "Always a pleasure."
Danny swallowed an inappropriate chortle and said, "It's good to meet you, sir, but we're running a bit behind and—"
"I won't take up too much of your time," Jeremy interrupted smoothly. "I did...want to speak with you before we overstayed our welcome. Apologize, rather. On my wife's behalf, as well."
"Okay," Danny said slowly, unmoved. He'd heard so many apologies today he couldn't be sure if he could trust another one. Dr. Vu had—But, no, that wasn't right. Vu had nothing to do with this. She had no place here.
Instead, Danny remembered Dave's apology. He remembered the cameraman's genuine fear, the look in his eyes when he admitted to the part he played during the Shift. Danny had Sensed the man's guilt. Intimately, too. That apology had been as real as they come.
Mr. Manson wasn't projecting strongly enough for Danny to read instinctively, but he had no reason to doubt his sincerity.
His motivations, on the other hand...
Danny shook the suspicion away, shuddering. This was one of his best friends' fathers. Since when had he looked for an easy reason to deny someone a chance to make a real first impression? Since when had he become so cynical, so willing to see the bad before the good in people?
(He knew the exact answer to that question, but he didn't want to spare Vlad a second thought. Not now. Vlad was behaving just fine and had absolutely nothing to do with this interpersonal drama either).
"I appreciate that," Danny said wearily, "but it's not me who should be hearing this." He raised his eyebrows and looked pointedly in the direction of his parents. Pamela was fiddling with something in her purse, but otherwise, her posture was bold as she faced Mom and Dad. Not arrogant, necessarily, but...resolute.
She was prepared to accept the consequences of what she'd said to them the night before. Danny found himself almost respecting her for it.
"Ah, yes," Jeremy agreed, expression contrite. "But even still, my wife and I were both rather unfair toward you specifically."
Danny's eyes fluttered closed, and he sighed. His head throbbed in earnest. "No, you weren't. Not really."
Jeremy stalled. "...Excuse me?"
"I know what my powers make me look like," Danny said. Even to his own ears, his voice didn't sound as though it belonged to him. It was too flat, nearly mechanical. "I know how dangerous they can be. I know the danger they put others in, by mere proximity. I know how unconventional and scary all of this looks to someone outside my family. Even amongst my family, it's unconventional and scary. Hell, it's scary to me, and it should be far scarier to my friends, too."
Tucker immediately pinched the skin on Danny's left triceps. Danny swatted him away and shot him an involuntarily green-eyed glare. Unphased, Tucker merely raised his gaze to the ceiling and muttered, "Asshole."
Mr. Manson watched the entire exchange with something bordering bemusement.
Tucker's aside went unacknowledged. Considering the previous conversations Danny'd had with Tucker regarding his powers—and especially in light of Vu's weird comments and Danny's weirder reaction—Danny knew it wouldn't be the last he heard on the matter. The point remained: no matter how well Danny controlled his abilities, no matter what he used them for, no matter how highly praised he was for his heroics, he'd always be regarded, in some capacity, in light of the potential havoc he could wreak. The other ghosts had set the precedent, and he couldn't help that any more than he could help flooding during a hurricane.
The EctoSup-racelet he wore at school was only the beginning of it, really. The protests out there, too, were only further extensions of the same beliefs that also shunned him and disapproved of his family's move to Amity Park in the first place. The GIW resurgence? Yet another sign.
With all the support he got from everyone else, it was getting easy to forget, sometimes, especially now that he had Sam and Tucker. But he couldn't forget. Strangers, people like Dr. Vu, ghosts like Spectra...they'd never let him forget entirely.
He felt as though he'd come to this realization enough times over the last few months. He really had. Why did it continue to feel like this? Why did it blindside him every time he oscillated between confidence in what he truly was and helplessness in the face of what he knew others saw him as?
Maybe because it was no less than what he deserved.
The moment the thought leeched into the darkest recess of his mind, he shoved it right back out with a forceful no.
God, Vu really messed with his head. Maybe Jazz was right. Maybe he did need a therapist.
And if not a therapist maybe he did need to talk to someone.
A consideration for another time. The presentation was minutes away, and he couldn't be caught in the middle of another emotional identity crisis when his parents needed him to be vigilant and visibly okay for the cameras. Instead, Danny drew strength from Tucker's presence at his side and forced himself to continue, "And I know you and Mrs. Manson are looking out for Amity, albeit in a different way than we are."
"That doesn't excuse—"
"Of course it doesn't, but I still get it. To be honest, I'm a bit sick of all this push and pull, Mr. Manson," Danny said, lips twitching into a humorless, tired smile. "Aren't you?"
Jeremy held his gaze for a long moment before saying, "You know, son, I think every last one of us underestimated you. I can see now why my daughter regards you so highly."
Thrown, Danny stuttered, "Um, I...I mean, that's not exactly what—"
Jeremy actually threw back his head and laughed. His smile became looser, friendlier. "I know. Still, can't blame a dad for looking out for his little girl, can you?"
Danny realized, somehow, he'd lost track of the true point of this conversation. Weren't they just talking about stereotypes, politics, and the necessity of caution around ghosts? Around him? "I definitely don't, but...I'm not sure Sam would like you speaking for her? Or about her like this?"
A satisfactory sparkle lit Mr. Manson's flinty eyes. "Oh, she definitely wouldn't. She'd have something to say about it, without a doubt. Don't you worry, though, Mr. Fenton." Jeremy threw out a hand and gripped Danny's shoulder, much in the way his own father did sometimes when they had a "manly" chat. "So long as you know that, I think we'll be just fine."
And with that, Mr. Manson released Danny's shoulder, made a polite remark about the time to excuse himself, and...walked away.
"What was that?" Danny muttered to himself once Mr. Manson was gone.
"Dude," Tucker whispered in an awed tone. "I think that was just shovel talk."
"What?" Danny turned toward his friend and crossed his arms. "No, it wasn't."
"You seriously—? No? Come on." A predatory grin spread across Tucker's face. "Are you serious right now? I've known Sam's dad for a long time, and that was totally shovel talk."
Danny couldn't help the heat that blossomed immediately to his cheeks. He scowled, but again, his disagreement had absolutely no impact on Tucker. His friend snickered and bumped shoulders with him. "You got a tentative seal of approval, man! You should go for it!"
"Go for what?" Danny asked distractedly. He noticed his mom was beginning to fidget. She'd caught some of Jazz's anxiety, and it was threading its way through his entire family. Even Dad was affected. Even without trying, he could Sense it thrumming along with the anticipation and curiosity fueling the rest of the guests.
They knew it was nearly time. Now that everyone was beginning to feel the same way, it was impossible not to notice. The pressure from the emotions of the protestors outside, too, was less muted by distance. His heart and core fluttered in time with the flux and flex of it all.
Hopefully Sam wouldn't be caught up in all that. Shit, maybe he should have offered to get her himself. Maybe he shouldn't have tempted her to come at all.
"—ny?"
"Hm?" Danny blinked some of the fog away and rubbed his eyes, refocusing. "Sorry, man. What'd you say?"
Tucker eyed him. "Are you okay?"
"What? Why wouldn't I be?"
"You look...exhausted."
It sounded to Danny as though that wasn't quite the descriptor Tucker wanted to use. In a practiced move, Danny focused inward on himself, pushing everyone else's emotions away, just for a moment. He felt a little better, though it wasn't as much of a relief as it usually was. He couldn't exactly turn off his own anxiety, after all.
"I am exhausted," Danny admitted. He didn't have to lean too far to find a good excuse. "I weaned off those supplements Sleetjaw and my parents were making me take, you know? I bet it's all just catching up to me. And after waking up so early? Only to navigate all of this?" He made a vague circular gesture with his wrist. "I'm dead on my feet here."
"Mmm, nice try, Ace," Tucker said. "But I won't be so easily distracted with a good pun. What is going on with you?"
Danny rolled his eyes, fighting against the burst of nervous fluttering in his chest. "I'm fine, relax. It's nothing some caffeine won't fix. And then in another hour or two, it'll all be over."
It'll all be over, he repeated to himself.
Tucker frowned but didn't press the issue. Instead, he blessedly changed the subject. "Alright, fine. Let's go, then. It looks like your sister is about to blow a gasket."
Danny was glad he wasn't the only one who could tell as much. His heart rate settled in his relief, and he nudged Tucker forward with a chuckle. "She does that."
"S'pose Sam'll make it in time?" Tucker asked.
Danny checked his phone as they entered the kitchen. Some news notifications and Snapchats from classmates were left unread. No new texts. "I haven't heard from her yet, so I'm not sure, but—"
"What's this about Sam?" Jazz asked from where she was perched.
"Never mind that," Danny said, flicking Jazz as he passed. He cheated with intangibility to avoid her retaliation and ducked to the fridge for a quick caffeine fix. All that was left was some of those bottled Starbucks Frappucinos Jazz liked so much.
It would have to do.
He grabbed one bottle, popped the cap, and downed the entire thing in a few quick gulps before closing the fridge door and chucking the empty bottle into the recycling. "We ready?"
His parents stepped over. Dad was beaming, any mood he caught from Pamela or the rest of the room overwhelmed in the face of his fresh enthusiasm. "You betcha!"
With a nod of agreement, Mom pulled all of her final notes together and tucked them under an arm. While Dad was the better public speaker, she was the better writer. The plan was to have Dad address the public for the live segment, which would include a very brief overview of the Portal and its importance, as well as another pointed statement about what would likely happen to Amity Park after its activation. Once the Portal was activated, the cameras would no longer stream live. A separate camera team would start filming the Q&A for the scientists and other guests. The Q&A was likely to get a little too technical for general public viewing over a news broadcast, so his parents agreed the footage could be used for a future educational feature about ghosts, the Zone, and paranormal research and technology.
"Where's Vlad?" Mom asked.
"Here," the man said from directly behind Tucker. The dick smirked when Tucker yelped and cringed away. "I'm ready."
"Here we go, then," Mom murmured. After squaring her shoulders, she strolled from the kitchen and made a signal at the security guard standing at the door to their lab. He nodded an acknowledgement.
"Attention, everyone!" Mom called loudly. The light babble of conversation died out almost immediately, and eager eyes fixated on the group at the head of the room. The sudden silence sounded odd to Danny, all-encompassing in its wholeness. His head pulsed, ears ringing like they did directly after coming home from a three-hour-long Dumpty Humpty concert.
"Again, on behalf of my entire family, I welcome you to FentonWorks!" Mom announced cheerfully. "It's nearly time for the main presentation, so I would like to ask you to please listen to the directions of our security team and head into the lab. You'll be directed to the observation deck and catwalks, where you'll spend the remainder of your time during and after the Portal activation."
An undercurrent of excited chatter started back up again as the guests followed Mom's instructions and began to file down the stairs. Jeremy and Pamela Manson's light hair stood out like a beacon near the front of the line, where they waited with the mayor. Danny wasn't surprised his parents allowed them to stay, though a small, nasty part of him did wonder if anything Pamela said was worthy of their graciousness.
"Showtime," Dad said eagerly from beside Danny, clapping a large hand across his shoulders.
Gut twisting, Danny expanded his Senses again. Nothing pinged as unordinary or suspicious. After a quick glance at Vlad, who shook his head, Danny took a deep breath and agreed, "Showtime."
AN: I've had Sam's POV written for ages and ages, and I am sooooo happy with how it turned out. Danny's? Not so much. I hope I'll be able to make up for that soon. Because hello~ climax! ;)
Any mistakes are my own.
Edit: whoops. All the italics disappeared when I copied from AO3. It should be fixed now.
